In Africa, send stickers

Leaving the United States, I was sure many things would change, language, climate and everything else. What I wasn't prepared for was the amount of things that stayed the same. In short, I have a price out on my head for jacking someone's hot pink velociraptor silly-band, much like I would if I had done the same thing at camp. A similar tale could be told as regard my moto-helmet. Seeing as many of my fellow stagiers are from such illustrious places as Ohio and Florida State (found in Trailerhasse, FL) and persist in hating when I have my UF hat on, I am asking for PARTICULARY OBNOXIOUS UF stickers. There is a premium for stickers which denote Seminoles failing. (appologies to Jeff for stealing his helmet motif).

The Freak-out Stage

Today was the first non-work day when everyone else in the family wasn't off and it didn't start pretty. Aside from the 'Baby Girl' aka Maple the Collie-Lab mix mistaking the upstairs for a collection of port-a-johns, it just wasn't much fun having to wrestle with the impending nature of my departure. In some ways, its kind of like being a kettle on the fire, if you keep expelling steam (obsessively talking with anyone who will listen) you'll be fine but if you try and seal it up you're simply going to explode. I am confident in my decision and am daily becoming more prepared (read: packed) but damn if the first step isn't a doozy.

New Blog, New Knives, Old Dave

While I was going to present the whole 'making the blog' tale including the epic battle which raged between veranda and courier over the glory of being the title font, I kept thinking about moving on, growing up and everything that comes with that.

Birthdays, traveling and children invite self-reflection in ways that surprise us sometimes. Fortunately, I've had an ample supply of both over the past few weeks. Working the salt mines of childcare brings you face to face with a thousand little inquisitors armed with the latest in pop-culture and a nose for deviancy against what they consider to be the natural order of things. My lunchtime interrogation squad did its work quickly today, inquiring my age, whether I had resolved my Peace Corps service over the weekend (I had taken off Friday, after all) and why for heaven's sake wasn't I married? I startled myself by using age to dismiss the marriage part. Normally, I invoke Africa like the bogey-man to explain everything that's going on right now. Late for work? Oh, thinking about Africa. Puked more inappropriately than usual? Yep, that's the Malarone. Not married? She'd be too snug in a carry-on. Normally the conversation then segues into a request to violate the Endangered Species Act (Zebras being a perennial favorite) and I can escape.

In this case, the reason I used age was because I meant it. And its not because I don't think 22 year olds should get married (though I do). Its because I'm not ready for that level of permanence to my life. It isn't even the whole 'waking up next to the same person for the rest of your life' thing. Well, it sort of is. But not the way you'd think. Honestly, the scariest part is the idea that the expectation would exist that I would have to be the same person everyday till the end as to not upset the balance that facilitated getting hitched in the first place. Maybe you're just supposed to find the person that you can manage those transitions with. Or maybe I'm just a 22 year old spinster like they say I am.