Day 2: In which we tour the ancient city of Teotihuacan and discover the Mexican sense of time

Alex and I are snugglers. We actually find it difficult to sleep when the other is not there. I find that with most of my married friends one of two things happens; either neither of them are snugglers and all is well or only one of the two are snugglers and someone just has to adjust. That's why I'm thankful both Alex and I were already wired the same way when it comes to sleeping. Honestly, it comes in handy. Many of you have heard about how the first night we were back from out honeymoon we discovered someone else living in my house and had to sleep in a twin bed at Alex's old house (if you haven't heard that story, ask me... it's special). So even though there are two twin beds in the room we are staying in, we slept in the same one. There is just something about the idea of sleeping in separate beds that Alex and I can't resolve. It just feels wrong to us. So call it weird but it works for us.

Anyway, it rained heavily last night and I was thankful because it shut up all the stray dogs and allowed us to sleep soundly. Good thing, too, because our day started very early. Before the roosters started crowing, actually. And there are a lot of roosters in this city. We had to meet up with our group by 6:30am so we left our house while it was still dark and walked through the barely conscious streets of Oztotepec with our host dad, Andres, as our guide. He didn't say a word to us as we walked, but I could tell he was concerned with our well being. He sort of reminds me of my own father. It could be the fact that they are both bald in the same spot and have the same endearing smile/laugh lines on their faces, but regardless I think I'm going to become rather fond of him by the time we leave.

We walked up a very steep hill (the same one Lucio had driven down backwards yesterday) and passed by a few other early risers (people waiting for the public buses to take them into Mexico City for work) and a myriad of stray dogs. We met up with our group in front of some public government building to wait for a tour bus that had been rented by the church. As the minutes ticked by and the sky continued to lighten our group slowly gathered, each escorted by their host families. By 7am we were all accounted for... and our bus still hadn't arrived. When it began to rain we all walked just a little further up the street and took shelter in a nearby church member's house. No one was really perturbed that the bus was so late, but we were all wondering why. Eventually Alice explained to us that the bus was coming from Mexico City and that despite the fact it only had about 30 miles to travel the traffic is so horrendous that it was being held up. Since we were not the ones in charge of things nobody in our group minded the delay. Neither did the Mexicans we were with. To them it was normal and not a big deal.

Our bus finally arrived around 8am and we all piled in. It was a nice touring bus with big windows and cushy seats, very much like ones I have ridden in America for various events. During the two hour ride we ate "breakfast" which consisted of ham and cheese sandwiches (made with whole wheat bread, thank you Margarita!!), pears and the biggest juice boxes I have ever seen in my life. When we arrived at the park we got off the bus... and waited again.

As it turned out there was a miss-communication between our hosts and our group about tickets. I am still not entirely sure what the problem was. In the end all I could gather was that the pastor had needed to drive separately and hadn't arrived yet and that he either had the tickets in his possession already or needed to purchase them for the group once he arrived. Again, no one seemed to mind so we just found out of the way places to sit and took the opportunity to practice our Spanish with our new Mexican friends.

There were peddlers hanging out around the park entrance (I'd quickly see that they were only the beginning) and it didn't take long for them to descend upon our large group. They sold all kinds of pretty looking jewelry, knick-knacks and toys. Several of them had these strange whistles that mimic the call of a jaguar. I had to smile when I saw a few of them selling little sets of bow and arrows with the name of the park painted on them. Somehow it just gave me a warm, nostalgic feeling inside to know that Americans aren't the only ones who try to make a buck off of the Native peoples who used to live where a Walmart now stands. In the words of Ben Folds, "let me tell y'all what it's like watching Idol on a Friday night in a home built safe and sound on Indian burial ground." Ahhhh the smell of exploitation and commerce in the morning :)

When we finally got the tickets all settled we walked along a very lengthy driveway and passed by a group of people dressed in some colorful traditional garb and performing a very interesting ceremony. There was a large pole, probably about 30 feet high, with a square, rotating frame resting on top that had five men seated upon it, four on each side and one in the middle. They were playing some music on whistles and drums and turning the frame they sat upon so that the man in the middle faced each cardinal direction (north, south, east and west). After the man in the middle had greeted each direction the four men on the sides dropped backwards off the frame and very slowly, upside down and upon lengths of rope, were lowered to the ground as they swung around the pole in an every widening circle. When they were finished, grounded and upright again, they came to greet our group and Alice and Fidencio explained to us that they were from a region in Mexico that is know for it's vanilla. The men who had performed were selling vanilla beans and pure vanilla extract. It smelled WONDERFUL and I almost bought some but decided not to because I wasn't sure if I could get it through customs.

We moved on to the park entrance and ended up waiting some more because someone decided that having a tour guide would be a great idea. We milled around the park entrance (which included a lane lined with tourist-trap shops, a small fountain and bathrooms) for a while and eventually a man that looked very much like an aging Mexican cowboy (hats, boots, ID-sized-belt-buckle and all) greeted us in very clear English. He led us into the park and I had to catch my breath.

Against a backdrop of clear blue sky and fluffy white clouds stood a large plaza, several small pyramids and one large pyramid. Each was made of stones that varied in color from ivory to tan to red. I was very thankful for our tour guide because he was able to tell us so very much about the history of the place, the culture of the people who had lived there, and what went into restoring the abandoned ruins. He informed us that what we saw today were actually modern reconstructions built upon the few remaining bases of the original structures. Unfortunately time and Spanish Conquistadors had taken their toll on what no doubt had once been a magnificent city. Only one of the pyramids had been slightly protected from the elements because of another structure that was right in front of it. The original stone stairs and original carvings of Quetzalcoatl (the feathered serpent god of the Aztecs and Toltecs) could be seen. I was still incredibly delighted to see the place, however (check out this posting on wikipedia if you'd like to know more about the place http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Teotihuacan).

We walked along a very lengthy and wide street that was called The Way of the Dead and climbed up a smaller pyramid before making our way to what was left of the residential district. The entire time the peddlers were tireless. I got to hand it to them for being so persistent. I heard many of them say the same phrases in English which included, "Almost free, eh?" "Take a look" and "For you, only such-and-such pesos!".

At one point a group of people dressed in costumes that resembled the garb I had seen in several pieces of Mexican artwork depicting ancient Aztecs came into the park, dancing and playing some drums. Both Alex and I watched for a few minutes and realized we had seen pretty much the same type of dancing at American pow-wows. We asked our tour guide about them and he told us that the people dancing just did it for the tourists and there was absolutely no way to know if what they were doing was even remotely close to being authentic. I will admit to being slightly disappointed and actually even just a little offended because it almost seemed a mockery of the modern pow-wow in America.

The main event of the tour was reaching the Pyramid of the Sun. It was originally 246 feet high and had exactly 365 steps; one for each day of the year of the Aztec calendar. So what do you do when you find an ancient structure with usable stairs? You climb it, of course. Mexico's high elevation made it difficult, but it was well worth it. What a view! We rested for a while before climbing back down. After we quickly toured a small museum on the grounds of the park that had some original artifacts and a model of what the city had looked like during it's peak.

After this we exited the park on the opposite side and walked through another market place. We were informed that this would probably be the only chance we'd have to buy souvenirs, so Alex was on a mission. He wanted a poncho. Or a sarrape. I am still not sure what the things is called. But it's a long piece of woven cloth that slips over your head. He looked at a few and found one that has a very nice blue and white traditional pattern woven into it. We paid about 20 American dollars for it. Lord knows if we could have gotten it for less or not, but it's very nice and looks good on him. So he was happy.

By now it was lunch time. We left the market and walked down a street that was lined with restaurants. Now instead of peddlers hocking their wares there were restaurant employees armed with menus. They waved them in your faces and shouted things like, "Come eat here!" in English and Spanish. Thankfully the pastor had already selected a restaurant for our group and I had to laugh because, I kid you not, it's name was La Canada. I was in Mexico and I was about to eat in Canada. We sat down and had our choice of meals. I decided to try authentic chicken fajitas and they were delicious. They were served with fresh blue corn tortillas and awesome salsa verde and red, chipotle salsa.

Our bus was parked right next to the restaurant so after everyone was done eating we headed home. Unfortunately Lucio is the only one in our host family who speaks even just a little bit of English and he was nowhere to be found tonight. Communication was difficult between us, Margarita and Andres, but we all tried our best and managed to get quite a few smiles and laughs out of the evening (probably over our fumbling Spanish). We were offered a snack and some decaf coffee (Nescafe is surprisingly good despite the fact that it's instant). We managed to get across that we'd like to shower and so Andres lit the pilot light for their water heater.

Three more things about water in Mexico: it can be expensive, it can be hard to come by, and their water heaters are not constantly on like ours are. In fact, some homes don't even have a shower and you wash with a bucket over a drain or a toilet. We were told that when we shower to get wet, turn the water off, soap up then turn the water back on and rinse off. I think our host family has a rather small water heater because Alex showered before I did like we were told and I ended up with no hot water. He said I may not have let the hot water run long enough, but I am not sure. I am exceedingly grateful that I chose to do my hair in corn rows so that I would not have to wash it much. Hopefully my next shower will be warm.

Tomorrow is church. Both Alex and I are looking forward to it, despite the fact that we won't understand much of it. Singing is fun in any language, however, so hopefully we'll do a lot of that.

Day 1: In which we travel, travel and travel some more, and meet Jesus.

16 hours. Day 1 was largely composed of 16 hours of travel. 22 hours if you count the pseudo slumber party we had at the church the night before we even left. Because we all had to leave at 3:30am in order to get to Chicago, Scott, the youth pastor and team leader, decided it would be best if we all came to the church at 9pm, packed the vans with our luggage and just slept there until we needed to leave.

Only about half of the group actually slept. I was feeling far too wired and ended staying up watching old episodes of "She-Ra: Princess of Power" on You Tube. Five of the other team members (Julie, Samantha, Katie, Kendra and Betsy) stayed up chatting and making some rice they found in the church's kitchen when they got hungry at about 1am.

At about 3:30am five other church members arrived to drive us all to Chicago O'Hare. We stumbled in a sleepy stupor into the vehicles and arrived at the airport around 6am Chicago time. Normally, if it is at all possible, when I travel I like to use only a carry-on and no checked luggage at all. I was reminded of why when it took nearly an hour for our group to get checked in (the fact that we had about 20 bags to check might of had something to do with it, but anyway). The flight from Chicago to Houston was uneventful, as was our 2 hour layover (Houston's Airport is very nice, btw).

When we got on our next plane the flight attendant rattled off the usual safety spiel first in English and then in Spanish so fast it would make Speedy Gonzalez's head spin. The further south we flew the more mountainous the terrain below became. Every now and then I'd see a small town clustered around the foot of a mountain or the thin blue strands of rivers rolling out like veins over the brown and green landscape. When Mexico City came into sight I was amazed. It sprawled on for miles and easily dwarfed any American city I had yet seen.

Upon landing we had to fill out some paperwork (one form we signed declared that we did not currently have the flu) and go through customs. The airport itself was actually smaller than I was expecting and fairly unremarkable. We were met by two of our fellow church members, Alice and Fedencio, who had gone ahead of us (they had lived in Mexico for most of their lives and still have a house and family here). The church's pastor, Hacinto, was also there to meet us, plus two other men, Domingo and Jesus (I told you we met Jesus ^_^). We made our way to the parking garage and piled into two passenger vans and 1 SUV.

And that was when the culture shock began.

I had been told that Mexico City was a rough place, and I have been to some rough, rundown cities in the US (downtown Detroit, for example). But nothing I had been told or experienced before quite prepared me for what I saw.

First of all, everything is made of concrete and metal, and almost every door and window has bars over them. The buildings really are rather unattractive; no one seems concerned with aesthetics in the architecture. Most are just plain squares and have metal garage doors that slide up and down to close or open the shops that hide safely behind them. Most often you can still see the gray bricks that were laid to form the walls of the buildings (meaning they were not covered with a layer of concrete after being laid) and they are not painted. The city is mostly gray with random splashes of bright colors here and there. But that brings me to my second observation.

The splashes of color are usually from graffiti. It's EVERYWHERE. On nearly every vertical surface someone has spray painted something. And because hardly any of it is actually artwork (meaning a mural of some type) it only adds to the dilapidated, dirty and dingy look of things.

Third, the traffic is amazing. Mexican roads are a lot like roads in Japan; incredibly narrow. Take rush hour in Chicago, make all the cars about 6 inches apart and have everyone disregard the stop lights and you've got traffic in Mexico City. Oh, and then there are the peddlers. People selling all kinds of beverages, snacks and even produce walk between the cars and offer their wares. It seems to me that they are risking their lives for a few pesos, but then again I'm an ignorant foreigner. That very well may be all the money they make that day and it's well worth it.

The fourth observation are all the stray dogs. I simply cannot believe how many of them there are. I lost count of how many I saw as we traveled. They are very used to people and do not seem unfriendly at all. Some are fat, some are skinny, but none of them are neutered or spayed (Don't ask me how I know that. No, seriously, don't ask). I am SO thankful for the ASPCA and the Humane Society in America.

Our only adventure in the city was stopping to buy some bottled water and exchange our money. Alex stayed in the van and asked me to pick out a Mexican soda for him. The store was busy (and small) so I grabbed the first can I saw that looked liked soda and got in line. While I was waiting I read the can and saw the words "con Tequila" and realized I was holding a cooler and not a soda. Since it's a church trip I decided liquor most likely was not appropriate. I quickly put it back and grabbed an orange soda instead.

When we finally did get out of the city I had only one clue; the air was fresh. Other wise things looked pretty much the same. The roads became more steep and curvy as we made our way out of the basin that Mexico City sits in and up into the hills of the outlaying urban areas. Aside from the few small farms we saw here and there (mostly growing corn) everything looks the same. All the buildings are still crowded together in a haphazard manner, they are all still made out of concrete and metal, and there is still grafiti and a massive amount of stray dogs everywhere. There were also the topes (pronounced toe-pays), which are speed bumps so big that you would wreck your car if you do not slow down. Apparently they are new additions because there is not the man power to enforce the speed laws.

I was struck by how this way of living is completely normal, just business as usual, for the millions of people that call this place home. I know that I could get used to it, or if I grew up in it it would be normal for me too, but I will admit to wondering how people can live this way. I had to do an attitude check and remind myself that if someone from Mexico came to America, they might wonder at how we can live the way we do, too.

At about 7pm we finally arrived at Pastor Hacinto's house. He has a small yard where cars are parked and a swing set that visiting children use (his daughter is grown, but I get the impression their house is quite busy). Outside there is a set of narrow metal stairs that lead up to the apartment above (rented by someone else who is away) and a large open area. Several of our group climbed up there and took in the view. It was beautiful; green hills dotted with clusters of buildings and houses as far as the eye can see against a back drop of blue sky and white, cotton candy clouds. From there you can actually look down into Mexico City and, unfortunately, see the thick cloud of smog that constantly enshrouds it.

Inside the pastor's house we were served a meal of spaghetti with meat sauce and steamed veggies. Eating and drinking in Mexico can be tricky. You can't drink the water from the tap (which means you can't brush your teeth with it either and you have to keep your mouth closed in the shower), you can't use the ice, and you can't eat fresh fruit or veggies unless they've been washed with purified water or peeled. Thankfully our hosts families were all informed of that before we arrived.

We met our host family shortly after dinner. An older woman named Margarita, who doesn't speak any English, greeted us and walked us over to an awaiting white chevy. In the driver's seat was Margarita's son, Lucio, who is also the music minister at the church. We drove about five minutes to their home (I was very impressed with Lucio's ability to drive backwards down a narrow hill that had one hairpin turn).

The house was quite unlike anything I had yet seen. The front is nothing more than a flat yellow wall with a black metal door. Directly above there is a red, metal awning that is partially covered with a yellow, slightly mold-speckled tarp. Above this, on the perpendicular, is a large window and another black metal door. Underneath a stretch of ceiling another window can been seen further back from the front door. Up above you can see strings of clothes lines and a large black tub (too big to get your arms around and probably about as tall as me) of reserve water. When you step inside the home you realize the tarp is there to keep the rain out because the entrance has been left open on purpose. It's very much like a small courtyard. It is small, perhaps only 7'x6'. It's floor is covered with a lovely, carefully laid ivory and tan tile. Directly behind the door is a stairway with a wood paneling banister that turns at a 90-degree angle halfway up and ends at the second metal door that can be seen from outside.

Upstairs there is a small landing area and 4 bedrooms. Each bedroom has a black metal door with a window in it. Each window is covered with some faded squares of fabric to offer the occupants privacy. The bedroom directly to the left of the stairs was given to Alex and me. The floor is covered with tile, the walls are a cheerful yellow, and there are two twin beds (one wood and one metal) shoved up against the walls. The room is small and so there isn't space for anything else except a very narrow, built in desk and wall shelves which hold many books and a few cds and dvds. These sit directly to the right of the room's door, along the same wall. The opposite wall and the perpendicular wall are made up almost entirely of large windows that are covered with lightweight drapes to offer privacy from the street below. In our room there is a small door that leads to a small storage area and a small, full bathroom. It is narrow, only 3' or so wide, and painted a medium shade of blue. The shower is a walk-in and has a sliding black door filled with clouded, yellow plexiglass. It looks like any American bathroom save for one small detail.

Most people know that you can't drink the water here in Mexico, but what many don't know is that you can't put toilet paper in the toilet. The sewage lines simply cannot handle it. So instead there is a small waste basket that you drop your used paper into. They empty the cans everyday, but I will admit it will take some getting used to. My new mantra while we are here is "In the can, not the toilet. In the can, not the toilet!"

Alex and I were exhausted from our day of travel and our hosts seemed eager to get us settled so we could rest. But before we hit the hay they introduced us to the rest of the family. And, wow, do we have a big host family! Margarita introduced us to her husband, Andres. Lucio's two sisters are also in the house, Mary and Lupita. Mary and Lupita's children are in the house as well: Samantha, Michelle, David, Cesar and Debbie (who looks to be about 4 or 5 and is SO stinkin' cute I can hardly STAND it). I'm not quite sure yet who belongs to who exactly or where Mary and Lupita's husbands are, but I'm sure I'll figure it out later this week.

Tomorrow is a sight seeing day for our group. We are going to check out some pyramids!

New Experiences

About 20 minutes from where I live there is a tiny little downtown are called Ada. If you blink you will miss it, yet it is one of the most affluent parts of Grand Rapids. The downtown is quite literally not more than a few blocks but it is home to many boutiques, salons, shops and restaurants, including a gourmet grocery store named Grand River Grocery.

When I was employed at Baker I was a part of a group of nine women who were all about the same age. We called ourselves Baker Babes. Many of these gals have remained my friends during my unemployment and I am quite fond of them. Every Wednesday at 9:30am we Baker Babes would pile into one or two cars, depending on how many of us were available, and go to Grand River Grocery to get coffee at the Starbucks that's inside. Once during our weekly coffee run, right before I was let go from Baker, I noticed a sign on the door of the store that advertised a need for a chalkboard artist.

Now I can't draw. At least, not very well. That's why I chose photography and graphic design; I have machines to create the pictures for me. I can draw simple things, and cutesy cartoony things, but when it comes to drawing anything more than the outline of say a pear, I am not that talented. But ever since I had seen job postings for chalkboard artists at Trader Joe's, I thought maybe it was something I would like to try. Unfortunately there are no Trader Joe's in Grand Rapids. So when I saw this, I just had to ask.

Much to my delight the manager, Georgia, wanted someone who knew more about type layout than drawing. Once I showed her that I could reproduce different fonts by hand using chalk she gave me the responsibility, agreeing that we would barter for my services rather than have her actually pay me. Gives a whole new meaning to starving artist when you are literally drawing in exchange for gourmet cheeses, organic produce, fine wines and Starbucks coffee.

The photo above is of the first chalkboard I drew yesterday. It took five hours. I thought it would only take one and a half, two at the most. Surprisingly, things take much longer by hand than they do on a computer. There is also a certain lack of precision when you are writing and drawing things by hand. All the letters and spacing are not perfectly uniform, and if something isn't quite centered I can't just use an arrow key to nudge it to the proper position. I imagine that I will eventually get faster at this. But drawing with chalk is actually a new experience for me. Yesterday was full of new experiences.

I got to ride on a friend's sailboat, swim on a private beach, and drive a scooter. Then there was the chalk thing.

Short on money, long on time, big on love

Alex has told me that when he was a kid and he wanted to do something that was too expensive for his family to afford his parents would often answer, "if you've got the money, honey, I got the time."

Up until recently time was something I've felt I've never had much of. When I was working 40 hours a week I felt every precious second of every live-long-day needed to be used to it's utmost potential... and it seemed like my wish list of things I wanted to get done never, ever received the coveted check mark signifying it's completion (for those of you reading this who have children I am reading your thoughts... just wait until you have kids!). With the exception of wishing to satiate my HUGE desire to travel and to learn the tango, most of the things I wished I had time to do actually didn't require money. Most of the time all I wanted to do was finish up a sewing project, read a book, call a friend, spend quality time hanging out with my husband, practice guitar, write some thank-yous or bake.

Lately I've had nothing but time on my hands. It's freeing. It's exhilarating. And it's overwhelming.

For the first time since high school I've been given a brief window of opportunity to have all the time I desire at my disposal to do with what I will... and not be worried about money at the same time. Don't get me wrong; the date of August 12th when my severance runs out is still looming in my not so distant future and I am working hard to find employment again (my portfolio is almost finished, w00t). But for now... what to do?

I challenged myself with the usage of my new found free time last Wednesday by volunteering at my church's summer camp for kids. I like children. They bring out the wild, creative silly side in me and I LOVE playing and giggling with them. But I will be the first to tell you that large groups of children SEVERELY FRIGHTEN ME. I could never be a teacher. The idea of managing 30 curtain-climbers for any length of time nearly causes me to faint. I helped lead the 4th graders. Thankfully there were not 30 of them. But there were only two of us (leaders) and fifteen of them.

Before I tell you how things turned out, let me tell you why I did it. Time is our most precious commodity. In fact, it is the one thing that we can always give. Whether you are rich or poor, young or old, educated or uneducated, time is the one thing we all have in ample supply. It is often, too, the one thing we are most stingy with. Many of us would much rather write a check to support a ministry or foundation than actually drive some place and offer our hands and feet to get some work done or meet a need. I am one of those people myself. Sometimes it is fear that stops me. But usually it's laziness or selfishness.

Don't worry; I'm not about to turn this post into a bleeding-heart-liberal-granola-crunching-tree-hugger-indi-rock-elitest-snob diatribe of "You should feel bad for being employed and having money and living in the suburbs" and beat you over the head with a big, all natural stick of Social Justice.

We all have time. And God calls us to do different things with our time at different points in our lives. As Alexander is fond of saying, where would the ministries that help the hungry and homeless get their funding if there weren't people working full time jobs to earn the money to put in the offering plate on Sundays?

Up until eleven days ago, God had called me to earn a paycheck working 40 hours a week, and that meant I simply did not have time for some things. As I mentioned earlier, when I was employed my time was most precious to me, and I often chose very carefully how I would spend it. I would get down on myself if i felt I had wasted time, or if I hadn't accomplished everything I wanted to in a given evening or weekend. But now, things are different.

I thought for sure that with my new found free time I'd end up focusing on just getting stuff done that I had been meaning to get done for the past three years (one day, black-ankle-length-skirt I will finish sewing you!). But oddly enough, God has laid four surprising desires on my heart: rest, re-evaluation, fellowship and volunteering. I have yet to touch my sewing machine, but I have spent a lot of time getting to know my husband better. I have yet to touch my guitar, but I have spent a lot of time in prayer, searching my soul to figuring out what I want and what God wants for me in a career. I still have a stack of cards to write and send out, but I have enjoyed some wonderful time with friends and getting to know some people from church better. I have yet to run off to Hawaii (although I have applied for a job in Honolulu), but I did spend an afternoon with a bunch of 9 and 10-year-olds talking about God while drawing pictures in charcoal before singing songs with hand motions.

If you're working that full-time job, then God bless you and I pray He gives you a generous heart and makes you a wise steward of your money.
If you're busily raising kids right now, then God bless you and I pray He gives you patience and wisdom and edifies what you are doing daily (don't you dare ever let anyone make you feel like what you're doing isn't important... none of us would be here if it weren't for mothers).
If you're volunteering and serving the homeless and needy right now, then God bless you and I pray He protects you and gives you resilience and the strength of spirit that you need to deal with the brokenness of humanity.
If you're a student right now, then God bless you and I pray that He will give you diligence and dedication to achieve excellence in your studies, and that He will guide you in your future career choices.
And if, like me, you are job searching right now, then God bless you, and I pray He will give you patience, peace and wisdom, and that He will sustain your spirit with hope, and that you may find joy in discovering new ways to use your free time.

No matter where you are in life, and no matter what you are doing, I encourage you to check in with God once in a while, and be open to His promptings. You just never know when He might ask you to try something new or give in a way you haven't before.

Oh, and the summer camp? I'll probably go back on Wednesday.

Groovy Old Man vs. Lazy Young Man

I affectionately refer to my dad as a Groovy Old Man. He's not actually that old, just barely retirement age. But I think it's the lack of hair on the top of his head, the salt and pepper color of the hair he does have on the rest of his head, his awesome mustache and bushy eyebrows, and the way his face scrunches up delightfully whenever he smiles and laughs. The fact that he drives a black Corvette, is currently restoring a 70's El Camino, and plays the bass guitar help too.

I got to see him yesterday for lunch. For those of you who don't know, my dad lives on the east side of the state while I reside on the west. Normally it's a 2.5 hour drive, but when you fly it only takes about 30 minutes. That's one of the benefits of Dad having been a pilot for thirty some odd years. Since I first moved to GR for college back in 2000, whenever he has a trip out here he calls me up and we have lunch.

Over breakfast at IHOP he asked me how things are going and I said that I was doing alright. That actually, I was enjoying my time off right now. He said he couldn't do that, that he had to always be working. He said it's a guy thing.

I'm not so sure if that's true. I've known an awful lot of guys in my life who were more than happy to not be doing anything with themselves. Some of those guys, I am sure, still list their priorities as follows:
1. Bandwidth
2. Newest games
3. Cigarettes
4. Booze
5. Computer hardware
6. Game accessories
7. Food
8. Girls

More often than not these priorities were funded by donations to our local plasma bank than by any kind of job. Maybe it's a generational thing more than it's a guy thing?

Either way, this girl wants a job and I don't plan on it being full time at the blood bank.