Three Strikes, You're Out

The Belgian rail workers are not happy. The bus drivers are not happy. The teachers are not happy. And everyone is going to stay home and have a good sulk (and a long weekend). The rest of us happy campers are forced to do the same. Yes, it’s a strike of the Socialist Union. Of course, being completely plugged into local culture and current events, I saw this coming and was not surprised AT ALL that the bus would fail to appear at the bus stop to take me to an appointment.

Hey, I’m not like the other American expatriates here, I’m totally on target with community issues. I’ve been hunched over the De Streekkrant, undeterred by the Dutch language’s fondness for 12 letter words, double vowels and consonants, and an occasional “j.” As a well-informed reader, I knew there was going to be a staking because the government is concerned about the staatsschuld rising due to the weight of afzondering benefits on the be’groting. However, the average worker lives for te’ruggertroken and not having to drag his or her ezel to hant’eren. They are not going to dulden anyone messing with their uitekerings.

So now the spoorbaan isn’t working, my spoorboekje is useless and the bus ta’bel is all wrong because half the be’stuurders are buiten. If only I had a rijbewijs. To make matters worse, the geitje are at thuis today. We’re all in de val loten lopen because of the vakvereniging.

It’s grijs and there’s lots of be’nevelen today. Only 12 degrees. I may as well take my ezel over to the stellen and enjoy a dutje. It’s the only thing to do when sbeschrijving skids to a halt during a staking.

Welterusten!

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault

October 7, 2005

V-Grrrl in Chains

About two weeks ago, I decided to move my blog off of Yahoo 360 and onto its own site with its own domain name, www.v-grrrl.com. I wanted to liberate my writing from the suburbs of the Web and get it out into the mainstream where I could track visits to the site, see what people were reading, sort entries by topic, and develop the v-grrrl brand.

Initially, I envisioned a custom Web site with a unique masthead and some great art and photos. I soon realized I didn’t have the resources to invest in a professional custom design, so I signed on with a Web hosting site that offered software to support blogging and small businesses. I spent hours experimenting with the software, designing the look of my pages. Then I wrote an intro for my home page, edited it a dozen times, accidentally deleted it, and had to start over!

Not being a Web-Grrrl, I sometimes had to struggle to figure out how to get the pages to do what I wanted, especially when it came to indexing and archives. Last weekend I turned into a short-tempered shrew while I tried to unravel which combination of settings would get the results I was looking for. Once that was solved, I had to load and index all my content, which took a good three to four hours as I had more than 30 entries to format and archive. Finally, last Saturday I was ready to launch.

Because I wanted to simplify my Web site address and begin my branding, I went to register.com to register v-grrrl.com as my domain name and get a v-grrrl.com mailbox. I carefully filled out all the forms, paid by credit card online, and arranged for the domain name to forward to my Web site’s server, and my v-grrrl e-mail to land in my Yahoo box. I then went to my Web site, and set it up to receive the forwarding by mapping my domain name. When it was all done and my domain name was activated, I felt like uncorking champagne. Except it didn’t work. Not only did www.v-grrrl.com not take me to my new blog, it took me to a register.com page that was advertising chains, studs, spiked collars, sex wrestling, and punk rock. V-Grrrl had been punk’d in every sense of the word!

I went back and checked all my settings, but when I tried to get to v-grrrl.com, I once again landed on the punk page at register.com. I e-mailed my Web hosting service who advised that my setup was correct on their end, and I should contact register.com to see what was going on. So I went to the customer service page, which includes glowing testimonials about their user-friendly tech support and prompt service, and sent them an e-mail describing my problem.

Meanwhile, I get an e-mail from register.com’s call center manager, which handles its orders. My purchase of the domain name and mailbox have been flagged as “suspicious” and halted. I’m instructed to fax a copy of a government issued photo ID, a signed statement authorizing the transaction, and a physical address---or my domain name will be deleted! I’m shocked—v-grrrl.com is being held hostage by J.D. Powers and Associates!

All I can guess is that because the transaction was initiated overseas, it was flagged as irregular. Regardless, I’m not faxing anything to anyone. I send them an e-mail, explain I’m overseas and tell them I’m registered at the Brussels American Embassy as an ex-pat. They e-mail me back, say they’ve reviewed my case and my transaction has been processed. V-grrrl.com is release unharmed—right?

No! When I punch in v-grrrl.com to celebrate my success, I discover I’m still in chains, shackled to the damn register.com page with the punk rock ads. My new site is out of reach. Days later, register.com still hasn’t responded to my increasingly pointed questions, despite promises for a response within 24-hours.

My pissed-off-o-meter is in the red hot zone. I am an angry (not-so-young) woman. I may have started out pure as white bread in surburbia, but now I’m relating to the visual image of the spike collar, heavy chains, and black eyeliner. I feel disenfranchised by the register.com establishment, which has stifled my creative voice! I’m ready for the counter culture. My new persona is going to pop in Green Day’s “American Idiot” and sing above the din of the screaming guitars. V-Grrrl has become V-Growl. Bring on the black leather.

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

October 6, 2005

A Grrrl's Best Friend

When we moved to Belgium , we placed our silky terrier, Duncan , in a new home. He weighed only 10 pounds but carried an enormous amount of energy and spunk in his tiny frame. Duncan looked like a teddy bear but acted like a grizzly—he was fiercely protective of home and hearth and thoroughly devoted to me.

Duncan would bark at anything that moved on the street outside the house. He spent a lot of his time on patrol, with his two front legs propped up on the fence or the window as he scanned the environment for threats. His short tail would be straight up like an antenna, his back arched a bit, and his rear legs propelling him straight up and down as he barked at all his suburban enemies: moms pushing strollers, kids walking to the bus stop, families bicycling to the pool, utility workers searching for an underground line, or his most reviled opponents—other dogs!

Duncan had attitude and confidence completely out of sync with his diminutive proportions. If a Rottweiler wandered into his turf, Duncan would charge with teeth bared. He clearly thought the best defense was a good offense. He never backed down and he never let sleeping dogs lie—unless he was the sleeping dog, If he finagled his way onto a bed upstairs, he’d put up a fight if I tried to remove him. The barking and drama, his willingness to use those tiny little teeth to make a point—it made me crazy! And so while a part of me enjoys living in a house where the doorbell can ring and not cause pandemonium, I miss Duncan .

Every morning when I go walking, I encounter a steady stream of people walking their dogs and I remember the sturdy little guy that used to tug on the leash in Virginia . With or without a leash, Duncan was at my heels all day, staring up from the floor with those lively brown eyes and sweet little face. “Look at me! Play with me! Pet me! Toss me a bone!” Duncan ’s need for attention was not unlike a toddler’s. I could not go to the bathroom without Duncan , and he seemed perpetually peeved that I didn’t always accompany him outside when he needed to go.

Sometimes I felt smothered, but mostly I felt loved. Like the sun and the planets, Duncan never faltered. He protected me from the vacuum cleaner and other threatening power tools, he nipped at Eric’s legs to remind him who the Alpha Male in the house was, he reined in the kids when they got out of hand, and he peed on the bed so I’d never be without his scent, the ultimate sign of devotion. OK, some things I could do without—but every Grrrl needs a friend who is on call 24/7, and Duncan was that to me. Ever ready, ever faithful, the world’s smallest therapist and body guard.

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

October 5, 2005

Heart in His Pocket

If my daughter E-Grrrl wears her heart on her sleeve, my son A's is tucked in his pocket. He is as reserved and serious as she is open and bubbly. When I pull A’s jeans out of the hamper and empty the pockets, I collect pieces of all that is important to him. There are smooth stones and mottled ones with interesting colors, rich brown acorns as alluring as chocolates, acorn tops used for whistles, candy wrappers from secret purchases he made with the change he pilfered from my dresser, a hand-drawn diagram of a cage he plans to build for his hamster, a note that he didn’t have the courage to deliver to the girl he likes.

A is endlessly curious about the natural world, distracted by ladybugs eating aphids on a wildflower, the kittens hiding in a jumble of evergreens, the shiny rock glinting next to the curb, the crabapples on the tree by the bus stop, the soft dirt begging for a shovel and bit of exploration, the straight stick waiting for his pocket knife.

At 10, A is also the ultimate recycler (think “trash picker.”) He rescues abandoned scraps of lumber, the rubber from a discarded windshield wiper, the cardboard tubes from the paper towels, pieces of wire, scraps of mesh, and lengths of twine and rope. All these found objects are re-purposed in his assorted building projects, executed in the basement using his Popular Mechanics tool set and whatever he can purloin from his father’s toolbox.

His boxes of K’nex and Legos sit idle while he fashions catapults from wire coat hangers, arrows from strips of bamboo, bows from the springy branches in the back yard, and boats from milk cartons or foil and plastic wrap. I buy tape, glue, rubber bands, and paperclips the way some families buy milk and bread. He disassembles flashlights for their bulbs or cases, retractable pens for their miniature springs, and uses pencils as dowels. Nothing in the house escapes Andrew’s clutches. His hands are always busy—and often dirty.

It can be frustrating to keep him on task or disengage him from one of his projects. When he sets his mind to something, there’s no peace until it’s accomplished. A has his own priorities and sometimes it feels we’re engaged in endless tug of wars between his desire to get his “work” done and our need to get out the door, have him finish homework, or take care of some chores at home. Sometimes we can laugh about his single-mindedness, sometimes we want to bang our heads against the wall, but despite the challenges, I must admit I admire his passion for life, his ingenuity, his creative temperament.  Every time I empty his pockets and line the contents on top of the washer, I’m grateful for my personal natural wonder--my son.

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

October 4, 2005

Family Dinner in Belgium

One of the reasons we were drawn to moving to Belgium was Eric’s family history. He was born to Belgian parents in the Congo , but his father died when he was quite small. His mother remarried an American working for the U.S. State Department in Africa , and he adopted Eric and his two brothers. Thus Eric Jean Schietecatte became Eric Jean Deschambault and a Belgian boy became a U.S. citizen.

In 1986, we had traveled to Europe to visit Eric’s Belgian family, his natural father’s siblings and their children. Over the years, I kept in touch with his Aunt Monique and Uncle Wilfred and their daughter, Francine, who is a year younger than I am. When we moved to Belgium , Francine and her husband Philippe warmly welcomed us and helped us find a house to rent. Andrew and Emily immediately forged a bond with their teenage son and daughter, Gilles and Aurelie.

On Saturday night, Francine and Philippe invited us to dinner with his cousin Katinka and her three sons, Kevin, Joren, and Remko. We thoroughly enjoy these family dinners, which are both casual and elegant.

As always, there are fresh flowers in the dining room and living room. Francine has deep pink roses floating in a crystal bowl on the coffee table and individual blooms floating in a row of curving votive holders on the dinner table.

We start in the living room, where the first bottle of wine is uncorked and an appetizer tray of smoked salmon, caviar, and cheese and crackers is set. The kids dig into a huge bowl of potato chips and a plate of cherry tomatoes. Conversation starts to perk as we catch up with Katinka, whom we haven’t seen for 20 years, and get to know her companion Charlie.

Around 8 p.m. , we begin dinner. As always in Europe , it starts with soup. Francine has prepared a pumpkin soup, perfect for a fall evening. Topped with homemade croutons, chopped herbs, and a drizzle of fresh cream, it’s beautiful as well as delicious. Philippe is busy at the grill and soon chicken breasts and potatoes arrive on our plates. Later, the salad bowl is passed, and then Philippe arrives with grilled steak strips and sausages, which Francine serves with a spicy vegetable casserole Katinka has prepared.

The pace is leisurely, the wine keeps flowing, and the conversation starts to bubble as Charlie begins telling jokes and sharing golfing adventures. Francine and Katinka, who jog together in the park, relate a story of a group of male runners they know that run on Sundays and drink champagne in crystal flutes afterwards in a tailgate party of sorts. (We’ve seen Belgians marching in parades while drinking mugs of beer, and during road races the runners have the option of “loading carbs” instead of water at the refreshment stands.)

My kids, used to early bedtimes, are heavy-lidded and slow on their feet by the end of dinner but are determined not to miss dessert. Francine has made tiramisu and Katinka’s twin sons have made a Moroccan lemon tart. We drink coffee from tiny white tea cups and laugh and chat until the children fall asleep on the sofa. Only then do we realize it’s 11:30 p.m. and we’ve been at the table for hours. Cheeks are kissed, jackets and sleeping children gathered, and we step out under the stars, grateful for the gift of family and hospitality in Belgium .

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

October 3, 2005

Celebrating E-Grrrl

Today my baby girl is eight years old. When she rolls out of bed, she is kissed, hugged, and showered with presents. We hang streamers, decorate the table, send cupcakes into school, and prepare all her favorite foods at meal time. Her best friend will join us for dinner and cake and ice cream and those two giggling girls will be tucked in under the eaves in the attic bedroom tonight for a sleepover.

As E-Grrrl coasts through what I hope will be a golden day, she has little idea what this day means to me. From all appearances, it is her celebration and her big day, but in my heart, it’s my celebration, my day. It’s hard to write about motherhood without drowning in clichés. The bond I feel with my children is bigger than the words and emotions I attach to it. It is primal, the very essence of all that matters, all that I believe in and care enough about to sacrifice and fight for.

So let me say this: today my heart is ricocheting with joy for the gift of this girly girl. From her silky blonde hair to her big wide feet, I adore every inch of her, inside and out. I’m amazed I’m her mother, I’m thrilled to share her life, and when I was holding her hand this morning at the bus stop and saw a rainbow grace the sky, I felt like Heaven was celebrating E-Grrrl too.

September 30, 2005

Sins of the Flesh

Yesterday Shirl Grrrl shared the painful truth of her descent into Mary Kay’s world. Shirl’s cousin Amy, a hardcore Mary Kay pusher, seduced the innocent and wholesome Shirl by providing her free samples of the devil’s own anti-aging regimen. Shirl is now proof that Mama was right—even just a taste of the devil’s sweet fruit can lead you down the road to ruin. Shirl’s one night stand with the Mary Kay samples has led to her enslavement to the desires of the flesh, a full blown addiction.

No longer a low-maintenance woman, Shirl now needs a flow chart to get ready for bed each night. As she stands before her altar of Mary Kay products, she must make sure she applies them all in the correct order. Should she fail to properly perform the sacred anti-aging ritual, she will be turned into an old crone as she sleeps, her fine lines replaced by crevices so deep her son will be able to push Hot Wheels through them. Everyone knows you can’t screw around with Mary Kay—or Mother Nature.

V-Grrrl is proud to say she has resisted the temptations offered by the Mary Kay vipers. She refuses to worship with the pushers of potions and promises. Instead, she’s a drugstore cowboy, using no-nonsense Neutrogena products and pledging her undying love only to sunscreen, which she’s been slathering on her face nearly every day since she was 19. She’s never had a manicure or a pedicure. She refuses to be enthralled by hair products or pricey salon services. She does her own color, and while every product for curly hair promises not to leave it greasy, stiff, or sticky, every freakin product for curly hair leaves it greasy, stiff, or sticky. V-Grrrl has seen the light and she’s not buying those ugly bottles of lies anymore. Her hair may be wild, but at least it’s soft.

But brothers and sisters, pride doth goeth before the fall. While V-Grrrl can claim the righteousness of pared down skin and hair care, her vanity has made her a fool for makeup. God save the Grrrls! Y’all have heard of Sodom and Gomorrah , well V-Grrrl was undone by Ulta and Sephora—the beauty temples that stock cosmetics of every imaginable category at every price point. Sucked into the evil Ulta cult by $10 off coupons and buy one, get one free deals, V-Grrrl accumulated a massive stash of eye shadow, pencils, blushes, foundations, and lipstick. She has a mini chest of drawers where all her eye products are sorted by color, and several metal baskets hold her blushes, bronzers, brushes, foundations and concealers.

If Ulta led V-Grrrl astray, Sephora wants her soul. Thanks to Sephora.com, V-Grrrl has been known to lose an hour in the afternoon, putting together wish lists online. She is counting down the days until she goes to Paris in November, not because of the wonder of the Louvre or the Eiffel Tower, no, her mind is possessed by the luscious delights that await her in the Sephora store on the Champs Elysee.

There’s something sacred about those moments in front of the mirror, when we cast off our old selves and witness a miraculous transformation—a new face for our shriveled little souls! Every morning when V-Grrrl baptizes her face with sunscreen and grabs her big fluffy makeup brush and applies her Cargo bronzer, she feels as if God has reached down from Heaven, touched her cheek, and said “Receive the look of life!” Immediately her pallor retreats and her color is restored. We’re sure Tammy Fay felt the same way about her mascara wand opening up the windows to her soul.

What can I say in closing except Peace, Love, and Lip Gloss y’all. See ya at the makeup counter—hope it’s in Paris.

September 29, 2005

Great Expectations

It’s picture day at school today. Last night E-Grrrl and I went through her drawers looking for something appropriate to wear—meaning a flattering color, simple lines, no fussy details. She chooses a favorite pink dress, and after her shower, I blow dry her hair so the ends turn under. She finds a pink hairclip to wear the next day. I pick a blue shirt for Andrew to wear and dry his hair as well, an attempt to subdue his cowlicks in advance.

This morning at the bus stop, little Kelly Donlen’s hair is pulled into two perfect ponytails sporting big pink poms-poms. Her brother Nick looks like my son A’s long lost brother. Same fair skin, blond hair with cowlicks slicked down, blue eyes, and sprinkling of freckles. Emily Donlen, a seventh grader, is furious with her mom for moving the part on her hair. She stalks off in frustration. Justin, the adorable wide-eyed kindergartener, is cute as always—you could swim in his big brown eyes topped with long dark lashes Sarah, a seventh grader with wavy auburn hair, almond-shaped eyes, lots of coppery freckles and dramatic eyebrows is an exotic beauty—but doesn’t know it.

I stand with the other moms, each of us relating school picture success stories and disasters. Getting a good school picture matters so much more to us now. If the photos are disappointing, we don’t have the option of waltzing into JC Penney to have the children’s portraits redone at an affordable price. We have far fewer options because Europeans don’t have their children professionally photographed on a regular basis like Americans do. We’re counting on the harried school photographer to somehow magically capture all that we love about our kids in the three minutes he’ll see them.

So we send our children onto the bus with combs in their pockets, ribbons in their hair, and instructions not to get dirty. We want to hold onto this time in our lives when our days revolve around our families, and our children’s faces are full of innocence, hope, love, and a touch of mischief. Each day, they step a little bit further into reality. The world intrudes with all its heartaches, disappointments, mysteries, and injustices even as we try to keep our kids hearts from being trampled before they’re strong enough to bear what they’ll need to bear later in life.

Who knows what sorrows tomorrow will bring? All we have is now. So please, please, please let the school photographer succeed in capturing this day in our lives, when just for a moment our biggest concern is whether the kids’ hair is all right and it is ever so easy to smile.

September 28, 2005

V-Grrrl Goes Topless

Yesterday I went to the cardiologist here. Once again, I was caught off guard when the doctor came out to the waiting room to call me in—no receptionist, no nurse. I didn’t realize she was the doctor because she looked a bit like an aging hippie—someone who might have a stand that sells organic vegetable, herbs, native honey, and hand-thrown pottery. She looked to be about 50, with long dark hair parted in the middle and pulled into a low ponytail that trailed down her back. She wore a long Indian skirt decorated with mini-mirrors, a plain cotton t-shirt, and pale green clogs with blue swirls on them. No socks, no hose, no makeup, no lab coat. (Hey Granola-Grrrl, she’s your type!). She had a warm smile and friendly manner and spoke pretty good English, but I sometimes struggled to understand her because of her accent.

One of the disarming aspects of medical exams in Belgium is that there is no sense of modesty. Because the doctor’s examining room and office space are one and the same, I had to undress while the doctor sat at her desk. I had to strip all the way down to socks and panties—if I’d known I could have made sure they matched. : ) I tried to imagine I looked like a French woman ready to sunbathe on the Riviera, except I wasn’t tan, thin, or wearing giant sunglasses. OK, so I actually looked more like Helga the Hearty than Francoise the Fabulous but I was trying to enlist some happy visualization to get me through this experience. In Belgium you can forget about covering up with a paper or cloth gown or even having the benefit of some sort of drape. No, here the patients let it all hang out, just as they do at the beach. Suddenly I felt very white, spongy and exposed.

The large window in the office clad only with sheer curtains made me self conscious. Having my thighs, breast, and stomach squirted with clear gel (to use in the EKG) made me feel like a porn star. Thank God there weren’t any mirrors on the walls. I didn’t think I could feel more uncomfortable, but then the doctor decided to do a stress test, and I had to mount an enormous exercise bike--topless, in my underwear, wearing my socks and my clogs.

Y’all, this was too absurd. I felt utterly overexposed and ridiculous. White legs, blue veins, black socks, chunky clogs, panties and naked from the waist up. (Did any of y’all see the movie “Waking Ned Devine”—remember the scene with the naked old man on the bicycle? An absolute spectacle. C’est moi!) How Eric kept from laughing, I don’t know. He didn’t even smirk. He wisely buried his face in a book.

So there I am propped on the bike, getting sprayed with adhesive (ewww) and having wires hooked up to my chest with mini suction cups. I start pedaling. I’m supposed to keep up a rate of 50-60 rpms and yet sit very still from the waist up. To this end, I’m bracing myself on the handle bars, trying not to look down at my boobs or my stomach because gosh, your boobs are supposed to be bigger than your stomach, and I wasn’t sure that was the case at this moment, in this position. I really DID NOT want to go there visually. It was hard enough going there mentally. I’m relieved my doctor isn’t skinny. If she were built like a stick insect, I’d feel even worse.

A nurse, who has been called in to assist with the test, hovers near the bike and keeps adjusting the bike’s resistance, making it more and more difficult to pedal. I start to feel the burn in my thighs and wish I could stop. I think I would do much better on a treadmill. When my pace begins to slack off, Nurse Nancy the Nazi says in a deep guttural voice “You must keep 50-60” Oh God, she suddenly seems like a brutal personal trainer. Nancy the Nazi is tan and blonde, and I’m convinced she finds my pallor revolting. She’s probably thinking, “Where are her tan lines? Her whole body is the color of her butt!” (Things that make her go “yech”)

I’m relieved when I can stop pedaling, but I still have to stay seated on the bike until my heart rate drops. It seems entirely unfair that everyone in the room gets to wear clothes but me. I’m dying to grab my bra and sweater and slide my legs into my pants.

Despite my unease, the news is good on all fronts--my heart is holding its own, my medication level seems OK, and maybe, just maybe, I may one day say goodbye to atrial fibrillation. No one can say for sure. What I do know for sure is that next time I come here I’m bringing a robe—the satin one with pink and white hearts on it would be perfect for a cardiology visit. Hmmm, I’ll also need something to wear in the ob/gyn’s office, but you can bet it won’t be satin and covered with hearts…

September 27, 2005

Pretending to Like School

One of the hard things about being a parent is feigning excitement about school. My daughter normally enjoys school. For her it’s a place to demonstrate her prowess at various skills, socialize with her friends, eat foods she doesn’t get served at home, and play on the monkey bars until her arms ache. She loves the structure, the recognition for a job well done, the snacks, and the chance to belong. My son’s feelings for school tend to be more negative. He feels school is boring, a waste of time, and a barrier to the exciting things he could be doing at home—taking apart electronic devices, digging holes, using scrap lumber to build things in the garage, reading comic books, sorting his Pokemon cards, playing soccer with his dad. He’s the kid who is always looking out the window, imagining he is somewhere else. Though I hate to admit it, he’s a lot like me.

As millions of parents have done before me, I stress the positive in talking about school with my kids. Certainly they do far more cool and innovative things in the classroom than I did when I was a kid. Nearly all the teachers I know are bright and dedicated. And yet I confess that even though I always succeeded in school, I never really liked it.

For me, school was penance, something to get through on my way to a better place. I hated being stuck in close quarters with mean kids and cut ups. I thought it was ridiculous you had to ask permission to use the bathroom. I hated the elaborate social structure that pigeon-holed me and made me wonder whether I belonged. I felt forever helpless, at the mercy of my teacher and the System.

As I got older, I deeply resented the presence of the class cretins, the ones who continually disrupted things and hassled people (couldn’t they be stupid QUIETLY?). School was a prison. I could never escape the morons, the snotty girls, the boys who didn’t notice me, the icky bathrooms, the dorky gym suits, the classrooms that were either too hot or too cold, the impossibility of toting all my stuff around, the misery of being held captive on the black top in freezing weather, the interminable bus ride. Sure, my report cards painted a picture of someone who loved school, but in my mind the only good thing about school were my friends and the occasional distinguished teacher who seemed to have a passion for their work.

My school friends kept me sane and keep me sane to this day. Some of my closest friends date back to my middle school years. We were cellmates. We were planning our futures and our escapes even as we slogged through the halls and the cafeteria lines feeling like we were going nowhere. We made each other laugh, pulled one another out of depression, convinced ourselves we were special, and in the process we laid a ground work for the best times of our life. School was the obstacle course we had to complete on our way out the exit, and the bonds we forged with one another were the best things the education system offered us.

September 26, 2005