On writing...

... which I don't do nearly as much as I would like.

I have so many things running through my brain these days. They're on all sorts of different topics. And usually aren't related. So often, I'll start pondering something and think "gee, that would make a great blog post." But, almost without fail, I get home from where ever I was or finish what I was doing and end up on Facebook or checking my email repeatedly or wasting time on any of a half-dozen or so "time wasting sites" like cakewrecks or foodporndaily. Or, of course, I could be on Skype :) In any case, so many of these blogs just don't get written. And it frustrates me, because once I finally get around to writing, the things that inspired the post are weeks past.

Like the post I meant to write about life. That one was inspired by a comment made by a coworker that she didn't know why a special needs child hadn't been aborted. Add in the fact that Osama bin Laden was killed that next weekend and it could have been a great post. About the fact that ALL human life is sacred: whether it's Marko (the mostly blind and deaf - I think that's what is wrong - little boy that we see at the swimming pool) or a mass murderer or the innocents who are closer to being protected by the Hungarian constitution or the baby about to be born with a condition that will allow her to live only a few hours or the boy who develops severe autism after too many immunizations in a short period of time (those last two are from books I've read in the past few months the others are from "real life"). All of them deserve to live.

Seen in the subway station:

"I understand if you aren't ready for me, but give me up for adoption - LET ME LIVE!"

Or the post that I wanted to write about the play I saw last weekend: The Complete Works of William Shakespeare Abridged, and how funny I found it. But then I had to deal with the harsh reality that I would have reacted differently had I been there with different friends. With some people I would have been (and was) laughing at the, shall we say "less than family friendly" jokes, language, costumes, etc. With other friends, I feel like I would have been squirming uncomfortably. And I realized how much I don't know about who I am. Just me - not compared to or with anyone else. What does Rose actually think about that? Who am I, really? And how can I relate to others if I don't know who I am?

Then, there's the post about Hungary and changing the names of things. In April when I was on my way to the airport, I realized that the airport had changed names in the month between going to Sweden and going to the US. I was actually on the bus going to the airport before I realized that it wasn't Ferihegy Airport anymore but Liszt Ferenc International Airport. Then I heard about a number of squares in Budapest which have just changed names. Our main transportation hub the second time we were in Hungary is now Sze'll Ka'lma'n te'r (too lazy to actually put the diacritics in at the moment) rather than Moszkva ter which it had been for the past 60 years. A square somewhere in the 8th district (known as the seedy part of town) is being renamed for Bl. JPII - oh irony. And then, I came across this tomb while visiting the cathedral in Esztergom.

Literally it translates to

Kovacs Mrs. John
Born: Oswald Margaret
(Worth noting that Mr. John was nowhere to be seen)

I know this is common in Hungary... but it bothers me. I'm no angry feminist and I fully intend to take my husband's LAST name when I get married someday, BUT, until the day I die, I will still be Rose. If we're being addressed together (especially for things like mail and such), Mr. and Mrs. Hisname Whatever is fine, but when I'm alone, I'll still have the same first name that I've had my whole life.

Finally, I went to the market yesterday and bought oranges and strawberries from one stall. After asking for what I wanted in what I'm sure was understandable, if probably not perfect, Hungarian, the guy responded to me in English. I HATE when people do that. So, I paid with the biggest bill I had in my wallet knowing how much Hungarians hate having to make change. When I got home, I looked at the strawberries he had sold me and wished that the bill had been much bigger (more annoying for him). Out of a half kilo (just over a pound), the ones on the far right were all that were good after I chopped them up to salvage as much as I could.

So, there you have it.... four mini posts for the price of one. And, while I'm making no definite promises, I hope to post something more about my trip to Esztergom soon.