Onions and Nick Hornby

My dad makes this really delightful French Onion Soup. As a kid, I was a staunch opponent of All Things Onion and so when dad made this soup, I just slurped the broth with some bread and cheese and shunned those rogue bits that snuck their way into my bowl.

But in the past year, I have come to find Onions quite indispensable and just this weekend my dad made yet another winning batch of soup, and I not only ate all the onions, I scooped up seconds–and even thirds.

And wow, do I reek. I woke up smelling onions. Was I imagining it? Perhaps. But real or not, “onion” is not a great morning smell.

Also, they don’t sit so well with me. I can feel them in my stomach and I’m sure they’re plotting revenge for all the years I dumped their American compadres down the sink.

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I babysat Thursday night.

We watched Hannah Montana, and afterwards played frisbee in the street.

We went to the bowling alley and bowled barefoot.

I scored a 43.

Then we cranked up the radio on my phone and danced all the way home.

It was a good night.

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On Saturday, I checked out some movies and a book. Tonight we watched Men in Black, which is still one of my favorites. Probably in my top 20. Or 15.

I checked out About A Boy and have been reading it since Saturday, and enjoying it immensely. I can’t recommend it because of its copious use of the f-word, but if any of you are so inclined, I will buy you a copy and edit it myself. And I’m not just saying this because I’m an Anglophile. It really is great writing and delightful characters.

Tomorrow night, I will have some friends over to watch Jumanji (Jumanji!) and play Balderdash (woohoo!).

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I’m doing my best to squeeze all the life out of my days (in a good way!) because today I sent in my cover letter and resume to the IOM. My fingers are crossed, but not too hard. I was initially quite excited but in browsing the web on Thursday afternoon, I found an even better potential opportunity in Egypt. I don’t know if I could intern or work there (also an IOM project) so I wrote the lady in charge of the counter-trafficking program and am eagerly awaiting her response. My fingers are crossed so tightly they hurt.

Since returning from Jordan, I really haven’t been eager to travel. I know! Me! Not wanting to travel! (Amman will do that to you.)

But in the last two weeks, I’ve been itching to get out. To see new things, to shop in souqs, to be a part of a crazy Middle Eastern city with noise and beat-up cars and teetering high-rises. Not so much to be harassed on the street, no, but falafeeel. It is calling my name and I am doing my best to heed its voice.

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