Category Archives: The daily grind

March 12, 2012 · 2:24 am

John Henson is my Homeboy. Also, I am Cold.

While the harsh reality that I work at a church might suggest that I am, in fact, immune to the typical distractions that vie for the attention of the general masses, it’s far from true. Take this morning, for instance. I sprang forward at dark thirty to get to work, and in my dazed stupor decided to dress for spring. [In my defense, I’d only had two cups of coffee. Maybe three.] My winter-white legs and I ran outside only to be greeted by an iced over windshield and positively arctic weather-something my cute little blue skirt and t-shirt were ill-equipped to handle. Given the fact the very idea of being even five minutes late to anything in life sends me straight into an ugly cry, I de-iced the windshield with a name tag I found in my back seat [I lead a very glamorous life.], hopped in my little blue Bug, and violently shivered all the way to work. I spent the duration of the sermon hallucinating that I was Kate Winslet floating on a piece of the Titanic amidst frozen chunks of ice burg. I desperately wanted to get up and run back to my warm office, but that would have meant stepping outside which would have meant MORE COLD. And so I sat there humming “My Heart Will Go On” through blue lips and chattering teeth while the rest of the congregation learned something about the Holy Spirit.

For the record, it is not in fact spring.

I loathe, despise and abominate springing forward. Nothing good can come from this madness! Anyone who claims otherwise is a liar and a socialist.

Speaking of madness, I’m also not wild about my Heels losing to FSU-but then, we’ve got bigger fish to fry now haven’t we?

John Henson, any time you want to get over that wrist thing is good with me. You know. So I don’t stroke out.

Go Heels, go America!

1 Comment

Filed under First World Problems, Life at the Frat House, The daily grind

September 3, 2011 · 12:42 am

Summer: You’re Sloppy Seconds.

Date night with Stan this week. Isn't he dreamy?

Oh my stars, September is here!

It’s time. Time for crisp, sunny football afternoons and newly sharpened pencils, corn mazes and pumpkin spice lattes [which I never drink, but get simply dizzy with bliss smelling]. It’s time for leather boots that crunch on golden brown leaves, and soft sweaters to sink into on frigid nights, with a mug of apple cider by flickering firelight. It’s time for fall.

It’s time. It is! And so why the devil is it still so hot!?

In the wee hours of the morning on September first, I seriously contemplated wearing boots and a sweater to stage an indignant, sweaty protest against the heat. It was upon hearing that little story that my boyfriend, who for legal purposes I will call Stan, informed me that fall isn’t officially here for another twenty days.

The utter dismay that washed over me was something akin to what I experienced the day that I was informed that Pluto is no longer a planet.

These are dark times.

Stan escaped with a mild decapitation. I’ve decided to ignore the calendar. It’s September, after all. It’s fall! Anyone who claims otherwise is a liar and a socialist.

If I could design the world, the intoxicating smell of pumpkin spice and apple cinnamon would waft through the air from September to February. While I sadly cannot control the smell in the great outside world [though really, it would be perfectly lovely if I could!], I can control what my house smells like. Enter my pumpkin spice Yankee candle, stage right. It smells divine around here- you really ought to come over! We’ll conspire as we sweat by the fire.

Which brings me to my next point: is it Christmas yet?

Life at the frat house has added a new twist to my usual cast of fall characters: fantasy football.

Which, as I understand it, entails a gathering of a group of normally responsible, rational men [and women that are much more well-rounded than myself!] from all walks of life, who drink beer while they play pretend football and bet real money.

I think the whole thing is just adorable, really. If Stan likes it, I love it-and that’s all I have to say that.

Fantasy football was one of two rather polarizing subjects of conversation during my lunch break at work the other day. It was, as I recall, “bring your pregnant wife to lunch” day-and sadly, I hadn’t gotten the memo.

There I was, wide-eyed and innocent, munching on my fruit-and-granola-parfait and nodding seriously whilst the boys prattled on about which players they wanted and which teams looked good. I even punctuated the conversation with neanderthol-like grunts that suggested that I was equally concerned about the status of so-and-so’s such-and-such.

Meanwhile.

Their wives, undeterred, were in the throes of an intense conversation about the perils of where you can and cannot breast feed. Indignantly, they ranted about being asked to take their “business” out of the public eye, and queried how “the public eye” might feel about eating their lunch in the bathroom.

There was something about “nursing blankets”, something about “designated nursing areas”, and something, [brace yourselves,] about a pump that sounded absolutely. barbaric.

Help me, Rhonda.

I had nothing intelligent to add. The conversations were exclusively devoted to fantasy football and breast feeding: and my knowledge of both was equal.

After the alleged pump was introduced into the conversation, I decided to recues myself, and went back to my cubicle to pour boiling lead into my ears.

And they all lived happily ever after.

A happy fall to you, too. :)

4 Comments

Filed under The daily grind, Then I found $5.00

August 1, 2011 · 6:13 pm

My Smarter-Than-Me-Phone.

With Kellan the weekend we met Fred.

It was free.

And free was the only way that I would have taken it, really.

I cancelled my cell phone plan last summer right before I flew back to Dakar, effectively rendering both my old phone number and my antique pink phone entirely useless. [Really. The Smithsonian called asking if I might consider loaning it to them for their “Now and Then” display.] And after two days at home, it was time to visit my local Sprint store and rejoin society.

Which is precisely what Kellan and I decided to do that Saturday.

Now, I’ve always made it a special point to own a cell phone that was no less than 429 years older than my friends. Something about taking half an hour to painstakingly chicken-peck out two line text messages and continually repeating that much-beloved refrain: “can you hear me NOW?” just felt authentic. I was unencumbered by the technological lust that besotted the minds of my counterparts. I was real. In the midst of a microwave world, I was Laura Ingalls Wilder-churning my own butter and hauling my own water. I was…

…irritated. Let’s face it-when your African cell is nicer than your American one, you’ve got a problem, Houston.

Well it turns out that during my two years in Africa, I missed the rise of Lady Gaga, a rather alarming phenomenon that
the masses are referring to as “Bieber fever”, and every single one of you went and bought something called a “smart phone”.

My average-intelligence-phone and I were mildly distressed upon that little discovery.

I waltzed into the Sprint store and was greeted by a rather suspect, greasy blonde-haired man in a black shirt named Fred. Fred looked strangely uncomfortable-as though he might have felt much more at home on a used car lot.

Or in a bright orange jump suit.

I digress.

Fred proceeded to ask me what was “looking for in a phone”. Confidently, I explained that I wanted a phone that would survive the occasional swim in my coffee mug and dive off the top of my car. Something resilient. A fighter. Something cute, but not too cute. And most importantly, something that was not pink.

Kellan, mind you, stood off to the side, amusedly watching the confusion play across Fred’s face as he struggled to ascertain whether or not he could laugh.

Don’t even think about it, Fred.

Before I knew what had hit me, Fred was speaking Mandarin.

Or he might as well have been. With all of the gusto of “I have a dream”, Fred and his mesmerizing pot belly were lauding the wonders of smart phones everywhere. Scrunching my nose, I watched his gut bounce along with every ardent word and distractedly attempted to pay attention as he talked about apps, battery life, browsers and angry birds. There was something about widgets and syncing. Something about a touch screen, and how buying a smart phone would fulfill the hole in my life I’d never known was
there. Something about self-actualization, an end to world hunger, a cure for cancer and never having to load the dishwasher again.

And something about how I could get one for free.

Free. The first word I’d understood since the commencement of Fred’s impassioned outburst lauding the wonders of the smart phone.

Stop right there, Fred. I’ll take the free thingie. In black, please.

Fred looked rather deflated at my apparent lack of interest, but soldiered on and attempted to show me how to use my new phone.

The “on” button, Fred. Where’s the “on” button?

Before I knew it, Kellan and I were on our merry way, leaving Fred to scratch his head and eat his feelings in the break room.

Determined to embrace my new identity as a computer genius [which by the way, is apparently what you have to be to operate one of the dumb things], I spent the next hour reveling in my newfound ability to check my email and google from the highway. Everything was going along just swimmingly …until Kellan left to go back to New York.

That’s when things really got hairy.

I’d been interviewing for a part time job at my church [one that I start tomorrow! More on that later.], and my smarter-than-me-phone decided to butt dial my potential new boss.

Over. And over. And over again.

I was mortified. I mean, how on earth do you convince someone that you’re competent when you can’t even figure out how to lock your phone? Though I’m confident that my Baptist pastor boss thoroughly enjoyed the five minute voicemails I routinely left him of me belting along to “Whisky for my men, and beer for my horses”  in my car.

Just. Perfect.

And then, of course, there was the debacle that ensued when I tried to log a new contact into my address book. It’s a long, painful story-but suffice it to say that if you want to get ahold of me, carrier pigeons are your best bet.

Life is hard on the farm.

Aside from my smart phone saga, life has been busy but a ball as of late! I’ve been home for a month, and plan to begin blogging regularly again.

And speaking of the blog, you’re going to begin seeing some changes around here over the next couple of weeks. You can now find me at www.ashley-peterson.com.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I think it’s time for a cup of coffee. I may even throw my smarter-than-me-phone into the pot. Cheers to that!

6 Comments

Filed under First World Problems, The daily grind, Then I found $5.00

June 6, 2011 · 9:57 pm

Fragments of My Imagination

Our "living on a prayer" picture in Milan. Note the floating hand.

There are just twenty-four days left in Dakar. My frazzled nerves and scattered mind have made it impossible to tell you just one cohesive story.

Brace yourselves.

It started with the laundry. I did laundry in the bathtub yesterday, and the murky, rather sinister charcoal color of the swirling water left me with the distinct impression that I owed every member of my team a personal apology. I feel like Pig Pen on Charlie Brown. And speaking of laundry, I am quite forward to wearing clothes that don’t look something that Grandma Moses would wear.

Which I can do in just twenty-four days. Has it hit you yet? I’m still wallowing in disbelief.

Yesterday, a group of Talibe boys were begging for spare change near a local bakery. I bought as many pain au chocolates as would fit in a bag, and promptly began to place them in the grubby, excited hands desperately vying for my attention. Without warning, I suddenly found myself mobbed by a group of approximately 15 hungry boys-each of whom wanted to make sure that he didn’t miss out on a chocolate roll. All 5’2 of me tried to look larger than life as I held the bag over my head and used my best stern “Senegalese Mom” voice and each of the seven words of Wolof I could remember at the time. [It’s baffling how little “Crazy no in the name of Allah!” did to deter them.] Indifferent to the petite brunette babbling incoherently, little boys scaled me like a jungle gym while older ones successfully ripped rolls out of the bag over my head. Michelle played the knight in shining armor to my damsel in distress, and I left covered in over-eager, sticky chocolate finger prints.

Last Sunday, Michelle, Christy, Karen and I braved the relentless African sun and crammed our sweaty bodies into a rickety, rather suspect looking yellow taxi. In a stroke of cultural brilliance, we decided to ask our Wolof-speaking taxi driver to stop on the side of the bustling, dusty road so Michelle could hop out and buy a carton of eggs on the way back to our apartment. These, mind you, are open cartons containing thirty filthy eggs that are covered in a thick layer of gray feathers and chicken poo-poo that can only be removed by enriched plutonium. Michelle successfully managed to procure just such a carton, and cheerfully rejoined the rest of us waiting in the oven masquerading as our ride home. I was sandwiched in the backseat between Karen and Michelle, absentmindedly observing the bustling, dusty African ghetto we were slowly sputtering through, when Michelle’s scream pierced the relative calm. Startled, I turned to find her holding the oversized egg carton towards me as a giant roach crawled out from between the eggs. Horrified, I began to holler at the top of my lungs as I lunged on top of Karen and begged Michelle to simply toss the whole mess out of the window-indifferent to her panicked pleas for help. [I would give that dear girl one of my $160,000 kidneys if she needed it, but she’s on her own with the roaches.] Meanwhile, our taxi driver was busily attempting to ascertain what in the name of Allah was causing the hullaballoo in his back seat. As the crescendo of our shrill, white-girl screams stopped passerby’s in their tracks, my Wolof Prince Charmant pulled stopped the car in the middle of the dirt road, wrenched the carton from Michelle with an indifferent eye roll, and promptly squished the offending roach with his fingers. He then proceeded to hold it up for us, as if to say “Hey, pansy white girl-it’s just a bug”. [And let me tell you, that little gem translates across languages and cultures all over the world.] Undaunted, we enthusiastically applauded him and sung his praises the rest of the way home.

No, really. I actually sung.

I have run literal holes in my tennis shoes. Help me, Rhonda.

We’re hosting a STINT recruitment night for our summer project on Thursday. I’ll tell them about Mohammad

Sophie Bop.

the fruit stand man, team chocolate chip pancake nights, roach eggs and mangos.

I’ll also tell them about Sophie Bop. She came over for lunch this week, and quietly told me “everything I have learned about Jesus, I have learned from you.”  No one had ever told her about Jesus before Christy and I moved to Africa two years ago.

Which is inexcusable, and heartbreaking. Those are the moments in which I wonder how on earth I’ll actually leave this place.

Sophie’s story will come later this week. But for now, my frazzled nerves need a break. And my feet need a pedicure.

Just twenty-four days. Half way there, and living on a prayer.

…a prayer, and mangos. So many mangos.

3 Comments

Filed under Cross cultural hilarity, Ministry moments, My ghetto-fab life, Summer project, The daily grind

April 14, 2011 · 8:20 pm

Help Me, Emily Post!

Early on in Dakar, I made it clear to my Senegalese friends that no subject was off limits. An innocent victim of cultural ignorance and sheer naiveté, I hadn’t the foggiest idea that over the next two years, I would spend countless hours fielding invasive, intensely personal questions about my love life that Emily Post herself would be unable to handle gracefully.

The baffled expression of sheer horror on a Senegalese woman’s face when I tell her that I’m unmarried is something akin to what I imagine my Mother would look like if I sat her down and told her I’d decided to grow my hair to my feet and become a Moonie.

It doesn’t make sense to the western mind, but in a culture where ten year old girls are betrothed to men that they marry as soon as they hit puberty, a twenty-three year old woman who’s working and unmarried is somewhat of a anomaly. The assumption is that there must be something dreadfully wrong with me-as seen in the pitying looks of Muslim friends that have, in an attempt to rectify my unfortunate marital status, offered to cornrow my hair,  slim me down, dress me up, teach me to cook,  and help me master the subtle art of flirting.

Personally, I think I would be much too irresistible with cornrows. The world is not ready-it simply wouldn’t be fair to the male population at large.

Given that I apparently passed my expiration date years ago, well intentioned friends have sweetly offered to marry me off to their brothers, uncles and cousins. Lucky old maid that I am, I have my pick of the litter! Never mind that I have a boyfriend back home-because goodness, this is an emergency! A select, hopeless few have involuntarily committed me to a life of celibacy, and are of the rather dismal opinion that it’s time for me to buy a pair of overalls, saw off a shotgun, settle into a back-country rocking chair and start picking off pigeons from the porch.

…or the Senegalese equivalent.

Miriam, however, isn’t buying me cats quite yet. As one of the few women I know that is more tolerant of my “alternative lifestyle”, her big question for me this week was not when I’m getting married-but how many babies I want to have.

Help me, Emily Post!

It’s a question that I’m intimately familiar with-and the ramifications of answering it truthfully are always the same. You see, my African counterparts come from families that make Mike and Carol Brady look just lazy. Enormous families are expected and lauded-many of the women I interact with ardently believe that my life will be utterly wasted and devoid of all meaning if I have fewer than seven.

[Hamsters eat their young. I’m not sure how that’s relevant-but it needed to be said.]

I hemmed and hawed for a moment, and without missing a beat that charming girl stared straight into my soul with a startling air of assured finality and proclaimed:

Bon. You will have many twins!

*cricket

…many twins?

She was being thoughtful. After all, in Senegal, twins are considered to be good luck! In Ashley’s world, however, twins are considered to guarantee stretch marks and dark circles under ones eyes for no less than five years.

Twins. The very word made my ears bleed.

Miriam, I don’t want twins.

 Yes you do! I will pray for it every day.

 This was about when the color started draining from my face and into my trembling toes.

Miriam, seriously! Don’t pray for that!

With a confused look about her, Miriam paused for the briefest moment before a slow understanding brightened her brown eyes.

Ah bon! I will pray for triplets.

I surrender. Somebody tell me where I can get a shotgun.

21 Comments

Filed under Cross cultural hilarity, My ghetto-fab life, Senegalese culture, The daily grind