Flowers CAN grow in Baltimore!

My strawberries are growing! Soon we will have no need for the farmer's market. Take that, Waverly.



They might not look like much, but give them time! Also, my mums are still alive! Photographic proof:



Many of you will not be impressed by this. That is because you didn't see the number of plants I killed in college.

I was assigned lawn duty this weekend. It involves mowing the lawn, and perhaps doing other yard-y things. I have never mowed a lawn in my life, and, as stated in an earlier post, my very presence tends to kill plants. My official plan was to have a boyfriend by this time and make him do it, but that didn't pan out. Sad day.

In other news, it is 85 degrees out, which is glorious, but I'm not allowed to open the windows in my room, which is heartbreaking. Thus, I will spend the day on a balcony learning Serbian flashcards and praying the grass cuts itself. Or dies. Either way.

Bout darn time.

I'm going to take a SHORT break from complaining about Baltimore to say that I get to LEAVE Baltimore for a week and go to the Caribbean! My sister was offered a free cruise from Carnival so that she'll write about it in the magazine she edits, and her husband can't go, and she didn't want to spend a week on a boat with her 10 month old baby and no help, so I get to go! I want to say that I do not approve of cruises. They are environmentally destructive, encourage gluttony, and provide ample opportunity for Americans to disrespect local people in the cruise destinations. That being said, I'm not the type of girl who holds on to her beliefs so strongly that she would turn down a free cruise, so I'm going.

You can read about how badly sunburned we are day by day here: http://maggieandkristenandjackonacruise.blogspot.com/

It will be awesome.

In other news, I made a basil pesto that is good, but not perfect. The quest for that continues.

Ouch.

Whoever said cockroaches can't hurt you needs to come take a look at the bruise on my leg.

Last night around 10:30 I was minding my own business, about to go to bed. I get up from my desk, turn around, and see a cockroach that must have weighed at LEAST as much as I do but looked much, much stronger. Like any young, responsible, college educated woman, I screamed and climbed onto my bed, begging my housemates in the living room to come save me. After about 10 minutes of no one coming to rescue me, I got up enough nerve to try to trap it so I could go demand aid. The only empty container I could find was a metal heart-shaped tin my sister gave me for valentines day. The cockroach was crawling on top of the lid to the bin where I keep my dirty clothes (we have to keep our dirty clothes in giant tupperware-like bins or else the mice eat our underwear. Seriously). The lid was on the ground, with a plastic grocery sack on it, and the cockroach was crawling on top of the bag. I put the tin over the roach and the bag, and then stacked two books, "Kosovo: A Short History" and "Bosnia: A Short History", on top of it. I should point out that both books are HUGE and very poorly named. For good measure, I threw my sketchbook and two pairs of shoes on top of the books. Then I went for help.

Anna was in the living room, and leaped to action after being briefed of the situation. We then spent about 10 minutes staring at the tin, trying to decide how we were going to dispose of the intruder. Anna was of the opinion that I could lift the tin and she could smash him to death with a hole puncher, but I was doubtful of this solution for several reasons. One: I have heard that cockroaches are hard to smash, and this one certainly seemed like a formidable opponent, two: I didn't want to lift the tin, three: I didn't want to have cockroach guts on my laundry bin or, worse, my carper, and four: I was about 87% sure that if I lifted the tin, the roach would fly or crawl around and Anna and I would both scream and panic and he would find a way to burrow into my underwear drawer or, worse, my brain.

I should point out that Sarah was on the phone with her boyfriend, Jeff, this entire time. I, of course, demanded that Jeff come save us, and he flat out REFUSED. What is the point of any of us having a boyfriend if he doesn't even come out to meet our needs in times of crisis?? Yes, it is 10:30 PM. Yes, you live 20 minutes away. What is the problem? Anna insisted that we were strong women who could handle the situation ourselves, but I was doubtful. I'm a pretty big fan of traditional gender roles, because I like babies, cooking, cleaning, and not opening doors or paying for meals. I have always thought that "bug killing" was in the "manly chore" category, along with yard work, taking out the trash, paying for everything, and defending my honor. If the men in my life will do that, I will be happy to bake scones and give birth. ANYWAY, Jeff refused, so I texted my sister and demanded my brother in law come to Baltimore to save me, mostly because he has a gun. And you know what?? HE refused, too!

Having exhausted the entire list of men I know in Maryland, Anna and I had no choice but to handle the task. We devised a plan in which we carried the entire apparatus- plastic lid, plastic bag, roach, metal tin- to the bathroom, where we would then try to flick the roach into the toilet, shut the lid, and flush. We were about 70% into this operation when Jeff (via phone) helpfully suggested that it could probably fly, would land in the toilet water, and then fly into our hair/ eat our faces. Anna was willing to take that chance, but I was NOT. Thus, we began the painstaking process of applying heavy pressure to the tin while sliding the plastic bag until the tin was INSIDE the bag, and the roach was in the tin. We tied the bag in a knot, and then lifted the tin enough to get the lid on it. I wanted to carry it up to the attic and leave it there, but Sarah said I had to take it outside. I ran down the three flights of stairs to the ground floor, opened the front door, and threw the whole thing in the trash. Then I shut and locked the door, and vacuumed my entire room. It was around this time that I realized at some point (probably the screaming/ flailing stage) I had banged my leg pretty badly on something hard. I now have a huge purple and green bruise to show for my efforts.

There is really only one conclusion to draw from this: I need a boyfriend. With a gun.

And... does anyone know if there are cockroaches in Serbia...?

Confession

So, I'm sitting here, listening to hymns and eating jelly beans (what? like you read to underprivileged puppies in your spare time?) and I caught myself picking out the army green ones that, as far as I can tell, are death flavored. I paused, and had a moment of quiet reflection on who I have become these past few months. Then I threw them back in the bag.

It was a long time coming, but something snapped in me about two weeks ago. It was the day the client attacked me (the first time!) I think. I came home, still fighting back tears, thinking about if I could move in with my parents, if I could find a job, if I could live with my sister... for once, no one was in our kitchen. I went to the pantry to get a snack, and grabbed a box of mixed nuts. I poured myself some tea, ate the nuts, and thought about the various ways I could get out of my commitment to MVS.

I don't really like mixed nuts; I mean, they're fine, but they're not my favorite snack. I, like everyone, like some better than others. I have this rule, though, that I really try to follow. I believe that one should eat what one grabs. Not just for sanitary reasons, but on ethical principal. If you are eating out of a communal bag of chex mix, for example, you can't pick out all the bagel chips and eat them because they're your favorite part. If that is just your chex mix, fine, but if you're sharing it you need to keep in mind that maybe other people like the bagel chips, too, or don't want the delicate bagel chip/chex/pretzel balance upset. It's taking one for the team, sometimes, when you eat the pretzels in the chex mix or the back jelly beans, but it is your DUTY as a member of a family or community to not mess with everyone else's snacking pleasure.

So, there I am, eating whatever nuts I grab. Cashews, hazelnuts, almonds, and pecans. I really just like the pecans. The others are fine, but the more I think about it, the more I know that I only really WANT the pecans, and I'm eating the cashews as more of a penalty. A penance. A necessary evil to enjoy the pecans. And then it happened- it was almost audible. The "snap" of my moral convictions about mixed snack food tearing apart. I was not going to eat any more f-ing cashews. I work 40 hours a week for free, I had just been attacked by a client, I get out of bed at 11:00 PM to pick up my stranded housemates, I live with 14 people in a neighborhood that scares the crap out of me, I make $50 a month, I hate my job, I don't drink bottled water, I don't buy clothes made in sweatshops, I give 10% of my income to the church, I match dollar for dollar what I spend on alcohol on a clean water charity, and I do NOT need to SHARE or GIVE or SACRIFICE ANYTHING ELSE, THANK YOU VERY MUCH.

I ate every pecan in the box.

I feel kind of bad about it. In reality, I don't think my housemates will notice, and if they do, I doubt they'll care. But again, it's the PRINCIPAL. Shouldn't I be willing to eat the proverbial cashew? This is the life I want- I chose this- because these are things that matter to me. I miss shopping at Gap, but I DO think human rights are more important than fashion. I DO think it's ridiculous to pay for water in a bottle when our tap water is clean. I DO think that the gospel is best lived out and understood in community. And yet...

I guess I'm learning my own boundaries. Sometimes my ideals don't look that ideal with flesh on them. I don't know if the pecan (and now jelly bean!) incident is just funny, or a sign of something larger breaking down. I guess at this point I can learn to love myself as a person who sometimes picks through mixed nuts. I think I can live with that. I want to be flexible, even within my concept of justice, because I know I don't now, nor will I ever, know all the answers. But if Bathfitter starts looking like a great deal on a good idea, I'm moving to a convent.

The past few weeks here have been really, really awful. As I stated in the middle of February, I was moved (without my consent) from working at my shelter to working with clients at another shelter. At the new shelter I had 9 clients, all men, and was often there as the only staff person. There was sexual harassment at my old shelter, but it was nothing compared to the new one; at the new shelter, sexually inappropriate comments were daily and severe. I was incredibly uncomfortable being there by myself, but figured I would be able to tough it out, because I was told I would only have to work there through the end of February. The end of February became the middle of March. The middle of March became the end of March. The end of March became "until each client has permanent housing", which could be months.

The day I found out my stay at this particular shelter had been extended indefinitely, a client became extremely hostile and aggressive towards me. I was the only staff person in the building with a violent and irate male client twice my size in the office. It was terrifying. I calmed him down enough to get him to leave the office, shut and locked the door, and called the social worker who was sometimes at the shelter. She told me to just stay where I was and she would deal with it when she got there.

This was (understandably, I think) a really scary experience for me. I told my supervisor that I did not feel safe at the placement, and also told my local program coordinator for MVS. My supervisor agreed I could work part time at the new shelter so I wouldn't have to be there all the time. This wasn't ideal, since I didn't want to be there in the first place, but this year of my life (and hopefully my whole life) is about serving, so I figured I would be a servant, swallow my pride (and my fear) and deal with it. The first attack was on a Monday. The next Thursday the same client came into my office and flipped out again, and I was alone in the facility again. I maintained my composure long enough to get him calmed down and out of the office, shut the door, and wept. I have a VERY strict "No Crying at Work" rule, which, until that day, I had managed to follow pretty well. Not today. The stress of the harassment, the fear of even being in that neighborhood, the anger at being left there alone when I have no training or background in this all came out, and I cried and cried. At work. I still feel badly about it.

I emailed my supervisor and my local program coordinator and told them that what had happened and that I was going home for the day. I went home, watched TV online, cried for another hour or two, and then went into work at my old shelter. Basically they decided that I don't have to go to the new shelter any more, which is great, and I was (and am) really happy to be back with other staff who support and encourage me (and stop clients from assaulting me, when possible). That was until I found out yesterday that all the clients from the new shelter are moving into the old shelter, including the one who seems to hate and want to hurt me. You can guess how excited I am about that. Stress induced stomach pains, anyone?

I will say one thing about the whole situation: it has made me appreciate my housemates, especially the other volunteers, much, much more. Even before the client became violent towards me, I hated the new position so much I was considering dropping out of MVS, moving back in with my parents, and trying to get my old job at the zoo until it was time to move to Serbia. By the time the client actually flipped out, I was ready to have my bags packed. What stopped me is the love and support I received from my housemates. I have been honest about feeling a little disappointed in community; the living situation has not been the blissful nest of love and support I was naive enough to expect. I did not chose to live with these people, and there are some I would not chose to live with. In the past few weeks, however, they have been wonderful, expressing love and encouragement and concern for both my physical safety and my mental health while in these situations. I don't think I realized before how much they care about me, or how much I care about them. I wish I didn't have to be attacked to realize these things, but I'll go ahead and take the silver lining where I can get it.

I apologize for dropping of the face of the earth for a while, especially to those of you I owe emails or letters or phone calls. Hopefully things will get better and I will feel sane enough to be a decent friend again. Or maybe this client will kill me, in which case you can have my books and CDs.