Short story

This is for my Great Books "Final Exam". Basically we had to do a creative composition of any kind - it could be multi-media, poetry, music, artwork, or creative writing. I chose the last one. It had to involve themes from all our reading this last semester, so I thought I would take the concept of all the AUTHORS from the last semester and weave in some themes that have plagued me - I mean blessed me and followed me around - as a homeschooled child and daughter of a therapist and psychologist, as well as noticing different approaches and attitudes towards education here at college, in Romania, amongst Romanians, Hungarians, Gypsies, etc. Its fiction, obviously, but I just thought I'd clarify as I had one friend start reading it and he thought it was an autobiographical piece. No no, much as I'd LOVE to say Shakespeare went to our homeschool group, alas, such priveledge was not ours.
So this is the second draft. I still need to go over it before I turn it in to my professor. Hope you enjoy.
~Princess Ouch~

I had prepared for this day. Studied hard. Worked for it and gone through all possible scenarios – good and bad – in my head and decided upon appropriate courses of action and response for each scene. However, nothing could have thoroughly readied me for my first day as an English teacher in the new High School. The principle was impressed with my references and experiences as a Student Teacher in College, and so thought she would try me out the first few weeks as a tutor for a special after school program he had created for English students struggling with the regular courses the school had to offer. Unfortunately that month had been particularly busy for the principle, so he had not really had time to prepare me for what I was to expect.
“ They are good children. They are just having trouble fitting into the normal classes. I am sure that in a smaller class, with more personal attention from a talented teacher such as yourself, they will excel.”
The compliment was flattering, but I was still nervous as I prepared myself the morning of the first class of the semester and went over what my goals were for the students. I wanted them to be well rounded in literature and writing skills, and able to intelligently discuss literature by the end of my time with them. Of course I would not have enough time with each of them or probably interest from them to go as deep into the coursework as I wanted to. High School students could be difficult to teach. They were used to being rebellious towards adults or misunderstood by them, clinging to their peer groups for affirmation and socialization. However, I knew if I was patient enough, used enough skill and affirmation, I could break through to my students and build edifying relationships with them. Teenagers just need to discover that sleeping part of themselves that truly does love to learn and really does want to excel, and then teaching is far more easier and truly enjoyable.
I found myself waiting in the empty, cheery classroom at quarter to nine o’clock, hands folded on the desk, waiting for my students to troop in as a disgruntled and resentful crowd. I was in for a shocking surprise.
The first young man was dressed head to toe in black and carried some odd shaped ball under one arm, along with some rolls of paper. The other arm somehow held both a handful of feathers and a bottle filled with black liquid. His scraggly dark hair framed his pale face and luminous dark eyes dramatically and was gathered at the nape of his neck in a short ponytail.
“He must be trying to go gothic.” I thought to myself and smiled hospitably at him. I received the most profound, deep stare I have seen on a student’s face before. He then went to his desk and placed his items on the surface carefully before sitting down. Next, he pulled a stopper out of the bottle, smoothed out one of his rolls of paper, and began scribbling on them with what I saw to be instead of random feathers were really quill pens. To my horror I saw that the ball he occasionally glanced at was not really a ball but instead was a skull!! I swallowed and debated whether I should ask him to tell me about it before he removed it from the premises or simply ignore it. One had to choose one’s battles carefully with teenagers, and sometimes quirky things such as this could be delicate issues that made or broke relationships with the students. As I was thinking all this, the second student walked in, and once again I had to do a double-take.
He was wearing a white toga lined with purple strips on the hems. His large nose and curly dark hair gave his regal posture a more striking effect, and I almost felt that I should address him by some title. But that of course was ridiculous, and I managed a welcoming smile before he swept past me and sat down at a desk not too far from my gothic, skull bearing friend. The second young man pulled out a waxy looking slate and stylus from somewhere amongst the folds of his toga and quietly began pressing letters and words into it.
Not too long after this a happy young man with long, red gold curls, green eyes and freckled cheeks bounced into the room. I was relieved until he opened his mouth.
“Good rest ye, mistress tutor!” he cried, giving me a sweeping bow. Stunned, I stood in response and tried opening my mouth to speak but nothing came out. His dramatic entrance after the two silent, strangely dressed students made me feel a need to answer with some sort of formal speech, however nothing was coming to mind. This was terrible! I was never struck speechless, especially by simply expressive students! And I was noticing with consternation that this boy was also dressed strangely as well, in some sort of doublet and hose combination, with long boots. And he was talking again.
“Think ye to catch yonder buzzing fly with thy clap-a-trap dangling all about? Forsooth, ‘tis an unfortunate occupation with which ye engage thyself.”
“Th-thank you. . .” I spluttered, trying to make sense of what he said, as he spoke with a somewhat Welsh accent.
“Just take a seat over there.” I gestured towards the two other boys who were now staring at me. The black-clad youth sighed and murmured something about escaping an ever-present, overbearing scholastic coil. I swallowed and sat down. The jolly welsh boy had pulled out some charcoal sticks from a pouch on his belt and some scraps of paper. With these he was scribbling furiously while occasionally glancing at me as though sketching me with words. The politician was murmuring something under his breath as though from memory while looking at his waxy slate and what he had written there. The gothic young man was staring at his nasty skull while tickling his nose with the edge of his feather quill pen.
“What next?” I wondered. There came a ‘tap tapping’ noise from down the hall, and I realized someone was walking with cane. The poor boy who came in next was the bearer of said cane, as he was blind and using it to help him ‘see’. He was obviously from a very poor home as his clothes were baggy, shapeless, and dusty. He looked in my general direction with cloudy eyes and gave a deep nod of respect before tapping his way to a desk. He sat there quietly, head cocked slightly, listening to the sounds of his classmates writing utensils with a faint smile dancing on his lips.
I heard a noise at the door again and was almost blinded when I turned my head by the brilliant display of colors that decked a young African’s apparel. This young man also carried himself like a statesman, and again I felt myself beginning to splutter as I stood up. But before I could choke out anything like a formal greeting he held up a hand as if he were a lord pardoning a bashful servant and said,
“Trouble yourself not, dear lady, on my account. This wretched sinner has too many evils burdening the conscience to add yet another. I pray our sweet Lord forgive me for distressing your gentle spirit. Though why He in His sovereign grace should so tenderly forgive a disgusting worm such as myself is beyond my comprehension.”
He walked in a manner that was so thoughtful it almost seemed sad. But I was so taken aback by his speech I could only collapse in my chair and brace myself for the last two students to arrive.
They walked in together, a boy and girl. Thank heavens, the girl I saw was not dressed in any outlandish costume, but was a normal, sullen, neon-colored make up, tight-fitting jeaned, over-facial jewelry-pierced, regular teenage girl student. The kind I was prepared to teach. The type I was used to and prepared to teach. I almost wanted to run and embrace her, to shower her with thanks for saving me from these other strange boys who had leapt out of history books and invaded my classroom! But I knew she would resent that show of emotion and it would start our relationship off in the wrong direction. These other students I could not figure out to save my life, but this girl I knew exactly how to handle! But then I noticed the boy who was jabbering at the girl and again was assaulted with something completely out of the ordinary.
He was giving the girl an earful, and in a decidedly German accent. His rusty colored hair fell about his large forehead and was swept aside his eyebrows to reveal flashing blue eyes that revealed a strong will and impassioned spirit. Upon seeing me he cried,
“Mein Frau! Help this wayward maid understand her error. Such a pretty face to conceal so stupid theology is beyond my skill. She complains that as she did not choose to join this class, she vill not participate. Yet therein lies her dilemma. Not only does this contradict Scripture, which states we must do all as unto our Lord, but this is not for her to choose! Either her parents or God decide. Especially as a lady she must realize her will is in bondage to those determining forces to which a submissive and gentle spirit will bring joy. “
The girl rolled here eyes and snapped the gum she had been chewing before drawling,
“Dude, I don’t know what yer tryin’ to say. All I got was that yer just a teachers pet waiting to happen, and should leave me the heck alone.”
With that, she flounced off to a desk in a rather lonely part of the room and sat down. The German boy gaped at her for a second before muttering in German and finding a seat.
Teacher’s pet indeed! I certainly had my hands full with this bunch. Where did they all come from, and why were they dressed in such odd costumes? I had signed up for problem students, typical rebellious high schoolers like the sullen girl in the corner. Not theologians and philosophers who carried around skulls and parchments!
Well, at any rate they were all here. I stood up and cleared my throat. Goodness, the inspired speech I had been preparing all week seemed ill-fit to the six sets of eyes that looked towards me expectantly.
“Well students. I suppose we are all here. Welcome to English class. think of it more as a literature and creative writing course. A place where you can learn how to express yourselves in a way the world will listen to and understand.”
The girl snapped her gum and rolled her eyes. The black-clad boy tapped the skull with one of his feathers. I had a sinking feeling that this was going badly. I was sounding too staccato. . . too nervous.
“The principal has asked me to take you aside and help you with an area you all appear to be struggling with. I do not see this as any kind of critique against you as people, but rather as an opportunity for you to learn more about yourselves and each other in a unique setting. Now,” I said sitting, “I’d like each of you to tell me your names and a little about yourselves, and perhaps explain these interesting outfits you wore to class today.”
Usually when I ask students to stand up and talk about themselves, they will hesitate for the first several times until trust is built. Instead they will slouch in their seat and look down, like the girl was doing. Instead the boys all gave each other sidelong glances as though they had possibly discussed who was going to speak first and were reminding themselves as to what order they would present. The blind boy then stood up.
“Oh my dear lady, you ask me about my name, my homeland, my family, these unwashed rags that adorn my frail body. So must I go, being needy; that is the way a vagabond must live. The gods in their splendor play with us mortals – we are their toys. And so, sweet lady, you see before you a simple poet, struck blind by a god from mouth Olympus.
My father forgot to sacrifice to Father Zeus and Mother Hera with thanksgiving for my safe delivery. Ah foolishness! My father should have enjoyed long life with his wife and wealth and many more sons to bring him joy. Alas, the gods are quick to turn favor to wrath if they feel gratitude and sacrifice is not adequately given. I was struck with a wasting fever that robbed me of my sight as a babe. It passed to my mother and sent her to Lady Persephone’s care in Lord Hades dark kingdom. What fortune my father did not spend in seeking a cure for his dear wife and child he used to send me to a wise old crafty tutor for my education. The man was skilled in education yet wiley, and charged my poor grieving father more than he ought. When at last my sire joined my mother after a hunting accident a quarrel between my uncles arose and to save myself from their treacherous plans to steal my inheritance, I ran away. Now I wander this world as you see me, using what little knowledge I possess to sing poems and weave stories for the amusement of others, until the day the gods decide to send me to join my parents. Now I beseech you, lady, be good to me and give me the skills to be a poet that credits my poor father and sweet mother’s memory. My name is Homer, and I greet you humbly.”
With a slight bow, he sat down. I felt my throat tighten at his tragic tale, but before I could react or say anything, the African boy leapt to his feet.
“What! Friend, burden not my ears with such abominable heresy such as this! Gods you say? What, can it be you are truly ignorant of our dear gracious heavenly Father who has taken us, still putrefying in our own filth, and made us His children? Oh crooked paths! Woe to you, audacious soul, which hopes, by forsaking Christ, to gain some better thing! In Christ alone will you find rest, not these foul myths of gods in Olympus! Do you feel the grief flowing from the Father’s heart at such idolatry?
Dear lady teacher, I pray you forgive such sentimental outburst, but I trust you, as I, are burdened for this poor youth’s soul! Are we to spit in Providence’s face by rejecting this opportunity to save a soul from damnation and the flames of hell? I think not! I am Augustine. May God keep me faithful to Him.”
The young man sat down to my relief and I tried to collect my wits as the Roman boy stood up. I felt a little breathless after that sermon and was still trying to determine if he had cussed in class... oh dear what was I to do. It was against school policy for a student to swear in a classroom, should I move towards disciplinary action against him? But now the toga-wearer was speaking.
“Often it happens that supreme power is given to good men so that the exuberance of wickedness may be checked. Others receive a mixture of good and bad fortune according to their quality of mind. Providence stings some people to avoid giving them happiness for too long, and others she allows to be vexed by hard fortune to strengthen their virtues of mind by the use and exercise of patience.
Friends, it seems to me that to judge wickedness in the other is less than beneficial – to ourselves or to one another. Rather, we must focus instead upon the sanctification of our own souls. Can we truly judge the heart and mind of another?
Madam, I humbly introduce myself. Ancius Boethius is how I am called, and if I may in any way be of service to you as you sagely guide us with your wisdom, then do not, I pray, hesitate to enlist my aid.”
I tried to mumble something intelligent but the words just would not come. Homer? Boethius? This could not be true! I wasn’t qualified to teach great minds like these. What was the principle thinking? But yet another student was standing up. It was the welsh student.
“God save ya! And I pray to all that harken to this little tale o’ mine, that if anythin’ in it that pleases him, they should thereof thank our Lord Jesus, of whom proceedeth all wit and all goodness. And if there be anything that displeases him, I pray him also that they blame it to the default of my unknowing, and not to my will. For I would have said it better quite gladly had I known.
Jeffry Chaucer is my name. God save ya, and on my soul may Jesus Christ have mercy, an’ His dear mother as well, Amen.
Now I been told that I be long winded and with a terrible grammatical tendency. So my dear teacher, have a ware! For my mouth oft runs away with me. But therein lies the rub, all men loves to hear themselves talk.”
“See here!” The German boy leapt to his feet and interrupted Jeffry’s speech which appeared to just be beginning.
“My dear fool, what preposterous notions you speak. Evoking the Virgin Mary to have mercy on your soul and aid in a classroom setting! Have you read the Holy Scriptures? Do you see scriptural or doctrinal evidence or indications to defend your misguided viewpoint and worldview? I think not! The Holy Catholic Church must be reformed, I tell you ! Such sin and faulty doctrine is useless for the edification of the Saints!
Martin Luther, mein Frau. I pray you will not allow heresy such as this to spread much further than it has already today.”
“Now lets have no more name calling.” I pleaded. I nodded towards the girl sitting sullenly in her corner.
“What about you, honey? Could you tell us a little about yourself?” I tried to smile at her with encouragement, but I’m afraid it was more of a plea for mercy. Save me from these over opinionated, eloquent yet confusing boys! The girl slowly uncurled from her sitting slouch to a bad postured standing position and picked at the wood on her desk while she spoke quietly.
“Um. . . nothin’ special about me I guess. I’m just Jeannie Watkins, and I’m in eighth grade. I hate writing, but I gotta take this class to graduate. Um. . . so. . . yeah.”
She collapsed back into her chair and hunched her shoulders. Her hair fell into her face and she cautiously peeked out from under the veil it made to see what her classmates’ reactions were. Embarrassed by their stares, she bent her head so that no one could see her.
“That is all?” Homer asked finally, and somewhat incredulously. “You say nothing, maid, of your family, your home country, your past, your future, the mark the gods have made on your life. Were you born yesterday? Your voice is fair like that of a beautiful damsel, but your speech is that of an unconfident babe unused to the speech of men.”
The girl shrugged and mumbled an indifferent ‘whatever’. Boethius frowned and blinked rapidly before he too commented,
“Dear girl, I am troubled. For you may not care for yourself of your future or past, but do you not wish for others to benefit from your wisdom and experience? In my mind, Philosophy and wisdom comes in the form of a comely lady such as yourself. Surely if you have been created so physically beautiful, your mind is even more so. Will you not speak more to us of your thoughts and opinions? We have shared with you, now it is your turn to allow us the benefit of the music of your voice.”
She shrugged again and continued to say nothing, but I saw that underneath the hair where she was hiding her face, a faint smile twitched on her lips and she had a thoughtful expression on her face.
“It is good she sits silently. Perhaps the weight of her sins burdens her so, and she is praying in repentance. It may be that in her humility she cannot speak to us yet, as she is seeking sanctification firstly, and praying for our edification rather than offering wisdom herself.” Augustine offered hopefully. Luther shook his head.
“Nay, only if the Good Lord has put this desire in her, for only evil desires could come from herself. Perhaps we should be the ones interceding on her behalf.” The girl stirred at that, and tossed her head back with eyes flashing.
“Whadaya mean, punk? You think I’m some kind of rat, is that it? You wanna take this outside dude?” Luther colored and quickly apologized.
“Lady, I meant no offense to your honor. I humbly beseech your forgiveness, as I deem you a maiden of honor. I should in no way wish you evoke your wrath or that of your guardian and defender’s. Please accept my apology.”
Oh heavens! I thought. This was entirely way out of control. The boy clad in black had stood and the German boy quieted, but looked to the girl who nodded curtly in acknowledgment of his apology.
“My good lords and fair ladies, I give thee good morning. I am William Shakespeare, and I do entreat you to bend your ears to my words and hearken, as they may help this strange confusion we have found ourselves in. Dear lady teacher, I pray thee be not disturbed by my colleagues strange speech, be not perturbed by our seeming strange reasoning with one another. We are not bickering madmen, but rather philosophers, poets, artisans, and scholars. We seek the edification of ourselves and those around us. Our speech seems strange to you, little maid. Ah yes, I have seen your looks of confusion cast our way. You wish to understand yet are unable. Madam, you wish for peace and such we can give you we shall. However, this maid and her peers must realize that they too must cast off their desire for conformity and comfort and pursue their edification, such as I and my colleagues do. Discomfort and discipline will be required from them, yet in the end they shall rejoice. The benefits of a disciplined mind, an eloquent tongue, a quick wit, is worth all the pain they will get in their endeavors to better themselves. You, dear teacher, must realize that you cannot lower thy standards for the comfort of your students but must raise them. Spur your pupils on to attempt to attain perfection! See all that the are capable of. This I deem you already know, yet I encourage you to not forget these sentiments you already possess, as I fear this age we have stumbled upon is quick to forget such ancient morals and principles. Now I give thee good day, madam, and humbly seek forgiveness for any distress we may have given thee in our appearance here.”
Shakespeare bowed and gathered his things and walked out the door. The other students began gathering their things and I realized that our allotted time together had ended. My first day had ended! I hadn’t even begun anything I had so carefully planned. . . oh dear what to do, what to do. . . they couldn’t leave yet. . .
I woke up moaning “What to do! What to do!” and sat bolt upright. I was breathing heavily. I looked at the clock, and the green light blared the time: 3:30 AM. I had been dreaming!! It was all a dream! Shakespeare and Homer and Boethius didn’t really invade my classroom!! I really was going to have normal, sullen students after all. In a way I was relieved. And yet I found myself strangely disappointed. Oh dear, perhaps I was far more worried about my first day teaching than I had admitted to myself. I flopped back down onto my pillow and tried to get back to sleep. Was that a dream or a nightmare I had just experienced, trying to manage all those brilliant minds in one classroom! Was the girl also a brilliant mind? Perhaps not the same kind of brilliance as Homer or Chaucer. . . did such brilliance still exist? I could only wait until the morning to find out if I could coax my students to try and be the next Shakespeare. Oh the joys of teaching.


Copyright 2009 Rachel Nehring. All rights reserved.

update yet again

Technically the semester is over for all the undergrad students. The graduate students - including my dear Roberto - have this week off for Thanksgiving and then finals are next week. Most undergrad's are rejoicing in the completion of the end of the semester. I am smiling, and trying to work up the discipline to finish up the half-semester's worth of homework I fell behind on.
I am truly pitiful in this regard right now. I simply
don't
want
to
do
it.

I want to go play in the leaves, cook delicious, unhealthy food with my friend Samantha, go for walks or sit on a bench with Robbie, play with my new hair-style my Ukrainian friend Olya gave me (Thanks Olya!!), goof off on the computer, listen to the Seminary guys debate minute details they have to think about for THEIR homework while I semi-blissfully blow off mine.
I also need to start thinking about going home for Christmas, transportation there and back, moving off campus next semester, fixing my van's windshield and registering it, packing up my room.
But its been a gorgeous Indian summer. Some girls have left for the holidays but lots of my good friends are still in the girls dorms and full of laughter and funny stories that I missed out on while all the chaos was raging around me earlier this semester.
There's blog posts from my mom to catch up on, new videos from the ministries I worked with in Romania to watch, international students with intriguing languages to try to learn, new holiday recipies to try.
But this paper needs to be written, the car NEEDS to be registered, that book needs to be read and reported on.
Blast.
And so I do the responsible thing. Flee to the Library where I can LOOK like I'm being mature and adult-ish and doing homework, but in reality am zooming around cyberspace, doing zilch.
So please pray that I will DESIRE to get stuff done in a timely manner, that I won't be overwhelmed by all the tiny details of responsibilities that must be done in the next few weeks.
See that's the thing. Its only two more weeks before all the deadlines hit, and then once thats done it's all over with. I just need to hold out for TWO MORE stinkin' weeks, then I'm FINISHED.
But I want the two weeks to be NOW. Shoot. C'mon Rachel, put your nose back to the grindstone for just a TEENSY bit more, then you can relax.

I'm also going through the realization that when I go home, there won't be an 8 foot Christmas tree waiting for me and an old farm house full of twinkle lights and holiday secrets hidden away in random corners of the house. There won't be an obnoxiously small, outdated Kitchen with half-working appliances somehow choking out festive, frothy drinks and delicious, unhealthy treats for us to munch on after getting in from the wind-swept, frozen 10 acres and chores.

If there is a house, it will be a rental house. The furniture won't be dilapidated yet full of fun memories of tickling siblings or naps after mission trips or fun movie-watching/quoting/commenting/anaylizing/diagnosing sessions. It will be new and might even match, and therefore not really mine.

Its hitting me that at some point I'll have to see the burned-out house, and that I'll probably cry, and thats not something I really want to do. I don't want to be emotional or sad or weak. It's Christmas, for freakin' crying out loud. I want to be the happy, bubbly Mary Poppins for my siblings who swoops in all cheery and sunshiny, with fun stories about college and girls dorms for my mom and sister and theological questions for my dad and fun stories about what the guys said and about what a particular guy said and getting Dad's all-wise, always knowing, usually humerous take on it.
And there will be a good deal of that, but it will also be a lot of processing, grieving, seeing the anxt and worry and grief my family is going through. Seeing the new lines of stress and worry on my parent's face and the new gray hairs in my dad's beard. Trying to be an encouragement for my sisters but not having the answers they want or need. Trying to hold up my brothers but not knowing how to really soothe where its hurting.

These thoughts pop in between the thoughts about where to take the car to get fixed, how to pay for this bill or that bill or thinking that bill was paid but it wasn't really, and that paper needs written and it'll be easy but I just don't want to do it.

And so I've successfully killed another 1/2 hour of time, not really getting anything productive done however getting some processing and venting done. Booh.

So now I really am off to write that paper.

~Princess Ouch~

Fall

Thought I would post some pictures from when Svitlana, Sam, Robbie and I took pictures in the park a few weeks ago when the leaves were all turning colors and gorgeous. :-) Hope you enjoy.

(above) Svitlana and me enjoying leaves

Sam and Svitlana (above)

(above) Svitlana and me playing in the leaves

Full month

So... October was a very odd mixture of amazingness and absolute horribleness.

~ This really cool guy named Robbie Hopkins started praying about courting me

~I came down with Swine Flu (yes, the real swine flu that everyone's freaked out about. However I just thought it was a horrible cold)

~Robbie chivilrously and gallantly took care of me while I was sick



~Went back to work as soon as I felt able. Mistake. I overdid it.

~That Friday Robbie talked to my Dad and on Saturday said he'd like to court me. I said I'd like to be courted by him.

~That next thursday my home in South Dakota caught on fire and was severely damaged. Thank God my family is fine

~That Saturday, due to stress and over doing it, I started passing out at work.

~Robbie took me to the Dr. who thought I had a blot clot, so we went to the Emergancy Room for 9 1/2 hours and after they did a cardiac MRI (heart scan) they announced nothing was wrong and at 2 am let me leave.

~That Monday my aunt Susan passed away.

~Thursday went to the Viewing in Ohio and met up with my family who drove out from South Dakota

~ Saturday evening Robbie suprised me and my family by driving up to Ohio. He stayed in a hotel that night and spent Sunday with us. :-D

~I drove back to school in the van someone gave my parents which they in turn gave to me

~My family went back home and my Dad was diagnosed with walking Pneumonia and my mom has had some health challenges as well. No word yet on what is to happen to the house: Either rebuilt or demolished.

~Sunday went shopping with my friend Svitlana and gave myself a minor concussion by hitting my head on my new car door. Didn't know I had hurt my head so bad, so Svitlana and I continued to make dinner for 30 people in a group that meets every Sunday. Was fun, but I was exhausted by the end of it.

(Sam, Svitlana, Robbie and me in the park the day after I was in the Emergancy Room)

~Have spent the week trying to figure out which assignment to work on first, as I'm now about half a semester behind on schoolwork. And Finals are next week. Booh yah.

So.

Now you know why I haven't written for so long.

Been a teensy bit busy. :-)

Well, having given you an overview, I think I will go do some reading then go to bed, as I work a double shift tomorrow. *sigh* Saturdays are simply not what the rest of the college world cracks them up to be. ;-)

~Princess Ouch~

p.s. the story behind the last two photo's is that I was wearing that scarf that Robbie is wearing in the photo's. Svitlana and Sam were taking pictures with us, and Svitlana is from ukraine. So she and I were playing with tying the scarf on our heads like married Eastern European ladies or Gypsy ladies. So then I wondered if Robbie would look like a Pirate if I put it on him. He did, and I decided to see how I'd look if I wore his had. So... this is him looking like Will Turner or Jack Sparrow from Pirates of the Caribbean. ;-)