I smell a rat.....

When my son asked for a hamster last spring, I told him no, no, and no. No rodents in the house. No way was I co-habitating with a nasty, poop-producing, salmonella-carrying, gnawing nocturnal rodent. It had taken mankind millenniums to finally get the rats out of the houses—only to reach the “modern” age where we domesticate vermin and call them pets.

But my son, Mr. A, is nothing if not persistent and persuasive, and he kept pinging us on the hamster until I thought my brain would dissolve and run out my ears. And his father, aka St. Francis of Tervuren, is as soft on animals as he is on plants. I could tell he liked the idea of a pink-tailed, beady-eyed, whisker-twitching fur ball sharing our domestic bliss.

Why me? I should have married a metrosexual—a guy who could give grooming tips, style my hair, and help me find pants that minimize my ass. What am I doing with these spider-saving, plant-loving, pro-life in all forms Greenies? Gah! I’m surprised they let me use disinfectants in the bathrooms. Their next crusade will be to save the poor defenseless E. coli and flu viruses from the Lysol! Freaks!

Seeing as the Greenies had me outnumbered, we ended up getting a hamster.  The hamster’s cedar bedding and food found its way into every room of the house, and my son’s habit of letting it run around on the carpet had me screeching, “GET THAT RODENT OFF MY RUG!” and issuing dire warnings, “You’re going to kill that hamster with kindness. Put him in his cage. NOW!”

Well my son didn’t kill that hamster with kindness, his sister did—with her big, honking, Stride Rite extra-wide foot of death.  Mr. A had been letting his hamster run around on the floor and E-Grrrl stepped on him. In an instant I had wailing, sobbing children and a shuddering rodent taking his final death gasps in my hand.  It was awful.

Where was St. Francis of Tervuren during this family tragedy? England!  Lucky me. I got to handle the dead vermin and funeral arrangements all by myself. We buried the hamster in the backyard in a metal tin lined with a doll blanket. Lots of shoulder-shaking sobs and my lame attempts to compose a Prayer on the Death of a Hamster. Mr. A made a cross out of sticks to mark the grave. The hamster had survived in our home all of three weeks—and no sooner was the dirt patted down on the grave did Mr. A request a replacement.

I dug in my heels. No, no, and no! Hamsters were too fragile to be handled by my kids. Besides “No rodents in the house!” Mr. A’s cavalier attitude toward letting his hamster run around had proved my point. Plus I was tired of sweeping up seed and bedding and cleaning everything the hamster touched.

But while I may not care about rodents, I love my son. Watching him grieve over this hamster rubbed a tender spot on my heart. St. Francis of Tervuren, that clever opportunist, wormed right into the soft spot and suggested maybe we could try again after a month or so and give Mr. A a new hamster for his birthday.

And so we did. Sigh.

To his credit, Mr. A was very careful with Lefty, cleaned his cage without fussing, and played with him every day. I still had hamster bedding and hamster shit showing up in odd places, but Mr. A was in heaven. He carried Lefty around in his sweatshirt pocket, made him toys, bathed him, gave presentations to his class and to his Scout troop on hamsters, and used his camera to take pictures of him in cute poses. For Christmas Santa brought Mr. A a new cage for Lefty.

But yesterday, Mr. A faltered. We were on our way out the door to catch a bus. I told Mr. A, who was carrying Lefty around, to put him in his cage and go get his socks on so we could scoot. Apparently, Mr. A decided to put his socks on first, put Lefty down on the bed, and then he forgot about him.

We were gone for hours and when we arrived home in the late afternoon, Mr. A went to check on Lefty. When he saw the cage was empty, crying and finger-pointing ensued, with Mr. A doing what comes naturally—trying to blame his sister. Basically I told him to shut his pie hole and start searching.

I looked downstairs while Mr. A and E-Grrrl looked upstairs. Unbeknownst to me, they were pulling apart every box in the storage room, turning the craft area upside down, tossing pillows off the bed and onto the floor, and spreading hamster food all over the floor in every room to lure Lefty out of hiding. Good Lord. When I went upstairs to insist they go to bed, I saw the damage they had done. I was up until midnight hamster hunting, sweeping up seeds, and trying to clean up the storage room.

Where was St. Francis of Tervuren during all this? Out of the freakin country, that’s where! Same place he was when Alfalfa, the first hamster, met his untimely end and when Peeper and Popper, Mr. A’s pet frogs, died of heat exhaustion in the terrarium. St Francis brings the pets into the house, but I get to carry them out feet-first and take my kids through the four-step grieving process.

So this morning I get up, and there’s still no sign of Lefty. Mr. A prefers lying on the sofa wondering where Lefty could be to actually getting off the sofa and looking for Lefty. His sleep-deprived mother is not happy. And when mama ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy. I tell him and E-Grrrl to start cleaning because their Dad is coming home tomorrow and will expect a clean house. In the process of cleaning, we should find Lefty.

E-Grrrl diligently works on her room and Mr. A sporadically searches for Lefty but does no real cleaning. He’s much better at pulling everything out of a closet, bookshelf, or cabinet and leaving it there. I toil away in his room for hours, determined to cut the clutter and get things straight. The more the kids search for Lefty, the messier the house gets. Mama ain’t happy.

Finally I send him and E-Grrrl upstairs to watch a movie so they’ll be out of my way and I can make some real progress. I’m in E-Grrrl’s room surveying the disaster that is her dresser top when I here scratching. I listen, trying to figure out where it’s coming from. I get down on all fours and look under her dresser but nothing is there.

I cock my head and listen again. Sounds like it’s coming from her trunk! How is that possible! I lift the lid on the closed trunk and get slapped in the face with the nasty rat smell. Smells like the college psychology lab. Whew. I know Lefty is in there. He had apparently climbed up the back side of the trunk and entered into it through the large air holes drilled there by the safety-conscious St. Francis of Tervuren. Those air holes are close to the trunk lid, a good two feet up. That rat is an acrobat.

I call Mr. A and tell him I’ve found Lefty. He bounds into the room with a big smile on his face and begins digging in the trunk until he sees dark beady eyes peering out at him. His whole face lights up.

Is V-Grrrl the non-Greenie, rodent-hating, spider-squishing bitch happy? Not really. She’s looking at that trunk full of linens and thinking how long it’s going to take her to wash all of them because her energy- efficient, environmentally-friendly, water-conserving European washer takes more than TWO HOURS to do a freakin load. Grrrr.

I start pulling the linens and blankets out and notice there are bits of fluff coming up with them. I get to the bottom of the trunk and see the enormous pee stain on its bottom as well as a pile of shit that couldn’t possibly have been produced by such a small animal in a 30 hour period. Sheesh. I tell Andrew to get the disinfectant because he’s removing the poop and scrubbing out that trunk himself.

But that pile of shit wasn’t the worst of it. Oh no. The worst shit is yet to come. Remember the bits of fluff? Those were from the only articles of clothing my late mother ever crocheted for me: A beautiful fringed poncho that I adored and wore all through elementary school and two two hand-crocheted children’s sweaters that I loved and that little E-Grrrl, who never met my mother, had sometimes worn.

Not only had Lefty gnawed big holes in those items, he’d also tasted a baby quilt and chewed holes in E-Grrrl’s sheets. Grrr.

My mother, Lord rest her soul, was a Greenie but had no tolerance for animals of any kind in the house. I can only imagine what she thinks of pet vermin shredding the items she’d made with love for her youngest daughter that had been passed on to her youngest granddaughter. I can hear her cursing in Italian from here.

All I can say is that Lefty better start praying. Big Lou in the Great Beyond was known for giving any creatures that violated her domain and the cleanliness of her home “the business.” I’m sure she’s taking a hit out on Lefty, and even St. Francis won’t be able to save him now. His days are numbered. He better behave. He better beg forgiveness. You don’t cross Big Lou, especially when the ground in the backyard pet cemetery will be thawing soon.

© 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

March 20, 2006

St. Patrick's Day

As I was getting dressed this morning, I put on a raspberry colored blouse and little E-Grrrl says to me, “Mama, you hafta wear green today. It’s St. Patrick’s Day.” She is wearing an apple green fleece pullover and a St. Patrick’s Day bracelet and pin she made in Brownies. Her pale blonde hair is held back with a light green and blue striped headband. She looks adorable.

Not so her mother. My face is as creased as the sheets, my puffy eyes betray the fact that I ate a bunch of pretzels yesterday, and I’m wondering if I’ll be able to button my pants. I was counting on the raspberry shirt to add life and color to the sad state of my face. But hey, it is St. Patrick’s Day and I’m meeting an expat at an Irish pub in Brussels for lunch, maybe I should wear green.

I pull out an avocado green shirt, identical to the raspberry one except for the color. Yes, I’m one of those women that buys two of everything. If something fits and I like it, I always buy two—or more. So I put on the green shirt and poke around in my jewelry box for accessories. Ah yes, I have dyed freshwater pearls that match.

I put the kids on the bus with a kiss and a have-a-good-day, come back to the house to put makeup on so that the green shirt won’t make me look ghastly, load up my Kipling bag and head into Brussels.

First stop—the Embassy. They have a small employee store there that’s like a gift shop. It carries some Belgian lace, art and crystal, Polish pottery (which many people here collect), Italian leather bags, an assortment of sweatshirts, t-shirts, and jackets, Kipling bags, toiletries, and American snack foods and condiments.

I’m not into Belgian lace, crystal, or beer. Kipling bags are my favorite Belgian product—besides chocolate. Designed and manufactured in Antwerp, Kipling produces sporty purses, wallets, backpacks, and luggage. They come in a wide assortment of colors and styles. I can’t explain why I love them so much—I just do. Sure they’re practical and lightweight, but it’s more than that. The designs please me in some inexplicable way. The shapes, the hardware, the placement of the pockets, the length of the straps, the colors, the fabrics—there’s just something about a Kipling. The Embassy had a new collection in for spring, and I couldn’t resist buying a shoulder tote that matched my shirt. Big enough to hold a sack or two  of groceries, I reasoned it could be my market bag.

I pick up an assortment of granola bars to get the kids through another week of school and then spy a jar of jalapeno pepper slices. The woman I’m meeting for lunch is originally from Texas and on her blog had mentioned her quest to find jalapenos in Brussels. Ah, this will be the perfect gift for her. I check out and have the clerk load everything into my new bag. Now I have a Kipling bag on each shoulder.

After my chiropractor appointment, I stop at a small grocery store to pick up bread, chocolate, and cherry tomatoes and then go on to O’Farrell’s at Place du Luxembourgh where I order a cup of tea and wait for Cindy to show up.

She had e-mailed me last week after reading my blog and invited me to read hers. She arrived in Brussels just a few months ago and has had many hilarious expat experiences. If she were a movie character, she’d be Bridget Jones or Lucille Ball. The best minds in Hollywood could not have imagined the scenes Cindy has lived. A product liability lawyer by training, she writes with perfect comic timing. Check out her blog at http://www.newtobrussels.blogspot.com/. Be sure to delve into the archives and don’t miss her experience in the Galleria Inno ( written in December).  This is the perfect Friday entertainment.

We had a great time at lunch filling in our back stories and sharing expat woes. Favorite moment: we'd been talking about the challenge of walking in high heels on cobblestones, and I pointed to a woman outside the restaurant doing just that--in stilettos no less. She's wearing a big floppy hat, a short skirt and coat, and dark tights with light colored shoes. She looks both fashionable and slightly wacky. She's also enviously thin. 

"Oh sure, she's a skinny bitch in skinny heels, but hey we have more personality than her!" Cindy says.

"Ah yes, that's because we have ROOM to hold all that personality!" Ha, ha, ha.

Yes we're just two  HEALTHY American grrrls and anyone who says our bodies are as chunky as the heels on our comfortable boots will be slapped down and twisted into pretzel shapes and left on the cobblestones. Grrrls with big personalities can have big muscles and big attitudes. And big mood swings? Ya never know.  We plan to meet for lunch again soon.

Have a great weekend!

Locked in, locked out, going nowhere

(To mark the one year anniversary of our arrival in Belgium, I’ve written a series of entries. The first was on how we became expats, the second detailed mishaps on our first day. Today’s entry is the third and final installment in the series.)

As we were preparing to move to Belgium , an American working for my husband’s organization here in Brussels volunteered to help us with the transition. He gathered information for us, made contacts and set up appointments for us to handle administrative tasks, checked out the apartment we were considering renting to let us know if it was OK, stocked it with some groceries before we arrived, met us at the airport, and showed us around. We arrived just a few days before he and his family left for a vacation in Russia , and he generously offered to let us use his car while he was gone.

Ah, freedom! A chance to buy groceries and not have to carry them home. The opportunity to look for a house and to venture outside our neighborhood. A way to attend events at the children’s school. We were excited.

Our first outing with the borrowed car occurred five days after our arrival. With a mix of anticipation and trepidation, we all buckled up, ready for E to tackle driving and navigating in Brussels .

The car starts up, we all smile, we’re on our way! E brings it around to the exit for the parking garage underneath our apartment building and confidently points and clicks the garage door opener--and nothing happens.

He tries again—no luck. Amid flashbacks to the day we were locked out of our apartment, we wonder what could possibly be wrong. The door opener had gotten us into the garage the day before, why couldn’t we get out?

E and I get out of the car, looking along the walls and columns for a button, a keyed lock, a latch, anything to give us a clue on how to get out of the garage. Nothing! E goes upstairs to our apartment and calls an emergency number--no response!

Back down in the basement, E backs the car up the exit ramp and re-parks it. Finally, after shuffling about, we realize power is out to a portion of the garage even while it's on in the rest of the building. E suspects a thrown circuit breaker and calls someone to check on them.

Meanwhile, we decide to load some items into the trunk of the car, which is Italian, not American. Without a thought, E puts the car key into the lock, but the trunk does not open. We’re flabbergasted. We’re starting to wonder whether we’re starring in some bizarre reality show. Our constant difficulties with locks seem too crazy to be true.

We contort ourselves into wacky positions inside the car while we hunt for a trunk release. It’s not on or under the dash, it’s not on the floor, it’s not on the steering column, it’s not next to the seat, it’s not on the driver’s side, it’s not on the passenger’s side, it’s not in the back seat. Where the hell is it?

Oh, of course, it’s INSIDE the glove box. Just where one would expect it. Not!

With relief, we push the trunk release--and nothing happens. We feel like we're experiencing a bad practical joke or the ultimate test of our patience. Why won't the trunk open? Why indeed? Well, through trial and error we finally discover you have to push the trunk release AND use a key to open the trunk.

Grrrrr. Well at least figuring out how to open the trunk kept us busy while we waited what felt like forever for someone to show up and check the electrical circuits. Eventually, we get out of the garage (applause, please!), and E manages to get us to our destination without killing anyone or being killed (take a bow!). We come home like warriors from a successful expedition, proud of all the hardships we’ve overcome in going to the library and grocery store (thump chest, raise arms in victory!).

Little did we know, our adventures with the car weren’t over. On Tuesday morning E had an appointment to meet with someone outside the Brussels area. When he went to start the car to get there, the battery was dead. He returned to the apartment and debated what to do.

He’s fairly certain that the car’s owner is a member of Touring, the European equivalent of AAA in the States. So he calls Touring, who tells him they can’t confirm whether his friend is a member or not without the car’s tag number. So E hangs up, goes all the way back down to the parking garage, writes down the tag number and calls Touring back.

Ah yes, the woman says, our friend is indeed a member. Someone will be there to help us within an hour. E, while tense about the incident, relaxes a bit. Help is on the way.

Or not, as it turns out.

No one shows up. When E calls Touring to inquire what’s up, he’s told there is no record of his service request at all. So he gives them the car tag number again to start the process over, and the person on the phone announces they have no record of this car being in the system at all. No, she tells us, our friend is NOT a member of Touring.

Grrrrr. So E combs the yellow pages and then calls a mobile car service place to see if he can get a jumpstart. Oh sure, they’ll come, but it will cost 270 euros, which is well over $300. No way! We’re not going for this! It’s just a dead battery!

As a last resort, E starts calling people on his short list of American contacts to see if anyone can come to give him a jumpstart. No one can.

Angry and frustrated, he calls to cancel his appointment out of town and grabs a bus to go to his office. I sit on the sofa and have a good cry.

That night E returns home a bit more upbeat. The next day a coworker is bringing him a battery charger. E will be able to recharge the battery and reschedule his appointment—no problem! He lugs the battery charger and a long extension cord home with him on the bus the next day, changes his clothes, and then dashes down to the parking area. I’m astounded when he reappears a few minutes later and tells me there is not ONE outlet anywhere in the entire garage.

How we kept from banging our heads on the wall at that moment is a mystery. Now we can laugh about it, but being locked out, locked in, and going nowhere was an uncomfortable metaphor for expat life during those first few months.

Trying to read signs and menus, navigate bureaucracy, understand traffic rules and patterns, locate items we needed to buy, learn how to bank, understand local customs—everything was a challenge. Yet, here we are, a year later, with the sun shining and spring valiantly trying to make an entrance. Much to our surprise, we’re firmly planted in Belgium , and despite the hardships, we are blooming.

The key to success—PATIENCE. If you're becoming an expat,  pack extra in your suitcase. 

© 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

March 16, 2006

The Secret to Lasting Relationships: Low Maintenance Women

(This week Low Maintenance Grrrl's one true love, Low Maintenance Guy, shares his secrets for finding a lasting relationship)

Many men wonder why they end up divorced and usually broke. Some men literally screw up but for many men it’s really about having poor judgment in your selection of spouses. We do a better job of picking out cars and trucks than selecting women to marry. After being married nearly 21 years, I am reaching a point where some people are asking me what’s the secret. I haven’t missed the horror of having my paycheck garnered. I have never paid child support, nor have I balanced the soccer schedules of two sets of kids. The secret is to find, identify, fall in love with, and hopefully marry a Low Maintenance woman.

Low Maintenance women--like Ford 150 trucks and Subaru wagons--are everywhere. They are attractive, functional, and come equipped with many optional features that both improve their virtue and value as they age. I have owned both, the trucks and the wagons. I have been in a long-term lease arrangement with my Low Maintenance wife that has lasted longer than the truck and the wagon. They all require good fuel, care, and occasional romps in the outdoors. How do you find them?

Find friends, both male and female, who enjoy the same activities as you do. Most friends have sisters. You glean the benefit of seeing a broader spread of the family’s branches.

Coaching a kid’s soccer team is a good strategy for meeting Low Maintenance women. Any woman who braves the cold and rain to watch her nephews and nieces play soccer has good qualities. She won’t likely bellyache when she later comes out to watch you play soccer or rugby yourself. She’ll likely already have a small cooler too, which can easily accommodate cold beer as well a juice boxes.

Going to church will usually bring you rewards both spiritual and new female friends. If you’re Catholic, a single man and attend Mass alone reasonably well dressed, it won’t take long before the Italian/Irish/Latina grandma radar picks you up as a decent candidate for introduction.

How do you know a woman is more on the high side in the Maintenance question? The clue is to check and examine what she enjoys for fun. Closets and wallets are good clue sources. How you sneak a reconnaissance of both is trickier.

Closets… Footwear is also a good barometer of maintenance levels. Hiking boots, waders, and running shoes, particularly if they are well worn, are good omens. Mud on the soles is a good sign. If you see anything that resembles equestrian interests take particular care. English style riding boots and crops are bad news, but not for the reasons you can fantasize about. Packer-style Western boots, the kind with the little fringy-thingy are OK. Any more than a dozen pairs of any kind of shoes should be a warning sign, particularly if they are still in the box. Flannel, fleece, and Gore-Tex are good signs.

Wallets… department store credit cards, except perhaps Sears and REI, are a toxic sign. Anything…receipts, credit cards, or gift certificates having the name Nordstrom printed on it is a sign that your love should land elsewhere. Sure my wife has a Home Depot problem, but nearly everything bought there…paint, crown molding, and cabinets have added value to my net worth not detracted from it.

What kind of pets does she have? Sure Julie Newmar was hot, but avoid cat women. Like cats, they have an overly high opinion of their looks and are not really capable of domestication.

Dog owners make better wives. Their breed preferences are good indicators of personality and maintenance levels. Labradors, golden retrievers, and spaniels are loving and low key. They are generally loyal and friendly; who don’t mind getting a little dirty and playing in the water-a good quality in wives too. Small yappy dogs usually mean a woman has the same vocal qualities. Avoid any woman who has a dog that can fit in an airline carry-on.

Not all sporting breeds are good either. Just as a big, hardheaded and stubborn Chesapeake retriever can be absolute disaster in a duck boat so can a wife of similar temperament and disposition. Or as my former boss once told me, ”Never marry or date a woman that can take you.”

Low Maintenance Guy, a former Marine, is a rugby player and coach, an outdoor enthusiast, and a middle school teacher. He loves to cook, can drink giant Belgian beers, and he tells a great story . Low Maintenance Grrrl has joined him on many memorable adventures involving hyp0thermia, blisters, and endurance.  Still crazy after all these years. ;  )

OK, V-Guys, tell me what you think? Is Low Maintenance Guy onto something here?  V-Grrrl

March

In the American South, March is like a soap opera romance, full of high drama and improbable outcomes. March teases with its temperatures, sultry and welcoming one day, bitter and chill the next, each change marked by gothic winds, roiling clouds, and eye-popping slashes of lightning.

If we dare to embrace the unseasonably warm weather, we're slapped down in short order. Late in the evening the mood will alter, the branches will bend and whip, the thunder crash, and the rain beat violently on the roof. March is known for snapping the heads off of budding trees and giving  the world the cold shoulder, and yet the presentation of brightly colored daffodils and redbuds makes us forgive and forget.  March has us wrapped around its finger; we praise its charms as soon as the mercury rises.

March, after all,  is a diva that thrives on its attention-getting contrasts. Its warm days feel warmer and are welcomed more than any in the year, and its cold is unexpectedly cutting and cruel. In the South, March loves its power to enchant and disappoint, to draw us out and force us to retreat, to always have us at its beck and call.

Here in Belgium, March is less a mercurial bitch and more an obstinate bully, territorial and unflinching, refusing to give up an inch of winter until the equinox insists on it. The sun may shine early and linger later and the skies turn pastel and lovely, but the temperatures refuse to budge, hovering in the 30s and only occasionally touching 40.

The weather is engaged in an interesting tug of war between cloudy and bright, windy and calm, raining or not. Snow flurries swirl around the budding trees and blooming crocuses which refuse to be manipulated by March’s brutish indifference. They ignore all the bad behavior and drama unfolding around them and focus on the task at hand.

Indeed, March teaches us to keep our balance, to cling to hopefulness, to refuse to be trampled by the violent forces in the world. We may shudder and shiver, but we won’t disappear. Like the perennials in the garden, we’re determined to come back and bloom.

Copyright 2006  Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

March 14, 2006

The Tao of Laundry

Dedicated to Granola Grrrl 

Gentle Readers, this is not for those who brag they can take things from hamper to hanger in half a day but for those who linger on the journey from Unclean to Enwhitenment.

Now, in a perfect world, all dirty clothes would begin their journey in the hamper. But, as we know, the world is full of Suffering and only half the dirty clothes are in the hamper. Only you can decide if the hamper is half empty or half full, Little Ones.

You must ever be a seeker and seek that which you should find: dirty clothes may be next to the hamper, behind the hamper, on top of the hamper, on the floor of the bedroom, in the toy box, mixed in with clean clothes, piled on the trunk, sitting on a chair, or waiting on the basement stairs. The world is full of Confusion. As you can see, the first step down the laundry path is the hardest—identifying and gathering all that is Unclean and bringing it to a central place.

Next we must identify the true essence of our uncleanness. Even as we seek Oneness, we must divide to conquer. And so Little Ones, we sort. Coloreds from Whites. Permanent Press from Knits. Delicates from Heavy Cottons. Towels from Sheets. Warm from Cold.

The piles may stretch all along the upper hallway and cause dismay. Do not think of the piles as obstacles, they are an essential part of the journey, way stations in life. Inhale. Exhale. Release your tension. Accept that it may take days to move to Enwhitenment.

Yes, before we can ascend to the White, we must first descend into the Dark. Down, down, down the curving basement  stairs we carry our burdens, one load at a time, and we become One with them. In the dark, all is crammed into the washer where the gentle tides of the front-loader will separate the dirt of the earth, the sweat of the body, and the stains of bad moments from the fabric of our lives. Turn, turn, pause. Turn, turn, rest. This is our Mantra. This is our life.

When will it end? When will the Laundress release us from our wishy-washy existence and take us to the next station on the path to Enwhitenment? How long must we sit? Minutes? Hours? Days? It is up to the Laundress to decide and no one, not ONE, has understood the mystery of her timing.

Finally, all is pulled coil by coil from the bowels of the Great Washer and tossed into the Dryer to be refined by heat and tumbling, to shed its Damp Nature, and unfurl all the creases of its consciousness. Remember Little Ones, the beep at the end of Dampness does not signal Completion. Be wise and know that it signals patience and waiting. One does not emerge from the Dark Place of Drying immediately, one may have to linger--minutes, hours, days--before one is freed.

At the right time, the Laundress from above will descend into the Darkness to lead you out to the Light. And yet the world is full of Uncertainty. If the Laundress is in a Great Hurry, only that which she desires in the Moment is brought into the Light and that which is not in that Moment becomes for a time Not Essential and is left on top of the dryer to consider its usefulness.

Yes, the road to Completion is long. Once carried out of the basement Darkness and into the Light, laundry often has ample time to be still and meditate in yogic positions on the sofa or the bed, to observe the sad state of that which is still piled on the floor, to wonder when its disorderly state will become ordered, when it will be permitted to rest in the everlasting comfort of neat Dresser Drawers or hang in bliss in the Closet of All that Fits.

Likely it will be moved once or twice before being folded into proper Alignment. And then once folded, it will experience yet another time of learning Patience and Surrendering of Expectations.

Will it finally reach the Bliss of its Proper Place in the World? Or will it be prematurely snatched from the laundry basket of life and forced to begin the difficult journey again, gathering dirt from the earth, sweat from the skin, and the stains of awkward moments?

Karma is a mystery. The cycle of laundry, like the cycle of life, is endless and sometimes exhausting. Have compassion. The Mighty Laundress feels your pain. She too is seeking everlasting Enwhitenment and an end to all suffering along the Lotus Laundry Path.

© 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

March 13, 2006

Friday

Friday is my favorite day of the week. I like it better than Saturday because anticipating the weekend is even better than experiencing it. The promise of late nights and late mornings, lingering in our bathrobes, sharing a bowl of popcorn and a DVD, a chance to shop, a change in routine—it’s all sweet. Never mind that I’ll probably be scrubbing bathrooms, folding laundry, and barking at the kids to clean their rooms—the idea of the weekend as endless leisure continues to seduce me.

Most Friday mornings, I head to see my chiropractor in Brussels. I catch a bus, then take the Metro into the center of the city. Once there I have about a ten-minute walk to get to his office.

I never bring a book to read because I like to people-watch on the train. Everyone puts on their Metro face—composing their features into a blank slate that leaves me guessing what thoughts are passing behind their masked expressions.

The fluorescent lights make us all look tired, with deep blue shadows cast under our eyes. Even the young girls fail to shine. I avoid my own reflection, afraid to confront the image in my window.

Instead I furtively study the other passengers. Does the teenage girl dressed head to toe in pastel pink have a boyfriend? Did her mother tell her her pants were too tight? Is she cold wearing only a hoodie and scarf? What’s playing on her headset?

Is the dark-haired, dark-eyed young man dressed in ivory and beige a student? Will he get off at the stop near the university? Is he Muslim? Is he checking out the young Muslim girls nearby, their flawless olive skin framed by their perfectly arranged head covers? Are they students too?

That middle-aged woman with the yellow curls, each one an individual work of spiral art-- I’ve seen her before. Being a curly girl myself, I wonder how she gets her curls so perfect. Are they natural or has she spent an hour with a curling iron getting each one to look like a giant rotini? I wonder about the bright hair and the heavy-ish makeup. Does she do this every day? Does she work? What type of job would she hold? Do people love or hate her hair? It almost looks like a wig.

Is the black man in the camel hair coat and burberry scarf on his way to a meeting? Where is he from? What is he planning this weekend? What would he consider a perfect day?

Me, I’m thinking about beggars, about the woman sitting cross-legged on the sidewalk with a cup, about the young man carrying a sleeping baby who asked me for money three times while I waited for the train. I wonder if the baby is his or just a “prop,” like a dog or a crutch or a bandage, all used to elicit sympathy and loosen purse strings. Do the props matter? Do I owe these people anything? If so, what?

My thoughts are interrupted when a woman I’ve seen before steps into the Metro car with an accordion and starts to play. I consider this a form of torture—trapped in a confined space underground with an accordion player. My face, however, does not show my dismay. I notice the girl in pink crank up the volume on her iPod. The dark-haired guy across from me does the same.

Meanwhile the accordion lady is smiling and nodding and acting like she’s having the best time playing the same schmaltzy tunes all the other accordion players play. Who are these people? Where do they come from? WHY do they play accordions? Is it the official instrument of some secret society? She passes her cup, I avert my eyes, my Metro mask impenetrable, my force field in place.

She hops off in search of a more appreciative audience, and another group of bodies pushes into the car, including a guy with a guitar and one with bongo drums. Hmmm, now this is interesting. When these two start to play, the corners of my mouth twitch. My Metro mask imperceptibly softens. I want to smile.

They’re playing Beatles songs, the guitar player singing lead, the bongo player singing backup. They do three songs, and each stop I’m secretly hoping they won’t get off yet. The music uncorks happy memories, good feelings, and makes me want to share my Friday face with everyone.

In an entire year of being confronted by street musicians, I’ve never made a donation, but these guys have me reaching into my Kipling bag and picking through my coins. I see the dark-haired guy across me from me digging in his pocket. The woman in the black parka next to me is unzipping her purse. I see another woman shift in her seat.

For one instant, we’re all entertaining the same thought. Without exchanging a word or even a glance, we’re all in agreement that these songs are worth paying for, this moment worth remembering. Behind our Metro masks, we’re smiling, we’re singing, we’re happy it’s Friday. We clutch our coins and anticipate the passing of the hat and the start of another weekend.

© 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

March 10, 2005

Learning the Hard Way--Our First Day in Brussels

(Last Thursday I related the story of how we were led to a life in Brussels. This week I pick up with our first day.)

Our plane arrived in Zaventem at 6:30 a.m., which is just after midnight in Virginia. We were dazed and yet wide-eyed as we rode from the airport to our apartment in downtown Brussels. I had never lived in an apartment before, and the kids were excited because we’d be living on the second floor, and they’d get to ride an elevator everyday. For them, this was the height of glamour, and they argued endlessly over who got to push the buttons.

I loved the apartment at first glance. In a renovated older building, it had 16-foot ceilings, enormous windows, and hardwood floors. The furnishings were modern yet cozy, the big leather sofas inviting, the bedrooms simple and streamlined. It was small, and the children had to share a room, but we didn’t mind. It was a surprisingly bright and airy space. Though the sun was streaming through the windows, we crashed into bed and slept. When E woke me a few hours later, all I could mutter was “You are not my friend!” E, the veteran traveler, insisted we get up, get outside, and walk around to reset our biological clocks. I knew he was right but it seemed criminal at the time to leave our beds!

Soon we were moving in a herd down the sidewalks of Brussels, gawking at everything and trying to get our bearings. My brain was in a fog, as if the part that organized and stored information had been unplugged. I felt like I was watching TV without the sound. I was going through the motions. We explored parks in the neighborhood, scouted out places to buy groceries and found restaurants with appealing menus.

Back at the apartment, we unpacked our suitcases and washed up before going to dinner. We had three keys to the apartment, and before we left, E and I checked to make sure we each had a key in hand before letting the door swing shut behind us. What we didn’t know was that Belgian locks operate differently than Americans ones.

Back in the States, we always left our extra key inside the house, stuck in the deadbolt. We had no clue this was a big no-no in Belgium until we trudged home after dinner, put our key into the door lock and discovered it didn’t turn.

Convinced he had inserted the key incorrectly, E tried reversing it, jiggling it—no luck. I pulled out my key and it didn’t work either. How was this possible? We’d used the keys earlier in the day and everything was fine.

By now it was 7 p.m. In the past 24 hours, we’d had less than three hours of sleep, and we were beyond exhausted. Having just arrived, we did not have a cell phone, and we also didn’t have any phone numbers in hand of people we could call. All our contact information was in the apartment. We felt both foolish and vulnerable, not sure what to do next.

I noticed an emergency maintenance number posted next to the elevator. and we wrote that down on our restaurant receipt. We walked through the apartment building looking in vain for a public phone. E and our son A decided to walk back to the restaurant where we’d eaten and see if they would allow him to use their phone.

I sat on the steps outside our apartment with little E-Grrrl who kept saying, “Belgium is not what I expected.” And I kept assuring her that everything was going to be fine even as I fought back the urge to cry. At the restaurant, E was told he couldn’t use the phone, and he was sent to use a pay phone. Finally locating one, he learned pay phones don’t accept coins.

Back at the restaurant, a sympathetic waitress told him to go to a tobacco shop and buy a phone card. E found a shop, bought a phone card, and figured out how to use it. Happily the building’s maintenance man answered E’s call and headed on over. What was lost in translation when E described our dilemma was that we had locked ourselves out by leaving a key in the inside lock. So when the apartment guy showed up with the master key, we weren’t any better off than we’d been before.

Sighing, the maintenance guy asked whether any windows were unlocked. E never leaves ANYTHING unlocked under any circumstances. But fortunately, I was fairly certain I had left a window unlocked when I was checking the apartment out earlier in the day.

The maintenance worker let himself into the adjoining apartment, opened the window, and stepped out onto the tiny balcony over the street. He then had to swing a leg over the rail and step out onto a narrow ledge and creep along the building’s face toward our windows. E and A watched the drama unfolding from the cobblestone sidewalk below. E was puzzled because the man seemed to be stuck, and then he was moving ever so slowly.

Thank God, he eventually reached our windows safely, one was indeed unlocked, and he was able to open it from the outside, climb into our apartment, and let us in. When E greeted him downstairs and thanked him for his efforts, the man was perspiring heavily and confided that he is terrified of heights. We felt awful for putting him in such a predicament but ever so grateful to finally be able to get inside and collapse.

It had been a long day, a long journey to this moment. Thus our first day in Brussels was memorable and educational in more ways than one. My first lesson as an expat: never, ever, leave a key in the deadbolt of your Belgian home.

© 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

March 9, 2006

Happy Anniversary

Today E and I celebrated our anniversary. Here's the story behind the story.

Flashback: Labor Day Weekend 1979

I was spending a Saturday with my high school friend Vicky (aka Low Maintenance Grrrl). Low Maintenance Grrrl and I had been friends all through high school and had just started our senior year. We were both dedicated runners and co-captains of the track team. Our school didn’t have a cross-country team, but we trained year round anyway, running road races together in the off season. We thought that after going to the local Labor Day festival, we’d do some jogging, so we tossed some running gear into the back of Low Maintenance Grrrl’s car.

After cruising the festival in the afternoon, we ended up in the local Catholic church for its 5 p.m. service. Low Maintenance Grrrl wasn’t Catholic but she knew 1) if I didn’t go to church on Saturday night, my parents would drag me out of bed at 6:30 a.m. to catch the first mass on Sunday morning, and 2) she’d heard through the Protestant grapevine that Catholics would go to hell if they missed mass on a weekend.

Being my bestest friend, Low Maintenance Grrrl did not want me to lose sleep OR a shot at heaven, so she willingly set aside her Church of the Brethren beliefs for an hour to keep me company at St. Patrick’s. Of course, the fact that there were two all-male colleges in our town, and the Saturday night mass attracted considerable numbers of potential dates had NOTHING, absolutely nothing, to do with our decision to attend church. We were just Good Grrrls gathering up all the grace our sweet little Southern souls could hold.

This Saturday night was notable because we had a new priest and this was his first service. The church was full of young people seated in the back and this priest’s first order of business was to get us all to move closer to the front. Not exactly what we were expecting—but we dutifully shuffled a few pews forward as did two guys who were behind us who moved in front of us.

During a Catholic mass, there’s a moment when parishioners are supposed to turn and “greet one another in the name of Christ.” This generally translates to kissing the cheeks of family members, hugging friends, and shaking hands with people in the adjacent pews.

Being Good Grrrls, we followed the protocol and noted that one of the guys in front of us turned to shake hands but his buddy did not. Hmmm. That was a little cold. What was up with that guy?

After church “that guy” and his buddy came over to talk to us in the parking lot. Well actually, the buddy did all the talking. He asked us if we wanted to grab a bite to eat together (as his friend elbowed him in the ribs, channeling his severe embarrassment at attempts to pick up girls at church). Low Maintenance Grrrl and I had planned on going running at this point, but after some chit chat, we agreed to meet the two guys at a local college hangout for dinner.

Dinner went OK. The quiet guy was finally talking a bit and both guys were filling us in on their stories. S, the more outgoing of the two, was from Maine. E, the one who was initially shy gradually warmed up, and gave us some convoluted story about having been born in Africa but his family had lived in Virginia but now they had moved to Florida over the summer but E didn’t live there. Whatever. They were roommates, seniors at the local military college.

As Grrrls are known to do, Low Maintenance Grrrl and I took a restroom break and had a pow-wow over where the evening was going. We both agreed that the blond guy was cute (that was E) and his friend was OK. We decided that when we got back to the table, we’d see if they wanted to go running with us. It was dark, but we could run at the track which had lights.

While the Grrrls were in the restroom, the guys were having their own discussion. S asked E, “Which one do you like?” E said, “I like them both. They’re nice girls.” S said, “The redhead is too thin for my taste.” (The redhead being V-Grrrl and the “too thin for my taste” probably meant “isn’t stacked.” Which was true then and is true now. Whatever.) So E, ever gracious, agreed to focus on “the redhead.”

When we got back to the table, Low Maintenance Grrrl and I broached the topic of going running together. E was immediately interested. S was not. The night had clearly taken a bad turn from S’s point of view, but E convinced him to go along. So Low Maintenance Grrrl and I get into our track gear and E and S head back to their room to do the same. On the track, S drops out after only one lap. Low Maintenance Grrrl and I, distance runners, are secretly disgusted. What kind of military guy can’t crank out a few miles? S has ruined his chances of ever going out with either of us. He’s a baby.

Meanwhile E is not only cranking out the laps but is full of friendly chatter. In what has to be one of the worst lines I’ve ever been handed, he says, “So, is it true what they say about redheads being passionate?” I was floored. Was this the same guy who wouldn’t even shake my hand a few hours earlier? Geez. Being a feisty thing, I countered with my own question, “Hmmm, is it true what they say about blondes being dumb?” E loved this response. I was scrappy. Hah! He later told me he loved my spunk. The sassy attitude hooked him.

The rest, as they say, is history. E and I dated our respective senior years. He went into the Army. Low Maintenance Grrrl and I got matching scholarships, chose the same college, and became roommates as well as running buddies. During spring break of my sophomore year, I married E in a small ceremony at the church where we’d first met. The priest who helped bring us together officiated. Low Maintenance Grrrl was maid of honor at my totally low maintenance, low key wedding. S, then in the Navy, was E’s best man.

Twenty four years later, E still finds me scrappy. I still think he’s cute. And he now knows whether redheads are passionate, but he’s not telling because, you know, he’s still kinda shy.

March 7, 2006

Oscar Winners and Losers

Did I watch the Oscars? Of course not. Do I have something to say about them? Of course I do. Since I never get to see the movies until they’re released on DVD, the Oscars for me are all about fashion. So here’s my expert commentary on the red carpet winners and losers. (Check out the photo gallery at Yahoo.)

Keira Knightley deserves an award for best hair and makeup. The smoky dramatic eyes, the subtle cheeks and lips, and the loose ponytail were just perfect for her. The burgundy over one shoulder dress by Vera Wang was just OK. The sapphire, emerald and ruby necklace was pure glamour.

Karolina Kurkova should earn top honor for her GLOW. With her shiny hair, luminous makeup, radiant smile, and shimmery gown, she was as golden as Oscar himself.

Jen Aniston needs a new hair style. The long, flat, center-parted and hanging-in-your-face look doesn’t belong at the Oscars. It’s too homeroom. Liked her gown though. It managed to be formal and yet channel a subtle bohemian vibe.

Jane Seymour in her cream-colored, body hugging satin dress—Hon, those sorts of gowns are so unforgiving. After a certain point in life, you need to leave them for someone else to wear. Really.

Uma Thurman had a great gown and bad makeup. She looked like she had pink eye.

Rachel Weisz earns kudos for the best updo. That loosely French braided style was perfect with her profile, classic and not uptight.

JLo’s kiwi green gown was a welcome dose of color, sexy and elegant. Thumbs up. It’s a relief that JLo has abandoned her skanky Jersey girl dresses. I think Mariah Carey bought them all at a Beverly Hills garage sale and has co-opted the look.

Michelle Williams gown, the color of French’s yellow mustard, initially made me cringe. But the more I studied it, the more I liked it. She even managed to pull off the red lipstick with it.

Not so Jane Russell, who must be in her 80s. Lord, someone should have sent her back into the dressing room to wipe off the red clown lips—heinous.

And Lisa Rinna’s lips look like pink slugs on steroids. No more collagen injections—please.

Charlize Theron’s dress looked like something out of the Star Wars costume closet. There she is, queen of the not-too-dark side.  It was like she'd been wrapped in a piece of charcoal ribbon and tied up like a package.

Nicole Kidman looks like a ghost of her former self. Too thin, too pale, too blonde, too beige, too much botox—she looks lifeless.

Comments anyone?