Monday, December 29, 2008
Sunday, December 28, 2008
¿Entienden? | 24 Dec 2008
It was funny because it was the first thing I said in Spanish.
Before that, I had explained, “You can’t open them now.” They listened intently, paying close attention. “But as soon as you wake up tomorrow, then you can.”
And then I said, “¿Entienden?” which is, “Did you understand?” Then Samuel’s eyes really lit up, and he shouted, “¡Sí!” with an ever bigger smile than the one that had been on his face since we arrived.
I smiled back. And then his older sister started to explain, in Spanish, that they couldn’t open the presents till the morning. Their attention focused on her. And I laughed, realizing my mistake.
The lights were off when we arrived. They turned one on after we were all inside. Their house was empty. Nothing on the walls. No clutter or boxes. No furniture in the front room. And just the love seat in the family room. But it was a nice home, with brand-new carpet. If you are going to be without beds, that’s the house for it. She said they did have blankets—or coats, at least. I think she misunderstood the question.
The oldest, a son, stood behind the bar, tall enough to show his head and shoulders. Samuel kept jumping around on the couch. The four girls stood behind the couch, smiling shyly.
Mom told them to cover their ears. Then she asked Marta if we should bring the presents straight in or to hide them somewhere. I’m not sure if she understood that either, but she told us to bring them in. We set the presents in a pile. The three youngest moved closer to watch, and they still had their hands over their ears. When we noticed this, we all laughed.
Chy pulled the tree out of the box. It was about three feet tall and lit up the dark room. I invited the kids to help us pull the wire branches out into a Christmas-tree shape. My siblings set the gifts underneath. Tan, Jeff, and I had made two little swords, but never got them wrapped. Chy handed them to me over the tree. “Should we give these to them now?” she asked. I quickly shoved them into a garbage bag. The oldest boy’s eyes lit up. “Tienen que esperar hasta la mañana por esos también.” “You have to wait till the morning.”
Luís had a bit of a limp, but no crutches. He’d cut his thigh with a saw at work. He said it still bled a bit after the stitches. Their mother, Marta, got a quiver in her voice and a wet glint in her eyes each time she told us (mainly Mom) thank you. Her accent was heavy. “Tank you berry mach.”
Before that, I had explained, “You can’t open them now.” They listened intently, paying close attention. “But as soon as you wake up tomorrow, then you can.”
And then I said, “¿Entienden?” which is, “Did you understand?” Then Samuel’s eyes really lit up, and he shouted, “¡Sí!” with an ever bigger smile than the one that had been on his face since we arrived.
I smiled back. And then his older sister started to explain, in Spanish, that they couldn’t open the presents till the morning. Their attention focused on her. And I laughed, realizing my mistake.
The lights were off when we arrived. They turned one on after we were all inside. Their house was empty. Nothing on the walls. No clutter or boxes. No furniture in the front room. And just the love seat in the family room. But it was a nice home, with brand-new carpet. If you are going to be without beds, that’s the house for it. She said they did have blankets—or coats, at least. I think she misunderstood the question.
The oldest, a son, stood behind the bar, tall enough to show his head and shoulders. Samuel kept jumping around on the couch. The four girls stood behind the couch, smiling shyly.
Mom told them to cover their ears. Then she asked Marta if we should bring the presents straight in or to hide them somewhere. I’m not sure if she understood that either, but she told us to bring them in. We set the presents in a pile. The three youngest moved closer to watch, and they still had their hands over their ears. When we noticed this, we all laughed.
Chy pulled the tree out of the box. It was about three feet tall and lit up the dark room. I invited the kids to help us pull the wire branches out into a Christmas-tree shape. My siblings set the gifts underneath. Tan, Jeff, and I had made two little swords, but never got them wrapped. Chy handed them to me over the tree. “Should we give these to them now?” she asked. I quickly shoved them into a garbage bag. The oldest boy’s eyes lit up. “Tienen que esperar hasta la mañana por esos también.” “You have to wait till the morning.”
Luís had a bit of a limp, but no crutches. He’d cut his thigh with a saw at work. He said it still bled a bit after the stitches. Their mother, Marta, got a quiver in her voice and a wet glint in her eyes each time she told us (mainly Mom) thank you. Her accent was heavy. “Tank you berry mach.”
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Sorry im late in my postings....
All i want is..
the book: The Scarlet Pimpernel used, or new.. doesnt matter.
i read it about 3 years ago and loved it! thanks!
..well also i love music as everyone knows.... so if there are any rad cds out.... pick one up..
..theres a specific 1 i can think of that i like..
cd called: Pollyanna by Northstar
Muchas Gracias, Te amo, chy
All i want is..
the book: The Scarlet Pimpernel used, or new.. doesnt matter.
i read it about 3 years ago and loved it! thanks!
..well also i love music as everyone knows.... so if there are any rad cds out.... pick one up..
..theres a specific 1 i can think of that i like..
cd called: Pollyanna by Northstar
Muchas Gracias, Te amo, chy
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Torpor | 17 Dec 2008
“Torpor: a state of motor and mental inactivity with a partial suspension of sensibility,” says Google. That was one of the words on my exam. I didn’t know what it meant. Much less that I was in one. I think I did better on the written part this time. Last time I got a 4 (out of 6), but it was the 37th percentile. I’ll find out in two weeks. On the verbal/analytical, I got a 550/640, a step down from last time’s 610/660 (83rd/63rd).
On the door of the Prometric testing center, there’s an alert: two high-pitched beeps, so close together they almost sound like one—like they’re in a hurry, almost a surprise attack. It’s the exact sound the trip-mines make in Jedi Knight, when you unwittingly step into the laser beam. I thought I was going to explode. But I walked away without a scratch.
On the door of the Prometric testing center, there’s an alert: two high-pitched beeps, so close together they almost sound like one—like they’re in a hurry, almost a surprise attack. It’s the exact sound the trip-mines make in Jedi Knight, when you unwittingly step into the laser beam. I thought I was going to explode. But I walked away without a scratch.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
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