A Little Something Sweeney: Family. Friends. Fiction. Food.

Welcome, fellow knuckle crackers! Before we begin, I feel it is of the utmost importance for everyone to know that I will loan you my pen when you ask- but I won´t like it. Selfish? Probably. Rooted in reality with righteous reasoning? Claro! Over this last week, I have been asked for my lapicero numerous times, and each time, I hand it over, I mentally kiss it good-bye. I guess I don´t understand the mentality behind it, which must be at the root of my problem. What do these people think when they´re done using the pen? "Woah, a magical new pen! My prayers have been answered!" The reason you needed the pen in the first place is because you keep misplacing yours and then, you misplace mine, which makes us both pen-less losers. I need that magical ink stick to make my appointment and take my notes, man! Be oh so careful with a borrowed pen. It may cost a mere dollar or two, but it´s value lies far deeper. But I guess I should just be glad that I can be the answer to someone´s

And how. I´ve always been opposed to people who whine a lot about hurting, especially when I suspect that it´s not that serious. Like if someone accidentally bumps someone, and that person acts like they were just punctured with a mighty spear. Not necessary, unless it´s a Britney Spear, and then I´d be annoyed too. But the point is, instead of becoming more compassionate, I may be becoming less so, and it´s all thanks to a little sickness called the gripe (gre-pe). If I haven´t complained about this before, I shall allow myself to do so now, and if so, well, the cathartic effect remains the same. Anyway, the gripe is dangerous, deadly illness, and takes many forms. Supposedly, it´s the equivalent of the common cold, and the key word here is common. Someone, without fail, will have the gripe any given day of the week, especially when it comes time to commit to something. There´s the "I couldn´t read the pamphlet you gave me" gripe. There´s the "it´s Sunday" gripe. T

Woah. I´m back. I go from La Yuca, to Azua, and now to Quisqueya, which is not the pit of misery I thought it would be (I may have exaggerated a weeee bit in my last blog). It´s actually really nice here, for so many reasons, and weird a la vez. It felt like coming home, which is weird, considering I don´t live in the D.R. But Quisqueya is a lot like Yuca in the fact that both have great big wards with responsible members who fulfill their callings. Most of them have cars. It´s alarming how many people come to church and do the reading in the pamphlets we give them. They don´t even use clever excuses like, "I was busy," or "the light went out and heaven forbid I go outside and use the natural stuff." So I´m essentially having to readjust to all the stuff I took for granted when I was working in the capital the first time. For example, I made an absolute boob out of myself when we went food shopping this week. There´s this place here called Bravo, and they have an en

I am in a glass case of emotion right now. Actually, there isn´t a whole lot of glass (or grass) out here in the badlands, so I´m in another type of case of equal or lesser value. And I put all the blame on transfers. I have to wonder if I will ever get used to the vomit-inducing suckiness that is transfer call night. I´ll answer my own question: Nope. All I can do is stay up late, late into the night and contemplate my fate, which is being sent back to the capital, to the area of Quisqueya. I am also getting another Latin. Feelings, such strong feelings, and not all of them good. The area I´m going to is known for being wealthier, which means you spend a lot of your days pushing buzzers and hoping to get to talk to somebody. Well, looks like this is my chance to be creative. Is it dishonest to tell people via buzzer that I´m the pizza guy so that they´ll open their door? But I really shouldn´t judge an area by it´s hype. Before I came to Azua, all I heard were negative things, and low

Preparados, listos, ya! Ok, so I decided that not only do I have friends in many an interesting place, but I have been teaching in some strange places as well. Recently, we got a reference for a man who lives and works at a funeral home. It was hard to hear him over the roar of the ceiling fan and the drilling of the mosquitoes into our flesh, but other than that, a pretty normal appointment. Naturally, he had a lot of questions about life and death (don´t we all?), so we set up another appointment with him for this coming week. He seems like a sincere enough guy, and I don´t even have the willies that should naturally overcome me because of the locale. I hate death, and especially dead bodies, but I´ve learned to tune out a lot of things, and so this is yet another one to add to the list. This man (his name is Manuel), seems to think his biggest obstacle in coming to the church meetings will be surprise emergency calls for a funeral. More or less understandable, and as he explained i