For one thing, we moved out of the palace with the wireless intarnets, and have been relegated to checking our email in a small, musty room at the missionary base. Alas.
We left the pastor's house to move into the Taylors' house, and our tour of their house was punctuated by the phrase 'That doesn't work.' 'Here's the kitchen. The oven doesn't work but the stove top does. Oh, but the kettle doesn't work. And if you're going to poop, do it in the main bathroom because the one in the bedroom can't handle it.' And yet, even though they have no carpet and the door to their bedroom doesn't shut and the 'dryer' is a clothesline in the backyard and the kitchen is full of flies, we're a million times more comfortable there. Because we can spill things, and no one minds. And there's no elaborate locking-up process (there is, in fact, no locking up process at all, since Carol couldn't find the key to the front door to leave for us), and people just come and go as they please and everyone just stops by on Friday evening to play games in the living room (which I keep referring to as 'the basement' because it's all concrete and basementy-looking).
Mostly, I'm happier here because of the books. I've been borrowing books from Gord and Carol's library since we got here, but now I LIVE IN THEIR HOUSE, so I'm really not borrowing at all. They have piles and piles of books, and not just any books, but all the books I've been wanting to read for AGES. Also, they have kittens. Remember how I hate cats, everyone at home? So much do I hate cats! Except that I don't, I love them, and I love these kittens and behold them as they embrace each other, caught in the act!
All they want is loving and petting and to drink the milk out of my cereal bowl, for which they get smacked on the nose. The other morning, I had let them out of the bathroom where they spend the night and they came into the bedroom to snuggle with us while we read and drank our coffee, and then they went off to catch some beetles, and then they snuck under the bed for a nice little pooping. And Joel and I are there, trying to figure out if we smell poop or not, because sometimes it's just the goats across the road, you know? And then, if it's poop, where is it coming from? And who should have to clean it up?
The poo-scapade was relieved nicely by a trip to the 'good' beach, by which we mean not the close beach but the one far away. Like, twenty minutes.
It has flatter beaches and smaller waves and outhouses that smell like the rending of garments and the gnashing of teeth and a sign on the way out that says 'Thank you for preferring us.' You are welcome, Flat Beach. If you weren't so far away, we'd prefer you much more often.
2 comments:
Is this beach called Sand Dollar beach? When the waves roll back to the water across the sand, do the sand dollars do back flips behind them?
Because if it is and they do, then I was totally there last summmer.
I'm sitting here at work, laughing to myself like a crazy person, and it must be said, Rachel Krueger, "You make me laugh like a crazy person!" man, you are funny.
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