no place like home

As soon as I crossed over into Ohio, I bought myself a Moon Pie, turned the dial from Ludacris to Kenny Rogers, and felt bad about myself for driving a luxury car rather than a beat up, dust-covered Chevy Blazer with a gun rack on the back.

There's no place like home; there's no place like home; there's no place like home.

Granted, the midwest is a far cry from Dixie, but it's more home than New England, what with the Yankees and all.

I'm at my brother's house trying to relearn Spanish in a few hours (I leave for Uruguay tomorrow morning). I'm also putting together care packages of t-shirts, socks, and underwear for the preschool children with whom I'll be working.

I made sure all the girls have at least one, if not two or three, frilly items, and that the boys with plain shirts have cartoon, rather than white, underwear.

Dad and Pat and some of Dad's friends organized most of it; I just stopped in yesterday to buy whatever needed buying.

I'm starting to notice the discrepancy between what I'm bringing for myself (the basics plus a few dresses for nights out on the town, yarn for knitting, and dense philosophy books) and what I'm bringing for them: underwear.

betholindo at 12:42 p.m.

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