Genesee liked the trip to Tsetserleg. There were always too many people in the car.

An unexpected mass of clouds had settled over Ikh Tamir, giving its residents the first taste of winter’s chill. Genesee sat in the passenger seat and rocked with the motion of the car as it rattled over the dusty roads. The back seat was crowded with passengers, propped on each other’s laps, their heads grazing the roof of the car. An emee’s (grandmother’s) hands gripped Genesee’s head rest so that each time she moved, her ponytail slipped over the woman’s fingers. Sleet and thick flakes of snow whipped past the car as it rumbled up a steep incline. The passengers grumbled collectively and the emee gripped Genesee’s shoulder, surprising her. The woman’s fingers pushed down against the soft flesh of her upper arm. Genesee held her breath, the recognition of human connection leaping into her throat.

Before Ikh Tamir, before the endless fields stretching into the horizon, before the small ger lost in the countryside, Genesee had spent her summer dashing from one friend’s home to another. She had lain on Emily’s futon, their legs intertwined as they wound their way from one conversation to the next. Nights slipped by as she and friends danced wildly, their bodies crushed up against one another. Even now, Genesee could feel Alex’s hands spread across her torso, leaving a greater impression than the man ever had. A general murmur broke out among the passengers as the car flattened out on the pavement and the emee removed her hand.

Lifting his foot from the accelerator Batbayar allowed the car to coast to a stop, finally bringing it to a halt by pulling the emergency brake. Genesee swallowed a strong suspicion that the car had no working brakes. Batbayar turned to her and began gesturing vaguely to the back seat. The emee climbed from the car. Genesee was meant to take her place.

Batbayar raced along the slick road. The storm growing thicker until they were enveloped by swirling snow and dust, cut off from the world around them. The heat of eight bodies hung in the back seat, and Genesee balanced precariously on the knees of a middle-aged woman. The car jostled uncomfortably, causing Genesee’s stomach to somersault and her head to spin. She closed her eyes tight and inhaled deeply, willing her self to relax. A gasp of horror struck the silent car and Genesee opened her eyes in time to see an enormous yak race across the road. For one desperate moment they hung silently in time. The car collided with the broad side of the beast and spun violently on the icy roads. A scream caught in her throat, seconds disappeared as her mind leapt ahead in time, and the car slipped off the road, landing with a shudder at the edge of Tamir River.

No one moved, but Genesee’s fingers clenched the emee’s shoulder and the woman’s hand was wrapped around her own.

Recently, I joined my friend Blain Logan in the creation of the "Live Like a PCV Challenge," it's a little unusual, but very fun. Check it out...

----------------------You’ve been challenged!

Can you hack it and “Live Like a Peace Corps Volunteer” for a week? At Peace Corps we are celebrating our 50th anniversary and here in Mongolia we are celebrating our 20th!

The “Live Like a PCV Challenge” is a project to help raise awareness about the Peace Corps mission within the U.S. while giving those who take up the challenge a small taste of Volunteer life. The challenge will take place during the first week of each month (the 1st-7th) from December 2010 through 2011 and also during Lent.

The Peace Corps mission is as follows:

Goal 1: Help the people of interested countries in meeting their need for trained men and women.

Goal 2: Help promote a better understanding of Americans on the part of the peoples served.

Goal 3: Help promote a better understanding of other peoples on the part of Americans.

Below you will find the guide lines of the Challenge, as well as learn how you can help us with our mission and celebration.

---------------------------The Challenge

For one week you are asked to give up some of the everyday conveniences we do without. The levels are arranged from more common to less common living conditions of PCVs in Mongolia while also taking into account the difficulty of completing the challenge in the US. So while none of us here have a car it ranks quite high in the challenge as it is much more difficult to do without one in the states.

First decide which month you want to participate. The first week of the month you choose (the 1st-7th) will be when you need to give up your items.

Next, look through the list below and decide which level you want to aim for.

Finally, let us know that you’ve taken up the challenge by completing the Accept the Challenge section of this form.

Level I. Posh Corps

(choose two)

• You can’t use running hot water, you may only use water you boiled (yes, this includes baths)

• You can’t use any microwave

• No checks, no debit cards or credit cards, cash only all week.

• No washing machine or dish washers - plus you must attempt laundry by hand once. (let’s be honest you probably have enough clothes to easily go a week without washing)

Level II. On the train line

(choose two plus one Level I.)

• No television (this includes Hulu and Adult Swim online, they are not available outside the US)

• Baths or showers allowed only every other day. (you can wash yourself at the sink with a rag each day)

• No fast food, no restaurants (this includes coffee places, bars, and delivery)

• Internet only every other day (you can use the internet for your job but your on the honor system here)

Level III. Aimag Center- Province capital

(choose two plus one Level II or two Level I)

• You can use your toilet but you must manually fill the tank or do a bucket flush. (turn off the water to the toilet)

• Lack of temperature control. No heater or air conditioner in your house or car.

• Power outage. Throw a dice (6 sides) every day for how many hours you will be without power sometime between (5p-11p) (turn off your power breakers)

• You can only use one burner on your stove and no oven.

Level IV. Out West

(choose two plus one Level III, or two Level II, or three Level I)

• Reduced living space. You may only use your living room, bathroom and kitchen.

• Bathe only once this week. (you may wash yourself with a rag at the sink each day)

• No car

• Internet one day this week

Level V. Ger Dweller

(choose one from each Level)

• No running water from your house, you must go fetch it from somewhere else. (a neighbors house is fine)

• No English for the entire week

• You can’t use any toilet in your house, you must go somewhere else or improvise

• No refrigerator

-------------------------------

There is a bit more to this challenge than just giving up some comforts for seven days. We ask that you take that extra step and share your experience. First of all we would love to know how it went for you and to share that with all the Volunteers serving here in Mongolia. But more importantly for our mission we would like you to share your efforts with others there in the United States. By sharing your story you can help raise awareness of what we do thereby helping us in our mission.

The three main ways you can do this are.

1. Fill out, sign, and return our press release form.

2. Write up your own editorial or letter to the editor for your local paper. (see our “Writing about your experience” section)

3. Tell your friends and family about your challenge, let them know what your doing and why. Maybe even challenge them!

If you would like to share your experience with us just drop us a line at LiveLikeaPCV@gmail.com

When you’ve successfully completed your Challenge you can stop by http://www.peacecorpsmeritbadges.com/, and pick up a badge to show the world how much of a hard core “Ger Dweller” you are.

----------------------------------------

Accept the Challenge.

Please answer these questions below and send your responses to LiveLikeaPCV@gmail.com

What is your name?

Where do you live?

When will you “Live Like a PCV”?

What level are you going for, and which things are you giving up?

Is this the email address we should use to contact you?

-------------------------------------------

Press Release

Is it ok for us to contact any media in your area and let them know of your efforts to help us? (This may result in them visiting your home to do a story. Trust me it’s not nearly as scary as it may sound) YES / NO

What is your phone number?

What is your email?

When and how is the best way to reach you?

Why are you participating in “Live Like a PCV”?

Do you know any current or returned volunteers? (if yes, who, where did/do they serve, and what is their relationship to you)

When will you be participating in the challenge?

Signature______________

(you may sign and return this by email as a scanned attachment, or just email us your answers with the following; “I your name do herby agree to allow Peace Corps to contact any media outlets to inform them of my participation in the “Live Like a PCV Challenge” and in doing so distribute my above information so as those media outlets may contact me”)

-------------------------------------------

Writing about your experience.

After your week of “Live Like a PCV” we would like to hear about your experience (to share with the Volunteers in Mongolia) and would encourage you to share it with your local paper as an editorial or letter to the editor.

Below we have some questions to help you with your writing. These questions are meant to inspire your writing, we would suggest that you answer all of these questions for yourself then edit your work to include the most illuminating aspects. All of these questions do not need to be a part of your finished work.

How did you come to be challenged?

Which level did you decide to pursue and which restrictions did you place upon yourself?

What about this challenge interested you and why did you feel compelled to take part?

Do you know anyone that has or is currently serving in the Peace Corps? How has their service affected you? (if yes, who, where did/do they serve, and what is their relationship to you)

How did the restrictions affect your daily life, did you miss the comforts that you were no longer allowed?

Did you find yourself being resourceful in ways you hadn’t expected?

What was the most frustrating aspect of your experience?

Has this challenge inspired you to make any permanent changes in your day-to-day life? (if so what and why)

Do you feel this challenge has given you insight into the lives of PCVs and the people they serve? (how)

What was the most surprising aspect of the experience?

Were there any funny or unusual incidents during your “Live Like a PCV” week?

What was your favorite aspect of the challenge? (Why?)

Did you keep a record of your experience or share it with friends and family?

Do you think your example will inspire others to take part, as well?

What about the Peace Corps mission do you most identify with? (Goal 1: Helping the people of interested countries in meeting their need for trained men and women. Goal 2: Helping promote a better understanding of Americans on the part of the peoples served. Goal 3: Helping promote a better understanding of other peoples on the part of Americans.)

Do you feel you have a greater appreciation for your life as a result of participating in this challenge? (how and why)

-----------------------

Once you’ve completed your writing, share it with us by emailing your work to LiveLikeaPCV@gmail.com Below are some tips to submit your work to a local paper.

An editorial would be the prime position for your efforts but if your papers requirements are difficult to get a piece in there try for a letter to the editor. Some papers only allow letters to the editors for outside submissions.

If you are able to submit either a letter to the editor or an editorial, try to find out your papers guidelines. Such as preferences for length and the like.

When you submit your work to the paper make sure to introduce yourself and include some background information outside of your written piece. Information like what part of town you are from, what you do, etc. This will make it more likely that your piece will be used and could prompt them to do a larger piece or make your work more prominent.

It should be easy to find out where to submit your work. Look around your local papers opinion area or their Contact Us section online. If you can’t find anything specific just drop a quick email to their general email account inquiring about how to submit an editorial. (if you are having trouble finding this, just email us and we may be able to help)

Beside your hometown paper, you can also consider submitting your piece to a larger city paper that is near by, or to any alumni outlets your college has. You may also consider pursuing blogs and internet sites (news outlets and the like), which publish material relevant to social activism.

------------------------------

No mater how much or how little you decided to do with our “Live Like a PCV Challenge” we would like to thank you for your efforts to help us in our mission. Even something as simple as passing on the challenge is extremely helpful.

Sincerely,

The Peace Corps Volunteers of Mongolia.

Dear Friends and Family,

Last night I lay in bed listening to the children that live on my

hashaa run around, laughing and screaming, because the first snow had

begun to fall. Actually, that's not entirely true. A few weeks ago we

had a blurry, slushy, wet and horribly cold snow fall; but last night

was gorgeous, sticky snow. The kind that makes excellent snow balls

and snow men - though it's still a little thin on the ground. This

morning the sky was clear and the sun is bright, which is slightly

painful given the reflection off the snow and the fact that I

misplaced my sunglasses a couple weeks back. Despite this our little

soum looks gorgeous!

So, what stories can I share with you? As I mentioned, we had our

first snowstorm a couple weeks ago. As it happens, the storm came

while I was en route to the aimag center. I, along with my co-worker,

was packed into a 4-door compact car with 5 other people. Not exactly

a record, I have since ridden in this car with a total of 9 people.

Anyway, this car, which is my regular source of transportation, is in

horrible shape. It rattles terribly and the doors are nearly

impossible to open. The brakes don't work at all, which I only

recently realized and which better explains why the driver hit that

yak, that one time. The driver, whose name is Batbold (really nice

guy), depends on his emergency brake when in a tight spot. There also

seems to be something wrong with the bolts on the wheels because he

routinely gets out of the car to retighten them during our trips.

During the trip from Ikh Tamir to Tsetserleg (the aimag center) we

have to travel over a small mountain. Since Batbold insists on packing

in an enormous number of people his car is generally too weighed down

to make it over. The solution is to kick out about half of his

passengers and have them hike the last couple kilometers. Anyway,

getting back to the first snowstorm, we made it all the way to the

mountain - I prayed the entire time - and that's when the trouble

began. As usual there were too many people in the car and the slushy

snow was causing Batbold's car to slip backwards and fishtail wildly

on the narrow road. So, we piled out of the car, bracing ourselves

against the icy wind - of all the passengers I was definitely the most

appropriately dressed for the weather, but I had neglected to wear a

second pair of socks that day so my feet were frozen in a matter of

seconds. The driver did his best to make his way up the mountain, but

despite his better efforts was unable to do so. That is, he was unable

to do so without help. Which means, we pushed. One man, a couple

middle-aged women, and I helped to push the car through the sleet, up

the mountain, while two rambunctious boys ran along side. Apparently

Mongolian children are impervious to the cold because neither was

wearing anything heavier than a jean jacket. Before long, my shoes and

gloves were soaked through and I felt fairly positive that I would

never regain feeling in any of the appendages they were intended to

protect. So, our little party made its way up the mountain. Passing

other cars and trucks in the same situation. Passengers did their best

to scrap and sweep away the snow in the road, while others put their

weight against the bumpers and shoved them up the steep slope.

Finally, and somewhat surprisingly, we did make it to the top. At

which point we happily stuffed ourselves back into the car. By now I

was more than thrilled to have four other people piled on top of me -

if only to get warm again. I wasn't exactly pleased to be in the car

as it rocketed back down the mountain, but I distracted myself by

watching my hands – which were bright red – turn back to a normal,

peachy-pink.

Now that autumn has fully set in, and winter is en route, my coworkers

and I have been working hard to prepare my home. We “winterized” my

ger, which consists of adding two extra layers of felt over the frame

and a mound of dirt around the base. We still need to build a ping,

which is essentially a wooden structure placed in front of my door.

Much like a teeny, tiny foyer. The ping will be a nice addition, as it

will provide me with a space to keep wood stacked during the winter. I

have become quite adept at chopping wood. It is actually one of my

favorite past times. Not to mention, it is an ideal way to relieve

stress. The below picture is the result of an hour spent blowing

off steam.

I can now make a fire in a matter of seconds. Something

only a month ago I was sure would always be impossibility. My morning

routine generally involves popping out of bed and throwing on my

winter jacket, which I keep beneath my pillow so that it’s warm come

morning, then I shuffle over to the fire, quickly arrange the wood and

kindling, strike a match and wait patiently for the reassuring,

crackling sound. After that I hop back into bed and read until the ger

is warm enough to walk around freely and comfortably. This usually

takes 20 – 30 minutes. One unfortunate aspect of making so many fires

is that I always have “fire hands,” a term coined by past ger-dwelling

PCVs. Fire hands always have a thin layer of black soot trapped in the

creases of already dry and cracked skin. Intense scrubbing does little

to reverse the situation, so I’ve pretty much resigned myself to being

a little dirtier than is acceptable during my time here.

The month of November is coming up quickly, and it is packed full of

holidays and vacations. Our school is taking a mid-semester break and

of course I will be traveling to the capital for Thanksgiving. The

week following Thanksgiving is also a training week for PCVs. Then of

course, Christmas will be only a couple weeks away. My site mates and

I are throwing a Christmas bash in Tsetserleg and I’m going to do my

best to encourage a couple girlfriends to visit us from their sites.

Okay, I would love to have updates from your lives!

All the best,

E.K. “Geeks” Peyton

The horse my Mongolian brother insisted I ride. This picture was taken just before the horse freaked out.

My dishwashing station

The entertainment center

The medicine cabinet

My dryer

My other dryer

Photograph taken from the north end of the ger

The western side of the ger...where my guests sleep

The north side of the ger...where I sleep

Outside my ger

Email sent August 14, 2010Dear Friends and Family, Yesterday I spent the better part of my day keeping a fire going in my ger while rubbing my hands raw as Alyssa and I powered through the second largest pile of laundry I had seen in weeks. The first had been mine, which I’d completed the day before – unfortunately I waited until I had worn every last pair of socks and am now walking around with cold feet waiting for them to dry. The fire was actually less necessary for the laundry we had been in the midst of, and more so for the clothes that had failed to lose even an ounce of moisture in the 24 hours since they’d been hung. I’m not really ready to consider the challenge of drying clothes in the winter. Perhaps I’ll simply never wash them. Autumn has come to Mongolia. It rolled in about a week ago. At first the cool air was a relief, but yesterday morning I could see my breath while I prepared breakfast – I am becoming less appreciative by the day. More recently, we had 24 hours of rain. Most of which managed to seep through the walls and ceiling of my home. This morning I woke up, snug in my sleeping bag and comfortably warm for once; given the sweater, hat, gloves and long underwear I’d worn to bed. Now, sitting up in bed, taking in my little home all I see are wet clothes. Wet clothes that need to be packed since today is the last day at my training site. Tomorrow, we leave our training site to return to Zuunmod for Final Center Days. In Zuunmod, we’ll learn our site placements and whether we earned Novice High language proficiency. Afterwards we’ll likely indulge in some hair of the dog, liquid courage, or whatever other corny euphemism you can come up with for alcohol, and host, yet another, dance party. Dancing and what I would call excessive drinking (though keep in mind, I’m a prude) are our primary forms of stress relief. I rarely engage in drinking but I am front and center for every dance event, and I’m happy to say I’m not alone in this. At our first dance party I was pleasantly surprised to find that most of the people are beyond thrilled to throw pride out the window and dance like wild fools. Which brings to mind our most recent dance party. We were in the school and our Host Family Appreciation celebration was winding down. The guys had performed a Mongolian dance while dressed like elves. The girls had spent an hour being shuffled around while their Mongolian mothers tried to stuff them into costumes originally intended for 16-year-olds. On the other hand, I had been given a dress that could have easily housed two of me. Finally, we were able to perform. I forgot my dance during the last minute but managed to improvise. After the humiliation, we sat down to a meal of goat meat and french fries (cultures collide in Mongolia). Anyway, I’m not really sure how the dance party came about, but clearly we needed to blow off steam. Our host parents had broken into the vodka, and most of the volunteers had cracked open a beer. Finally, someone turned on the music and we soon found ourselves surrounded by our families as we tried to encourage them to let loose. Only Aaron’s dad could really be convinced and he danced with us for the better part of the evening. My mother was persuaded to dance with me to MGMT. If you’ve never seen a 60-year-old Mongolian emme get down to Electric Feel I would highly encourage you to come make the acquaintance of Dulamsuren. Primarily, we danced with each other, our language teacher and of course, all the neighborhood children. The little boys showed of their hip-hop dancing skills to an SNL parody rap, “I’m on a boat!” And the little girls let their hair down (literally), and were beyond thrilled to learn how to effectively whip it around while head banging to...well God knows what song. Brian essentially became a carnival ride for the children. He would pick one up on each arm and spin around while they held on, all the while screaming and laughing. We were quite a sight and we managed to keep it up for a couple hours before everyone was worn out enough to go home. We followed this celebration with a week of constant panic and nerves as we prepared for our language proficiency exams. Alyssa and I spent two days straight, sitting on her bed, quizzing each other on every question imaginable (Q: Chi huuhed baxdaa amdradag baican wae? A: Bi huuhed baxdaa Wisconsin’d amdradag baican./ Q: Chi chuloot tsagaaraa yoi yoi heedeg wae? A: Bi nom unshex, hool heeh bas zohoel bichex.), and listening to each other perform essays in Mongolian on every topic from our American families to the car we chose to live in for the two months leading up to Mongolia (oh, okay, that was just me). In the midst of this madness we all decided to take on the project of making ourselves a feast of Mexican food. No small task, but then throw in the additional challenge of cooking in an apartment during an unscheduled electricity outage and you’ve got yourselves, what Cassie playfully dubbed, A Shit Show. Picture, 12 Americans squeezed into an apartment the size of a McDonalds public restroom along with their language teacher. Now, add one candle, two gas stoves (borrowed from the neighbors), people running in and out of the apartment to once again buy more gas for the stoves, one person rolling out dough for tortillas, another hovering over a pot of black beans, a third frying said tortillas, two others squished into the kitchen for no reason at all, three PCTs on the balcony drinking away their sorrows, a living room full of others quizzing each other and reciting essays by the light of their head lamps, and a partridge in a pear tree. Let me just say that while writing this, there is no question in my mind that I love my life. Anyway, the tests were yesterday and afterward I could sense a collective sigh of relief. This morning Alyssa and I will make french toast and then head out to send emails and Skype with friends and family one last time. Once we move to our sites the internet situation will change yet again, so I can’t guarantee when I’ll be available. However, I will definitely hit an internet cafe to announce my site placement! Well, I’m sure there is more information to share, but it’s coming up on 9 am and I need to do dishes. I’m completely out of water and will have to empty out bottled water to get this done. Oh well, could be worse (a fairly consistent comment I make here). Love, love, love, Your daughter, granddaughter, sister, cousin, niece, friend, etc... Erika Kirk “Geeka” Peyton

Dear Erika,

At this exact moment I am so high/drunk on caffeine that I'm not sure if this letter will make sense, be relevant or even comprehendible. Very difficult to type correctly at the moment. Be on the lookout for major spelling and grammar mistakes. Now I know that I have already instilled you with great wisdom on how to deter unwanted comments and or company (please refer to the "Suck It" Law). But I am here to give you even more useful information on how to travel the world. I am, as you know, very knowledgeable on these things. Seeing as how I spent a whole seven months in a very rural part of the world, Munich, Germany. Not unlike this Mongolia I hear to speak of. Okay, so maybe I had a great big bedroom with real walls, my very own state of the art shower, a car, a bike and lavish kitchen to munch from, but I still learned a lot, and in this version of the Margaret Chronicles I will share my wisdom.

1. Never go home with strange Ethiopian men. Especially when they are trying to attract you by telling you how proud they are of their father because he has six wives. This situation can only result in him repeatedly putting his arm around you, even though you have clearly stated that you cannot be friends with a touchy man. He will undoubtedly come into the bathroom while you are trying to pee, in order to give you a towel so that you might shower. Like you're really going to get naked in his flat! Whatever you do, DO NOT TAKE WINE FROM THIS MAN! Your mind will become foggy and everything he does will seem repulsive and inappropriate. The entire night will then continue to go very badly and you will find yourself running down the rainy streets in Ulaanbataar searching for the closest subway station. In the interest of being PC, I would like to recognize that this does not really apply to all Ethiopian men, but all men who want you to be one of their six wives.

2. Never try to be the first in line for a large event. This will only result in tears, suffocation, trampelation, and quite possibly you or one of your friends will lose a shoe. Also, being first does not guarantee a good seat and most certainly does not guarantee that some very rude Germans, or in your case Mongolians, will not try to trick you into switching places with them when your seats are clearly better. I mean come on, I didn't break that old lady's leg and punch that baby just to be manipulated out of my seat. Don't you think I know that I won't get any beer without being seated? (I would like to recognize here that trampelation is not a word.)

3. Drive away immediately after crashing into a very nice german vehicle, or (in your case) prized camel. Oops! Some of the only advice I got before embarking to the land of beer, cheese and big boobs was to not under any circumstances hit a german car. Yet I said suck it, "I'll run into whatever the fuck I want!" And I did. On my way to a concert I hit and ran a red, something-or-other. It was scary but mostly because there is a good chance that I'm Jewish.

4. Don't ride drunk. When drinking and riding the only thing that can result is a large scrape directly to the elbow. You will forever remember Oktoberfest or Mongolfest as the fest which gave you a headache, a stomachache, and a scar.

5. Don't drink heavily the night before you have to work...with children. You will inevitably be holding said child/children and have to sit for fear of dropping them. This makes for a nervous few hours until your drunk wears off and your hangover sets in. When the headache begins to rear it's ugly head and your stomach starts to flip, immediately step away from the children. Although it is presumed kosher for children and babies to projectile vomit on their caretakers, this is not a two way street. Rather it is looked upon unfavorably when the sitter/parent/other adult in the room, hurls on the child.

6. When a man asks to ride the same train as you, don't let him. This is most likely not his train home and the only reason he wants to sit next to you is to hold your hand and then ask for a hug when you get off. Bad idea all around. (Learn Kung Fu for this situation.)

7. Don't let people compliment your shoes. They will just want you to take them off so they can get a better look and you will seem weird if you're on the train with no shoes.

8. Don't go home with men while wearing your favorite necklace. You will lose it.

And the most important rule...

9. Do have a great time. Act like the person you have always fancied yourself to be. No one knows you, so they will think you've always been that cool.

Now I can trust that you will have a safe and legendary time in...hmmmmmmmmmm...oh yeah......Mongolia.

love love xxoo

Margarita

Email to friends and family 7/16/2010

Hello Again From Mongoland!

I think it's been about a month since I sent an update about the happenings in my little corner of the world. Some of you may be hearing from me for the first time - because it's hard to know off hand who will want to be included on these emails. And then, one day, you'll be wandering aimlessly in your ger (about the size of a New York studio apartment) and realize, "Hey, that friend of mine who is traveling around North America in a school bus should probably be included on the list. Or, how about that chick I've been friends with since I was six-years-old?" Then you'll slap yourself in the forehead and wish you weren't such a flake. Anyway...

To be honest, I'm not exactly feeling up to the whole Here's The Rundown email - but I'll do my best. Training is tiring and with everything there is to learn I feel as if it's going in one ear and out the other. Mongolian verb conjugation gets mixed up with needs assessment strategies, and the endlessly entertaining teaching techniques are lost in a sea of confusion. It can just be frustrating to have so much to learn and accomplish and so little time to learn it well, and to frankly, do my best. I have to prioritize a lot and sometimes the result of my work isn't fully satisfying. I know I will eventually have more time...LOTS OF IT...but right now it's a little disheartening. Thankfully, I'm among friends who feel similarly.

Mongolia is starting to feel more comfortable. Or, perhaps I should say, I'm starting to feel more comfortable in Mongolia. I've started cooking for myself, because I believe my family is trying to poison me. Joke, joke. But, I have been getting sick with diarrhea, vomiting and some of the most kick ass cramping I've ever experienced in my life. Last week I was literally balled up in fetal position, screaming and crying. My teacher and friends ended up taking me to the hospital to make sure it was nothing more serious than a loss of potassium due to my diarrhea. My life is so glamourous! It was a painful, but admittedly funny day. They made me drink water mixed with salt and sugar which tasted like warm milk. My friends took to calling me El Tigre because I would growl when the pain was out of control. My doctor was super young (and quite attractive) and was wearing flip flops and board shorts. My friend Brian (The Bachelor of Bagakhangai - we like nicknames here) had to carry me around, and all my friends took turns letting me squeeze their hands when the pain got really bad. I'm over it now - but I'm still on a bland diet of rice and noodles, which I'm cooking myself because my family can't seem to fully grasp the concept of, "Please, no oil in my food," or "God damnit, don't fry that banana!" (Just kidding - there are no bananas in Mongolia!) As it turns out I'm a disaster at cooking. So far I've managed mushy rice and mushy noodles. Both are awful, let me assure you. I'm planning to go home in a bit to eat some more!

Reading over all this my life must sound terrible! I really, really like it - trust me! Messing up and getting sick and having these awkward moments are actually really special to me. Today my Mongolian sister came into my ger to hang up sheets on the walls (that's what they do here) and just completing that project with her - listening to her patient instructions and laughing with her as I fumbled through it - felt like a fairly precious moment. I'm still nervous about what life in Mongolia has in store for me. Living alone in a new community where I BARELY speak the language is down right frightening. I'm not sure if I'll be good at my job, or if my coworkers will be patient while I learn. The winter makes me nervous - though I know I'm overly prepared when it comes to necessary clothing. And it seems unlikely that my host community will let me freeze. Despite all this, I'm hopeful. I still believe that I will really love this experience, and so far I really have.

I miss you all, and I miss cheeseburgers like you wouldn't believe. I plan to gain thirty pounds when I come back to the States. I wish I could gain at least five now because none of my clothes fit. But every time I gorge on Mongolian food I ended vomiting it back up. Sorry if I'm being a tad graphic about my bodily functions. About 80% of what Peace Corps volunteers talk about is food and poop - our two primary interests.

All right! I'm out! I love you all bunches and bunches!

Best,

P

Reciting the pledge of allegiance on the 4th of July

Playing the hokey-pokey with our Mongolian families

My Mongolian brother Parupdesh and I at a Nadaam celebration

Parupdesh and my PCT girlfriends around the Mongolian flag - Parupdesh only stops smiling for pictures

Post-Nadaam celebrations - Mandy and I sleeping during the meeker ride home

Playing basketball with my Mongolian siblings

Hunting for rocks in my hashaa

Allysa and I - PCTs blowing off steam after a long week

Preparing potatoes for french fries on 4th of July

Walking back into town after a visit to the owoo

Brian and I - shortly after he sat and destroyed my tumpun (which is where I bathe)

Me testing out the smaller tumpun

Doing the Cuban Shuffle with fellow PCTs on 4th of July

It looks like I'm alone - but this was actually a rockin' night at the local cultural center

All of us with our families!

The pictures are of myself and the other trainees at our training site. I'll try to get pictures of my other friends during our final week before placement. I'm a disaster when it comes to remembering my camera!

June 22nd, 2010 The Mongolian sky blows past in a heartbeat. One moment its merciless sun beats down turning the back of your neck to the color of ripe tomatoes and the next a storm rolls over, kicking up wind and particles of dust. I stand outside my ger, shielding my eyes from the swirling sand and try to take in the enormity of darkening sky and low hanging clouds, silhouetted against the setting sun. I wait for the rain – the merciful rain that Mongolia so desperately needs after last year’s Zuud. Finally I retreat to my hashaa family’s ger, where I find my hashaa mother, Dulamsuren, sitting in the dark slowly passing prayer beads between her plump fingers. She moves the beads ably with the same fluidity that I’ve observed when she pinches together the tiny boaz we eat most nights for dinner. The fabric around the ger shudders against its frame, and the many insects that have swarmed our homes skitter across the sheree (table). They are brave little bastards, hopping from the sheree to the pages of this journal and then to the tip of my fingernail. My hashaa family’s home is small. Smaller even, than the ger I inhabit alone, and Dulamsuren still has four grown sons and a daughter sharing the floor space each night. They are just five of the nine children she has raised. At only sixty she walks with difficulty, her back curved forward – most likely brought on by years of hard labor, bent over work set at low tables or cooking on a stove set only two feet off the ground. She wears the same dark blue sundress each day, which she tucks under her head to sleep at night. Outside the wind continues to blow. My youngest hashaa brother, Parupdesh, a skinny teen with big ears that reminds me of the brothers I left back home, stands outside the doorway enjoying the relief from two days of heat. Parupdesh closes the door against the wind, flips on the small television and sets to making dough, mixing flour and water with his hands. A Korean soap opera, dubbed in Mongolian, plays in the background as he works. I listen to the television, waiting for words I recognize. Parupdesh has become my most consistent companion in Mongolia. He knows as many English words as I know Mongolian and seems to understand my halted speech more easily than the other family members. He and I have devised a system of exchanging Mongolian for English, which has thus far resulted in our own mangled version of the two languages, which we playfully refer to as Monglish. I have now been in Mongolia for 16 full days. Jetlag has lapsed but I still do not belong in this world. I feel like nothing more than an observer in this universe. As if everything happening around me isn’t completely real, and if I wake from the dream or even shut off the television I’ll find myself lying on a queen size mattress nestled into the frame of my four poster, brass bed, listening to sirens blare as police race down Wilshire Boulevard... excerpt from my journal

The realization that I will literally find myself thousands of miles from anything I know, understand or love, grips me during the most easily overlooked moments of a day. When I wash a glass, or fold a sweater. While I absently watch the wooden wind chimes twist back and forth, never completing a full circle, always hooting their low hum. With each realization comes a wave of panic so acute that I feel as if each of my vital organs has been wrapped with rubber bands. My heart and lungs struggle to expand and contract against the binding rubber. The panic morphs into fear and I am suddenly trapped by that powerful, all encompassing emotion.

I am a first class "over-reactor", but it's helpful to be able to describe even the most fleeting moments.

I left Los Angeles on April 6th, an especially hot spring day and a reminder of the previous summer spent without air conditioning in my car. There were a few last minute errands, which dragged me up and down Burbank. A quick stop to refuel, where I tossed a few bucks to a fellow traveler who had found himself stranded with a faulty debit card. Then on to the LA freeway, which not surprisingly was gridlocked at 10 am. But, only for half a mile. Once past that debacle, the roads were clear straight on to San Francisco. I took the 101, which ran close to the ocean and even allowed occasional runs along the Pacific Coast Highway. To say the PCH is idyllic is an understatement. At one point I found myself zipping past crashing waves to my left and dramatic cliffs overflowing with wildflowers to my right, while a beautiful red and gold passenger train rolled past, puffing smoke. The entire trip could be characterized in this way. In Northern California I found a beach, empty and tucked away behind enormous cliffs. The air was cold and the wind was piercing, so I bundled up in a large coat and ran out to meet the waves, relishing the absolute freedom of this forgotten cove. The sand was still wet, packed down by high tide, but the wind was powerful enough to loosen a few grains, which trailed along the ground like crystalline ghosts. Through Oregon I drove hundreds of miles on two-lane highways, curving through deep green forests, then skirting between mountain walls and steep canyon edges. Idaho and Wyoming were endless, their skies so heavy with clouds they seemed to hang just ten feet off the ground. Finally, Colorado was colorful, exactly what it has always claimed to be. I was so shocked by the discrepancy between Colorado and Wyoming that I couldn't help but imagine that a line had intentionally been drawn to contain the Centennial State's beauty. A southwestern oasis - of sorts. After a quick trip to rain soaked Texas, where a friend and I learned to navigate Austin's public transportation system, danced wildly at the 6th Street bars, and settled into bizarre and unique communal living at the international hostel - I jetted on to Wilmot, Wisconsin. A town with no stop lights, but one flashing stop sign.

There are now 21 days until I leave for Mongolia. Even less before I begin another round of traveling. My time has absolutely flown away, most of it eaten up by a particularly brutal virus. But, much of my time in Wisconsin has been spent reminiscing, and mourning. I cannot say that I've grieved the many events I'll miss in the next two years. It's more the details I've grown accustomed to. Last night I dreamed that I was holding my two-year-old cousin. I could feel her soft baby arms and plush baby tummy, and I woke up missing her hysterical laughter. I'll miss seeing my sixteen-year-old brother throw his lanky arms around our mother. Or, watching a devious grin spread across my youngest brother's face as he prepares to race our dad up a flight of stairs. I'll miss watching my mom light her skinny cigarettes or crack silly jokes with her coworkers. I'll miss the chaos of my sister's bedroom, and her pitch perfect ability to make our father laugh. I'll miss getting a hug from the oldest of my brothers, who very suddenly became a man. I'll miss watching dad bake potatoes in his countertop oven, and may even long for the car sickness that I inevitably experience when he speeds around curves. My panic, and my fear are driven by the loss of these precious moments. I know there will be new experiences, each as dear as what I've seen here. Change is coming. I can see its unrecognizable face barreling toward me. I half expect it to pack me in the rolling duffel bag my dad always used while traveling to Hong Kong. There I'll be - wrapped in a tight ball, surrounded by shoes, mittens and memorabilia - jostling along, en route to Ulaanbaatar.

Leaving Los Angeles has always been inevitable. I may have known this before I ever came. But, since learning that I've been offered placement with the Peace Corps I have sensed an invisible force rushing me from the city. I can feel its push against my back, and I'm not sure I'm as ready as I need to be.

Los Angeles was my first home as an adult - rather, it is where I became one. It was here that I taught myself to navigate the streets, the neighborhoods, and the culture of a completely new environment. Here, that I worked to excel in the first phase of my career. Here, that I learned to find an apartment, going through the tedious search right up to the elation of finally stepping into one's home. I remember the way the apartment looked the night my roommates and I moved in. The cool, white walls and sleek hardwood floors. The wide, brick fireplace surrounded by a thick, dark wood mantlepiece. We had just rushed from work to sign our lease. Afterward we climbed the twisted staircase to the top floor to wander through the empty rooms, silently celebrating our new home. The sun had barely set below the horizon and a blue light shone across the living room, where the large front windows faced westward. I danced across the slick floors, laughing as I practiced awkward grand jetés and pirouttes. Knowing I had that home was both a relief and an exhilaration.

We moved out on January 31st of this year and since then I've hopped from couch to air mattress to futon - all the while calling my 1995 Toyota Corolla home base. The fact that I've found so many shelters is testament to the many generous people I've come to know in L.A. I've said goodbye to all of them, but barely felt like I was leaving. Rather, my mind seems to think I'm off for a short vacation. Just a quick weekend in San Francisco and I'll be back. Back to the routine at work. Back to cruising along Mulholland. Back to dinners in Silver Lake and dancing in Echo Park.

Tomorrow morning I will begin a two week long road trip that will take me up the western coast to Portland, Oregon, down through Idaho, Utah and Wyoming en route to Buena Vista, Colorado, on to Austin, Texas, and finally to my childhood home in Wilmot, Wisconsin. A small adventure, during which I hope to leave behind my first home in preparation for my next. Today is my last day in this city, and though my life in Los Angeles was never permanent it has left a significant impression.

How is it, that the whim of a young girl hopelessly impressed by an older cousin, led a 25-year-old woman to take a teaching assignment in Mongolia? Context? I've just accepted a position with the United States Peace Corps, and it's all Amy's fault!

After an extremely long hiatus from my original stab at blogging - due in part to a lack of digital camera, as well as 2009's daunting attempt at city gardening - I have been convinced to chronicle or at least provide highlights to my most recent adventure/ challenge/ descent into madness...

Okay, it's an exaggeration to suggest that at 24 - around the time I was applying to the Peace Corps - I didn't consciously revisit the idea and make the decision for my "adult" self. Yet, the question remains, how much of that girl went into the choice? No, I do not actually blame my cousin for the fact that I'm currently investing in outerwear to prepare against sub-arctic temperatures. In reality, I'm thrilled by the honor and opportunity I've been so fortunate to receive. I'm more so intrigued by the consideration of where our childhood influences lead us. More specifically, where they end and we begin.

I spent my "formative years" acting out scenes from Laura Ingalls Wilder's Little House book series. I dreamed of endless prairie, and was more interested in wood burning stoves than Easy Bake Ovens. Coincidentally, most of the Mongolian landscape has gone untouched, due to the nomadic culture of its people. I read Sharon Creech's coming-of-age stories, that followed pre-teen girls as they struggled to uncover long forgotten trails through the wilderness (Chasing Redbird), sailed the Atlantic (The Wanderer), and adapted to life at a European boarding school (Bloomability). Most of my choices have been characterized by a need and desire to be challenged. Learning to dance, and devoting nights and entire weekends to the practice. Living in different parts of the country. Choosing to write, and work within the entertainment industry.

Recently, a friend asked me to explain my inspiration for joining the Peace Corps. Surely I had more reason than, "My cousin did it when I was 15." At the time she asked I was flummoxed - hazy from a sugar-high fueled by cupcakes and Shirley Temple's (it was during my goodbye party people). But now, I can say without hesitation that my central influence is the hope that through Peace Corps I can experience assimilation with a community that will enhance my understanding of humanity and life. I want to learn about the diverse ways life can be lived. It’s easy to become consumed by one’s personal expectations of what life “should be,” but life draws from a bottomless well of creativity. I want to live in a way that provides less of the amenities and comforts I feel attached to. Through this I hope to better understand my creativity, endurance and adaptability. I want to grow as a human being and writer. I view the Peace Corps as a challenging and thus exceptionally rewarding opportunity to develop a discerning and artful voice. Most importantly I want to be humbled. My greatest assurance is that, “life has a way of being what it will, learn to accept its determination and it will treat you with grace.”

I can't deny that my inspirations come across as romantic, obviously that child still exists in me somewhere. But, in answering that question I realize that my influences did nothing more than present options. They made me aware of the vast opportunities life could afford. So, to Amy, Laura, and Sharon, thank you! You're just a few of the incredible women that have guided me toward what is sure to be a fascinating and rewarding experience.

Six months ago I unwittingly undertook the responsibility to turn 240 square feet of earth into a productive and (fingers crossed) edible garden. Actually, to call the plot I received ‘earth’ is a bit of a stretch. It wasn’t until after I removed a pile of 15-foot poles, dug up railroad stakes, a pitsaw, the grate for a grill, and barbed wire enforced fencing that it began to resemble ‘earth.’ Another four hours of uprooting 240 square feet of watercress revealed a treasure trove of, admittedly dense, clay-like soil - but it held the promise of a bountiful crop.Up to that point, my gardening experiences were vague memories of the vegetable patch my parents kept during my pre-teen years (a period in my life when I refused to participate in outdoor activities), and one reading of Animal, Vegetable, Miracle. In the next few months, I was inundated with differing opinions about the best conditions for cucurbits, pH balances in the soil, organic solutions to weed control, how to effectively slaughter a snail (that’s right, slaughter is the only word for what I do to them), and the details of companion planting, such as the Native American triumvirate: corn, squash, beans.

Luckily, I took on a partner, fellow blogger Danny Jensen, and we blundered our way through the process of sowing and tending our young seeds. The corn shot up. The beans refused to budge. The cucumbers spread. The lettuce bolted. The peppers were carried away by the winds. We devoted time and effort to each seed. In the case of the peppers, we carefully thought out each step of our approach…to no avail!Gardening, it would seem, is a process of failures and successes. Some of what we plant thrives, and some dies. I quickly became aware that I’d grown to appreciate the individual lives of each seedling–primarily because they compelled me to accept that, though each was of infinite value to me, they were also of definite impermanence. Now, as the cucumbers form on their vines and the tarragon spreads, uprooting everything and anything in its path, I’m thrilled to see the results of our efforts. Danny and I have pretty much resigned ourselves to the ’see where the cards fall’ approach; we learn as we go and apply what we know. Gardening helps to instill an appreciation for the complexities of our earth and its significant ability to provide for us. There are so many opportunities to get involved! Join a community garden near you, or just offer to volunteer. If you have a backyard, a porch or even a windowsill, begin with some low maintenance herbs and tomatoes, and enjoy!

Down Down Down

Down down downto the bottom of the town where all the monsters live, tryin' to get me every where I walk, tryin' to reach out and grab me all those holes and cracks are from him

and his babys he lays all his eggs in the holes till they turn to troles then they come, when the clock strikes twelve then they find the nicest ones around and shred them into pieces hurry people hit till you bleed fast fast fast its 11:59, no we’re all gonna die

-A poem by Ian Peyton. Age 7.

Only in Southern California can you learn to preserve ripe, delicious, bought directly from the farmer, strawberries in DECEMBER! This past week I undertook the project of turning 11 baskets of strawberries into strawberry jam. The driving force, and much needed guide, for this project was The Lovely Lass. She had previously introduced the idea of jam making when she returned from home with jars and jars of strawberry, raspberry and blackberry jam, that she'd made with her mother. Though I have the luxury of fresh fruits and vegetables year round, I still loved the idea of learning to make my own spread. Just one more way I can learn to provide for myself. Now, I'll be eating strawberry jam with toast, crackers, ice cream, cookies, french toast (the list goes on) for months!

Last week The Lass and I set out to gather all our ingredients. Surprisingly enough, canning supplies are not readily available in December - honestly, I don't think they're ever readily available. So, we went to the ever resourceful internet, and found the answer on a CHOWHOUND question board. For those who haven't heard of CHOWHOUND or CHOW, I definitely recommend taking a look. I particularly like CHOW's highlight of recipes that are In Season Right Now.

It took some serious searching but we finally found jars at the local Smart and Final, pectin on Amazon (they sell groceries in bulk?!) and strawberries (well they were easy) at the Larchmont Farmer's Market. The Lass and I gave the strawberries a week to ripen, my roommates and I used all our will power to not eat them beforehand, and then we set to our project.

Ingredients:

6 C. mashed strawberries (appx. 6 baskets)

1 box of pectin for every 6 cups of mashed strawberries

1/4 C. granulated sugar

4 C. granulated sugar

Canning jars

Directions:

Three baskets of strawberries featured.

Begin by running the canning jars through the dishwasher. You'll want them to be well sanitized, so keep them in the dishwasher until you are ready to pour the jam.

Next, rinse your strawberries and chop off the heads. Cut the berries in half, for easier mashing.

Throw your berries in a large bowl and begin mashing. We used a pastry blender with great success. Continue mashing until strawberries are crushed, not puréed.

Once you've mashed the berries measure 6 cups into a large pot and mix in pectin and 1/4 C. of granulated sugar. Heat on high and allow berries to reach a rolling boil. Stir intermittently.

Meanwhile, boil 2 cups of water. Once boiled, pour onto lids from the canning jars. This will soften the wax on the lids, which seals the jars and preserves the jam.

When berries have reached a rolling boil add 4 C. of sugar and mix quickly. Return mixture to a full rolling boil, and stir constantly. Allow to boil for one minute, and remove from heat.

Skim foam from top with a metal spoon.

Once berries are cooked and wax is softened begin filling jars. You'll have to move quickly.

Remove lids from the water with tongs, and place on jar opening. Screw on tightly.

Having one person to fill jars, and another to place tops is very helpful.

Turn the jars upside down, and leave for five minutes. Afterward turn them right side up, and set aside. It can take 12 - 24 hours for the lids to seal. Though ours sealed within 10 minutes. Just like jam bought from the grocery store, the lids are sealed when you cannot push in the center.

Once the jars have all sealed, you're done! Feel free to hand them out as gifts, or stock pile for the winter.

The jam was simple to make, and a great project for a peaceful afternoon. The savory scent of ripened strawberries, that intense sweetness that threatens to overwhelm your senses, filled our tiny kitchen, brimming over into the whole apartment. Our fingers were stained with red juices and our tongues puckered from too much sugar, but we ended with 16 jars of homemade jam, and a complete sense of accomplishment.

It' s been a couple weeks since I've had an entry for cucumbers. My disappearance from the interweb is generally a sign that a writing project has invaded my brain and taken me hostage. I feel a little rusty in my return.

Below I've posted some photos from my recent trip to an apple farm near Yucaipa! There were acres and acres of farms rolling over the Southern California mountainsides. The entire town was devoted to Apple Tourism. Diners with every imaginable apple themed meal, gift shops packed with jars of apple butter, apple syrup, apple cider! Children ran through the streets clutching caramel apples, teenagers bobbed for apples in immense wooden barrels, old men smoked tobacco from pipes carved into the shapes of Granny Smiths and Romas. Okay, I'm exaggerating, but it was lovely. My apple picking partner and I wandered the farm filling our bags with Winesaps, which have a delicious crispness and a perfect blend of sweet and sour wine-like taste. I later used mine to make homemade applesauce, which went perfectly with roasted pork!

Pictures from the Orchard

Pictures from the Farm

My Bounty!

Applesauce Recipe

This recipe was simple and almost hasslefree. In the end I had a good product, but I've included notes where I'd make improvements. For starters, I like my applesauce SUPER DUPER tart! So I'd recommend Granny Smith apples as an addition.

Ingredients

3 lbs of apples - I have no scale in my house, so I couldn't tell you if I had three pounds. This is important though since it affects how much water you need. But if you're like me and you like to get crazy then just go for it!

1 teaspoon of cinnamon - not a bad addition, but I won't be doing it again. It covers the natural apple flavor, and I missed that.

1 1/2 C. water

2 thin lemon slices

1/4 tsp. salt - apparently this is important.

Directions

1. Peel and core apples. - You can leave the skin on a few, gives it texture.

2. Cut apples into appx. 1" cubes. - I did not do this. Mine were smaller and it turned out wonderfully. Since you're ultimately mashing them up I'm not sure it matters all that much.

3. Add all ingredients to pot and turn heat on high. Bring to boil, then cover and reduce heat to low. Simmer for 20 minutes, or until apples have softened significantly.

4. Stir frequently, making sure apples are not sticking to the pot. Add more water if necessary. Remove lemon slices.

5. Mash with a potato masher or with a food mill for a smoother consitency. Serve warm or room temperature. - Frankly, a fork also mashes quite well and it's a good alternative for those who have yet to acquire many kitchen supplies.

A big thanks to RecipeZaar for this quick and easy applesauce!

This book of jokes was put together by my friend Slu and her friend Aaron. It is irreverent, nonsensical and jovial! Enjoy!

JOKEBOOK

Aaron ANDERSEN

with contributions by

Sarah Louise WALKER

©2001-2002, 2004

DIALOGUES

Vampire 1: How was your vampire party last night?

Vampire 2: It was good.

Santa: Are you a cannibal?

Donner: You'd think so, wouldn't you?

*phone rings*

Secretary: Hello, this is the Red Cross.

Ct. Dracula: Do you deliver?

Secretary: No.

invisible woman: Did you miss me while I was gone?

invisible man: You were gone?!

invisible woman: You don't love me! I'm leaving you!

invisible man: You're still here?

Sam: What lovely eyes you have.

Pam: Stop trying to kiss my ass, bitch.

Santa: Which reindeer has a cold?

Blitzen: Who?

Santa: Rudolph.

Blitzen: Why do you say that?

Santa: 'Cause his nose is red.

Blitzen: You sleigh me.

George: Did you hear what happened with the reanimated caveman who gave birth to an octopus?!

Frank: Yes.

George: Then no need to tell you again.

Bezel: What do you get if you cross an elephant and a rhinoceros?

Bev: What?

Bezel: Hell if I know!

Bev: I hate you.

Frita: A monster was having dinner in a restaurant and ordered soup.

Orville: *trips*

James: That reminds me, I left something in the oven!

man 1: What time is it?

man 2: Who you callin', Clock Face?!

Marsha: How was your job interview?

Mary: I blew it.

Marsha: You whore.

two men stranded on a tiny desert island:

man 1: We are stranded on a tiny desert island.

man 2: Would you please stop saying that?

Sheila: There's something in my eye!

Ava: Is it your finger?

Sheila: Well I'll be...

Sheila: There's something in my ear!

Ava: It's your finger again.

Sheila: Ooooooooooohh!

Sheila: Mmmmmrrrph!

Ava: Finger.

Sheila: Thanks.

Ava: I really gotta stop hangin' out with you.

man 7: Someone can't count.

Aaron: Shut up!

Q&As

Q: What's the difference between a baby and peanut butter?

A: One comes in a jar (the peanut butter).

Q: What was the newlywed overheard shouting from the hotel room, on her honeymoon?

A: "Here comes the bride!"

Q: Why is it good to make an elevator angry?

A: It'll only work if you press it's buttons.

Q: Why did the baker strip when she was making gingerbread men?

A: So they would rise.

Q: What does a thief put on stolen toast?

A: Purchased jelly (to throw 'em off the trail).

Q: What does a pirate say while eating a sandwich?

A: mmrrgrrfmm

Q: What does a grammar-obsessed pirate say while eating a sandwich?

A: Mmrrgrrfmm

Q: How many pounds is a ten-pound weight?

A: Depends on where you buy it.

Q: What's 3,682 divided by the square root of 16?

A: 920.5

Q: How many coconuts are in a biscuit?

A: Depends on if it's a coconut biscuit.

Q: What color is a red crayon?

Q: What kind of lame question is that?

A: Don't answer a question with a question, idiot.

Q: Why didn't Superman ever drown in a pool when he was younger?

A: He always had excellent supervision.

Q: What did the dead three-year old's autopsy say?

A: How he died.

KNOCK KNOCK

*knock, knock*

Who's there?

Interrupting cow.

Interrupting co -

...wait wait, start over, I wasn't ready.

*knock, knock*

I'm deaf.

Oh, sorry.

No problem.

*knock, knock*

Who's there?

What? Really?! They are?! Where??!!

Pete Townsend: Thanks a lot for blowing our cover!

*knock, knock*

...

*knock, Knock*

...

*KNOCK, KNOCK*

...

Well, I guess I shouldn't be surprised, being a Jehovah's Witness and trying to get someone to answer the door.

HAPPY TO SEE ME

Answers to: Is that a banana in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?

What on earth are you talking about? You know I don't like bananas.

Well I'll tell you this, I'm allergic to bananas... *nudge, nudge*

You're ugly and I like bananas, so the odds aren't in your favor.

I'm a woman.

Whatever it is, I'm giving it to your monkey.

Why the hell can't a guy be happy to see someone and have a banana in his pocket?!!

These pants don't have pockets.

It's an orange.

blind man: Is that a banana in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?

man 1: Let go.

Last Saturday I finally made time for the next step in my education to become more self-sufficient. Thus began my first foray into garment improvement! I certainly haven't gained the confidence to abandon the commercial clothing industry entirely, or for that matter to trust myself with the completion of an even hemline...but one step at a time.

I decided to improve upon a vest that I wear at least three times a week. You know the accessory, or shoe, or bag, or jacket that you're convinced pulls together every outfit...that's my vest. I picked it up at H&M, and it's ALMOST perfect...with the exception of four, cheap, plastic blue buttons.

I began my day by heading over to The Button Store where I was introduced to a cornucopia of buttons made from antler, bone, ivory, shell, wood, glass, metal and leather. Buttons of every material and color filled both walls in the long, narrow shop. Ornate glass and ivory pieces plumed, unashamed of their vanity, within polished glass cases. I too was attracted by their elegance, but sense reminded me of my mission. The couple running the shop informed me that their store had been located on 3rd Street for 10 years, but had existed in another part of town long before. I'd have asked more questions but my timidity and their determination to quench my button drought quickly set us toward finding the right pieces for my project. Not feeling particularly brave that morning I expected to pick a sleek pair of shell buttons in a shade of brown. However the wonderful woman running the shop brought out a carved wooden set, with simple detailing and lush texture. I was hooked!

I arrived home to find that I was not the only person attempting a sewing project that day. The Ravishing Texan was taking on a much more ambitious project than my own, which I observed gleefully, and Ms. HopHop was finally learning to thread her sewing machine! And so we became a group of busy, worker bees gaining pleasure from our creative and daring exploits, and fun conversation. Needless to say I fancied myself back in that childhood fantasy of log cabins and home churned butter. An illusion that was abruptly shattered when The T Man decided it was time to check on his favorite baseball team. Regardless the projects were exciting for each of us, and though HopHop's definitely elicited a few profanities, we were each proud of our individual endeavors.

Sewing on Buttons 101:

I began by removing the plastic buttons. A couple snips with a slim fabric scissor will do it.

Next thread your needle and line up the two ends until they're even.

Tie a knot in the end. Tie another knot directly over the first one. Make sure the knots are thick enough so that they cannot slip through the fabric.

Then line up your first button and beginning from the underside of the fabric poke your needle through the first button hole. Loop it back down through the second button hole, and again up through the first. Continue this pattern until you've gone through each hole four times.

The top should look something like this.

The bottom will look something like this.

Next, poke the needle back through the fabric, but not through the button hole. Pull the thread through the fabric.

Then, twine the thread around the base of the button. This strengthens the loops made through the button and helps to keep the button sturdy.

Once you've completed the twine pull the needle through to the underside...

...and begin tying off the knot. Start by poking the needle through the looped thread that has already been sewn into the fabric. Pull it through until you're left with...

...a small loop. Send the needle through this loop and pull it tight. Repeat this action a second time and you're done!

Once completed my vest looks like an entirely new piece of clothing!

Photos by Alex FalkBack in July my friend Alex and I bonded over a shared interest in hiking. He's the real expert, well you know comparitvely, but having spent most summers in a small Colorado mountain town I'm not completely helpless. The perfectly, stunning pictures featured are from our first hike to the San Bernadino peak, a transverse mountain range along the Mojave desert. The hike is eight miles up, eight miles down. Every time I venture into the wilderness I'm struck by an overwhelming sense of security. As if I've come home, and never belonged anywhere else. I'm grateful for the equal challenge and peace that comes with each excursion. Coming Soon...Stop by Monday the 6th to see if I can finally figure out what to do with those dang blasted buttons!

Photo by Erin Paulson

CUCUMBERS AND PRAYERS

All day long

The earth shouts

“Gee, thanks.”

Such an exuberant gee,

It starts throwing

Things

As if God were passing by in a parade encouraging

Rowdy behavior

By looking so beautiful—

That a whole avalanche of mania swoops in!

I like this idea of throwing things at God,

And especially—His making us rowdy!

Thus, as soon as Hafiz is out of bed

I start stuffing large sacks

With old shoes, cucumbers,

And prayers

For the upcoming

Consecrated

Free-for all—

And who knows

What else.

-Hafiz, 14th century Iranian poet and master of Sufism

Translation by Daniel Ladinsky

The title of this blog is taken from a Hafiz poem that simply makes me laugh. I just love the idea of feeling so exuberant toward life that the only satisfactory form of self-expression is to throw cucumbers. If I were to do this they would have to be pealed and sliced. I like the image of cucumber slices glimmering as they soar through the air. The sunlight bouncing off their dewy centers, until they settle among blades of grass on an overgrown lawn. The phrase ‘cucumbers and prayers’ just felt like the perfect combination of whimsy and faith to suit my own perception of life.

Coming Soon...

Stop by Thursday for a look at majestic views from San Bernadino Peak, a transverse mountain range along the southern edge of the Mojave Desert.

I'd chosen to keep the windows closed. Today I would be reading, and the bright light from our clear, perpetually blue skies, was not going to distract me. I strapped myself in, and wondered if the man sitting beside me realized how far his elbow had protruded into my personal space. I giggled as an exceptionally flustered attendant begged people to conserve space. However, my interest was a half hearted attempt to feign the pleasant nature I desired to actually feel. This event made me edgy and exhilarated, which was unnerving.

I flipped the book to page 1, or 6 actually, but regardless it was where the story began. As it drew me in I began to calm and fall into a world where I could exist without the asphyxiating apprehension and incessant jostling that resulted from our quick movements over cracked pavement. Then, I, along with 149 other people titled backward and thus began our ascent. The pressure built, and things became quiet, peaceful and still. Thoughts flitted away from my mind and any hope of concentrating on the reading, that had recently been absolutely important, was lost. I set the book down, raised the shade slightly and leaned my forehead against the plastic pane. The city below was rushing away from me and I was racing out over the endless water. It glistened, and I searched in earnest for some sign of life. I received none, and lowering the shade returned to my book.

The trip continued steadily enough. Only a couple times did my stomach lurch and cause me to question whether it was possible for us to simply drop, like a brick if it were tossed out a window. As the day progressed traces of its changing colors peaked through the sliver of pane not covered by my shade. I succumbed, and raising the shade was drawn this time into the arid peaks and valleys among sand, and rocky plateaus. A desert ocean, secretly teeming with as much life, but hidden from my view set miles above. I wondered if perhaps this place was as deserted as it appeared. If perhaps the few miles between us made me and 149 other people the nearest evidence of human existence.

And so it continued. I drifted back and forth between the growing suspense of a fantastical novel and the wonderment of my fantastical viewpoint.

As the afternoon edged toward night, the sky reflected this change. I found myself appreciative for the subtle magnificence of a process that reoccurs daily. From this perspective I discovered that the horizon, generally delineated by the silhouette of earth against rich tones of sky, was lost in a sea of shadows. I could not determine where the earth ended, and the sky began. A deep red had blended into both, and earth extended into the sky as a desert brimming with blood red lakes which streamed alongside gigantic dunes.

Meanwhile the dark moved stealthily from east to west, stretching like long fingers into the vermillions, ambers and emeralds. I'd never before realized that the dark moved horizontally across the sky. It had always seemed to descend upon earth from above. I watched this slow, but steady process and the prospect of my side of the planet being blanketed in night caused me to itch with anticipation. I was flying east into the night as it crept westward and I noticed that the part of earth already covered with darkness had become one. There was no horizon or sky or ground. Life below had yet to even light small beacons that would announce itself to the darkness. I yearned to join the night.

************************************************************

I love flying in planes. I have to devote a great deal to trust, and allow the fears to wash over me before releasing them. From the perspective of a plane the earth manages to impress it's absolute significance. If you get further away, and see earth through the pane of a space shuttle it presents a paradox. Earth appears precious, and yet wholly insignificant against the expanse of the universe. But from my perspective, just a few short miles from the ground, earth is invaluable.

From start to finish my first experiment was pretty successful. I read about ten different recipes for apple and peach pies, and took my favorite aspects to combine the recipe detailed below. After that I ran my plan by The Ravishing Texan, who gave a few appreciated suggestions – noted throughout the recipe by the acronym TRT.

My inspiration began with one of my favorite films, Waitress, written and directed by Adrienne Shelley. The story follows Jenna, a pregnant and unhappily married waitress who gains strength in her life through the letters she writes to her unborn child and the unlikely relationship she forms with her doctor. She’s also, a pie genius! The film’s bright and bold aesthetic, and fairy tale charm appeal to me entirely, and I couldn’t help but want to learn about Jenna’s favorite pastime – pie baking. As if the film weren’t already adorable enough Jenna also gives the pies “real, unusual names,” such as Lonely Chicago Pie and Marshmallow Mermaid Pie. Naturally this means I get to name my pie too!

The other reason I felt drawn to this project is the time of year and time of life. I’ve recently moved very far from home, and the coming of fall has always been an acute reminder of childhood. I grew up in Wisconsin, and on more than one occasion my mother would take my siblings and I to an apple orchard where we’d pick Macintosh and Jonathan’s until our buckets overflowed. The crispness of Midwestern fall air, heavy leather boots, and soft flannel button-ups, tall cornfields and the rich plums, maroons and golds of nature, are all memories of childhood, and all sorely missed in the hot, dry climate I currently inhabit. On the other hand, I’ve always adored summer; it’s carefree spirit, the way heat forces me to slow and the drip of sweat teaches me to accept. Summer creates the delectable mixture of tingling tartness and mouth-watering sweetness – all found in the perfection that is a peach. As recognition of my childhood home and my first adult home, and perhaps as an irresistible connection between childhood and adulthood I’ve created a pie that combines fruits that bond me to both, with a name that stretches the distance between. And it’s absolutely delicious!

Thousand Mile Pie

Ingredients for Pie Crust:

taken from: http://www.elise.com/recipes/archives/001127perfect_pie_crust.php

2 C. all purpose flour

1 C. (2 sticks) unsalted butter, very cold, cut into 1/2 inch cubes

1 tsp salt

1 heaping tsp brown sugar

4 to 6 TBSP ice water

Directions for Pie Crust:

Cut the sticks of butter into 1/2-inch cubes and place in the freezer for 15 minutes to an hour until they become chilled.

Combine flour, salt, and brown sugar in a bowl. Remove butter from the freezer and cut finely before blending it into the mixture. Slice the butter and flour with a knife until it resembles coarse meal, with pea size pieces of butter.

To me this sounded absolutely absurd but it wasn’t as difficult as I expected. Just go for it, you really are just slicing and dicing through flour and butter.

Ensure the butter is fully covered by mixture. Add ice water 1 Tbsp at a time, stirring until mixture just begins to clump together. If you pinch some of the crumbly dough and it holds together, it's ready. If the dough doesn't hold together, add a little more water and stir again.

At this point I was wondering if in my excitement I’ve added too much water. The dough is feeling exceptionally sticky.

Remove dough from bowl and place in two even mounds on a clean surface. Gently shape into two discs. Knead the dough just enough to form the discs, do not over-knead.

You should be able to see little bits of butter in the dough - I of course could not.

These small chunks of butter are what will allow the resulting crust to be flaky - excellent.

Sprinkle a little flour around the discs. Wrap each disc in plastic wrap and refrigerate at least one hour, but no longer than two days.

Begin prep for pie filling.

Ingredients for Filing:

inspired by:

http://allrecipes.com/Recipe/Farm-Apple-Pie/Detail.aspx

http://allrecipes.com/Recipe/Peach-Pie-the-Old-Fashioned-Two-Crust-Way/Detail.aspx

http://www.texascooking.com/recipes/freshpeachpie.htm

http://allrecipes.com/Recipe/Fresh-Peach-Angel-Pie/Detail.aspx

http://allrecipes.com/Recipe/Dutch-Apple-Pie/Detail.aspx?prop31=3

2 1/2 C. peaches – 3 yellow peaches

2 1/2 C. apples – 2 granny smith apples

1 lime

1 TBSP cinnamon

1/2 TBSP nutmeg

1/2 C. flour

1/2 C. toasted almonds

2 TBSP cornstarch – This was recommended by The Ravishing Texan – but since I’m not particularly accomplished at reading recipes thoroughly, even the ones I write myself, I overlooked it.

1/4 C. sugar

1/4 C. brown sugar

1 tsp cinnamon

Cooking Directions:

Preheat oven to 425 degrees.

Place sliced peaches and apples in a colander, and sprinkle with fresh lime-juice. Mix or toss the fruit and allow excess lime-juice to drain.

Mix peaches and apples with one TBSP cinnamon, and 1/2 TBSP nutmeg.

Mix 1/2 C. flour and 1/2 C. toasted, sliced almonds. *Okay so I also forgot the almonds. I threw them on top of the last layer of fruit just before adding the second crust. Novice I say. Novice!

Dredge peaches and apples in flour. **TRT

Mix 1/4 C. sugar, 1/4 C. brown sugar, 1 tsp ground cinnamon.

Remove one crust disk from the refrigerator. Let sit at room temperature for 5-10 minutes in order to soften just enough to make rolling out a bit easier. Roll out with a rolling pin on a lightly floured surface to a twelve inch circle; about 1/8 of an inch thick. As you roll out the dough, check if the dough is sticking to the surface below. If necessary, add a few sprinkles of flour under the dough to keep the dough from sticking. Carefully place onto a 9-inch pie plate. Gently press the pie dough down so that it lines the bottom and sides of the pie plate. Use a pair of kitchen scissors to trim the dough to within 1/2 inch of the edge of the pie dish.

Line 9” pan with homemade pie-crust, rub pie-crust down with whipped egg yolk.

Put in first layer of fruit. Alternate with layers of sugar mixture.

Dot with small pieces of butter.

Roll out second disk of dough, as before. Gently place onto the top of the filling in the pie. Pinch top and bottom of dough rounds firmly together. Trim excess dough with kitchen shears, leaving a 3/4 inch overhang. Fold the edge of the top piece of dough over and under the edge of the bottom piece of dough, pressing together. Flute edges using thumb and forefinger or press with a fork. Score the top of the pie with four 2-inch long cuts, so that steam from the cooking pie can escape.

Let the pie bake for 30 minutes before checking. By now the dough should show signs of browning. If the edges are baking too quickly wrap with tin foil – I didn’t take a picture of this, it was obnoxious enough to do in the first place.

Allow the pie to cook for another 15 – 20 minutes, then remove from the oven.

Yum!

With all the conveniences our modern world affords us, I have recently recognized that I don't know how to do anything!

I can buy pre-made meals that simply need to be heated in a microwave, for a set time determined by a Rice-a-Roni "professional." Grains, meats, dairies, vegetables and fruits are found less than half a mile from my home, laid out neatly, and gleaming beneath florescent lights. If I venture another quarter mile I'll find the less pristine, more bohemian farmer's market, which nonetheless provides the same sustenance. The last time I made much effort to gather my food, was during that desperate interim between college graduation and the first job. I'd taken to climbing neighbor's fences to steal oranges and clementines, rather than give up my precious few dollars, preferably spent on pineapple beer at the corner dive bar.

At the same time, clothing I need can be purchased at one among hundreds of stores, ranging from massively overstocked discount emporiums to specialty vintage shops. Though none is superior, all fulfill my style - personally dubbed ‘professionalism in pajamas’ - and they never require me to sit behind a sewing machine, or heaven forbid thread a needle. At home I keep a drawer of the extra buttons that come with new jackets and blouses, yet I'm completely aware that were a button to come loose I would not have the skills to mend the situation. Each time a new item of button-dependent-clothing enters my home I slip that extra button among my collection, and 22 pieces of plastic smirk and snicker quietly. Perhaps I should buy more t-shirts, but it wouldn't solve the problem.

My mother made our Halloween costumes. During my “pioneer phase” she created calico summer dresses, complete with white pinafores. When I was queen of the Medieval Fair, she designed a long, flowing silk gown and kirtle. Growing up in rural Wisconsin my parents planted a large vegetable garden, filled with tomatoes, zucchini, green beans and cucumbers. They constructed a compost in our backyard. We had apple trees that my siblings and I would pick too early, then earnestly insist upon "sour" apple pie. I didn't grow up on a farm, or in a commune. My parents aren't hippies or Amish. Both are city-bred, reformed wasps who wanted their kids to enjoy childhood in the country. I fear I may have taken that opportunity for granted. I can barely cook, sewing confounds me, gardening is a formidable prospect and there is no hope that I might construct something useful from slabs of wood.

This recent realization is not an opening to release long pent up rants against modern living, or a rally to revert to "simpler" times. (Granted my favorite joke is to suggest joining a commune in Wyoming and raising wild coyotes.) In truth, I'd say that trying to include the aforementioned activities into my current life sounds excessively complicated. I recognize that the conveniences we enjoy allow our lives' focuses to shift from basic survival to intellectual, artistic and spiritual growth. However, these inevitable complications do not deter me, nor do they waver my resolve.

Throughout my life I've been gripped by an overwhelming desire to enjoy the gratifying experience of creation. I’ve spent years writing, acting, singing (poorly), dancing, drawing, painting and so on. However, I have never applied imagination to my daily meals. Tofurky sandwiches and defrosted ravioli are less exciting than they were four years ago when I first established a meal trend. I have never made a loving home for an animal, nor thanked one for its sacrifice to feed me. I have never even ventured into the creation of life through gardening.

Thinking about all this led me to understand a simple truth, we create everyday and through as simple an activity as making breakfast. We can honor each and every creation. Creativity in all forms is what I would like to explore, and it is what I see the people I love doing. Be it performing sketch comedies or writing political Op-Eds there is great beauty in expressing oneself and honoring one’s interests.

All this has led to my resolution to explore forms of creativity through learning how to do the simple activities I overlooked; cooking, sewing, gardening, etc. I want to promote creativity in all forms and will use this blog as a forum to share not only my attempts, but also the creative pursuits of people who have inspired me.

So...good luck to me, and to anyone out there who is on their own journey of creation.