I sat in the handicapped seats, suitcase between my knees, trying to remain out of everyone's way and keep a continuous scan going in case someone with a legitimate need for the handicapped seats showed up. The metro was filled with metro sounds--on a June Saturday that's usually kids and their parents, the sounds of fanny packs planning outings to the Smithsonian. The first stop after I got on was National Airport, and my neighbors glanced first expectantly and then in confusion at my suitcase as I remain seated. I stayed there, headphones in, picking up the ambient noise in between songs on my playlist. I was hunched over, hand cautiously on the suitcase, arm tattooed, nose ring in. No wedding ring on. It occurred to me in that moment that people might make certain assumptions about me: probably that I was younger than I am (thanks, Muse Salon), that I was aimless. I wanted to hold a sign announcing that I am a mother, a diplomat, that this is my one chance to have headphones in, and that on another Saturday two years ago I would have brought my own roiling cacophony onto the train, also headed to the Smithsonian while wondering why my day off felt like so much work. No fanny pack, though. No tattoos yet.
I paid inordinate attention to the landscape in front and then below us when the plane took off from Denver. The front range stretched before me, snow marking the famous fourteeners. The dips and marks of the ground stayed within view for several thousands of feet. God's own country, no doubt. I felt in awe and thankful that--for now, anyway--I can call this place home.
Coming in over the Potomac pulled a different string. Washington always was and always will be my true north. I saw the neat rows of headstones in Arlington and the glittering water and placed a tick mark in the D.C.'s pro column. I stepped into an immediate soup of humidity--not bad by local standards but brutal after a few months in Colorado. One tick in the con.
Friends, acquaintances, classmates, alums wanted to know where my brood was, and I answer that they were in Denver. I'd loved to have shown them off, but I was relieved to have my headphones in, to process the whats and the what nexts on my own. We video-chatted in the middle of a reunion event, Girl blowing raspberries and Boy inserting "poop" between words. I bought a new Georgetown shirt. I lamented the removal of the my favorite tree, the one that I would climb instead of attending Western Civ. I wondered if I would ever step foot in FSI again, if I would ever write another EER, if I would ever keep up with the amazingly talented people I know and love from college. I wondered if I wanted to keep up.
And then No Diggity came on, and I danced. A lot. Class of 2003: Word.
Showing posts with label Vanity. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Vanity. Show all posts
Saturday, June 8, 2013
Friday, April 26, 2013
Blame the Biebs
I had a thoughtful post in mind. I think think I was going to talk about knowing when to pull the plug, when to walk away, when to just start fresh.
This wasn't going to be about quitting the Service or divorce or anything inherently consequential--so calm down--but only about our day at the gym yesterday, the 8th in a row. Boy has a gym-specific behavior chart. Three checks equals 15 minutes of iPad time after the gym. Twelve checks in a week equals a trip for ice cream (for them, not me). He's held it together most days, but yesterday one of the staff came to retrieve me in my final minutes of personal training. He had hurt three kids and it was time to just take him home. I agreed, upset not simply because it happened (he is often the oldest by far, so the kids he hurts tend to be quite young), but because he is nobody's fool. He'd rather be in the house than ever leave it, and the second he knows he can get me to take him home simply by engaging in some fisticuffs, it's game over. I was stewing on this, my frustration rising, when I decided to just let it go. It had been 8 days in a row. We played outside, both (!) kids took naps, and then we played outside some more. Two meals on the front porch, some up close observation of bees on the dandelions, and other kid-worthy pursuits.
In a moment, it all made sense, the need to step back, restart, recharge, let go, forgive, move on. In that moment, in a larger sense. In parenting, in life.
But then I clicked on a slideshow entitled "Justin Bieber through the Years" (thanks for nothing, HuffPost), and my brain oozed out my ear. I think I've heard one Bieber song ever and I find young celebrity too tragic to make him a punchline. I don't know why I did it. But any sense of larger meaning and human frailty and carpe-ing the diems: poof. Gone.
Sorry.
This wasn't going to be about quitting the Service or divorce or anything inherently consequential--so calm down--but only about our day at the gym yesterday, the 8th in a row. Boy has a gym-specific behavior chart. Three checks equals 15 minutes of iPad time after the gym. Twelve checks in a week equals a trip for ice cream (for them, not me). He's held it together most days, but yesterday one of the staff came to retrieve me in my final minutes of personal training. He had hurt three kids and it was time to just take him home. I agreed, upset not simply because it happened (he is often the oldest by far, so the kids he hurts tend to be quite young), but because he is nobody's fool. He'd rather be in the house than ever leave it, and the second he knows he can get me to take him home simply by engaging in some fisticuffs, it's game over. I was stewing on this, my frustration rising, when I decided to just let it go. It had been 8 days in a row. We played outside, both (!) kids took naps, and then we played outside some more. Two meals on the front porch, some up close observation of bees on the dandelions, and other kid-worthy pursuits.
In a moment, it all made sense, the need to step back, restart, recharge, let go, forgive, move on. In that moment, in a larger sense. In parenting, in life.
But then I clicked on a slideshow entitled "Justin Bieber through the Years" (thanks for nothing, HuffPost), and my brain oozed out my ear. I think I've heard one Bieber song ever and I find young celebrity too tragic to make him a punchline. I don't know why I did it. But any sense of larger meaning and human frailty and carpe-ing the diems: poof. Gone.
Sorry.
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
Like a Boss
Wow. Three weeks, no blogging. This isn't good, but our brand of groundhog day is unlikely to be particularly thrilling reading material, so maybe it's best. If you don't have anything interesting to say, don't say anything at all.*
This post is full of Foreign Service Top Tips. I bet you are super excited.
We've been settling in and we were doing alright--our behavior management plan is making life so much better for Boy and me--until a week ago. We had already received our license-plate-free cars and on Wednesday last we were eagerly anticipating our HHE, scheduled to arrive at our doorstep between 8:00 and 10:00 a.m. I received a call from the driver, saying they had another delivery and wouldn't be at our house until noon or so. I asked if there would be sufficient time for a full unpack and in response received the typical, "Oh? You wanted a full unpack?"
NOTE FOR FS NEWBIES: When in America, insist on your full unpack. The companies receive a lot of taxpayer dollars to do it for you, and will often try to wiggle out of it.
So I decide to continue tidying to prepare for the avalanche, hurricane, other weather-disaster-related metaphor of stuff that was about to rain down on us (see what I did there?). And I promptly fell down the stairs and destroyed my tailbone. I took one car for emissions testing and the garage door wouldn't close and Boy had a huge meltdown at the testing station and my butt really hurt and at one point I might have sat in the driver's seat, slammed my hands repeatedly against the steering wheel and screamed, "I hate my life!" Might have.
Our stuff arrived at....drumroll please...at 4:30 p.m. and was unpacked the next day. Once it was unpacked, it was clear that our 1890 sq. ft. house was not equipped to handle all our crap. I despaired for another day.
The village descended. My stepmom flew in from Washington and her sister and brother-in-law who live just a mile from my house became Team Awesome, sorting and tossing and organizing. There was even a margarita in there. I had to choose between Percocet and the margarita, and I chose the latter. More satisfying. In order to make my life easier, I ordered a storage container from 1-800-Packrat, which is now sitting in my driveway and holding all of the stuff that will go on Craigslist or in a yard sale. Super cheap, totally worth it. Consider this a Foreign Service Downsizing HHE Processing Top Tip.
Monday was the Like a Boss day. Emissions testing, VIN verification, registration of two cars? Driver's license? Nailed it. Taxes? Done. Paid. (If you have household staff, like we did for the first 6 months of 2012, you pay a lot come April 15.) Rental car? Returned. IN THE SNOW. LIKE A BOSS. Computer desk? Assembled.
Only Foreign Service Officers and their families might appreciate the atrociousness of international relocation, but its awfulness cannot be overstated.
Tuesday was also successful, though not as much in the conquering of Bureaucratic Forces Designed to Make Citizens Cry. I made it to the gym and did a good lower body/upper body workout. (No sitting though, so in order do bench presses from the balance ball, I had to flop somewhat fishlike on it. Trainer was amused.) Then I showered (! I know!) and took Girl to an affordable, well-reviewed preschool to secure the remaining spot for September enrollment. It's only for three half-days a week, and she pouted the whole way home because she wanted to go to preschool right then (there were bunnies, so can't blame her), but it's a win. It's two blocks from Boy's future school, which we will tour this morning if I can successfully cover up the fact that he's been up coughing all night long.
I'll cover the impossibility of securing an appointment with a behavioral psychologist in our network (at least a three month wait unless I go to the pediatric psych ER and get him admitted), the near miss for our family in Kandahar, Boston, and all things glum some other time. For now, our life is mundane, but each task conquered is a task conquered, so I'll take it.
Oh, also got a haircut for the first time in six months and a dye job to deal with this gray hair. LIKE A BOSS.
*Never stopped me before.
This post is full of Foreign Service Top Tips. I bet you are super excited.
We've been settling in and we were doing alright--our behavior management plan is making life so much better for Boy and me--until a week ago. We had already received our license-plate-free cars and on Wednesday last we were eagerly anticipating our HHE, scheduled to arrive at our doorstep between 8:00 and 10:00 a.m. I received a call from the driver, saying they had another delivery and wouldn't be at our house until noon or so. I asked if there would be sufficient time for a full unpack and in response received the typical, "Oh? You wanted a full unpack?"
NOTE FOR FS NEWBIES: When in America, insist on your full unpack. The companies receive a lot of taxpayer dollars to do it for you, and will often try to wiggle out of it.
So I decide to continue tidying to prepare for the avalanche, hurricane, other weather-disaster-related metaphor of stuff that was about to rain down on us (see what I did there?). And I promptly fell down the stairs and destroyed my tailbone. I took one car for emissions testing and the garage door wouldn't close and Boy had a huge meltdown at the testing station and my butt really hurt and at one point I might have sat in the driver's seat, slammed my hands repeatedly against the steering wheel and screamed, "I hate my life!" Might have.
Our stuff arrived at....drumroll please...at 4:30 p.m. and was unpacked the next day. Once it was unpacked, it was clear that our 1890 sq. ft. house was not equipped to handle all our crap. I despaired for another day.
The village descended. My stepmom flew in from Washington and her sister and brother-in-law who live just a mile from my house became Team Awesome, sorting and tossing and organizing. There was even a margarita in there. I had to choose between Percocet and the margarita, and I chose the latter. More satisfying. In order to make my life easier, I ordered a storage container from 1-800-Packrat, which is now sitting in my driveway and holding all of the stuff that will go on Craigslist or in a yard sale. Super cheap, totally worth it. Consider this a Foreign Service Downsizing HHE Processing Top Tip.
Monday was the Like a Boss day. Emissions testing, VIN verification, registration of two cars? Driver's license? Nailed it. Taxes? Done. Paid. (If you have household staff, like we did for the first 6 months of 2012, you pay a lot come April 15.) Rental car? Returned. IN THE SNOW. LIKE A BOSS. Computer desk? Assembled.
Only Foreign Service Officers and their families might appreciate the atrociousness of international relocation, but its awfulness cannot be overstated.
Tuesday was also successful, though not as much in the conquering of Bureaucratic Forces Designed to Make Citizens Cry. I made it to the gym and did a good lower body/upper body workout. (No sitting though, so in order do bench presses from the balance ball, I had to flop somewhat fishlike on it. Trainer was amused.) Then I showered (! I know!) and took Girl to an affordable, well-reviewed preschool to secure the remaining spot for September enrollment. It's only for three half-days a week, and she pouted the whole way home because she wanted to go to preschool right then (there were bunnies, so can't blame her), but it's a win. It's two blocks from Boy's future school, which we will tour this morning if I can successfully cover up the fact that he's been up coughing all night long.
I'll cover the impossibility of securing an appointment with a behavioral psychologist in our network (at least a three month wait unless I go to the pediatric psych ER and get him admitted), the near miss for our family in Kandahar, Boston, and all things glum some other time. For now, our life is mundane, but each task conquered is a task conquered, so I'll take it.
Oh, also got a haircut for the first time in six months and a dye job to deal with this gray hair. LIKE A BOSS.
*Never stopped me before.
Saturday, March 16, 2013
Oxygen
So far homeownership has been akin to what I imagine a fast bleed must be like. Small purchases, big purchases...I'm constantly purchasing. The fence company is on day two of their build, Girl's super expensive 3-day-blinds just went up on day 14 (that's a rant for another time), and I just got a landscaping design and proposal that will require me to sell at least part of my liver.
Yesterday was my mom's last day in town. In the afternoon, she started doing her typical mom thing of straightening up unsorted piles and organizing a bit. I stopped her and told her what I wanted more than anything was to play with the kids while I left the house alone for the last time ever. She understood.
I don't have any non-PJ pants at the moment, so I went to try on jeans. I attempted to pull on a couple pairs, when I realized that what I really needed was a gym membership. I left the shop, drove straight to the closest gym with a daycare, and joined. I didn't hesitate to toss significant change at the personal training program. I start with a trainer on Tuesday and I fervently hope Boy won't get uninvited from their kids' center.
In an effort to squeeze as much as I could out of my mom's last couple hours in Colorado, I took the dog on a run this morning. Well, I ran, Dali trotted along like it was nothing, which was sort of insulting but no matter. My first conclusion is: where have all the oxygens gone? It's like some oxygen-stealing goblin flies around and steals alllll of the molecules and brings them to sea level, because there sure as hell aren't any left here.
To be fair, Estonia is essentially sea level. Exhibit A: there is no word to distinguish a hill from a mountain (both are "mägi"), as there aren't any of the latter and there are hardly any of the former. Exhibit B: Big Egg Mountain isn't. And when I ran (read: plodded) along the Gulf of Finland, passing a friend who had come out to clap for me, around mile 8 of my half marathon, I declared that the whole experience was worse than childbirth and whatever my body was doing at that moment, it was certainly not efficiently processing oxygen.
This is all to say, maybe it's me. Although it's also definitely the altitude. But it's really mostly me. For all the many commitments and contracts and purchases of the past few days, this is the one I'm most excited about: a little mom time, some great exercise, and hopefully more than a little self-confidence. Despite the perks of working motherhood (salary, adult time, you can sit down occasionally, I don't carry anyone at the office), fitness was the one thing I constantly sacrificed. I was gone from the house more than ten hours of the day and when I was home I was cooking, cleaning, reading stories, etc. The idea that I would take an hour of what time I had left and exercise just seemed, well, exhausting. I needed it, and I should have done it, but here we are. A fresh start.
Yesterday was my mom's last day in town. In the afternoon, she started doing her typical mom thing of straightening up unsorted piles and organizing a bit. I stopped her and told her what I wanted more than anything was to play with the kids while I left the house alone for the last time ever. She understood.
I don't have any non-PJ pants at the moment, so I went to try on jeans. I attempted to pull on a couple pairs, when I realized that what I really needed was a gym membership. I left the shop, drove straight to the closest gym with a daycare, and joined. I didn't hesitate to toss significant change at the personal training program. I start with a trainer on Tuesday and I fervently hope Boy won't get uninvited from their kids' center.
In an effort to squeeze as much as I could out of my mom's last couple hours in Colorado, I took the dog on a run this morning. Well, I ran, Dali trotted along like it was nothing, which was sort of insulting but no matter. My first conclusion is: where have all the oxygens gone? It's like some oxygen-stealing goblin flies around and steals alllll of the molecules and brings them to sea level, because there sure as hell aren't any left here.
To be fair, Estonia is essentially sea level. Exhibit A: there is no word to distinguish a hill from a mountain (both are "mägi"), as there aren't any of the latter and there are hardly any of the former. Exhibit B: Big Egg Mountain isn't. And when I ran (read: plodded) along the Gulf of Finland, passing a friend who had come out to clap for me, around mile 8 of my half marathon, I declared that the whole experience was worse than childbirth and whatever my body was doing at that moment, it was certainly not efficiently processing oxygen.
This is all to say, maybe it's me. Although it's also definitely the altitude. But it's really mostly me. For all the many commitments and contracts and purchases of the past few days, this is the one I'm most excited about: a little mom time, some great exercise, and hopefully more than a little self-confidence. Despite the perks of working motherhood (salary, adult time, you can sit down occasionally, I don't carry anyone at the office), fitness was the one thing I constantly sacrificed. I was gone from the house more than ten hours of the day and when I was home I was cooking, cleaning, reading stories, etc. The idea that I would take an hour of what time I had left and exercise just seemed, well, exhausting. I needed it, and I should have done it, but here we are. A fresh start.
Monday, December 31, 2012
An Accounting of 2012
The personal ledger:
Three trips to America.
One breast cancer scare.
One surgery (see above).
One non-surgical trip under general (Boy's tube removal).
Somehow only one trip to another foreign country (unheard of, really--2011 saw 5 in four short months).
Two hospitalizations (one for Boy and one for Girl).
Two teacher conferences.
Five sessions with a behavioral therapist.
About a million question marks.
Twelve resolutions. Let's see how I did, shall we?
1. Sleep at least one night a week. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.
2. Have a tough conversation or twenty. Ugh. Still hate to disappoint people and internalize every conflict. Yea for me!
3. Learn to garden. Um, no.
4. And then I will can it. Canning equipment still unopened.
5. Spend more date nights humoring my husband. What date nights? I have watched more of his movies when we hang out at home, I think. He will probably disagree.
6. Make academic goals for Boy. Yes, but turns out book-learning ain't the problem. Except in the way that it is. More on that later.
7. The dreaded baby books. HAHAHAHAHAHA.
8. Spend more time moving, and less time sitting. Well, I ran three races, including a half marathon. I was a no show for two others. Somehow I have ended the year a few pounds heavier than when I started, but I largely blame earlier snow and ice and a very festive series of holiday/birthday celebrations.
9. Make a financial plan and stick to it. Mostly.
10. Read more from our bookshelf. Well, not really, BUT I did read more on Kindle and I've indulged in more previously-unread classics (also via Kindle). Bookshelf still untouched.
11. Be a better emailer. HAHAHAHAHA.
12. Celebrate milestones on time. Hmmm. No.
So that's what, a 2.5 out of 12?
I'll post renewed optimism tomorrow. For tonight, Husband and I have already opened a bottle of bubbly, as we know we won't make it to midnight. Last year we were hanging with Digger and the Mrs. This year it's just the four of us.
Head vana aasta lõppu, as the Estonians say! We'll cover the uut aasta tomorrow. Until then, I hope you are ending your 2012 wiser, healthier, and happier than when it started and even if you aren't, there's a fresh start tomorrow. Drink a lot, don't drive, have fun, and see you in 2013.
Three trips to America.
One breast cancer scare.
One surgery (see above).
One non-surgical trip under general (Boy's tube removal).
Somehow only one trip to another foreign country (unheard of, really--2011 saw 5 in four short months).
Two hospitalizations (one for Boy and one for Girl).
Two teacher conferences.
Five sessions with a behavioral therapist.
About a million question marks.
Twelve resolutions. Let's see how I did, shall we?
1. Sleep at least one night a week. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.
2. Have a tough conversation or twenty. Ugh. Still hate to disappoint people and internalize every conflict. Yea for me!
3. Learn to garden. Um, no.
4. And then I will can it. Canning equipment still unopened.
5. Spend more date nights humoring my husband. What date nights? I have watched more of his movies when we hang out at home, I think. He will probably disagree.
6. Make academic goals for Boy. Yes, but turns out book-learning ain't the problem. Except in the way that it is. More on that later.
7. The dreaded baby books. HAHAHAHAHAHA.
8. Spend more time moving, and less time sitting. Well, I ran three races, including a half marathon. I was a no show for two others. Somehow I have ended the year a few pounds heavier than when I started, but I largely blame earlier snow and ice and a very festive series of holiday/birthday celebrations.
9. Make a financial plan and stick to it. Mostly.
10. Read more from our bookshelf. Well, not really, BUT I did read more on Kindle and I've indulged in more previously-unread classics (also via Kindle). Bookshelf still untouched.
11. Be a better emailer. HAHAHAHAHA.
12. Celebrate milestones on time. Hmmm. No.
So that's what, a 2.5 out of 12?
I'll post renewed optimism tomorrow. For tonight, Husband and I have already opened a bottle of bubbly, as we know we won't make it to midnight. Last year we were hanging with Digger and the Mrs. This year it's just the four of us.
Head vana aasta lõppu, as the Estonians say! We'll cover the uut aasta tomorrow. Until then, I hope you are ending your 2012 wiser, healthier, and happier than when it started and even if you aren't, there's a fresh start tomorrow. Drink a lot, don't drive, have fun, and see you in 2013.
Sunday, October 14, 2012
Hygiene: A Decision Tree
Before I had kids, my morning routine involved my staring into my closet, wondering which pair of adorable heels I'd wear with my adorable size 4 ensemble. All while yawning, because I had only squeezed out 8 hours of sleep.
I hate that person. And I hate that she ever thought she was fat and that her shoe options were inadequate. She sucks.
Parenthood changed everything. Now I search for the clothes that are the least wrinkly and go together kinda while matching them with the flats I can a) find and (only if I find multiple pairs--not a given, I should add) b) don't have obvious holes. When my SAHM friends imagine out loud how nice it would be to do their hair and makeup everyday, I wonder right along with them. What must that be like? I've forgotten.
Here's my shower decision tree:
I'd present my wardrobe decision tree, but it's straightforward: Clean Enough Dress + Clean Tights + Clean Enough Cardigan or Blazer = Everyone Should Be Happy I Didn't Show Up in Pajamas. I attempted for a while to manage a nice stock of suits, but that was way too much Dry Clean Only to ever work, so I stick with dresses + another layer to cover tattoos/turn it work-y. Plus, it played nicely into my patented screed on why suits are another tool of the patriarchy to keep us chicks down (entitled, "Why Do I Have to Dress Like a Man to Be Taken Seriously?" or, when I'm being honest, "I Just Really Don't Like Suits, Okay?").
No matter what I put on, it will end up with child smudged on it before I walk out the door. What exactly "child" is is almost always a mystery.
But seriously, Patriarchy, did you know that the Estonian word for a woman's suit is "kostüüm"?
I hate that person. And I hate that she ever thought she was fat and that her shoe options were inadequate. She sucks.
Parenthood changed everything. Now I search for the clothes that are the least wrinkly and go together kinda while matching them with the flats I can a) find and (only if I find multiple pairs--not a given, I should add) b) don't have obvious holes. When my SAHM friends imagine out loud how nice it would be to do their hair and makeup everyday, I wonder right along with them. What must that be like? I've forgotten.
Here's my shower decision tree:
I'd present my wardrobe decision tree, but it's straightforward: Clean Enough Dress + Clean Tights + Clean Enough Cardigan or Blazer = Everyone Should Be Happy I Didn't Show Up in Pajamas. I attempted for a while to manage a nice stock of suits, but that was way too much Dry Clean Only to ever work, so I stick with dresses + another layer to cover tattoos/turn it work-y. Plus, it played nicely into my patented screed on why suits are another tool of the patriarchy to keep us chicks down (entitled, "Why Do I Have to Dress Like a Man to Be Taken Seriously?" or, when I'm being honest, "I Just Really Don't Like Suits, Okay?").
No matter what I put on, it will end up with child smudged on it before I walk out the door. What exactly "child" is is almost always a mystery.
But seriously, Patriarchy, did you know that the Estonian word for a woman's suit is "kostüüm"?
Monday, July 23, 2012
Sluggy Diversions
There's too much awfulness in the world. I can't write about it. Not about Colorado (fires or shootings--take your pick!), not about Syria, and certainly not about the presidential campaigns. So instead I will write about
GIANT MONSTER ESTONIAN SLUGS.
And I will type that in caps every single time.
Wait, bigger:
GIANT MONSTER ESTONIAN SLUGS
I was plodding along on my recovery run today (did I mention I'm training for my first ever half-marathon? I am), and because it's damp (as always) and the light was starting to dim (it was 10:00 p.m.), I took great care to leap over the many many snails that peppered the wet concrete. Snails are okay--they are slimy like slugs, but as long as I don't have to touch one I don't mind them. They politely have a house on their backs to obscure much of their yuckiness, and I appreciate that gesture. Unfortunately, they do make an awful crunch when you step on them and send you into a guilt-spiral in which you contemplate the Snail as Man and Runner as God arbitrariness of it before your Beastie Boys track snaps you back to your task at hand. (I said Beastie Boys because I want you to think I only listen to cool things on my runs. It could be Beastie Boys, but if I'm honest it could just as likely be Nicki Minaj.)
I avoid the snails. To do so, my eyes stay pretty trained on the ground in front of me, just a few feet out. As I was running tonight, my mind when something like this:
Starships are meant to fly-y-y-y.
SNAIL SNAIL STICK SNAIL
Hands up and touch the sky-y-y-y.
SNAIL ROCK SNAIL CHUNKY STICK
But wait! That was no chunky stick. That was a giant monster Estonian slug.
A GIANT MONSTER ESTONIAN SLUG
I never stop when I'm running because my body loves it some inertia. If I stop, I can't convince it to seriously get going again. But I was horrified at what could have been--the splat would have been unbelievable--and believed that Husband needed a picture of this thing immediately.
I tried to use my finger for scale, but I was too squeamish to risk touching the GIANT MONSTER ESTONIAN SLUG, so please keep in mind that my finger is about three inches from my phone and another three inches from the GIANT MONSTER ESTONIAN SLUG. To do this thing justice you have to keep the perspective in perspective. I'd say it was easily twice as thick as my finger and about four inches long.
Well, when I look at it now I think this picture doesn't quite convey the gawdawfulness of it. Such giant slugs in such a tiny country! Estonia is 55% forest and 35% slugs! That does not leave a lot of space for the people.
I'm aware the folks in the tropics scoff at my GIANT MONSTER ESTONIAN SLUG. Granted, it is not a stick insect the size of my arm, but it is a helluva lot slimier so that must count for something. The ick factor of a slug is pretty much unparalleled.
And since I know you are wondering, yes the rest of my run fizzled out. It was okay, though, because I was tired of breaking in my seriously tight compression pants and had to send out urgent text messages re: slugs.
Totally worth it.
GIANT MONSTER ESTONIAN SLUGS.
And I will type that in caps every single time.
Wait, bigger:
GIANT MONSTER ESTONIAN SLUGS
I was plodding along on my recovery run today (did I mention I'm training for my first ever half-marathon? I am), and because it's damp (as always) and the light was starting to dim (it was 10:00 p.m.), I took great care to leap over the many many snails that peppered the wet concrete. Snails are okay--they are slimy like slugs, but as long as I don't have to touch one I don't mind them. They politely have a house on their backs to obscure much of their yuckiness, and I appreciate that gesture. Unfortunately, they do make an awful crunch when you step on them and send you into a guilt-spiral in which you contemplate the Snail as Man and Runner as God arbitrariness of it before your Beastie Boys track snaps you back to your task at hand. (I said Beastie Boys because I want you to think I only listen to cool things on my runs. It could be Beastie Boys, but if I'm honest it could just as likely be Nicki Minaj.)
I avoid the snails. To do so, my eyes stay pretty trained on the ground in front of me, just a few feet out. As I was running tonight, my mind when something like this:
Starships are meant to fly-y-y-y.
SNAIL SNAIL STICK SNAIL
Hands up and touch the sky-y-y-y.
SNAIL ROCK SNAIL CHUNKY STICK
But wait! That was no chunky stick. That was a giant monster Estonian slug.
A GIANT MONSTER ESTONIAN SLUG
I never stop when I'm running because my body loves it some inertia. If I stop, I can't convince it to seriously get going again. But I was horrified at what could have been--the splat would have been unbelievable--and believed that Husband needed a picture of this thing immediately.
I tried to use my finger for scale, but I was too squeamish to risk touching the GIANT MONSTER ESTONIAN SLUG, so please keep in mind that my finger is about three inches from my phone and another three inches from the GIANT MONSTER ESTONIAN SLUG. To do this thing justice you have to keep the perspective in perspective. I'd say it was easily twice as thick as my finger and about four inches long.
 |
| GIANT MONSTER ESTONIAN SLUG |
Well, when I look at it now I think this picture doesn't quite convey the gawdawfulness of it. Such giant slugs in such a tiny country! Estonia is 55% forest and 35% slugs! That does not leave a lot of space for the people.
I'm aware the folks in the tropics scoff at my GIANT MONSTER ESTONIAN SLUG. Granted, it is not a stick insect the size of my arm, but it is a helluva lot slimier so that must count for something. The ick factor of a slug is pretty much unparalleled.
And since I know you are wondering, yes the rest of my run fizzled out. It was okay, though, because I was tired of breaking in my seriously tight compression pants and had to send out urgent text messages re: slugs.
Totally worth it.
Saturday, June 2, 2012
Tattoos for Bureaucrats
Behold:
Tattoo the Second. Unlike the elephant, this took more planning than walking by a tattoo shop and asking if they would, say, tattoo me.
About three months ago, I proclaimed over a lunchtime beer to a very tattooed friend and colleague that I too was a parent and a diplomat and I too wanted to have a secret that was awesome. Perfect, he said, I am finally getting my Estonian tattoo. You should come with me.
Wheee! I thought. This would solve so many problems. 1) He knew what he was talking about. 2) He had scouted the perfect local artist already. 3) I'd see how it works. 4) I'd score an intro to said perfect local artist.
I suffer from a chronic case of the Uncools. I want to be cool, I respect cool, but I walk in and just giggle my way through an obviously novice attempt at securing the cool. And by cool I mean the confidence in which one makes choices that make her happy without seeking the approval of others. When I first bought premium denim (pre-baby, naturally), I steeled myself for the experience by endlessly insulting my non-coolness on the way to the store. Don't screw this up. Don't let them know you are uncool. Don't act like you're cool because they'll know you aren't. Get in, get out. Do no harm! And I totally botched it. I acted like I was just awesomely prepared for this experience and look how great I look in denim that is premium! Doesn't premium denim just make it all better. Some people don't want to spend the money on premium denim, but I do! Let me in to your premium club. I am worthy!
This panic attack was largely brought on by the fact that I was not only aware of my general lack of coolness, but a recent newspaper article revealed that the owner of the place was known to turn people away who just weren't ready. He didn't turn me away, and after that trip I actually learned to shop there as a normal human being who was just, you know, shopping. But that first trip was terrifying.
This time I got to sit on a couch while my friend got tattoo number a million. Over dinner that night, he explained why the tattoo artist was so good and why he had picked him. I walked away with the shop's card.
Husband was totally behind me on this. Yea him!
I had been pinning tattoos I liked on Pinterest, but I needed to send the artist a number of photos and an explanation in my simplest English of what exactly I wanted. In no way was I going to try this in Estonian.
After a lot of consultation with the Home Team (Husband and Nanny), I sent about five photos of tattoos and other things, and explained which parts I like from each. I nervously awaited a sketch, and when it showed up, I thought for sure I would have to send back an email asking him to adjust some things as I wasn't even quite sure how I envisioned the final product. He was expecting that email as part of the whole process: I explain what I want, he sketches, I ask for changes, he tweaks, we agree, he sets an appointment and a ballpark quote. But when I opened his email, all I could think was:
NAILED IT.
As in no changes. Just add color.
Today, two months after our initial meeting, Husband accompanied me for my big day. I had my little elephant--one color, twenty minutes--but this was bigger. This was entirely custom and was going to take up to 3 hours.
The first 90 minutes didn't hurt, really. Not more than a slight scraping feeling. Once he started doing the color, my skin got a little angry, and the flower on my shoulder was quite uncomfortable, but at no point did I grit my teeth or hold my breath. I wish I had been so zen through childbirth. Two and a half hours later I could not wipe the stupid grin off my face. All the preparation in the world couldn't help me handle that moment coolly. I was just too thrilled with the final product.
So were the children, of course. Boy poked my arm (still bandaged, thank goodness) and declared it hot. It was hot. That was some seriously annoyed skin. Girl squealed "Bod!" (bird) and poked one of the birds. Poking, turns out, is not comfortable.
And as for the tattoo shop. Yes, the artist is very cool. He is quite confident in his choices and his appearance (which is rad: mohawk, piercings, tattoos, etc.). Turns out, he too is a parent of a small child for whom vacation is more work than just staying home and going to work.
I have at least two more planned, both of which could be hidden away when the time calls for it (read: work). It is truly an addictive experience: the sounds, the vibrating needles, the slight pain, the finished product. For those who ask the question that had always stopped me from getting a tattoo before, the answer is simple: when I'm old, I don't anticipate being a supermodel anyway. Might as well conceal those wrinkles and liver spots with some beautiful ink.
Happy Tattooing to all those who are taking a similar leap soon. I highly recommend doing so.
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
Fate Successfully Tempted
What was I saying just the other day? Something along the lines of another hospitalization would derail this crazy train we are on?
This is Boy, on Night One of his hospitalization:
This is Boy, on Night One of his hospitalization:
His father is with him on Night Two. I have got to stop tempting fate.
I shall back up. As I've mentioned, I was in Stockholm for the last half of the previous week. Stockholm is really amazing and when our conference ended a bit early on Friday afternoon, I had at least seven hours of awake alone time left. Perfect time to acquire one of the many tattoos I am planning.
*Brakes screeching*
Yes, yes, this thirty year old married mother of two with a respectable job is working on tattoos. I am looking forward to nothing as little as I am looking forward to telling my father. But that's for later.
I emailed a few Stockholm shops, but they were booked. Luckily, one took walk-ins on Friday and had a solid reputation. Come back at 8. And so I did.
Behold, my first tattoo, an elephant for my Girl:
Normally my t-shirt covers most of it, just leaving the face poking out, but I pulled it aside for you fine folks. I very deliberately faced it that way, so that I wouldn't end up risking just an elephant ass sticking out of my neckline. Easy to cover for work, quite small, very cute: I love it.
Despite Girl grabbing at it as soon as I arrived back in Tallinn on Saturday, I've managed to keep it very clean as it heals. I was anticipating wearing a suit on a work trip to Haapsalu on Tuesday, but picked out a soft cotton top that wouldn't irritate it. When Boy dumped an entire container of fish food in the tank and Husband and I set out on an emergency tank-cleaning mission, I carefully avoided splashing fish-poopy water on it.
When Boy woke up that night crying and spiking a high fever, I stopped worrying about it.
His symptoms were such that we nursed him through the night and Husband took him into the Children's Hospital on Monday morning, where he was immediately admitted. I visited at lunch, but I had visa appointments in both the morning and afternoon, and thus was a bit tethered to the office. Nothing makes you feel like a horrible mother with misplaced priorities more than that type of situation. To be clear: if the doctors indicated that anything were a dire emergency, then I'd be the first to forget everything else and get to the hospital. But they didn't, so I was doing the best I could. I ditched everything when Girl was in the hospital, but I had backup then and, if I'm honest, a 14 month old needs her mother even more than a preschooler does at times.
I feel like a jerk even typing that sentence. You know what I mean. Husband was locking it down.
I switched with Husband yesterday evening so that I could spend the night with Boy. I stayed there today so Husband could go to work, and we are doing the reverse for tonight and tomorrow. I canceled my trip to Haapsalu, or rather foisted it on someone else. It had been long planned and kind people were going out of their way to welcome the U.S. Embassy. If my son hadn't been in the hospital, I would have been horribly disappointed to miss it. Alas, these crises never happen at a good time.
Today, as Boy regained much of his normal verve, I lolled about on the hospital bed, playing jets and lizards and whatever else he requested. At some point, it occurred to me that the worst place to have a fresh tattoo still in the healing process was a hospital, the land of MRSA. I suddenly became an insufferable Felix to Boy's fairly disgusting Oscar (a role reversal, as in all other circumstances he's the particular one). I'd squeal and wave my hands defensively if he sent a blanket my way. I washed my hands twice every time I ventured in the bathroom for whatever reason. My jacket hanging on the coat rack became suspect, as did the straps of the bags I had brought with me.
My tattoo hasn't erupted with flesh-devouring anything. Yet. It's a good reminder to be cautious, though, and as Girl sleeps upstairs and Husband tries to convince Boy to settle in for another night of fitful sleep, tethered to an IV pole, I am shopping online for a few cheap long sleeve t-shirts, preparing a thin layer of protection for round 2.
Boy will come home tomorrow, with any luck. Never fear, if he weren't faring well this would have been a very different post.
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
Home Improvement
Jill over at Baby Rabies has thrown down the New Year's Resolution gauntlet, encouraging her fellow bloggers (of which I am barely one) to come up with 12 resolutions for 2012. Digger over at Life After Jerusalem noted she doesn't make resolutions, she makes (and meets or fails to meet) goals. I usually don't make real resolutions, because the second I do I start feeling preemptively guilty for not fulfilling them. I never fulfill them. Buuut....it's hard to reach a goal if you never set it, so I might as well. Putting them on the internets will help keep me honest.
1. Sleep at least one night a week. Meaning: kids go down, I shower, brush my teeth, read a bit and turn off the light by 9 at the latest. I depend way too much on coffee as things are now.
2. Have a tough conversation or twenty. I hate conflict and I hate disappointing people. I manage to make and enforce immigration and nationality decisions with applicants, but in all other things I need to grow a backbone.
3. Learn to garden. My stepmom generously gave me a bunch of both functional and adorable gardening gear. We have a large yard with berries and apple trees, and plenty of space to grow a few tomatoes and some other useful produce.
4. And then I will can it. I will make and stock salsa, tomato sauce, etc. You just cannot buy edible salsa here.
5. Spend more date nights humoring my husband. Or, even better, just have more date nights. Nanny returns to the U.S. this summer, and we'll miss having a readily available babysitter in the evenings. While I'll never be able to stomach much violence, I need to accompany Husband to his movies and his restaurants of choice more often. It'll make him happy. I will not, however, start watching Terra Nova.
[Pause...12 is a higher number than I thought it was.]
Um...
Yes! Okay, I've got it.
6. Make academic goals for Boy. He's in preschool, but not in a very academic environment. He's not really learning anything new, even though the social practice is priceless. I want to ensure that he is challenged and interested. He's a smart kid with a lot of questions in his little brain and I don't want to squander that.
7. The dreaded baby books. In Boy's case, started and abandoned. In Girl's case, entirely theoretical. This must change before they hit middle school.
8. Spend more time moving, and less time sitting. We have a Wii and, thanks to Grammy, now an Xbox. I have no shortage of exercise options right on my very own TV. I really have no excuse.
9. Make a financial plan and stick to it. We save for retirement and college. We pay our taxes and Nanny's salary. That's all well and good, but we are hoping to make some significant changes after Tallinn and that will require significant preparation.
10. Read more from our bookshelf. We have a lot of books, just billions, and I haven't read many of them and I've forgotten several that I have read.
11. Be a better emailer. I like living in Estonia, but I desperately miss my friends. My life is the same: kids, work, kids. Plus I have the Facepage and this trusty blog to keep them updated on all things mundane and fantastic. That's great, but I want to hear about them, which means ditching the mass messaging now and then and just typing out an old-fashioned email. I'd write letters, but considering my mom's Christmas presents are still in a box in my sewing room, I wouldn't hold my breath on getting those out the door. Speaking of...
12. Celebrate milestones on time. Mail those gifts a month in advance, actually send a card, order the right thing two weeks before. I miss a lot of big events and even more little ones. I want to be able to celebrate in this little way.
That's it, my thoroughly unexciting resolution list. What can I say? I'm thirty and in many ways I peaked long ago. Skydive? Check. Travel? Check and, well, that's our entire lives. Can applesauce? Hasn't happened.
1. Sleep at least one night a week. Meaning: kids go down, I shower, brush my teeth, read a bit and turn off the light by 9 at the latest. I depend way too much on coffee as things are now.
2. Have a tough conversation or twenty. I hate conflict and I hate disappointing people. I manage to make and enforce immigration and nationality decisions with applicants, but in all other things I need to grow a backbone.
3. Learn to garden. My stepmom generously gave me a bunch of both functional and adorable gardening gear. We have a large yard with berries and apple trees, and plenty of space to grow a few tomatoes and some other useful produce.
4. And then I will can it. I will make and stock salsa, tomato sauce, etc. You just cannot buy edible salsa here.
5. Spend more date nights humoring my husband. Or, even better, just have more date nights. Nanny returns to the U.S. this summer, and we'll miss having a readily available babysitter in the evenings. While I'll never be able to stomach much violence, I need to accompany Husband to his movies and his restaurants of choice more often. It'll make him happy. I will not, however, start watching Terra Nova.
[Pause...12 is a higher number than I thought it was.]
Um...
Yes! Okay, I've got it.
6. Make academic goals for Boy. He's in preschool, but not in a very academic environment. He's not really learning anything new, even though the social practice is priceless. I want to ensure that he is challenged and interested. He's a smart kid with a lot of questions in his little brain and I don't want to squander that.
7. The dreaded baby books. In Boy's case, started and abandoned. In Girl's case, entirely theoretical. This must change before they hit middle school.
8. Spend more time moving, and less time sitting. We have a Wii and, thanks to Grammy, now an Xbox. I have no shortage of exercise options right on my very own TV. I really have no excuse.
9. Make a financial plan and stick to it. We save for retirement and college. We pay our taxes and Nanny's salary. That's all well and good, but we are hoping to make some significant changes after Tallinn and that will require significant preparation.
10. Read more from our bookshelf. We have a lot of books, just billions, and I haven't read many of them and I've forgotten several that I have read.
11. Be a better emailer. I like living in Estonia, but I desperately miss my friends. My life is the same: kids, work, kids. Plus I have the Facepage and this trusty blog to keep them updated on all things mundane and fantastic. That's great, but I want to hear about them, which means ditching the mass messaging now and then and just typing out an old-fashioned email. I'd write letters, but considering my mom's Christmas presents are still in a box in my sewing room, I wouldn't hold my breath on getting those out the door. Speaking of...
12. Celebrate milestones on time. Mail those gifts a month in advance, actually send a card, order the right thing two weeks before. I miss a lot of big events and even more little ones. I want to be able to celebrate in this little way.
That's it, my thoroughly unexciting resolution list. What can I say? I'm thirty and in many ways I peaked long ago. Skydive? Check. Travel? Check and, well, that's our entire lives. Can applesauce? Hasn't happened.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night
Never fear, my faithful reader! I have not given up on blogging. No, quite the contrary: I've been amassing blogging material. You have the following ruminations to look forward to:
1) Three year olds! What is with them?
2) Husband makes a wearable space shuttle; I make an infant-sized Harry Potter costume.
3) Pinterest gets me cooking again.
4) Gilad Shalit, the angst of a mother, and the Second Lebanon War. Maybe. I haven't decided if there's a good way to go there or not.
But for now, I will share with you what I did on Saturday night, in a great fit of not being able to stand looking tired and older than I am. The culprit couldn't possibly be the short nights of constantly interrupted sleep. No! It's the damned gray hairs. I have had more than one person announce unbidden in the past few months that he loves all my gray hair. Husband was not one of those people. Husband simply comments that I have a growing number of them. Actually, I should say had. Yes, I who have only had highlights twice--both times more or less abject failures--decided that a proper Saturday night involved wine, spicy chocolate, and a box of hair dye whose instructions were in Estonian. Note that this was not a subject area covered in my ten months of Estonian training or the final test. I made Nanny help me, assuring her that in no way would I hold her personally responsible for the results.
The results were good. My attempts to get a picture of them were not. I have a fancy DSLR camera, the fine piece of machinery that takes anything good on here. But it's at least three feet away from me and requires uploading. Dealbreaker. I used the built-in camera in my laptop.
On the first night, with my hair freshly blown out, the tired eyes and poor lighting resulted in this unsatisfying picture:
So I here I am, fanning out my hair to capture the reddish brown color while pointing my desk light at it:
This is an important rite of passage for me: the first box of hair dye in what will certainly be twenty years filled with boxes of hair dye. A husband, two kids, a career, and a five euro tube of hair color. Apparently I'm an adult, but I didn't know until that last one.
*But my necklace is adorable! Thanks to a helpful post by Jill at Baby Rabies, I ordered this custom peridot and blue topaz necklace and stackable rings from Olive Bungalow. Great mommy jewelry.
1) Three year olds! What is with them?
2) Husband makes a wearable space shuttle; I make an infant-sized Harry Potter costume.
3) Pinterest gets me cooking again.
4) Gilad Shalit, the angst of a mother, and the Second Lebanon War. Maybe. I haven't decided if there's a good way to go there or not.
But for now, I will share with you what I did on Saturday night, in a great fit of not being able to stand looking tired and older than I am. The culprit couldn't possibly be the short nights of constantly interrupted sleep. No! It's the damned gray hairs. I have had more than one person announce unbidden in the past few months that he loves all my gray hair. Husband was not one of those people. Husband simply comments that I have a growing number of them. Actually, I should say had. Yes, I who have only had highlights twice--both times more or less abject failures--decided that a proper Saturday night involved wine, spicy chocolate, and a box of hair dye whose instructions were in Estonian. Note that this was not a subject area covered in my ten months of Estonian training or the final test. I made Nanny help me, assuring her that in no way would I hold her personally responsible for the results.
The results were good. My attempts to get a picture of them were not. I have a fancy DSLR camera, the fine piece of machinery that takes anything good on here. But it's at least three feet away from me and requires uploading. Dealbreaker. I used the built-in camera in my laptop.
On the first night, with my hair freshly blown out, the tired eyes and poor lighting resulted in this unsatisfying picture:
 |
| Oh sweetie, just go to sleep. |
So tonight I tried again, moving my head to block the light. The pictures evoke less pity for my sheer exhaustion, but completely fail to show the color:
 |
| Wait, no, on second look, I still appear exhausted.* |
So I here I am, fanning out my hair to capture the reddish brown color while pointing my desk light at it:
This is an important rite of passage for me: the first box of hair dye in what will certainly be twenty years filled with boxes of hair dye. A husband, two kids, a career, and a five euro tube of hair color. Apparently I'm an adult, but I didn't know until that last one.
*But my necklace is adorable! Thanks to a helpful post by Jill at Baby Rabies, I ordered this custom peridot and blue topaz necklace and stackable rings from Olive Bungalow. Great mommy jewelry.
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