Good vibrations

I stepped into the Embassy store today to kill some time before heading to the Metro and walked right into a sale. A happy accident. The Embassy store has agreements with a select group of local vendors—jewelers, artists, craftsman, potters, tapestry and lace makers. They come in for special events and sell their wares at a discount, usually 10-25 percent. The Embassy store also sells items VAT free, meaning you do not have to pay the 24 percent sales tax that’s charged everywhere else in Belgium. So add the VAT savings onto the special sale prices and an Embassy store sale is something worth paying attention to. Of course, the store is very small and so is the selection—but I always enjoy taking a look around.

Today Cliff the Leather Guy is there with his wares. He has about ten jackets and some bags with him. I think he makes the clothing himself. He’s doing on-the-spot leather repairs for those with handbags or leather clothing needing work. I casually look over the handbags, and pick up a beautiful violet-colored suede purse. As soon as I put it on my shoulder, I know it isn’t for me. The bag is really heavy; it would kill my back. So I give the suede one last loving stroke and put it back on the table.

I walked past the Kipling bags (with the Kipling bag I’d bought here last month slung over my shoulder) and look at the leather jackets on a whim. One catches my eye immediately—it’s white leather, mid-hip length, has a zip front, sleek and simple styling, with two patch pockets. When I touch it, I give a small sigh—lambskin. Is there anything softer and more buttery?

I search for a size or price tag—I find neither. Oh well, I don’t need a jacket. I move on.

I peruse all the aisles and come back around to side with the leather jacket . It has me caught in its gravitational force. Cliff the Leather Guy sees me in orbit,  gets a whiff of my longing, and strolls over.

“Can I help you?”

I ask him the price on the jacket.

“150 euros.” Hmmmm, not bad. Actually, quite good, especially for lambskin.

Cliff says, “Would you like to try it on?”

I’m dressed in a turtleneck and parka because the weather has turned cold again. I’m in Levis and sporting a pair of brown suede Skechers on my feet. I’m not feeling like a woman who should be wearing a sleek white leather jacket.

I hesitate just for a moment, then peel off my parka, my scarf, and drop my purse in a heap on the floor. Cliff helps me put the jacket on. It feels big. I’m almost relieved. Thank God it doesn’t fit! Game over!

But then Cliff reaches for its twin, the only other jacket of its kind that he has. He helps me put it on. It feels wonderful. Lightweight, soft, and comfortable across the shoulders. I absolutely hate any item of the clothing that is snug across the shoulders or comes up high under the arms. Fitted pants, yes. Fitted shirts, never.

There isn’t a mirror in the store so I have to walk to a bathroom down the hall to see how it looks.

One glimpse in the mirror and I know there is no turning back. I have to have this jacket. It hits at exactly the right spot on my hips, the proportions are perfect, the back is shaped by three seams, it is unbelievably comfortable, and I feel instantly hip.

Why wear one of my dowdy cardigans or hoodies on cool spring and summer days when this jacket has so much style? I could pair it with jeans or a skirt, dress it up or down. It doesn't have details like lapels or buttons that will date it and shorten its closet life. Perhaps most importantly, it transforms me in much the same way as my haircut did last week: It changes the way I view myself.

My predictable Good Grrrl Voice tries one more time to dissuade me. She knows I always agonize over purchases and take forever to decide. She hates when I’m impulsive. She’s proud I’m normally so practical.

She whispers: WHITE leather? This so not you! It’s kind of tacky in a Hollywood sort of way  and you never wear white. You’re Miss Earthtone! Miss Safari Jacket! Miss Eddie Bauer Cardigan! Miss Denim! Miss Fleece!

I turn my head back to the mirror and check myself out one more time. Who you callin' tacky, Grrrl Friend? I tell Miss Predictable Good Grrrl to shut up and live a little, to be bold and have the courage to do something different. Life’s too short to put yourself in a box and stay there. Celebrate the moment. Allow yourself to change!

After all, it’s spring. I’m feeling better than fine. I'm shedding my expat fat. I'm walking for miles. And I’m in LOVE with this jacket and anyone who doesn’t like the object of my affection can stuff it.

I walk out the bathroom door with my credit card in my hand, ready to charge into a new phase of  life. I feel like a rebel.  I'm going to be a woman who dares to wear white AFTER Labor Day. : )

Copyright 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

April 28, 2006

The butterfly effect

It’s spring, and the world is a wonderful place, vibrant and sweet smelling and full of promise.

Mother Nature is giving me an inferiority complex because I definitely can’t match her bright new look or enthusiasm. I’ve felt dumpy, frumpy, and forgettable and sick of living in my cords and turtlenecks. It’s still chilly here, getting in the 40s at night, hitting the 60s on a good day and so I haven’t broken into the cheerful summer duds. I haven’t even pulled them all out because the reality is that a lot of them don’t fit me—another cause of woe. (Update on the deportation of the expat fat coming soon!)

So what’s a Grrrl to do when she doesn’t feel pretty? Shop of course. I braved dressing room induced depression and tried on about seven pairs of pants and capris, three summer sweaters, one skirt, two t-shirts, a hoodie, and an adidas fitness outfit. Nothing worked out. The single pair of pants I really liked were available in every size except the one I needed.

So I surrendered my fashion fantasies and went to the cosmetic section instead. I’d tossed out a lot of old makeup this week so I bought some new eyeshadow, foundation, concealer, and mascara—nothing expensive. Decided a soft spring floral fragrance would boost my mood and so I splurged on Lancome’s “So Magic,” which I’d been sampling for months but never succumbed to buying.

E and the kids went to the garden and sports center while I finished shopping for the everyday necessities at the PX. Finally my cart was full and I was ready to checkout but didn’t have money or a credit card. Because I ride the Metro and frequently travel into the center of Brussels where the pickpockets lurk, I make it a habit to carry minimal cash and no credit cards. So I waited for E to return so he could pay for our stuff and we could move on to grocery shopping at the commissary. And I waited and waited and waited and waited.

He’d told me all they needed to buy was a softball, bat, badminton birdies, and cat litter. Where the hell were they? I try calling E on his cell—no answer. An hour passes from the time I finished shopping! I’m rehearsing the ugly speech I plan to deliver when E shows his face again. They were only supposed to be gone about 20 minutes!

Finally I give up waiting on him and head over to the hair salon which is located off the entry way to the building. As long as I’m stuck here, I’ll get a shampoo and a haircut. Just the thought of suds and warm water is soothing. I haven’t yet developed an ongoing relationship with a single stylist. Each time I get my hair cut, someone new does it.

This is a good and bad thing. I get a little nervous, but I rationalize it keeps me from getting the exact same cut over and over again. I’m always hoping that a fresh set of eyes will deliver a new look and eventually I’ll end up with something (and someone) I really love. While waiting for E to return I’d read all the hairstyle magazines in the store but hadn’t seen anything that inspired me so I don’t even have a visual aid to give to the stylist.

The last time I came here I told the French-speaking stylist to trim off less than an inch and make my hair less round and more shaggy. The result was definitely less round, not necessarily “shaggy” but it looked pretty good. I was satisfied with it, if not wowed. I give the latest French-speaking stylist the exact same directive. She doesn’t ask any questions, just picks up her scissors and gets to work.

Hmmm, she starts cutting in the back and it’s feeling kind of short, but I’m not a woman who is afraid of short hair—I won’t panic unless she gets out clippers. She cuts the sides next and points with her finger—“You want line here?” What line is she talking about? Not my part because my part is still visible. Um, I’m not sure, what we’re talking about, and so I look to where she’s pointing, an area just above my ear and say, “OK.” Then I say a prayer that she’s not going to cut my hair over my ear because I’m not ready for whitewalls. Been there done that.

She finishes that side, “OK?” she asks. Hmmm, not sure exactly where this haircut is going, it’s quite a bit shorter, but I’m not bald yet and she hasn’t pulled out the clippers so I say, “Yes.”

She does the other side, then asks me about my bangs. While I can be adventurous about having stylists do their own thing with my hair, I do live in terror of short bangs. With naturally curly hair, short bangs are the greatest hair disaster. Even if they’re not super short, the wrong bangs can transform me to dowdy old fart faster than you can say Mamie Eisenhower. Not to mention that the shorter you cut curly hair into bangs, the more likely you are to get rotelli shapes sticking out from the hairline or a big puffball of frizz hovering above the forehead.

I tell her I like long bangs, worn to the side, framing my face. She cuts them a bit and is done. Do I want my hair dried? Sure I say. I expect the usual mousse and scrunch routine but she pulls out a round brush and I realize she’s going to blow my hair out straight. I never wear my hair straight (too lazy to fight my curls), but hey I’m game. Let’s go for it.

Bit by bit she pulls my hair through the brush. The dryer feels hot and burns my ears. The brush pricks the skin around my face and neck. I watch myself in the mirror and wonder where this is heading. As she moves from the back to the front, I think I’m starting to look a little bit like the mom in the Brady Bunch. My heart clenches a bit, “Oh God, I don’t want to look like Florence Henderson!”

When she finishes, she tucks some pieces behind my ears with a smidge of gel. And I like it. I like it a lot. I had no idea my hair could be so smooth and glossy. I can see highlights I didn’t even know I had. I love the way the bangs dip over one eye and the way the back has bit of volume. Best of all, by seriously tapering the shape of my haircut, she’s softened my jawline, which has gotten square in the last few years, and she drew attention to my cheekbones.

I tell her happily, “C’est bon!”

When I leave the salon and find E waiting, it takes him a moment to recognize me. I see a friend from Brussels and she doesn’t recognize me at first either. I’m happy not to recognize myself.

I slip on a new pair of sunglasses, step out into the sunshine, and leave my dumpy, frumpy self behind.

(Check out the photos of my new look in my photo album. For a glimpse of my “old hair,” look at the birthday pictures from late January.)

Copyright 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

April 24, 2006

Wardrobe Malfunctions

It started with Teebs, and then it was picked up by Ditsy. Now I too have joined the ranks of women sharing their embarrassing wardrobe malfunctions. At least I’m in good company.

Scene 1:  College

Clock stopped. I've overslept! Mad rush to get dressed and make it to 8 a.m class, which is followed by 9 a.m. class, which is followed by 10 a.m. class. No time to waste in the restroom. When I arrive at the Student Union for lunch with friends, I desperately need to pee.

In the bathroom I drop my jeans and notice something isn’t quite right, but I can’t put my finger on it.  I keep staring at the undies around my ankles and going, “Huh?”

And then it hits me:  yes, in my great haste to get dressed in the morning, I put my underwear on SIDEWAYS.

Sideways?!!! I know, Internet, you’re thinking, how the hell is it possible to put your underwear on SIDEWAYS and not notice immediately? Ask Victoria’s Secret, makers of the particular panties that pulled this trick off. They were French cut, stretchy, and the waist and leg openings were about the same size, as was the width of the side panels and the width of the crotch.

But excuses aside, let me just say I am not a MORNING person. Not at all. And I don’t drink coffee, so I don’t emerge from my mental fog as readily as some people do.

Scene 2:   Gym

Once I had my second child, not only was I not a morning person, I was not an afternoon person either. I also wasn’t a night person. What I was instead was a barely functioning person day and night. The toddler-with-a-baby years ruined my mental and physical health.

And thus to restore some semblance of my former self and get out of the house for an hour or so a few days a week, I signed up for an aerobics class. Getting to the class, however, was tricky, because if my husband was delayed as little as five minutes getting home from work, my carefully constructed logistics would fall apart.

I needed to leave for the gym just after 5 p.m. Everyone with kids knows this is the single most evil hour of the day. They tend to become bored, tired, hungry, cranky and crying all at once, right as you’re trying to cook dinner. It’s not pretty. Every rotten thing my son ever did occurred after 4 p.m. And my daughter, well this was the moment she needed to be in my arms every second. And being trapped in the kitchen with two unhappy children was not working for me—because hey, grownups also get cranky, tired, and hungry but we’re not allowed to throw tantrums. Nah, nah, nah, nah, nah!

And so, long story short, I was always in a tizzy trying to get the kids fed, and get  dressed, grab my stuff, and get out the door so I could sweat my stress away.

This might explain why one day when we were warming up in class, I looked down at my feet and discovered I was wearing two different shoes. Two different shoes!!!

The only thing they had in common was that they were both Rykas. But one was a walking shoe and one was a HIGH TOP.

How did I manage to do this? To borrow Ditsy Chick’s tagline, “I used to have a mind, but now I have small children.”

But my stupid gym woes didn’t end at that moment. No, I had to further humiliate myself on another day.

Now most of the women in this class were far more buff and fit than I was—and they had the cute workout outfits with the shorts and sports bras. Not me, I had big oversized t-shirts borrowed from my husband and gray heather bicycle shorts purchased at Sears (yes, SEARS!).

One day I was again running late and came flying through the gym door, tossed my towel and water bottle into a cubby and joined the people who were already in motion. Naturally, the back of the class is crowded with newbies trying to learn the routines, so despite the fact that I am not buff or well-dressed, I jump in where there’s room--on the front line.

I’m confidently grape-vining to the left when I glance at the enormous mirrored wall behind the instructor and see something white flapping below my throat. What is that stuck to my shirt?

Grape vine to the right and peer closer.  Reach up to my throat and realize that the white thing bouncing in the breeze is my t-shirt tag.  Yes, Internet, my t-shirt tag. Not only do I have my tacky tee on inside out, I also have it on backwards!

Thank God I was wearing matching shoes.

So now that I have bared my fashion faux pas and wardrobe malfunctions to the WORLD, you’re invited to do the same.

 Comments?

March 29, 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?

The Bitch is Back

Tough morning. I had a middle of the night battle with insomnia, waking at 3 a.m. and lying in bed with the purring cat and snoozing husband until the 6:30 a.m. alarm signaled the start of another day.

This is my second night of insomnia. The first night I thought I was tossing and turning because I’d indulged in some caffeine during the day. But after a day of drinking wishy-washy decaf tea, I spent another night with my eyes shut and my mind wide open.

Around 5 a.m., I realized what the problem was. Shuffling down the stairs, I grab my “Female Calendar of Doom” and sure enough, here I am in the black, soon to be in the red.

Talk about a vicious cycle. The insomnia empowers my inner bitch and makes me act as badly as I feel. These are the days of sweatpants, salt, and pizza cravings. My stomach is as puffy and squishy as a Ziploc full of water, and my eyes are pink and squinty with the sleep-deprivation, water-retention blues. I see backaches and/or headaches on the horizon and some serious sofa time in the short-term forecast. Dark chocolate and a few episodes of “Friends” will probably be required this weekend.

The older I get, the more my hormones slap me around. And the more they slap me around, the more I resent them for making me feel like a caricature of a real woman. My inner FemiNazi wants to pin the PMS bitch to the wall, get in her face, and then send her packing because she’s such a WHINER.

But the PMS bitch is bigger, stronger, and packing some attitude. She won’t let some high-minded FemiNazi deny she’s in charge. This is HER WEEK and the best thing to do is stay the hell out of her way. But before you go, bring her a Coke, will you. Like NOW--how many times does she have to ask? No, she doesn’t want the decaf! Haven’t you been listening to what she’s been saying? Just bring the Coke. Geez! What the hell is wrong with you? And where’s the freakin’ straw?

© 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

February 28, 2006

Reflections on the Lure of All that Glitters

My friend Vicky is remarkably low maintenance. When she came to Europe for a three-week visit last summer, she and her husband each carried a large backpack with all that they’d need so they’d have no luggage to check.

I was impressed. Every time I think I’m embracing simple living I realize how little I really know about simple living. I told Vicky I wouldn’t even consider using a piece of luggage without wheels, let alone something I’d have to carry on my back. I’m just not that kind of Grrrl.

I was thinking about Vicky today because she doesn’t wear a wedding ring. Yes, she has an engagement ring and wedding band, but she no longer wears them or any rings for that matter. She just doesn’t like jewelry.

In the last few years, I’ve often left my own modest diamond engagement and wedding rings behind and substituted a silver ring or a Native American band that E-Man gave me in its place. Those rings don’t snag on things while I’m cleaning, handling laundry, wearing gloves, searching for a coin in my jeans’ pockets, or running my fingers through my hair. Here in Belgium, married women generally wear a simple band on their right hands, so leaving my diamond behind seemed even less of an issue.

But recently I was at a gathering with a large group of American women and was struck by the unbelievable number of stunning diamond rings among them. Diamonds so large and flashy, they looked more like headlights than rings. Diamonds that dominated petite fingers and demanded to be noticed and admired. Diamonds swathed in gold and framed with even more diamonds. And hey, I admit it, I was impressed.

Suddenly my silver claddagh ring from the Museum of Modern Art felt less artistic and personal and more, well, small and plain. Was its plainness a symbol of confidence, practicality, and simple living--or something else altogether? Why doesn’t my original yellow-gold wedding set with the round diamond in a Tiffany setting and a design of vines and flowers on the band appeal to me much anymore?

I remember picking it out 25 years ago and in a moment of prescience, confiding to a friend that it was hard to choose a ring knowing it would be a choice you’d live with every day for the rest of your life!

Choosing my husband was easier.

With Valentine’s Day just around the corner, there are ads everywhere for diamond rings. I find myself lingering over the newspaper inserts, clicking on online ads, and admiring the chunky white gold settings with the square-shaped princess-cut stones. Hmmm, wouldn’t it be nice to plant a three-stone ring on my left hand or a modern design on my right hand and make a new statement?

And then I consider the prices and wonder how I could ever justify the purchase of a piece of jewelry worth thousands of dollars.

Then I remind myself what we’ve spent on computer equipment in the past, and how a diamond is forever and will be passed on to my daughter and maybe even a grandchild. The computers, however, will end up in a recycling bin sooner rather than later.

But I couldn’t live without the computer.

Clearly I can live without diamond rings.

Time for a new approach to my dilemma.

Ah yes, here’s one. We sold our extra cars when we moved and the one car we do have, we bought used from E’s mother. We have a 24-inch ancient TV—a hand-me down! We don’t have cable or TiVO or any of that! I don’t own an iPod, a Blackberry, a video camera, or even a real stereo system. So what’s the big deal about coveting a new ring?

Here’s the big deal: I read a daily devotional book, and the day’s entry is about being responsible stewards of all that God has given us. Aaargh! I don’t want spiritual TRUTH, not after I’ve carefully constructed a pile of fabulous rationalizations!

I immediately pull a blanket of guilt over my head for even entertaining the idea of buying a new ring. I wish I had sackcloth and ashes to finish humbling myself.

But then I peek out again, seduced by the thought of a sparkling new diamond winking at me from my own hand. Why do I feel so conflicted for admiring something that's undeniably beautiful.  Hey, I’m not being greedy, pretentious, or wasteful.

Or am I?

February 8, 2006

Totally Bitchin'

Thanks to Shirl Grrrl for sharing this gem.  Let me tell y'all, the timing is perfect. Don't you dare not click the link--and be sure to come back and comment!  http://www.badgirl1.com/PMS.htm

And if you can't get enough on the topic, read this classic from the V-Grrrl archives.

Best Grrrls in the World

Today is my birthday, and on Saturday, January 20 my Grrrl friends back home in Virginia had a party for me. Heather hosted at her cozy place at the end of the cul-de-sac and about ten of my best buds rocked her house. They transformed Heather’s kitchen bar into a smorgasabord, pulled out the fiesta plates, and partied on without me.

They ate Better-than-Sex cake in Virginia while I had to settle for just plain sex in Belgium. Am I a bad, bad woman for wanting to have my sex and eat cake too? Yeah, I thought so. Excuse me while I chat with my conscience. (“Don’t be a greedy Grrrl, Miss V. Some people didn’t have sex OR cake last weekend. Think of the less fortuante, hon, your mom would want you to do that. And quit writing about sex. You know E-Man hates when you do that.”)

Before sending out party invitations, Heather had me make a “wish list,” and the party guests showed up with items for a birthday care package. At the party, they all sprawled on the living room floor, not because they were under the influence of Jan’s favorite beverages but so they could wrap the pile of items that had been carried through Heather’s door that night.

I noticed from the video they sent that Michelle and Beth supervised the wrapping from the sofa—maybe they were the designated drunks and were not permitted to even SIT on the floor with scissors. Looks can be deceiving. Beth is a wild, wild woman underneath her calm exterior. I suspect she, Lisa, and Eileen go barhopping in Central Park on Saturday nights when they’re supposed to be out doing the mom thing, buying school supplies and groceries at the Wal-Mart Supercenter. I know your secrets, y’all. Word gets around.

Now Joanna would never go bar hopping, but keep her out of the casinos, OK? She's a math whiz and loves to play with probability. And don’t believe her stories about what happened when she was in Las Vegas. (What Joanna, you say NOTHING happened when you were in Las Vegas? Hey, don't ruin a good story! Cultivate an air of mystery.) Anne managed to slip in and out of the party and not be videotaped telling dirty jokes, but Anne, I heard you dropped in, and I know you missed the cake. Thanks for coming, Grrrl friend. Sorry you missed the party.

Despite her protests, Joanna survived being videotaped. Stephanie displayed her wrapping prowess as well as a great new haircut (too cute, Steph!). Somebody bought BLT dip, and that spinach dip in the big soft bread shell. Michelle brought the ham and swiss dip, there was brie, and other wonderful things to make crackers (and people) happy.

(“I used fat-free cream cheese, y’all, so don’t worry--there are no calories in my ball….Did I just say there are no calories in my ball?” Yeah, Janis, you just did. I love no-calorie balls! Wish I was there!)

My big dork moment: I couldn’t stop myself from waving at my computer monitor while the video played. I wanted to holla-back Grrrls. (And by the way y’all sing well—love that “cha-cha-cha” at the end.)

When I saw Heather’s three-year-old daughter bolt for the Better-than-Sex cake when they finished singing Happy Birthday, I hoped she wouldn’t share how good it was with her Sunday school teacher the next morning. (“I want to thank Jesus for the  sex at my house party last night! It was the best ever!”)

Even after this rowdy crowd kept her kids awake past their bedtimes, Heather managed to box up all the packages and haul the big box to the post office on Monday. In a miracle of the APO shipping system, it arrived in our mail on FRIDAY, and the E-Man staggered up the steps with it.

I was as giddy as my 8-year-old daughter--squealing and hopping around, wanting to open the box right away but forcing myself to wait until Sunday when I would be celebrating my birthday with my family.

And so after consuming tea sandwiches made by the kids (with Virginia ham we found in a Belgian store) and two slices of traditional English sponge cake with cream and jam filling, I settled down on the floor with the big box and started unwrapping all the presents. There were fuzzy sleep socks, boxes of tea, stuff to buff my nails, a Mary Kay set, Jergens Natural Glow lotion, a fabulous knit scarf in an auburn brown shade that matches my hair and eyes, note cards, rubber stamping and scrapbooking supplies (including a stamp of the Eiffel Tower and a set of travel phrases—how cool!), books (including two by David Sedaris—cha-cha-cha), a big scrapbook with extra pages for my European post card collection, a wall calendar, candy, and drink mixes.

I was blown away by my Grrrl Friends thoughtfulness and generosity and the way they had reached halfway around the world to send their love and good wishes to me on my birthday. Getting old has never been more fun. They are SIMPLY THE BEST. Applaud, Internet, applaud. These Grrrls deserve it—and more.

And so today I salute the Home Grrrls--this blog’s for you! Some day I hope instead of Grrrl’s Night Out in the neighborhood you will have Grrrl’s Night Way-the-Hell-Out in Belgium. Y’all could get a group rate on travel. Jan, we have good beer here and French wine. The rest of y’all can come for the chocolate. We’ll have a ball (fat- and calorie-free, of course!)

© 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

January 30, 2006

My Grrrl

My little E-Grrrl looks like a princess—platinum blond hair, big blue eyes, porcelain skin and an abiding fondness for all things pink. However, lurking behind her delicate coloring and sweet disposition is a world-class klutz.. E-Grrrl moves with all the grace of a moth circling a light. She’s forever clipping things with her shoulders, tripping over cracks in the sidewalk, and stepping on toes. She’s a disaster at the dinner table, dropping food, staining her clothes, and overturning her drink. I’m confident she will be voted “Most Likely to Spill Champagne on her Wedding Day” when she graduates from college.

This is why when the school nurse called this morning, I recognized her voice immediately. We’ve spoken many times before. She has treated E-Grrrl at least a dozen times for bumps, bruises, and scrapes (including an incident where E-Grrrl poked herself in the eye on the playground). Interspersed with all the genuine complaints over injuries, headaches, and sore throats, have been a slew of others of a more dubious nature.

Let’s not call E-Grrrl a hypochondriac, let’s just say she’s in tune with her body and finds every irregularity fascinating. The nurse has listened patiently on many occasions as E-Grrrl has described her concern over a gushy feeling in her stomach, a pain in her chest, an achy leg, an itchy arm, or—my favorite—a case of dandruff.

So when I heard the nurse’s voice on the phone this morning, I didn’t know what to expect. Was E-Grrrl sick, injured, or just missing mom, a condition that often results in the rapid onset of mysterious physical symptoms?

The nurse explained that E-Grrrl wasn’t injured, but had backed into a shelf in her classroom, caught her pants on it, and tore a big hole  right in the seat. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Good lord, that’s my Grrrl!

The nurse had scrounged up a pair of shrunken sweatpants for little E to wear but they only came down to her calves. I could imagine my girly-girl’s mortification. First she mooned her classmates, and then she was forced to wear some icky cast-offs that looked like Capri pants gone wrong. Did I mention that E left the house this morning wearing a pair of black Ugg clogs with yellow socks? You get the picture.

I knew this was a fashion emergency, and there wasn’t a moment to lose. I practically ran to catch the next bus with a pair of E-Grrrl’s pants gripped tightly in my hand. My mission: to save her from cold legs and school-wide humiliation at lunch and afternoon recess.

When I arrived at the school and beckoned E-Grrrl out of her classroom, she looked up at me with her big blue eyes and said, “Oh Mama, I knew you’d come!”

Of course, I would. That sweet thing wearing the short, short turquoise sweatpants and the clunky suede clogs—that’s my Grrrl. And me and the school nurse, we’re on her team—in sickness and in health.

© 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault

January 24, 2006

Reflections on The Pursuit of Dust vs. The Pursuit of Happiness

The good news is that the sun shone in Belgium this past week, an occasion for celebration. As I pulled back the curtains in every room to let the light stream in, I confronted an ugly reality—dust everywhere.

It was dense on the windowsills, a gray scum on our dressers, camouflaged on the bookcases, forming clumps on cobwebs in dark corners, sullying the china cabinets, dimming the glass mirrors, and whitening the black electronics.

The benefit of gray days, failing vision, and a poorly lit house is that I’ve been spared the sight of the dust and grime building on so many surfaces. The top of the toaster and kettle, the inside of the microwave, the hood over the stove, the curves of the lamp base. In the dim light of an average Belgian day, I am blissfully ignorant of the dust invasion, the subtle shift from clean to dirty. Each day my eyes are glued to the words on my computer monitor or the intricacies unfolding in the world outside my window.  Dust is just dust in the background of my life. I'll address it when I address it.

My mother would be appalled. Even with six kids and her invalid mother under the roof, she kept a spotless house. She was always in motion and always tired. She weighed only 120 pounds but her feet slapped the floor with purpose. When she walked through the house, she sounded like a burly soldier marching off to war. Yes, she took a certain pleasure in her well-scrubbed home, but it was clear it was also a burden to her. As I moved through my teens, I sensed she was on auto pilot, doing her duty, waiting for her life to change, biding her time. As the years went by, the joy imperceptibly drained from her in a slow leak of disappointments.

This may explain why my own house is not like the house I grew up in, and why I find housework less and less satisfying the older I get. There was a time when my whole house got thoroughly cleaned every week and underwent “spring cleaning” twice a year. Now I do what’s necessary and leave the rest until the spirit moves me or company comes (I have my pride). The E-Man, who really likes a clean house, tolerates my approach and cleans the things he can’t live with.

Which brings me to this poem by Erica Jong:

Woman Enough

Because my grandmother's hours
were apple cakes baking,
& dust motes gathering,
& linens yellowing
& seams and hems
inevitably unraveling
I almost never keep house
though really I like houses
& wish I had a clean one.
Because my mother's minutes
were sucked into the roar
of the vacuum cleaner,
because she waltzed with the washer-dryer
& tore her hair waiting for repairmen
I send out my laundry,
& live in a dusty house,
though really I like clean houses
as well as anyone.
I am woman enough
to love the kneading of bread
as much as the feel
of typewriter keys
under my fingers
springy, springy.
& the smell of clean laundry
& simmering soup
are almost as dear to me
as the smell of paper and ink.
I wish there were not a choice;
I wish I could be two women.
I wish the days could be longer.
But they are short.
So I write while
the dust piles up.
I sit at my typewriter
remembering my grandmother
& all my mothers,
& the minutes they lost
loving houses better than themselves
& the man I love cleans up the kitchen
grumbling only a little
because he knows
that after all these centuries
it is easier for him
than for me.

Poem copyrighted by Erica Jong. See www.ericajong.com for more on the author.

Text copyright 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

January 11, 2006