Best Auntie That I Can Be

I am the best Auntie that I can be. If you ask any of my 20 nieces and nephews, at least the ones who have met me and can talk, they'll tell you that I'm fun, exciting, take an interest in them, and always try to laugh. Also, I love kids in general: I love to work with kids who are less financially fortunate; I love to mentor kids who need a stable adult in their lives; I even love to make funny faces at babies in line at the supermarket.

From this, people say, "You would be a great mother."

However, I beg to differ . . .

I'm a great Auntie because I can come in like Cat in the Hat, make all kinds of fun, make nonsensical remarks, make a big mess, and at the end of the day, go home. I don't have to: change diapers, kiss boo boos, dole out punishments, talk to teachers, get the kids anywhere on time, make any decisions about how to raise them, or how NOT to raise them.

If I was a mother, it would scare the living crap out of me. My full head of almond brown hair would be as white as Steve Martin’s. I would stand over the crib at night and look down at that sweet, peaceful, angelic face sleeping so soundly, and stop in horror as I wonder if it is still breathing. I would hold a mirror up to its tiny little nostrils just to see it fog. I would make one of those apparatuses like Bob Dylan had to play harmonica; but, instead have a baby version with a mirror so that I can make sure it stays fogged. In fact, the crib wouldn't be safe enough for this mom. I would have that thing lined in bubble wrap. As the kid grows up I would worry, “Am I not paying enough attention to him/her. Am I paying too much attention to him/her.”

I read an article recently that asked parents with single friends not to say this, "You're so lucky you get to sleep in/shop/travel." The author of the article assumed that the single person would take offence and, “make us feel like you assume the reason we don't have children is that we're lazy, selfish, or shallow.” Well I’m here to tell you the author is wrong. I AM that lazy/selfish/shallow. I wouldn’t want to get pregnant unless my husband has enough money to pay for reconstructive surgery. I wouldn’t want to have kids unless my husband can afford a nanny to help with the messy, sticky, smelly bits of parenting. I wouldn’t want to have kids unless I can dress them up in really cute clothes and walk them around as an accessory.

I am a great Auntie/mentor/teacher because I get to go home to the quiet and solitude of my one bedroom apartment and get a good night sleep, wake up slowly in the morning, have a quiet coffee, practice an hour of peaceful yoga, work on meaningful projects that don’t have to earn enough money to buy diapers or contribute to a college fund, read a good novel alone under the shade of a tree, lose track of time at a friend’s house while laughing and chatting about the craziness of life.

Most importantly, I have time to look in the faces of these sweet children and want to give them the best in life, to want to foster every dream they have, to want to hug them and keep them warm at night. Then, I have time to work on bigger projects and work with higher-end companies who can make projects to help more kids around the world to get blankets to babies, to send kids to camp, to have clean drinking water, to give them an opportunity to achieve their goals in life.

The Adventures of Frozen Girl

In the last episode of Frozen Girl, we left our heroine sipping a frozen latte while sunning by the pool. In this episode of The Adventures of Frozen Girl, we'll find out what happens as the temperature falls faster than a 2008 stock market ticker tape...

Normally on a warm and sunny morning, our heroine, Frozen Girl, throws off the thin sheet under which she slumbers and presses the pads of her plantars on the planks of hardwood floor while stretching her limbs in all directions like a starfish reaching for plankton on a summer ocean pier. An hour of power-flow-vinyasa yoga and a few loops around the track are finished faster than Lance Armstrong can charge up the Pyrenees. A cool-ish shower, light make-up and a damp pony tail are all finished before Guy Raz can sign off of an All Things Considered episode which streams on her laptop. Wrapping her favorite dress around her, slipping into sandals and spritzing perfume on her nape, Frozen Girl is armed with the essentials to save the world, one business seminar at a time.

However, on this mid-October morning, the dim sunlight protruding through the icey-etched windowpane has had to travel through layers of stratus clouds which cover the sky like a sheet of hazy wax paper. It's as if the sun has changed from its crystal-grooved 100-watt glass envelope to a rayless-opaque 40-watt bulb. Our heroine, Frozen Girl, inches under the layers of fabric--cotton, wool, chenille, acrylic padding--which stack above her like sedimentary rock in the Grand Canyon. Paul McCartney serenades our heroine, "Here comes the sun and I sa--" as she clicks snooze for the 6th time having only been aware of this routine twice. On this day, Frozen Girl knows that she is facing her toughest nemesis; it is her Kryptonite for Superman, her binding of the bracelets for Wonder Woman, her yellow color for Green Lantern, and it's the one thing that renders the positive, energetic and happy heroine helpless: Seasonal Affective Disorder or S.A.D.

On mornings such as this, Frozen Girl is weakened by the depressive-ness of this malaise-ial disorder, S.A.D. Overnight, without being aware, Frozen Girl has suffered the affects of S.A.D. Her skin has become a pastel-pale hue of grey, 5 extra silver slivers of hair have sprouted from the crown of her head, and her normally erect spine has become slump and slack as to protrude a hump over her right shoulder at which Richard III would gawk. She stands and looks in the mirror noticing that a twister tornado has managed to sweep through her room only to twist her hair in a frizzy, knotted fray of a disheveled haystack. Under her eyes are charcoal-colored half-circles the size she left on a freshly-painted curb with her radial car tires. Slapping her hand on the side of the mirror and, with the free hand, cracking her spine erect, then staring between hazel hues into her plaintive black pupils, she reasons the antidote to the Seasonal Affective Disorder in a whisper, "Coffee".

As she ladles the powder of dark-brown coffee granules into the Turkish-style pot, our heroine scoops an extra half-spoonful into the water before plunging the spoon into the still cold viscosity. Frozen Girl, rests her leaden-heavy head upon folded arms on the chilly, linoleum counter top and waits for the water to boil the murky mixture into a pharmacological remedy. If a watched pot never boils, then a watched pot that one forgets to ignite the stove burner under has as good a chance to steam as the flue on a Union Pacific locomotive does in the age of diesel-electric powered trains. Our heroine puffs a sigh of frosty breath into her bangs, clicks the stove knob over to High and shuffles her heavy slippers to the restroom to have a pee.

Our heroine sits on the glacial latrine as the sharp spears of her elbows crease the tops of her thighs with the weight of her head in her hands. Our heroine repeats a mantra that she learned from her days as a triathlete to now get her psyched up just to simply face the day, "The woman who starts the race is not the same woman who finishes the race" and compares the short-dark-smoggy-soupy days of winter which lay ahead as a competition to test her commitment to the foreign aid life which she has chosen. Frozen Girl's ears concentrate on a sound that is familiar yet uncommon to every morning. It is the cacophony of water, something dripping, something wet, something boiling--the coffee!

They say that Eistein thought of the Theory of Relativity while sitting on the toilet. And that on a cold day in December of 1862, Lincoln sat in a frigid outhouse as he discovered the alternate phrase to saying, "87 years ago" or, "A really effing long time ago". It is ironic that Frozen Girl discovers that life is not all coffee breaks and alternative forms of mood altering substances that make your life livable. It is laughing at yourself when your pants are around your ankles, then blogging about it for your friends and family to read that makes life one hell of a good time.

In the next episode of Adventures of Frozen Girl: Getting Dressed to Go Outside. Stay tuned....

**Thanks for reading!! Please leave a comment below. You can even leave it as "anonymous" Cao cao :-)

Ode the The Wrap Dress

Oh, Wrap Dress, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways. . .

One. You are so easy to wear with just a simple piece of fabric wrapped around my waist and tied with a simple knot at my side.

Two. You fit me in the summer when I only need to wear sandals to feel the breeze--when it decides to blow--which cools the sweat beads that drip down my back like light rain on a window pane.

Three. You fit me in the winter when I wear the following layers: 2 pair of tights, socks over the tights and inside my boots, a long-sleeve shirt under, and on top a cardigan sweater whose buttons are pursed like the stitches on a Thanksgiving turkey. Now, it appears as if you are only a skirt, but you and I know the real secret (wink).

Four. I love thee when you are so easy to wear after finding you on my floor, wrapped in a ball, under a misplaced heal from three days before when I didn't bother to hang you properly in the closet yet. Your finely spun polyester fabric, although highly flammable, is wrinkle-proof and requires no time to iron. I can wear you in a seconds notice as I am finishing the touches on a light makeup job, gathering my hair in a rubber band, and taking one last sip of a half-drunk cup of coffee as I step into black heels and forget my mobile phone on the kitchen table.

Five. You fit over my hips when I have spent too much time at the kitchen counter stuffing wheat husk toast (because they are somehow healthier than the white toast ones), covered in butter (because it IS healthier than Margarine--but only because it is real food) and honey (because it is healthier than sugar--even brown sugar). I know I have the Mean Reds when I am eating these. As Holly Golightly explains in Breakfast at Tiffany's, "The Mean Reds are not like The Blues because when you have The Blues you're just sad that's all, but when you have The Mean Reds, suddenly you're sad and you don't know why. The only thing to do in that case is to [cover crackers with butter and honey] and [stuff yourself until it all goes away]" [Brackets are my own.] It is a 'meal' that I eat when I know that the Mean Reds have gotten me down and nothing is to be done but self-medicate with a concoction of crunchy-buttery-sweet-street-legal drug that the markets sell so freely while, in an ironic twist, cocaine remains illegal. Although with the healthier recipe option, it is still responsible for widening my hips faster than Cal-Trans can install a new lane on the 405 Highway. Wrap Dress, I love you because you are so forgiving to the extra Kilos I have obtained in a Mean Reds meltdown.

Six. I can pull you out of a tightly packed backpack and wear you over jeans for an afternoon coffee, or dress you up with tights and heels for a night out, or better yet throw on a scarf to wear to a business meeting.

Seven. I can wear you twice in a week, and no one will know.. refer to #3

Eight. I love you when Spring comes, and I have been working out like Jack LaLane getting ready for his 86th Birthday. When I finally realize that it is bathing suit season approaching and I am tanning on my terrace so that no one will see the white of my corrugated belly. When I can finally start actually running at the track instead of trotting like the Michelin Man because I am wearing layer upon layer of sport socks and long-sleeve shirts that make it impossible to move. When my morning routine turns from pressing snooze on my alarm for an hour--because I cannot bear to feel the frigid air of the morning pressed against my skin as I change from my pajama sweats and a hoody to my workout sweats and a hoody--to getting up with only one snooze warning. When my morning tunes turn from This American Life and Ira Glass's voice on my ipod to Lil' Wayne and Jay-Z wrapping about their bling and Bentleys. When my cheeks go from looking like a sqirrel has packed a whole cache of nuts in them to normal apple-sized pods set correctly in place between my ears and nose. When I feel confident enough to wear you with just a belt and not wearing layers of clothing to hide my Winter Body.

Nine. I can wear you in any season, and you still look fashionable enough. Although I am sick and tired of wearing you after 2 years, other people have not even noticed that I keep you on a rotation between dress, skirt, and long top.

Wine Festival: Pulp Fiction or Pulp Reality?

"Dionysus is represented by city religions as the protector of those who do not belong to conventional society and thus symbolizes everything which is chaotic, dangerous and unexpected, everything which escapes human reason and which can only be attributed to the unforeseeable action of the gods."

I invariably open my eyes the next afternoon, having slept through the morning because I was barely cognizant the night before; but, enough, apparently, to have the foresight to unfurl my blinds to sleep through the torch of morning that was just starting to illuminate the dark complexion of night into blue saturation on the canvas of the horizon. Not being able to lift my head--which feels like a 70 lb cinder block--I roll over on my side and examine the closet door for 20 minutes. The white paint is cracked around the edges, the wooden knobs are loose so that the screw comes out of the hole 5 cm, and the right one isn't closed all the way because the arm of my sweatshirt is crimped in the crease. I think about the night before and try to piece together the Pulp of movie clips that I can remember. The song that makes the soundtrack in my head--of course not the entire song--just the part of the refrain that I can actually understand, "Pogledaj me, Pogledaj me, Ocima Deteta!" *[hold down CTRL then click on the links as you read] (Look at me, Look at me, Like a child) sung in the voice of the cover band artist who was onstage in my first memory of the previous evening.

Director: Stephen Soderbergh (Oceans 11)**

Exterior KRUZEN TEK - 22:00

A crowded field which is the center of a traffic roundabout. There is a stage at one end where a band is playing cover songs of American Rock and "Ex-Yu" Rock (Rock music from bands which were formed in Yugoslavia time. They are mostly in Serbian Language.) 7 booths of wineries encircle the area.

CHRISTINE stands at a table where a display of glasses are neatly placed. She is wearing khaki shorts, a black tank top and strappy khaki wedge sandals (which she purchased for a steal in Lyon at the beginning of summer). Her hair is thrown up in a ponytail and has been air-dried. She is wearing matching silver hoop earrings and a silver cuff bracelet.

SALESWOMAN stands opposite the table from CHRISTINE and is smoking a slim, filtered cigarette.

SALESWOMAN

(yelling over the music) For 70 Denari ($1.80), you get 5 tastes of wine and you get to keep the commemorative glass with the logo of Kavadarci and "Grozdober 2011" etched on it.

CHRISTINE

(yelling over the music) I have never claimed to be a wine connoisseur, a wine snob, or even knowledgeable about how a small seed grows into a vine, sprouts grapes, gets plucked, squeezed, smashed, fermented, filtered and poured in my commemorative glass.

SALESWOMAN

Well who really cares anyway. We're all just here to have fun.

In fast motion, the SALESWOMAN cleans the glass, takes CHRISTINE'S money and hands her a stack of tickets.

FRIEND 1 is tall, bald and wears a t-shirt with a button up shirt over it which is unbuttoned.

FRIEND 1

Go to that stand, Kris. They have the best wine. Here taste it.

In fast motion, CHRISTINE takes a sip. Smiles and gives a thumbs up to FRIEND 1. She tells FRIEND 1 that she'll be back. She walks back to meet him in the same place after 5 min.

CHRISTINE

The 'tastes' are more like full glasses and sometimes they don't take my ticket. Plus, somehow I have more than 5 tickets in my pocket.

In fast motion, FRIEND 2, 3, 4, 5 are standing in a circle facing the stage. FRIEND 2 is holding a bottle of wine and pouring into everyone's glasses periodically. FRIEND 2 starts to pour wine into CHRISTINE'S glass.

CHRISTINE

Malse (little)

This scene repeats 5 times. The camera pans slowly around with closeups on each persons face. Each is smiling, laughing and drinking. As the camera pans faster and faster the images start to blur and the distinction of the faces is unrecognizable. There are cars driving around the traffic circle. They drive faster and faster around and the music plays louder and louder.

Director: Francis Ford Coppola (The Godfather)***

Interior KAFE BAR - 23:30

CHRISTINE wears a black and white strapless dress with strap-back heels. Her hair is pinned to one side. She is wearing gold earrings and a gold cocktail ring on her right middle finger. She enters the bar followed by 4 friends.

The full Kafe Bar is hot and steam comes off the speakers which play Latin Salsa music. The women in the bar wear dresses while the men wear slacks and button up shirts with the top 2 buttons undone. The uninterested crowd looks around the room at nothing in particular. The heat causes people to perspire. CHRISTINE is lead by a waiter to a standing table and the FRIENDS follow behind.

The WAITER is wearing a t-shirt and carries a tray with a damp towel on it.

WAITER

Povili? (May I get you something?)

CHRISTINE

(flatly) Cognac. . .with an orange slice.

The rest of the friends order drinks and the WAITER leaves. CHRISTINE looks around the room. Her eyes fix on one GUY across the bar. She has seen him before, but never talked to him. She leans into the FRIEND standing closest to her.

CHRISTINE

Who is that?

FRIEND

Who?

CHRISTINE

The guy in the black shirt over there.

The GUY is wearing a black collared-shirt with the sleeves rolled twice at the forearms, jeans, and black leather shoes. He wears a watch on one arm and a silver-link bracelet on the other.

The FRIEND looks around and sees the GUY. He points across the cafe bar directly at him.

FRIEND

Him?

The GUY sees FRIEND pointing to him and stops to look at CHRISTINE and FRIEND. He looks surprised. He sees CHRISTINE and smiles. CHRISTINE smiles back. Slowly the people in the bar fade out of camera in the black, the lights dim except on the couple, and CHRISTINE and the GUY are left a clear space to walk toward each other. When they meet, they embrace into a salsa dance position. They slowly dance to the song percussion playing through the speakers. Their feet and legs are in sync as if they have practiced many times. When the song is finished, they look into each others eyes and slowly walk backwards to their original positions at opposite ends of the bar. The people in the bar fade back into the camera, the music speeds up, and the lights come back on. The FRIENDS are drinking their drinks and chatting as if nothing happened. CHRISTINE takes the wedge of orange from off the rim of her glass and drinks a sip of her cognac. She looks over the rim of the glass across the room. She sees the GUY who is looking at her longingly as if waiting to approach her to speak. The camera pans out of the coffee bar to see all the people dancing except the GUY and CHRISTINE who are not moving but looking across at each other.

Director: Alfred Hitchcock (Vertigo)****

Interior TAXI - 3:30 a.m.

CHRISTINE is sitting in the backseat of a taxi cab. She is wearing a smart, fitted, tweed skirt-suit, pantyhose and pointed toed classic heels. Her hair is pulled tightly in a french twist. Her small pearl earrings match her pearl necklace. She takes off her white wrist-length gloves one finger at a time and places them into her clutch purse.

The taxi cab's exterior is white, the interior is dark grey. The TAXI DRIVER is wearing a white button up shirt with the logo of the taxi company on the chest. He has a friendly face but small eyes and a furrowed brow.

TAXI DRIVER

Kaj odish? (Where are you going?)

The TAXI DRIVER turns around as he asks this. He sees CHRISTINE and recognizes her. When he smiles he reveals a row or razor sharp teeth. Before CHRISTINE can answer.

TAXI DRIVER

Oh sure. I remember you. Bulevard Makedonija trinaeset, right?

CHRISTINE

(Flustered) Uh. How did you know? I mean. I've never seen you before in my life. Who are you?

TAXI DRIVER

Lady, I've driven you before lots a times. You gotta remember me.

CHRISTINE

(Panicked) Is this some kind of joke? I.. I.. (Changing her mind) That's okay, driver, just stop here. I'll walk the rest of they way.

TAXI DRIVER

It's okay, Lady. Don't worry.

CHRISTINE

But I only have 40 Denari. U Picku Mater! I remember that I spent all my money.

The TAXI DIVER stops the meter at 40, turns around to look CHRISTINE in the eyes. Camera has a close up on his eyes.

TAXI DRIVER

That's okay, Lady. (Menacingly) You can owe me the rest. Ha ha ha!

CHRISTINE grasps at the door handle and it is locked. She feels around for the latch but there isn't one. She starts to pound on the door.

TAXI DRIVER

The door is broken. It only opens from the outside.

CHRISTINE

(Screams) NOOOO!

As I think about this, I am brought back to the current time by my phone ringing in a text message. I click the button to reveal the message, "Kris! Fantastic time last night. Did you make it home okay? We are going for coffee later if you want to join." I text back, "Super bese (It was super). I think I'll pass on coffee today. I need some more sleep ;-) "

* http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eYYwsi-uySU

** http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BV-U-ERRU_A

*** http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bf16Vc3iZjE

**** http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D0bV2gh4E7Y

The Peeps

Those of you who know my parents, certainly do not know them in the same way that I do. Allow me to describe them as only their 8th-of-9 child, which 7 are boys, 2 are girls, all are married save me (which actually is another way of saying 'except me' oddly enough), all have kids save me, and we all know and love my parents in our own ways. They say that the only 2 people who have the same parents are identical twins. I can tell you that my parents are the most unique set of people I have come to know.

For the past 2 years, conversations between my parents and me, or as my family affectionately refers to them--The Peeps, have been in one of three ways: over their land line telephone, the computer through Skype without the video, and the computer through Skype with video. For me it is the same; I use my Skype every time. I mention the distinction because I will describe how these different mediums shape our conversations. This will give you a clue into how I have come to regard them for the time I've been serving in the Peace Corps in Macedonia. Also, perhaps it is a small allegory (even a hyperbole) into what I've known of their parenting and personality for my lifespan on this earth.

My Skype to their Land line:

Click.. riiing.. riiing.. riiing.. Answering machine, "Hi, you've reached the Moore house--"

"Hello?" Georgie interrupting. She has the sing to her "Hello" where she holds the o and at the end goes an octave higher.

"Hi, Ma."

"Christeeeeeen!" She sounds so shocked to hear my voice as if I am calling from the last payphone in Zimbabwe and she expects to hear the operator come on the line to tell me to deposit $3.00 for the next 3 minutes.

"How's it going?" I ask casually.

"Great! Great!.. Lemme get your father..." She pulls the receiver away from her face to yell to the back of the house, "BUDDY! Teen is on the phone... No, not Steeeephen, Teen, Teen.. Not, Tim.. " I hear some inaudible grumbling in the background. She comes back on the line and whispers, "He's on the toilet. He'll be here in a minute."

"Oh.. well okay.. I mean leave the man to his business."

"Hold on, lemme put you on speakerphone." Click.. click... Then I hear, "Oh sugar!" Click.. click.. "Can you hear me? Teen? Can you hear me?"

"Yeah, Ma, I can hear you. Can you hear me?"

"Oh Goodie!" She claps her hands together and she is gushing with excitement like a kid who just opened a box of Crackerjacks to find a coupon for a free box of Crackerjacks.

" 'Elllooo" My dad roars on the line.

"Hey, Pop. How's it going? Did everything come out okay." I reference for the easy toilet humor.

"Well, ha ha, I'm not so sure, ha ha, at my age what they can, ha ha, tell me anymore." Then he goes from jolly-happy Pop, to these-guys-are-always-trying-to-screw-you-over Pop. "You go to the Doctor half your life and tell him you got a pain and he pokes you with this, makes you pee in that, looks in your ears, and you cough up half your income just so he can buy a Mercedes and ride around town. I tell ya' Daughter, if the Peace Corps doesn't work out, they could use a few more doctors in the world. Then your Dear Old Dad can have free medical visits."

I lighten the mood with, "Naw, Pop, I'd still charge you."

At this he roars with laughter that makes my mom start to giggle and all of us are soon laughing at the madness of it all.

Cut to Skype with no video:

"Hey, guys."

"Hey-a, Daughter." My dad has the microphone to his lips because that is the only way I can hear him. If it is any farther than 2 inches away, I can not hear a thing. Like this he sounds like a Bush League baseball announcer in the 9th inning of a blowout game where all the fans have gone home and he is left to clean up the cigarette butts and beer cans.

My mom grabs the microphone. I know this because I can hear rustling in the speaker.

"Hi, Sweetheart! Did you get the package I sent you?"

"Yeah, Ma, thanks! I sent you an email to thank you. I got it 2 weeks ago. Thanks so much for the makeup from the 99 cent store (she thinks that I am still 8 years-old), and the stickers for the kids--they'll love 'em (I teach some kids who don't go to school a couple days a week in Macedonian by my house. She is very thoughtful about them and includes pens, pencils or stickers for them in each package she sends me), and the tiny maracas (Lord knows why)."

The maracas are no bigger than my palm and I shake them for the effect so she knows I really have them. "I'm not sure what I'll do with them, but they sound nice."

"Well I thought you could use them with the band that you are working with."

I've only been talking to 'The Band' she refers to about some marketing strategies at this point. I am by no means Brian Epstein. However, in my mom's mind, I am the next Stevie Nicks to their Fleetwood Mac.

"Um, that's a great idea, but they are professionals. I'm not sure how they would feel about me getting on stage and shaking these things. But, I'll let them know you are thinking of them."

"Yeah, that would be great." She trails off and I can tell she is seeing me wearing shimmering sequins in a spotlight while sitting on stage in front of a microphone.

"So, how's it going, Pop?" There is a rustling of Mom giving Pop the microphone.

"Oh, not so bad. Got out and swam in the pool today. The doctor told me to only do 2 laps per day, but I managed to do 3."

I fan the flames of what is to come. "You really showed him. What does he know? He only went to medical school for 7 years."

"Yeah, you cough up a lung at the reception to see these guys, and then he tells you that you got a hole in your chest and can't figure out why."

"Hey, maybe they can ice your lung in the reception area, and you can get on the transplant list to get it back."

He sees the irony and humor in all of this and starts to roar the familiar laugh that sets you at ease that the humor he raised you with has not gone the way of his patience.

Cut to Skype WITH camera:

Pixels settle on to Ma. She is dressed in a yellow shirt, with a similar hued yellow vest, yellow chick earrings and a necklace that spells out in wood blocks, "H-A-P-P-Y-[crusafix]-E-A-S-T-E-R".

"Hi, Teen!" She squeals.

I hear my dad in the back who has not come into view yet, "HE is risen!"

"Navistin se Voskresna!" I answer back (It is Macedonian for "Truly HE is risen".) I know that he doesn't understand Macedonian. In a way, I want to go along with their traditions, but still uphold my own beliefs.

"Check." My father says flatly. Partly because, as I infer, he realizes that I am 1) Not Catholic, 2) Atheist, and 3) NOT Catholic.

My father comes into view now. He is wearing a sweatshirt with a picture of a bear on it that reads across the top, "I Tan Bear". It is a sweatshirt from the Goodwill and by now he has worn it so much that it is tattered around the collar. It hasn't fallen completely off of him, so he continues to wear it only at home, but by now it is in disrepair so bad that I can see his chest hair through the material as if it is made out of tissue paper.

"So, how was mass?" I ask because I know my mom is dying to tell me about something a-mazing that happened.

"Oh, Teen!" She pants, "it was so beautiful! They had the whole church decorated in orchids and the children's choir got up and sang the most beautiful songs. They were so cute." Her eyes sparkle and her mouth is almost watering as if she just put a piece of taffy in it.

My father now pulls up a chair and sits to the side of my mother and asks, "So what's new with you? How's Mass-eh-doh-nee-ja?"

"It's great!" I tell them about all my friends, about the colors of Spring and the traditions here for Easter, or Vilingden. They are watching me intently and mirroring my smiles with their own. Then my dad gets so full that he embraces my mom's arm around both his hands as if he's holding a rope. He gently leans his head on her shoulder and stays like this through our conversation.

"You are looking good." They tell me.

"Maybe when you get back from the Peace Corps," my father adds, "you can go to Hollywood and start modeling."

I counter with, "I'm afraid I've got a face only a father could love."

"Oh no, You are beautiful." My mom tells me.

"Just like my momma." I add.

"Aww." My mom coos.

"That's right, George, she's just trying to butter us up. Just wait till she tells us that she needs some money."

"Ha ha," I laugh, "asking for money from you guys would be like asking for honey from Pooh Bear. As soon as he has any it's gone."

At this my dad throws his head back and roars with laughter and my mom giggles and soon we are all laughing at the truth and insanity of it all.

We talk for almost an hour, and I learn all about their projects with church and how they are busier in retirement than when they were working. They tell me about everybody in their community who is dying, or had surgery, or is just plain losing their marbles. I can't help but think about how much longer I might have them around to watch me grow up.

When it is time to go, my mom wraps her arms around herself and scrunches her shoulders to her ears, "Hugs!" she tells me. Pop and I join in this pantomime. Her eyes are filling with tears. both hands go to her mouth, "Kisses!" She chokes back a sob. Pop and I join in this pantomime as well. "Hugs, Hugs, Kisses, Kisses" I tell them. We all say, "I love you" and as I click the red telephone receiver to hang up the call, Ma's nose is red and a tear falls to her cheek. When the screen goes black, I can see myself in the glossy computer screen and only now can I feel the tear in the corner of my eye.

Thank you, Peeps, for all your love and support! I could do this without you, but I enjoy the journey more when you are along for the ride! :-** Hugs Hugs, Kiss Kiss!

What's New..?

I realize I haven't written in a long time. Wow! What can I say... So, here goes.. Ummmm.. I'm extending for another year! Now, this might come as a bit of a shock to those of you who sat on skype with me as I chattered my teeth under scarfs, caps, and wool socks a plenty in the arctic tundra as the mercury dropped to below freezing. Well, all I can say is, (singing the Beatles song) "Here comes the sun do do do do.. Here comes the sun and it's alright" Spring in Macedonia, specifically the southern region where I live, is breathtaking. For example, the hills are full of shades of green at which even Crayola would gawk, the sun is brighter and warmer than even Nikola Tesla can imagine, and the vegetables would put the Jolly Green Giant to shame for trying to capture their juicy goodness in a flash-frozen-carbon-dated-plastic bag. I can't say that the change in weather was my only reason for applying to extend. That would be like saying that a parachute's hue is the only reason you would want to go skydiving (when clearly the reason to jump out of a perfectly good airplane is the nauseous feeling one eventually succumbs to upon realizing that the world is a linear idea of fixed time with birth on one end and death placed under the Finish banner at the other and you hope that the banner isn't running toward you instead of you toward it.) Although, Spring helped clear my mind while nourishing me with sufficient levels of vitamin D production, the idea to apply to extend for a third year in the Peace Corps and live and work in Kavadarci, Macedonia was due to the feeling in the core of my belly, just under my bellybutton, but over my.. well you get the idea, that I didn't feel 'done'. I felt as if I needed something more to accomplish. I wasn't ready to weepily say goodbye in the middle of the night, as I walked on a foggy runway to the Lockheed 14H silver plane in the distance through the black of night after a Mr. Bogart professed his love to me and begged me to continue my mission to save the good and innocent people of the world. So, there you have it. The, mostly, short of it. I'll try to write more often to catch you all up on the past year of fun and/or excitement you might have missed.