• Someone stepped on my foot.
• Someone tried to close a car door on me. Twice.
• A man told me he felt really bad for me because I’m not married and don’t have children.
• A woman told me she felt really bad for me because I’m not married and don’t have children.
• A woman who is interested in being a host mother to a future Peace Corps Volunteer told me she would prefer having a boy rather than a girl because American boys are so hardworking and neat, but American girls are messy and lazy.
• My director, while speaking to one of the above-mentioned women, explained that I was their first volunteer and next time will be better.
• My director also informed me that my coworkers are all hoping that the next Peace Corps Volunteer they get is a boy. Naturally!

Ya know, some days the idea of leaving Georgia isn’t as hard as others.

The other thing that I really admire and love about Easter in Georgia is the way it also serves as an occasion to remember loves ones who have passed away. On Easter Sunday or the following Monday, families travel to the cemetery where their relatives are interred.  They go to the plots and clean them up, sweeping away any debris and pruning the weeds. They place flowers and some of the red eggs at the head stones, and then they toast their relatives with glasses of wine and sprinkle some of the leftovers on the graves. I was able to join my host family for this touching ritual last year and it was a profound privilege. I think it’s really beautiful the way my family and other families here in Georgia dedicate time to remember and honor those they have lost.

So that’s what was going on today. As for the day before that and all of the other days of the previous month, I don’t really know where they went or what I did.

No. That’s not true. I know where they went and what I did. I spent the last month turning into a giant ball of exposed nerve endings. A Stress Monster, if you will.

“What is a Stress Monster?” the chorus asks. “Is it like a regular monster?”

Yes, in some ways, it is like a regular monster. Though I never intend harm. For example, if I tear a person to bits with my teeth and bare hands* it’s usually just because I’m irritable and unable to focus my energies in a positive and constructive way.

I certainly don’t want to be a Stress Monster. In fact, I’ve been doing everything I can to avoid becoming one. I journal. I talk to friends. I stare at the wall for hours at a time and let my brain go to mush. But like Dr. Jekyll, I can’t keep Mr. Hyde from coming out. Like Dr. Bruce Banner my stress breaks free and all of sudden I look down and find I’ve mutated into a giant green man wearing ill-fitting cut-offs.

“But what is causing you so much stress?” sings the chorus.

The abyss.

Leaving for Peace Corps was hard and terrifying in many ways. I’ve gone back and read some of the stuff I wrote around that time and I’m pretty sure we would all agree that I nearly cracked up during the whole process of preparing and leaving. I was bananas. But y’all, I think it turns out that leaving Peace Corps is way scarier than getting into it.

“How can it be scarier?” ponders the chorus.

Sure, going away for two years to a different country and a different culture where I don’t speak the language and am  away from the people I love the most is terrifying. But you know what’s possibly even more terrifying? Unemployment.

“Go on.” urges the chorus.

Peace Corps was a plan. I knew I had a place to be for two years. I knew I had a job and security and purpose. And there would be people who would greet me and shepherd me and take care of me and feed me. And that has been the case. I have been totally shepherded and very well fed.

But now? That’s all ending in about six weeks. And I’m staring into an abyss. For the first time in my life I’ll be leaving a job without having another one lined up. It’s the first time I don’t know what the next step is going to be. Is the next step for me going to be a well-paying job in a lovely office building in Washington, DC, in either the nonprofit or government sector? Or will it be a cold death on the streets of Washington, DC, wrapped in a gray homeless outreach program-issued blanket? It’s a mystery!

“Aren’t you maybe exaggerating a little bit here?” asks the chorus.

Of course I’m exaggerating. As I’m wont to do. But underneath all this exaggeration is the honest truth that I’m genuinely nervous and frightened in a way I haven’t been in a long time. I read articles about how Americans are still struggling with unemployment or how once you’ve been out of work for more than six months you’re probably screwed and will forever and always be un- or under-employed**…and then I die a little inside. The unknown future is a terrifying thing.

“But you knew this was coming!” yells the chorus. “Have you not prepared?!”

Yes, I have prepared! I’m no grasshopper! Before I ever joined Peace Corps I built a savings cushion (in addition to the resettlement allowance I’ll receive from Peace Corps) and kept my student loans to a manageable level. I have the safety-net of kind and generous people who have offered a couch to rest on or a willingness to pass my resume around. And I’ve begun the job hunt, though that’s hard to do sometimes from this distance. So I’m working on this. Truly I am. But the threat of a long period of unemployment is still real and looming.

“Fair enough.” remarks the chorus.

So that is where I am. The other factor contributing to the metamorphosis into the Stress Monster I’ve become is that I’m starting to process the true fact that I’m leaving the home I’ve known for two years.  Yes, I miss America very much. Every single day at this point. After all, it’s been two years since I’ve been there. I keep imagining the moment I will pass through passport control and get my stamp and the border guard will say “welcome home.” And every time I imagine that tears well up in my eyes. Every damn time. (Right now. This is happening RIGHT NOW.)

But I also think of leaving my family here. My friends. My coworkers. The kids in my English conversation group. Piso! And that makes me cry, too. There is a real chance that I may never see some of these people (and cats) ever again.  And that is a terrible thing and makes me so sad. I’m working hard to appreciate every moment and savor all these experiences because I know I’ll miss so much of this when I’m gone. But I find myself knotted up inside a lot, too. I just don’t know what to do with all these emotions and feelings. So they take on a life of their own. And out comes the Stress Monster.

“You’re a mess.” concludes the chorus.

You’re absolutely right, chorus. I’m a mess. A complete and total mess.

In summary: It’s Easter. I’m sorta cracking up. And I’m available for hire.

But, per usual, I’m probably stressing for no reason. It will probably work out ok in the end. I’ll probably find a job. I’ll probably find a place to live. I’ll probably not perish in a downward spiral of unemployment and poverty.

Probably.

Anyway, to end this on a cheerier note, here are some nice photos I took at least year’s Easter that I never got around to posting. I hope you enjoy them. Happy Orthodox Easter to you!

*Hypothetical situation, naturally. I have not actually torn any people to bits…though sometimes when, for example, people cut me in line or light up a cigarette next to me in a minibus despite the No Smoking sign clearly displayed above the driver, it’s hard not to think about it.

**I’m not going to link to these articles because there is no reason for us all to be stressed out. Just trust me that they exist.  

I walked past this happy flowering bush on my way to work today.

Today is so warm I’m wearing a summer dress with just a cardigan over it. And I could have actually gone without tights underneath as well, but I did not do that, of course, because it’s only April and everyone knows that one cannot go barelegged until July, maybe late June if you’re feeling crazy. I suppose someone could go barelegged in April but that someone would have to be prepared for lots of questions and concerns about her health from a variety of sources including family, friends, coworkers, and strangers on the street.  And I was not that person today, so I wore tights.

Fun fact: I also never sit on cement anymore. Do you know why? Because it causes infertility!! And as I’m reminded of from time to time, I have to take real good care of the five or six viable eggs I got left.

Happy Spring, Everyone!

As seen in our local supermarket: an entire shelf devoted to AXE body spray. No corner of the world remains safe.

So, naturally, the heavens squashed my impudence by delivering a wintry mix.  Specifically, it snowed then hailed then rained then snowed a little more.

At the risk of sounding dramatic, I CRY OUT FOR SPRING FROM THE DEPTHS OF MY SOUL.

Hail or the frozen bitter tears of a thousand weeping angels?

Spring, WHERE ARE YOU?!

The first haircut took place last summer (Junish, if I recall) while I was visiting Peace Corps friends in another town. I had arrived and met up with my friends. We were just three gals about to have a fun weekend together when one of my companions casually mentioned how long my hair was getting. I replied with an “Ugh, tell me about it, I’m in need of a haircut desperately!” And one thing lead to another and all of sudden we were in a salon getting our hairs cut. It’s mostly a blur now, but I do recall that I felt (initially) pretty good about mine. There was a lot of cutting and layering and blow-drying and for a moment there I looked kinda fabulous. Sadly, my companions did not fair as well. The first, after having asked for a just a leeeeetle trim of her long hair, ended up with layers so out of control and misplaced that another PCV later described it as having bangs in the back of her head. And the other…well, there were tears. Lots of tears. For which she cannot be blamed. I would have cried, too, if I had ended up with the mullet that she received that day. So compared to all that, my haircut was great.

The problem with my haircut though, as I later discovered, was that I had actually received two haircuts. In the front I had a stylish, slightly-longer-than-shoulder-length layered cut. In the back I had hair that reached to the middle of my back and came to a point. It just felt so mismatched. But I endured it for months because 1) I had taken to pulling it back almost all the time and, therefore, didn’t often see how jacked-up it was, and 2) I was afraid of receiving an even worse haircut from another stylist. So I stewed.

But then this past November I reached a point of deep frustration and decided to do something. Unfortunately, I was still so afraid of going to a salon, ya know? What was I going to do? But then a voice in my head whispered softly to me: If you want something done right you do it yourself.  And since the voices in my head almost never lead me astray I decided to act on those words of wisdom. 

I spent 20 minutes Googling “self hair-cutting techniques”, watched a few YouTube videos, and then went to town on my mane with the pair of dull bandage-cutting scissors I received in my Peace Corps medical kit. (What could possibly go wrong with such a well-formed plan?) After about 10 minutes of hacking away I had managed to cut a good 4-5 inches off the back, better matching it to the front of my hair.

But now a new problem surfaced, which was this: though I kept cutting and cutting, no matter how I tried I couldn’t get it to lay even in the back. There were always uneven pieces. Which I would trim. But then, as if by magic, new uneven pieces would appear. In  a huff I finally gave up, deciding that my arms are simply not long enough to properly cut the hair at the back of my head. (Just to be clear, I’m not saying I’m a T-Rex or Matthew McConaughey or something like that. Yes, I have short arms, but the rest of me is pretty short, too, so I think it’s all proportional. But even tall people with regular-length arms probably can’t reach back and around like that either. I mean, really, who has long enough arms to truly cut the hair in the back of their own head? Very few people, I suspect!)

So, I had cut off the long and straggly hair in the back, thus solving one problem. But it was now all uneven and, let’s face it, completely unsightly. What a mess. As the days and weeks wore on, I continued to wear my hair up, trying to ignore the catastrophe going on back there. I would mention to other PCVs, “Hey, maybe the next time you come over you can trim up my hair in the back for me!” I even carried my dull scissors with me to conferences and other PCV’s sites thinking if there was a free moment someone could fix it right up. But I always forgot about the scissors in my bag until I got home. So the corrective trim never happened. And then it was three months later and my hair was sort-of-growing-out anyway, so what was the use at that point?

So I basically walked around in public with a self-inflicted uneven haircut for four months. I’m that pathetic.

But this week I finally decided enough was enough. ENOUGH WAS ENOUGH. Something needed to be done. The situation was no longer tenable. (I think this is what people call “hitting rock bottom.”)

I asked my coworkers with cute haircuts to recommend a salon. They said I should see a woman named Melano, drew a little map showing me where she works, and told me how to say “haircut” in Georgian. I was as prepared as I ever would be. So yesterday I took that map, put on my big-girl panties, and went to get a real haircut.

And…it was a fabulous haircut! And it only cost 4 Lari! (FYI, that’s about $2.40.) Why did I wait so long to have this done?

In the interests of full disclosure, here is what 4 Lari does not get you: a hair washing (I didn’t even see a sink in the place), a fancy salon chair that goes up and down (I sat in an office chair) and clean sterilized tools (something we should not dwell on). In fact, I’m pretty sure the stylist cut my hair with craft scissors. But, who cares about luxuries anyway because the cut is amazing. I had brought a picture with me of what I wanted (a medium-length bob, angled slightly forward). She looked at the photo and made it happen. She was the best, checking in with me on the length before she made the first cut, giving me a great blow-out, and going over it twice at the end to make sure there were no stray pieces.  And all for 4 Lari. (How am I going to go back to the U.S. and pay $50 or $75 or, god forbid, $100+ for a haircut? I was already cheap. I’m now completely ruined.)

So, here is my new haircut:

I love it!

Now, I will admit that given my circumstances I may no longer be the best judge of what actually qualifies as a good, stylish haircut. But I do know the Georgians around me like it. My coworkers oohed and awed. (And let’s just say, I do think that if they didn’t like it they would have said so. Georgians, in my experience, can be very upfront when it comes to physical appearances. Like how they will tell you when you’re getting fat. Just in case you hadn’t noticed. Or how they often point out all my gray hairs, which is a whole other matter that deserves its own post. Anyhoo…) So I’ve gotten lots of positive feedback. And I personally adore it and feel like a million bucks. But I might be completely deluded. This could actually be an awful haircut. If that is the case, please don’t tell me now. Wait until I get back to the U.S. and then stage an intervention, like good friends do. For now, just be kind and let me bask in the afterglow of my haircut. My wonderful new haircut.

A completely new and larger hole has been dug. In the middle of the street. There has been much looking into the hole. No amount of effort has been spared.

I’m certain success is close at hand. I can feel it.

I’m not even making something up here or being cheeky about the fact that I’m doing a new year’s post about two weeks after the actual holiday. Old New Year is a real thing. Here in Georgia, we celebrate both the regular New Year on January 1, and then the Orthodox New Year on January 14, which is the first day on the old Julian Calendar. Just in case you were wondering, yes, lots of fireworks are also set off on this holiday. It’s almost as dangerous as the (regular) New Year.

I hope all your holidays, new and old, were fantastic and that you’ve made lots of wonderful resolutions for 2013. Personally, I’m not making any resolutions; besides the usual, that is: resolving to be the Kelley you all know and love very much.  Why fix what ain’t broke?! Amirite or amirite?

*wink*

To treat myself for the (regular) New Year holiday I headed to Switzerland for a week-long vacation with a friend. Why Switzerland? I suppose the thinking went something like this: “What haven’t I really seen enough of while living in Georgia these past 20 months? Hmmm…Ah yes. Snow and mountains. Switzerland it is!” Or maybe it’s just that we found fabulously cheap plane tickets and the idea of being in a place where people stand in lines was appealing. Hard to say.

We stayed in the city of Basel, located right at the meeting point of the Swiss, French, and German borders, and it was just lovely. LOVELY. There was no litter. The air was fresh. We went shopping at a grocery store and I’m pretty sure people gave us dirty looks for not bringing our own reusable bags. And at no point did a child toss a firecracker at my head.

Is Switzerland heaven? Possibly. I could have stayed forever! Except not really because I would have actually gone bankrupt almost immediately. Heaven isn’t cheap and the U.S. dollars that I’ve squirreled away felt like monopoly money there.

So here we are. 2013. In about sixish months I’ll be finishing my Peace Corps service and returning to the United States. Can you believe that? If you, in fact, cannot believe that I wouldn’t blame you at all because I can hardly believe it myself. I’m such a bundle of mixed emotions about it, too. Excited, anxious, a little scared. These feelings do make it hard, at times, to focus on the moment and live in the present. I’m pretty sure I will actually miss a lot about Georgia when I’m gone, even though that’s hard to imagine right now (I say that without bitterness).  So I’m trying to remember this and savor things here and not think too much about how very very much I miss a lot of people and things back home. I will get back to all that soon enough.

Happy Old New Year, y’all!

Me (looking more squat than usual) and the Church of St. Elizabeth (Elisabethenkirche) reflected in holiday decorations out and about in Basel, Switzerland.

I’ve been getting into the festivities by enjoying The Apocalypse Reader, a lovely collection of stories edited by Justin Taylor. If you  are looking for a manual of sorts, something chock-full of helpful advice and pro-tips for surviving end times, this isn’t really the book for you. Despite this, I can’t say I haven’t gleaned some useful information. 1) Should the world end, the company you keep definitely matters. It’s hard to survive alone. On the other hand, you must make sure that your companion is someone you absolutely trust. You want a person who is strong enough to help you scavenge for food, but not too strong in case s/he decides the best course of action is to kill and/or eat you. It’s a tricky balance. 2) Should the world end, Georgia is a good place to be. We have a basement stuffed full of canned food, which could sustain us for some time. I feel that the more access to canned food one has, the less likely s/he is to resort to killing and/or eating companions. I sure am glad we did all that canning this fall.

But, as I said, the world appears to be ok, so I don’t think we will have to eat our neighbors or anything like that.

Unfortunately, I cannot say the same about our street. Our street is not ok.

Earlier this week, Dali told me that our neighbors were having problems with their water. Apparently some of their pipes and hoses had broken. (Fun fact: The word for hose in Georgian is shlongi.) So the shlongis had broken and water was now flooding their houses. (I think. I never know for certain if I’m really understanding everything. I’m probably not understanding everything. I’m truly an unreliable narrator.) Soon after that some men from the city came and began to dig up the street.

All week long they’ve been digging holes in the street. These holes fill up with water. They bail out the water and look for the source of the leak. As far as I understand, they have not found the leak. Dali has spent a lot of time outside discussing the situation with them. She then comes inside, exasperated, and says “I can’t even!” The digging up of the street continues.

So today, this is what our street looks like:

The current state of our street is not good.

The workers are not here today. I don’t know if the problem has been resolved. I also don’t know if, after the problem is resolved, the holes will be filled back in and the street repaired.  It’s a mystery.

The word apocalypse can be defined in two ways:

a·poc·a·lypse

/əˈpäkəˌlips/

Noun The complete final destruction of the world, esp. as described in the biblical book of Revelation. An event involving destruction or damage on an awesome or catastrophic scale.

Piso, clever cat that he is, also likes to stay informed. But, you should know, he’s done with those Kardashians. Absolutely done. The whole lot of them. And don’t even think of asking him about it. It’s all hissing and angry cat moans.