This is Kidlat standing at the fence in front of my house on Himokilan. Can you tell how naughty she is? Answer: VERY.
Thursday, May 25, 2006
Things That Make Me Smile, Part 1
This is Kidlat standing at the fence in front of my house on Himokilan. Can you tell how naughty she is? Answer: VERY.
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
Series of Random Texts Part I
These texts to various friends nearby chronicle the past 48 hours of Katrina's life. Note, Hurricane Drunken Stupor, locally known as the Himokilan Island Fiesta of 2006, just ended.
1: Today it is culturally acceptable for me to drink beer. It's fiesta yayayayayaaaaay! Which means I, in fact, MUST drink beer to help me digest the nine pounds of pig fat I will consume. I often wonder why people here are confused when their friends and loved ones develop diabetes, high blood pressure, and irritable bowel syndrome in their late twenties. In my mind, the words "you eat now, then drink this" don't have positive implications for a healthy diet.
2: The disco is starting. I am wearing pretty high-heeled shoes, which is good because for the first time my host family won't ask me, "is that what you are wearing?", but it's BAD because I might fall down. Lots.
3: I seem to be missing my shoes. That song came on, that reggae one that everyone likes, you know the one. And shoes started flying and my shoes started flying and next thing I know I have no shoes and I'm break dancing on the floor and it's great but now I have no shoes.
4: We're all good. I found them. P.S. I got a puppy!
5: The drunken madness that ensued last night at my island's fiesta should shame me. Oh wait, IT DID. I ruled the dance floor and will forever be known as Katrina Saucy Pants Who Does the Worm and Other Stuff Too. My house is crawling with beasts because apparently during the debauchery I accepted a puppy to go along with my new kitten that I hate. They are not friends but I love my new little iro. I feed her so much that I feel like my host mother.
6: There are hubogs (drunks) outside my house. I ate three eggs today, but not the yolks. I gave those to my dog. This perhaps explains our collective horrible gas. Did I tell you that I got a dog? I did and she is fantastic. I also found a NEW new kitten on my doorstep, which, as it turns out, is the twin sister of my other new kitten that is unlovable. The strange thing is that the twin sister was thrown away in the ocean and left to die over a week ago by the neighborhood children...do you think this new kitten is like that cat in Mad House that just won't die? Anyway, I have now saved two kittens from despair and I regret it every day. The drunks want me to play. How do I say "THAT WILL NEVER HAPPEN" in the dialect?
1: Today it is culturally acceptable for me to drink beer. It's fiesta yayayayayaaaaay! Which means I, in fact, MUST drink beer to help me digest the nine pounds of pig fat I will consume. I often wonder why people here are confused when their friends and loved ones develop diabetes, high blood pressure, and irritable bowel syndrome in their late twenties. In my mind, the words "you eat now, then drink this" don't have positive implications for a healthy diet.
2: The disco is starting. I am wearing pretty high-heeled shoes, which is good because for the first time my host family won't ask me, "is that what you are wearing?", but it's BAD because I might fall down. Lots.
3: I seem to be missing my shoes. That song came on, that reggae one that everyone likes, you know the one. And shoes started flying and my shoes started flying and next thing I know I have no shoes and I'm break dancing on the floor and it's great but now I have no shoes.
4: We're all good. I found them. P.S. I got a puppy!
5: The drunken madness that ensued last night at my island's fiesta should shame me. Oh wait, IT DID. I ruled the dance floor and will forever be known as Katrina Saucy Pants Who Does the Worm and Other Stuff Too. My house is crawling with beasts because apparently during the debauchery I accepted a puppy to go along with my new kitten that I hate. They are not friends but I love my new little iro. I feed her so much that I feel like my host mother.
6: There are hubogs (drunks) outside my house. I ate three eggs today, but not the yolks. I gave those to my dog. This perhaps explains our collective horrible gas. Did I tell you that I got a dog? I did and she is fantastic. I also found a NEW new kitten on my doorstep, which, as it turns out, is the twin sister of my other new kitten that is unlovable. The strange thing is that the twin sister was thrown away in the ocean and left to die over a week ago by the neighborhood children...do you think this new kitten is like that cat in Mad House that just won't die? Anyway, I have now saved two kittens from despair and I regret it every day. The drunks want me to play. How do I say "THAT WILL NEVER HAPPEN" in the dialect?
Thursday, May 18, 2006
Recycling 101
I applaud people of the Philippines for their amazing creativity when it comes to recycling trash for everyday use.
From the poorest barangays to the wealthier cities, I have seen plastic bottles used as flower holders, as rain catchment systems, and as toys for childrens games; old plastic banners are used as tarps or tents for boats; damaged flip-flops are used and reused until three holes have worn into the soles, the remnants of which are then used as floats for fishing nets or washers for rooftops; and when clothes are worn to tatters, they find new use as pot holders or floor mats.
The Filipino's concept of form and function should put first-world materialism to shame. To see a flower pot made of an old, damaged basketball is far more appealing to my eye because of its sheer creativity than, say, a porcelain flower pot that will just be thrown away if broken or faded.
We should all train our eyes to look at old garbage made new again as something beautiful, unique, and, yes, functional. In spite of the fact that people here still throw trash in the oceans and burn plastics (among other environmental atrocities), they still do something far better than the first-worlders: they don't waste. And while, oftentimes, their actions are consequences of poverty and necessity – a person on Himokilan can't afford a porcelain pot, nor does he have the space to throw empty plastic bottles away – I have still seen the rich reuse and recycle in the same fashion. The mentality of a culture that traditionally has existed on a subsistence level remains the same: why waste when you simply don't have to?
From the poorest barangays to the wealthier cities, I have seen plastic bottles used as flower holders, as rain catchment systems, and as toys for childrens games; old plastic banners are used as tarps or tents for boats; damaged flip-flops are used and reused until three holes have worn into the soles, the remnants of which are then used as floats for fishing nets or washers for rooftops; and when clothes are worn to tatters, they find new use as pot holders or floor mats.
The Filipino's concept of form and function should put first-world materialism to shame. To see a flower pot made of an old, damaged basketball is far more appealing to my eye because of its sheer creativity than, say, a porcelain flower pot that will just be thrown away if broken or faded.
We should all train our eyes to look at old garbage made new again as something beautiful, unique, and, yes, functional. In spite of the fact that people here still throw trash in the oceans and burn plastics (among other environmental atrocities), they still do something far better than the first-worlders: they don't waste. And while, oftentimes, their actions are consequences of poverty and necessity – a person on Himokilan can't afford a porcelain pot, nor does he have the space to throw empty plastic bottles away – I have still seen the rich reuse and recycle in the same fashion. The mentality of a culture that traditionally has existed on a subsistence level remains the same: why waste when you simply don't have to?
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
Katrina plus unwanted kitten equals super volunteer
This is how I know I am a decent human being: Yesterday I got my very first kitten, and I hate cats. By accepting this enlarged rat, I saved it from being thrown into the ocean as trash, which is basically what cats, dogs, and other pets are considered on my island when a family already has more of them than they can eat.
I affectionately named my kitten the cebuano word for Mango – Mangga – and, because he is a Filipino, he must have a nickname: Ming Ming. He is utterly hideous, he has bugs, and he is not cute. Not even loving. I think we pet owners (which is what I now am) decide to raise animals because we see ourselves raising the perfect pet. Of course, when I saw Ming Ming staring up at me from a plastic sac, his eyes screaming PLEASE DON'T LET THEM THROW ME IN THE OCEAN, I assumed I could raise him to be a good kitty, the kind that liked to be held, wanted to roam everywhere with me (tucked gently away in my pocket), and of course would dance on command and lead the blind to market. And thus I took him in, in spite of his apparent flaws.
As it turns out, some beasts are predisposed to being pests. Ming Ming is one of them. He doesn't like being held, not at all. He is loud. He can't dance. He can't even walk. He. Is. Useless.
As I paraded around with him the other day (not in my pocket, I might add, but in a dirty old box big enough so that he couldn't escape), many people asked me if I would ihaw him for my birthday, a.k.a. kill him for food. Repeatedly I said no, no, no, because everyone gets a good laugh when I pretend to be shocked by such things here, but I really was thinking "it's very possible."
And with that, we can nix the title.
I affectionately named my kitten the cebuano word for Mango – Mangga – and, because he is a Filipino, he must have a nickname: Ming Ming. He is utterly hideous, he has bugs, and he is not cute. Not even loving. I think we pet owners (which is what I now am) decide to raise animals because we see ourselves raising the perfect pet. Of course, when I saw Ming Ming staring up at me from a plastic sac, his eyes screaming PLEASE DON'T LET THEM THROW ME IN THE OCEAN, I assumed I could raise him to be a good kitty, the kind that liked to be held, wanted to roam everywhere with me (tucked gently away in my pocket), and of course would dance on command and lead the blind to market. And thus I took him in, in spite of his apparent flaws.
As it turns out, some beasts are predisposed to being pests. Ming Ming is one of them. He doesn't like being held, not at all. He is loud. He can't dance. He can't even walk. He. Is. Useless.
As I paraded around with him the other day (not in my pocket, I might add, but in a dirty old box big enough so that he couldn't escape), many people asked me if I would ihaw him for my birthday, a.k.a. kill him for food. Repeatedly I said no, no, no, because everyone gets a good laugh when I pretend to be shocked by such things here, but I really was thinking "it's very possible."
And with that, we can nix the title.
Saturday, May 13, 2006
My Daily Commute...
How many people can you fit on a pumpboat in the Philippines??
One more! Hahahahahahaaaaaaaaaa!
One more! Hahahahahahaaaaaaaaaa!
Typhoons in Small Places
I live on a very, very small island. This is what I tell people when they ask where I am assigned, and I feel that the the words "very," "very" again, "small," and "island" in combo indicate that this place is, essentially, the size of an anthill on steroids. I can sneeze in my hut and my furthest neighbor will say "god pardens you" in Cebuano, which is what they say -- don't ask me why. I hear the generator at night as it's powering 60 of the island homes with electricity; for the remaining 60 homes, I can hear matches strike boxes as darkness settles in. Himokilan Island isnt like one of the San Juan's; it's not Sanibel; it's not flippin Cuba. It's small. FRIGGIN DARN SMALL.
Imagine what a friggin darn small island with limited electricity has to offer in terms of current national and international news updates. I award five points to the individual who has surmised that "news" is generally slow to reach this and other similarly isolated rocks on earth. When there are coups attempts or natural disasters or emergencies from home that I should probably know about, well, I have no way of knowing when I'm out there. Granted, sometimes news can wait, but sometimes it can't. Take, for instance, news of the typhoon that struck Leyte two days ago. Seven foot waves and hurricane force winds don't make for a good combination when you live on an island as wide as two American Arses. Fortunately for me, I was on the mainland boozing it up at a wedding; but regardless, what if I went home as I originally planned? What if it were a signal five typhoon, the most powerful storm?
I worry sometimes about the things that I can't plan for. I do all that I can to be safe -- I take medicine when I'm sick, I don't ride on buses with toothless, drunk-looking drivers, I don't eat foods that double as pets, and I certainly don't ride a boat in crappy conditions when I could just wait another day and take the same boat in calm seas. The trouble is, when I'm out on that island, that island is where I am. Is that very Tao of Poo to say? Well it's true. And that island is very, very small. There is no escaping a strong wind or rough seas; waiting and hoping are the best defenses out there.
The sad truth is that a lot of news doesn't reach a lot of the Philippines. Technology is booming in this place, but only to those who are fortunate enough to be near it or rich enough to afford it, and as such a lot of people don't have access to information, including daily news. Even with my government issued allowance, I am out of the range of proximity to news. And while indigenous knowledge of weather, water, and land continues to serve FIlipinos well (for example, the worst of the storm is over when the frogs begin to croak in volumes), that same knowledge isn't a doppler radar that shows how bad the storm is going to be in the first place.
In the end I am okay, and in the end I will only live in this tiny place for two years. Still, I can't help but be sympathetic for most of the population in this country - and, indeed, much of the population of the deveoloping world - who are at nature's mercy. After witnessing the horrible devastation from the landslide in St. Bernard, Southern Leyte, I hope other people are too....
Imagine what a friggin darn small island with limited electricity has to offer in terms of current national and international news updates. I award five points to the individual who has surmised that "news" is generally slow to reach this and other similarly isolated rocks on earth. When there are coups attempts or natural disasters or emergencies from home that I should probably know about, well, I have no way of knowing when I'm out there. Granted, sometimes news can wait, but sometimes it can't. Take, for instance, news of the typhoon that struck Leyte two days ago. Seven foot waves and hurricane force winds don't make for a good combination when you live on an island as wide as two American Arses. Fortunately for me, I was on the mainland boozing it up at a wedding; but regardless, what if I went home as I originally planned? What if it were a signal five typhoon, the most powerful storm?
I worry sometimes about the things that I can't plan for. I do all that I can to be safe -- I take medicine when I'm sick, I don't ride on buses with toothless, drunk-looking drivers, I don't eat foods that double as pets, and I certainly don't ride a boat in crappy conditions when I could just wait another day and take the same boat in calm seas. The trouble is, when I'm out on that island, that island is where I am. Is that very Tao of Poo to say? Well it's true. And that island is very, very small. There is no escaping a strong wind or rough seas; waiting and hoping are the best defenses out there.
The sad truth is that a lot of news doesn't reach a lot of the Philippines. Technology is booming in this place, but only to those who are fortunate enough to be near it or rich enough to afford it, and as such a lot of people don't have access to information, including daily news. Even with my government issued allowance, I am out of the range of proximity to news. And while indigenous knowledge of weather, water, and land continues to serve FIlipinos well (for example, the worst of the storm is over when the frogs begin to croak in volumes), that same knowledge isn't a doppler radar that shows how bad the storm is going to be in the first place.
In the end I am okay, and in the end I will only live in this tiny place for two years. Still, I can't help but be sympathetic for most of the population in this country - and, indeed, much of the population of the deveoloping world - who are at nature's mercy. After witnessing the horrible devastation from the landslide in St. Bernard, Southern Leyte, I hope other people are too....
Multiple Choice
When it is hot like this, it is hard to:
a) Protect your skin from sun damage so severe that you look like you just played in chocolate pudding
b) Wear culturally appropriate clothes, i.e. clothes that cover more than 13% of your body
c) Prevent embarrassing sweat marks on your bottom after sitting for lengths of time longer than six minutes
d) Do anything
e) All of the above
In a word, it's hot. In more than one word, it's so flippin' hot that I feel like someone roasted me lechon style and served me up for dinner at fiesta.
With that, the correct answer is obviously e. Duh.
The hot season began about a month ago, sometime around April 10. I arrived in this country April 1 of last year, and I remember a heat so hellish that it nearly inspired me to seek skin-thinning techniques at questionable wokwok doctors. This year, though, April 1 came and went and I was feeling just fine. The 2nd, 3rd, 4th came and passed with me at my normal rate of sweat and stink. Clearly I was now just "used" to the heat, I had acclimated. I didn't hesitate to brag about this fact to all of my family in sub-arctic Washington, and I reiterated that I was just super because heat didn't phase me anymore, no sir. Yay me.
Wrong, Wrong, Wrong. It. Is. Hot.
So hot that I hate eating fresh-cooked food because it causes excess sweating, whereas room temp food only causes the normal amount of sweat. The air is full of hotness, hot hotness. It makes a person lathargic and lazy. And yes, it's true, hot air makes a person clammy and sweaty, to such an extreme that she can get any number of sicknesses/ailments. My list of past heat-induced sicknesses includes: walking pneumonia, fungus, heat rashes, and dehydration. This year I anticipate Denghe, more rashes, and perhaps even a sudden onset of bloating as all the juices in my body start to boil from the insane-o heat.
Aside from the physical discomfort, the hot season means that I can't wear anything more than once, which means laundry. Lots.
And of course there's the way the heat makes Katrina's hair curl. There is a huge value placed on appearance in this place, and though I try to fit the part of a professional by dressing appropriately, I struggle to keep my combo of sweat and curly locks in check. People who I don't even know will stop me on the street for a chat and then ask oh-so-casually if I own a hairbrush. Other classic comments:
"Hm. That's funny, did you just wake up? Because your hair looks like you just woke up."
"Well, I thought Americans were a clean people."
"Why do Americans look like their hair is always wet?"
"It looks bad. Bad."
I wouldn't write it if it weren't true.
a) Protect your skin from sun damage so severe that you look like you just played in chocolate pudding
b) Wear culturally appropriate clothes, i.e. clothes that cover more than 13% of your body
c) Prevent embarrassing sweat marks on your bottom after sitting for lengths of time longer than six minutes
d) Do anything
e) All of the above
In a word, it's hot. In more than one word, it's so flippin' hot that I feel like someone roasted me lechon style and served me up for dinner at fiesta.
With that, the correct answer is obviously e. Duh.
The hot season began about a month ago, sometime around April 10. I arrived in this country April 1 of last year, and I remember a heat so hellish that it nearly inspired me to seek skin-thinning techniques at questionable wokwok doctors. This year, though, April 1 came and went and I was feeling just fine. The 2nd, 3rd, 4th came and passed with me at my normal rate of sweat and stink. Clearly I was now just "used" to the heat, I had acclimated. I didn't hesitate to brag about this fact to all of my family in sub-arctic Washington, and I reiterated that I was just super because heat didn't phase me anymore, no sir. Yay me.
Wrong, Wrong, Wrong. It. Is. Hot.
So hot that I hate eating fresh-cooked food because it causes excess sweating, whereas room temp food only causes the normal amount of sweat. The air is full of hotness, hot hotness. It makes a person lathargic and lazy. And yes, it's true, hot air makes a person clammy and sweaty, to such an extreme that she can get any number of sicknesses/ailments. My list of past heat-induced sicknesses includes: walking pneumonia, fungus, heat rashes, and dehydration. This year I anticipate Denghe, more rashes, and perhaps even a sudden onset of bloating as all the juices in my body start to boil from the insane-o heat.
Aside from the physical discomfort, the hot season means that I can't wear anything more than once, which means laundry. Lots.
And of course there's the way the heat makes Katrina's hair curl. There is a huge value placed on appearance in this place, and though I try to fit the part of a professional by dressing appropriately, I struggle to keep my combo of sweat and curly locks in check. People who I don't even know will stop me on the street for a chat and then ask oh-so-casually if I own a hairbrush. Other classic comments:
"Hm. That's funny, did you just wake up? Because your hair looks like you just woke up."
"Well, I thought Americans were a clean people."
"Why do Americans look like their hair is always wet?"
"It looks bad. Bad."
I wouldn't write it if it weren't true.
Thursday, May 11, 2006
Freaks with Phones
Alvin is the freak of the day today. He is this guy, this strange version of a Filipino man, who will be sitting three feet away from me as he sends me a series of texts. “Hi Katrina, this is Alvin. I want us to be friends.” “Hi again. Do you want to be friends?” “Why are you not responding to me?”
My mainland host mother (affectionately dubbed here as Alpha Mom) introduced him to me because he is single, I am single, and hey, why not be NOT single together? A brilliant plan, as long as you disregard all things such as personality, attraction, and general likability. Alvin, in a word, is weird, and now he is another person to add to the list of “Weird Filipinos Who are Socially Awkward and Obnoxious and Who Fantasize About the Bride Katrina,” or WFWSAOWFABK for short.
These people are surely not unique to the Philippines, but something about the texting nature of this culture breeds a disproportionate amount of WFWSAOWFABKs. Truly, how lucky for the insecure Filipino male (or any male, for that matter) that the cell phone was invented. It allows him to perpetuate an awkward, shy, gutless culture of un-masculinity. In the past, men must have suffered by having to ask women on dates (or even just make chit-chat) face-to-face; today, texting has revolutionized their love lives. All they have to do is text. And hide like cowards.
And Alvin, oh Alvin, he is so typical of WFWSAOWFABKs. He now visits the house to “visit” my host family, at which times they call me into the room to help “entertain” him, but he talks only to them, not to me. Apparently it's just proximity he craves. At times, I will occupy myself with games on my cell phone or reading while he is in the room, and then suddenly, with me in the room and with him in the room, I will get a text from, dun dun dunnnn, Weird Socially Awkward Dude Named Alvin. Ah, I just got a text from him now! Just now! "Cat, miss ko nimo. Alot (author's insert: I know how to spell "a lot" as two words. I was merely quoting). Why r you not texting?"
Alvin. AAALLLLVIIIINNNNN!!!
I have been asked many times, by both Filipinos and Americans, if I find Filipinos attractive; likewise, many times I've been asked if I could ever see myself marrying a Filipino. In my very best Cebuano, I tell them that Love is Blind (if you are a Filipino, insert laughter here). Aside from that phrase being a big party hit, it's also true - I believe in the merits of good personality, a good sense of humor, and a general kindness of the heart. A Filipino, just like an American, isn't necessarily attractive in my eyes because he is Filipino; it is because he is a good person.
Sadly, though, this country is poor as crap, it is, and so so so many people value money and social status above love and lifelong companionship. Alvin is educated, he is relatively well off, and he has a connected family - all winning characteristics acording to Alpha Mom. Contrast this with a young man on Himokilan who has a not-so-secret crush on me: he attended school only until grade six; he "works" as a fisherman a few days a week; and he lives with his extended family on the island without a penny to his name. Three strikes in the eyes of Alpha Mom. But in my eyes, he is so fun to talk with and has a shining personality. While I totally, surely, positively, absolutely will not date him or any other person here, many people have felt compelled to warn me not to date him because he can't offer me anything. Funny. If there is anything I have learned here in the Philippines, it's that the greatest "things" I need are friends and family. The other things don't make me less lonely, they don't make me laugh, they don't give me anything to look forward to in my day-to-day.
Try explaining that in the dialect.
Meanwhile, a tiny girl with beautiful hair and stunning eyes is sitting to my left here in the computer lab and is chatting with a 63 year-old man who hails from Toronto and wants to lend her his parka. When she comes to the continent to marry him. It's hard to change values. It's hard to be a volunteer here for that very reason. It's hard...to...GET ALVIN TO STOP TEXTING ME. That's three times in fifteen minutes. Come on!
My mainland host mother (affectionately dubbed here as Alpha Mom) introduced him to me because he is single, I am single, and hey, why not be NOT single together? A brilliant plan, as long as you disregard all things such as personality, attraction, and general likability. Alvin, in a word, is weird, and now he is another person to add to the list of “Weird Filipinos Who are Socially Awkward and Obnoxious and Who Fantasize About the Bride Katrina,” or WFWSAOWFABK for short.
These people are surely not unique to the Philippines, but something about the texting nature of this culture breeds a disproportionate amount of WFWSAOWFABKs. Truly, how lucky for the insecure Filipino male (or any male, for that matter) that the cell phone was invented. It allows him to perpetuate an awkward, shy, gutless culture of un-masculinity. In the past, men must have suffered by having to ask women on dates (or even just make chit-chat) face-to-face; today, texting has revolutionized their love lives. All they have to do is text. And hide like cowards.
And Alvin, oh Alvin, he is so typical of WFWSAOWFABKs. He now visits the house to “visit” my host family, at which times they call me into the room to help “entertain” him, but he talks only to them, not to me. Apparently it's just proximity he craves. At times, I will occupy myself with games on my cell phone or reading while he is in the room, and then suddenly, with me in the room and with him in the room, I will get a text from, dun dun dunnnn, Weird Socially Awkward Dude Named Alvin. Ah, I just got a text from him now! Just now! "Cat, miss ko nimo. Alot (author's insert: I know how to spell "a lot" as two words. I was merely quoting). Why r you not texting?"
Alvin. AAALLLLVIIIINNNNN!!!
I have been asked many times, by both Filipinos and Americans, if I find Filipinos attractive; likewise, many times I've been asked if I could ever see myself marrying a Filipino. In my very best Cebuano, I tell them that Love is Blind (if you are a Filipino, insert laughter here). Aside from that phrase being a big party hit, it's also true - I believe in the merits of good personality, a good sense of humor, and a general kindness of the heart. A Filipino, just like an American, isn't necessarily attractive in my eyes because he is Filipino; it is because he is a good person.
Sadly, though, this country is poor as crap, it is, and so so so many people value money and social status above love and lifelong companionship. Alvin is educated, he is relatively well off, and he has a connected family - all winning characteristics acording to Alpha Mom. Contrast this with a young man on Himokilan who has a not-so-secret crush on me: he attended school only until grade six; he "works" as a fisherman a few days a week; and he lives with his extended family on the island without a penny to his name. Three strikes in the eyes of Alpha Mom. But in my eyes, he is so fun to talk with and has a shining personality. While I totally, surely, positively, absolutely will not date him or any other person here, many people have felt compelled to warn me not to date him because he can't offer me anything. Funny. If there is anything I have learned here in the Philippines, it's that the greatest "things" I need are friends and family. The other things don't make me less lonely, they don't make me laugh, they don't give me anything to look forward to in my day-to-day.
Try explaining that in the dialect.
Meanwhile, a tiny girl with beautiful hair and stunning eyes is sitting to my left here in the computer lab and is chatting with a 63 year-old man who hails from Toronto and wants to lend her his parka. When she comes to the continent to marry him. It's hard to change values. It's hard to be a volunteer here for that very reason. It's hard...to...GET ALVIN TO STOP TEXTING ME. That's three times in fifteen minutes. Come on!
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