Anna Banana is here! Yesterday she was able to benefit from her friendship with a student, and got her H1N1 shot (which isn”t available to her yet in CA). Actually, she had to be more than my friend. “Is she eligible for a shot?” I asked the nurse? “Not unless she’s your sister,” came the reply. “Well, she’s sort of like a sister,” I answered. “Then is she your domestic partner?” “No, but she’s staying with me for ten days.”
The nurse persevered. “Because if she is your partner, she can have the shot.” Oh, wait,” I interrupted. “I forgot. I think she is my partner.”
So Anna got her shot. For free, even.
So let me whiz through the days prior to the Arrival of Banana, so I can get to the good stuff now that she’s here. Genevieve went with me to find an air mattress for Anna at Walmart and we discovered guns for girls.
Friday was the Guy Fawkes celebration at Bev’s house. Bev is one of our professors who is an excellent instructor and a wonderful person. Note the creature lurking near the bonfire.
Here is me with Gift, my Kiswahili teacher from Tanzania, and the whole group (except Lauren, who was taking the photo).
I hate parties but I had fun. A highlight was Prince, Bhebhe’s son.
Some of the boys there taught him the trick of pushing in his nostrils as he inhaled, which caused aforementioned nostrils to remain inverted until he laughed a second later.
[flashvideo filename=wp-content/video/prince.flv image=wp-content/video/prince.jpg /]
That’s all for now. Gotta run to school. Later I’ll tell you more about Banana and show you the slippery hike we took up Black Mountain. She fell more times than I did. Bwa ha ha.
I’ve never EVER seen you look so:
a) happy
b) healthy
c) adorable
d) relaxed?! (or is that “delirious with exhaustion”?)
Either way…
Bring that little boy to me right now.
That sounded creepy.
You know what I mean.
I’ll teach him to blow spit bubbles, like I was taught-lo these many years hence.
Which reminds me: only one of us is allowed to feel old at a single time, and it’s now my turn.
My bad knee is creaking-literally-and my other various old injuries are reacting similarly to the weather. My “smokers’ lines” have become deep furrows, as have the wrinkles in my forehead (my “obsessive worry” lines, if you will). I have NINE new grey hairs for a total of…more than I can count on my fingers now. I’ve called most of the kids in the neighborhood “young man” (or “little one”) at this point.
The best, though, is this: on the bus other “young men” stand up and/or offer their seats to me.
Usually I smile and refuse and say, “but thank you, kiddo”. KIDDO!!!