Conversation with my Keyboard

V-Grrrl: Well Keyboard, E wasn't happy that I aired dirty family secrets on my blog last night. After I cleaned up the toilet, I had to come back and clean up my original entry because he said I'd gone too far. He gave me that "I hate potty mouth" look.  

Keyboard: Well, V-Grrrl, you should be proud for standing up for hygiene and decency even if you did BETRAY YOUR OWN CHILDREN'S PRIVACY.

V-Grrrl:  Well, if you don't want your toilet habits made public, you should clean up after YOURSELF in private. What I don't know about, I can't write about--see my logic? 

Keyboard: I guess. You're not going to tell everyone how many grams of sandwich crumbs I'm hiding down here are you?

V-Grrrl: No way! Then they'd think I was an Internet addict, always eating at my desk, and we know that I AM NOT A COMPUTER ADDICT, right, Keyboard?

Keyboard: Of course, you're not, V. You just can't get enough of ME and all the stuff I help you write.

V-Grrrl: True! Every day you bring my words to life.

Keyboard: Even the nasty ones.

V-Grrrl: Even the nasty ones. Thanks Keyboard.  Where would I be without your loyalty--and the delete key?

May 23, 2007

I don't need this

What's worse than going into the bathroom and seeing that someone has used the last scrap of toilet paper and not replaced the roll? Looking at the toilet and seeing that it is covered with, how shall I say this delicately, fecal matter.

Yes, it looked like there was an explosion in a septic tank in there. Of course, no one named E-Grrrl or A has any idea what happened. Nope. They hear no evil, see no evil, do no evil.

Apparently they also do not SEE the toilet brush, spray bottle of disinfectant, and the flushable cleaning wipes sitting RIGHT NEXT TO THE TOILET, ready to assist with any and all unexpected bathroom crises.

No, in our house, when crap happens, we ignore the problem. When confronted with a bunch of it, we deny, deny, deny. Then we conveniently LEAVE IT THERE for someone else to deal with. [Go ahead and say: "Just like they do in Washington, V-Grrrl!"]

Good grief.

Pass the bleach.

Pass the Lysol.

Pass the rubber gloves.

Pass me a margarita while I write up an ad for eBay:

For Sale: Two children, slightly used....

May 22, 2007

Attention makers of Nair--you are not my friends

On Saturday night I decided to grease up with the new and improved cocoa butter-laced Nair so I could skip shaving my legs in the shower and save some hot water. (Al Gore LOVES me, y'all).

Not only would I be saving water, but while the Nair was doing its job of dissolving unwanted hair and leaving my legs silky smooth and sexy, I could be working on buffing my heels and trimming my nails so that all the soft and lovely goodness of my legs would not end with icky feet. It's the weekend and I want the top to bottom beauty treatment! I'm a multi-tasking, high maintenance Grrrl.

I shook the bottle. I read that you were not supposed to leave the Nair on your skin for more than 10 minutes, and I dutifully checked my watch. Then I slathered that vile stinky yellow lotion all over my legs and started counting down the minutes to smooth and sexy while pampering my sweet not-so-little feet.

After a few minutes, my legs felt tingly. I was not alarmed. I've used Nair before. I'm a pro. I know if you rinse off too early you end up with horrid half-dissolved stubble and have to shave anyway. Y'all, I am NOT shaving tonight. I promised Al I'd save the environment. I'm waiting until the 10 minute mark.

Tingle. Tingle. Tingle.

Ten minutes. I jump in the shower and rinse, and I use a washcloth to make sure I leave no Nair and no hair behind. I am an overachiever. 

Tingle. Tingle, Tingle.

The legs look a little blotchy. Oh well. I use baby lotion all over them figuring it's super gentle and soothing. So smooth, so soft, the color will get better I'm sure. I go to bed.

Sunday morning I wake not to silky soft, smooth and sexy legs but splotchy, blotchy, wildly itchy legs. Covered with red, itchy bumps, I look like I served as an all night diner for a billion mosquitos. But since only my legs are affected and I was wearing pajama pants, I know these aren't bug bites of any kind.

Oh no! I've been visited under cover of darkness by the Nair Witch! (Didn't they make a movie about her, y'all--the Nair Witch Project?)

She cast a mean and evil spell on me. For two days, I've been hemmin' and hawin' and scratchin' my legs like a hound dog. If I were more flexible, I'd probably gnaw on the itchiest spots. My legs have that pinky, purple opalescent look of frozen chicken pieces and now are sporting some stubble as well.

What happened to smooth, silky and sexy?

Ewww. They look  like a picture in a dermatology textbook. It will be days before I can shave, and by then I'll  be as hairy as Wilmer Valderama.

Al Gore, I have one thing to say to you: you are NOT my boyfriend. From here on out, I'm all about hot showers and Daisy shavers. Some hairy bitch can save the world instead.

And that evil Nair potion? On its way to the landfill. I'm sure it will eat through its own container, corrode the landfill liner, and contaminate the water supply eventually. Sorry, y'all. My intentions WERE good and we all know where good intentions take you. Straight to .....

Ever the itchy, red, and pimply,

V-Grrrl

May 21, 2007

Portrait of the artist as a middle-aged expat

I’ve got a little more than a year left in Belgium, and I’m constantly looking back on my time here and looking forward to what might lie ahead.

I’ve written about my day-to-day life and our travel and experiences in Europe, but sometimes I think what will stand out in my mind when I revisit my expat years is the way I nurtured my creativity. Being plucked from my busy, busy, busy American life and dropped into a new country without a job, a friend, or a single item on my calendar was unnerving and yet liberating.

I often felt lost in every sense of the word during my first year here, but the up side of all that down time is that it removed every excuse I ever had for not expressing my creativity, for not stretching my skills, for not giving myself permission to try and possibly fail at something new.

When I started my blog, I did so with the idea that going public with my personal writing would force me to spend some time at the keyboard every day, to take an idea and fully explore it, to take rough writing and finish it, and to soldier on with my work whether I felt inspired or bored. In that respect, this blog has been a success. It may not be widely read or well known. but it’s fully my work and my online portfolio. I've written about 500 pages. The process of posting four to five times a week has taken my writing to a new level. I don’t think it’s ever been better, and I look forward to taking what I’ve learned back into the work place next year.

While honing my writing skills was my intention when I started this blog, I gained so much more than I ever expected; I’ve made friends, developed relationships, and learned from others’ experiences. It’s been the ultimate reality show with the most amazing cast of characters.

While here, I’ve also taken baby steps into the world of art and paper crafts and thoroughly enjoyed learning to stamp, watercolor, and make cards and scrapbook pages. With one year left of my “sabbatical from American life,” I’m more determined than ever to advance those fledgling skills and take some chances. I want to take a class in book making and one on painting techniques. I may even sign on for a class in making mosaics.

Suddenly time seems short. I both look forward to and fear going back to the U.S., wondering what shape my life will take when I’m once again planted in the land of the fast and the stressed. I try to focus on the positive, on the opportunities that await us, but part of me is also braced for what will seem like an assault on our low key European life style. In theory, we are going “home,” but home doesn’t exist anymore as a familiar, comforting place. Who knows what life will really be like--where we’ll live, how we’ll balance work and family time, and if we’ll be able to travel?

All I know is that I have one year left—and places to visit and things to do before I’m back in the rat race. Tomorrow this non-artist is going to boldly register for those art classes. It’s something I’d never find time for in the U.S., which is exactly why I need to do it now.  May 20, 2007

A tale of tadpoles, frogs, and paperwork

(Note from school)

Dear Parents,

WE HAVE FROGS!!! (So, of course, now we have to get rid of frogs....)

If your child would like to take home some tadpoles, please give your permission to have them bring some home tomorrow after school. You may either bring in a container and take them, or send a small container with your child to take home on the bus. Please review some rules with your child: do NOT take the frogs out of the container, do NOT throw frog water on anyone on the bus, do NOT take the container out of your backpack on the bus, do NOT drop the container, give the container to your parent as soon as you walk through the door at home. That should cover it. :-)

Please e-mail me if your family would like some!!!

Thanks in advance,

Mrs. Elementary School Teacher

(Witty Mom #1 replies)

Wow! Frogs on the bus... now that sounds like an exciting Friday.

P.S. Do the frogs need a bus pass?

(V-Grrrl jumps into conversation and copies all recipients)

Dear Witty Mom #1,

We're so glad you brought this to our attention!

Paperwork must be filed in triplicate with Mr. Transportation Guy three days in advance. Ms. School Secretary may or may not have the proper forms, and they may or may not be readable due to copy toner insufficiencies and office budget shortfalls.

Ms. School Nurse has informed us that an Amphibian Certificate of Health must be attached to the Request for Waiver of Normal Bus Protocols, and the frogs must have indicated they will not hold the school district responsible for any injuries or emotional trauma that occurs during transit.

Children whose parents do not permit them to take frogs home will be offered Grief Counseling by certified professionals. Written permission to receive said counseling must be in today and be signed by BOTH parents.

Parents refusing to let frogs into their home are required to attend Amphibian Sensitivity Training to deal with their issues and prejudices. It's not easy being green

Sincerely,

V-Grrrl

(Mrs. Elementary School Teacher responds)

LOL.

I think V-Grrrl should get all of the leftover frogs. Who's with me on that issue???

Mrs. Elementary School Teacher

(V-Grrrl responds)

Let the record show that Chez V-Grrrl has taken in ALL of Ms. D's frogs, ALL of Mr. C's, and ALL of Mr. S's.

According to regional school protocols and European Union conservation guidelines, Chez V has hit its quota and cannot host anymore amphibians.

Sorry Mrs. Elementary School Teacher. You should have filed your Request for Amphibian Relocation earlier.

Have a nice weekend. Think Green.

V-Grrrl

May 18, 2007

What will my kids remember about Europe?

Like most Americans, I’m a bit mad for photography, and I have lots of photos, both digital and print. When my parents died years ago, they left behind a hopeless jumble of snapshots that raised more questions than answers. This is why I’ve been committed to keeping my own photos organized.

All the prints are dutifully entered into family albums with names, dates, and places noted. I also have duplicates made of my favorite shots, and I use them to create albums for the children so that both my son and my daughter will have a visual record of their lives to take with them when they leave home.

Unfortunately, I’d fallen way behind in updating the kids’ albums, and so with the return of drizzly, windy weather, it seemed the perfect time to catch up. My dining room table is covered with envelopes of photos that I’m sorting and adding to my children’s albums, along with brief descriptions.

My daughter has loved looking at photographs all her life, and she’s been frequently checking in on my progress these last few days, lingering over the pictures and asking questions. What’s astonished me during this process is how much she and her brother have forgotten about their life in the U.S.

My son was unable to recall the names of some of the boys in his Cub Scout troop, boys he’d known for years and seen every week and camped with. My daughter asked me what color our house had been in the U.S. Both kids had difficulty recalling the names of their teachers.

My jaw dropped. We’ve only been here two years. My kids were 6 and 8 years old when we arrived; they weren’t babies. I’m a bit freaked out that so much is sliding out of their memory, that the past is retreating so quickly for them.

When we were preparing to move to Belgium, people often commented on what an amazing experience it would be for the kids. They were the perfect ages for this type of adventure! They would have an opportunity to travel and see things that most Americans never see! What a tremendous advantage this would be for them!

Now I realize that while we’ve dutifully taken them to see the most famous sites in London, Rome, Paris and Brussels and visited countless other points of interest in Belgium, Germany, England, and the Netherlands, chances are they won’t remember much of what they’ve seen.

A child’s experience of the world is so different. An adult sees a Michelangelo and brings so much knowledge and emotion to bear on that experience. A kid sees a Michelangelo and thinks, “Cool. I can’t believe that’s made of stone,” and then wonders aloud when we can stop for gelato and whether they get an extra scoop this time.

Let’s face it: years later the kid will remember the gelato and forget the sculpture by What’s-His-Face.

I have no doubt that when my children recall their time in Belgium, what will stand out in their memory is the local friterie and bakery, the fact that they thought our yard was too small, the way it rained a lot, and how great the playgrounds were. They will also never forget nor forgive the lack of snow. This will be the major regret of their expat years—they didn’t have snow days off from school. They didn’t go sledding!

Still, I know the expat experience and all the travel hasn’t been wasted on them. What they don’t consciously remember still shapes their perspective and their outlook on the world and will affect them all their lives.

Now they know:

• that America isn’t the center of the universe,
• that people from many cultures can co-exist more or less peacefully,
• that there’s not one right way to do things but many different ways to accomplish a task, and
• that we’re all products of our cultures and must be aware of how that influences how we think about life and politics and right and wrong.

My kids have had the experience of being the foreigner, the stranger, the outsider , and so they’ve come to appreciate the value of being welcomed, tolerated, and accommodated. I hope this will forever color the way they interact with the variety of people they’ll meet in life.

And maybe, just maybe, the photos I neatly arrange and label on these rainy afternoons will help them recover the best memories and lessons of expat life long after we return to America.

May 17, 2007

©2007 V-Grrrl and Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

Dreaming

When I woke this morning, I had fragments of a dream clinging to the cobwebs behind my eyes:

I was living in a medieval building constructed of ancient stone. At some points in my dream it looked like a castle or fortress. At other times it looked like a European cathedral.

I am coming down the stairs when the earth shifts subtly beneath the building, not with the dramatic shaking and quaking you see when earthquakes are represented in movies but more like the quiet slump of a mudslide.

The entire building begins to fall apart, walls tumbling in and out, the roof sliding off, slabs of stone collapsing. It was like a house riddled with termites that looks sturdy on the outside but then unexpectedly disintegrates and gives way.

There was both a sense of alarm and a sense of inevitability related to the destruction. Part of me wanted to flee but I didn’t. Instead I stayed inside for a while, dodging falling debris and trying to maneuver around the damage, making plans even as the ceiling was falling.

Finally, I realized I had to leave, and when I glanced back at the building, it looked like the ruins of the Abbaye de Villers that I visited a month or so ago.

As I emerge from shock, reality starts to sink in. I’ve lost everything! I tell the family I’m staying with that night that I need to go back into the ruins and retrieve my children’s photo albums and my jewelry box. I’m convinced I know exactly where they are and that I’ll be able to reach them.

Interestingly, I’m not afraid to re-enter this structure that is falling apart. It’s as if I recognize the danger but don’t feel it will affect me. I’m ready to wade through the rubble when...

The alarm clock goes off and pulls me out of my dreamscape.

I carry bits and pieces of it with me all day, and continually revisit the dream in my mind.

In quiet moments, I push and prod at my life, my relationships, my faith.

I’m looking for cracks.

I’m searching for fault lines.

I'm wondering what makes stone crumble.

May 15, 2007

Discussing what it means to be gay

Peter wrote about how disappointing a weekend visit with his straight family was. A single gay man, he felt pushed to the sidelines and ignored as everyone focused exclusively on the traditional family in their midst—the married couples and the grandchildren. It was as if he didn’t have a life worth inquiring about.

It reminded me of a recent conversation I had with my 9-year-old daughter about families. Her school has a lot of gay faculty, and as far as I know, sexual orientation is a non-issue with students and parents alike. I’ve never heard sexual orientation discussed among the school moms or in a social setting. It’s only occasionally been mentioned in private one-on-one conversation.

I’ve never been bothered by the idea of gay teachers though I admit I was surprised to see so many in one place. I think having my children in daily contact with gay adults is an advantage in a way. I figured it would be easier to discuss sexual orientation with them if there were people in their life who could put a face on the issue. I don’t want them to think of gays as a term describing people who are vastly different from them and on some fringe. They need to know they probably have more in common with gay people than not, that in most settings whether someone is gay or straight doesn’t matter.

Still, discussing sexual orientation with a 9 and an 11-year-old isn’t an easy thing, but not talking about it leaves a gap in their education that could easily be filled with misinformation or hate-mongering.  I’d been considering how to approach the topic when E-Grrrl opened a door to start a conversation.

She was discussing a teacher at school and as an aside said that she wondered why that person wasn’t married. Hmmm, as a parent I was curious why this topic was on her mind. Was this something that was being discussed among her friends at school, and what exactly were they saying?

So as I always do when my kids ask a question on a delicate topic, I ask it back to see where they’re coming from:

“I don’t really know. Why do you think Mr. So-and-So isn’t married?”

“Well,” she said, “Being a teacher is a hard job and takes a lot of time. He may not have time for a family.”

“That’s true. Some jobs are very demanding, and sometimes people choose not to get married so they can focus on their work. Why else do you think someone might not be married?”

“Well being married is a big responsibility. Once you get married and have kids, you have to do things for your family all the time whether you feel like it or not, and some people might not like that.” Again, I’m impressed with her answer.

“You’re right, some people don’t want to get married or have kids for that reason and there’s nothing wrong with that. And then some people would like to get married but just haven’t met the right person to do that with. They’re dating, looking to meet someone they might like to start a family with. People that aren’t married are known as singles.”

And then I take the plunge:

“But there’s another reason some people don’t get married and have kids…”

E-Grrrl looks at me expectantly.

“Most people from the time they’re small children think about growing up and being with someone who is a different sex than they are. Little girls imagine they will grow up and start a family with a man when they’re an adult and little boys usually think that they’ll grow up and marry a woman. They are attracted to the people that are the opposite sex: girls to boys and boys to girls.

“But while that’s true for most people in the world, some people are different. They imagine building a life with someone who is the same sex as them: a boy thinks about being with a boy, a girl about being with a girl.”

And E-Grrrl adds her thoughts:

“Oh yeah. I can see why that would happen. Wouldn’t it be fun to live with your best friend from third-grade when you grew up? You could share an apartment and have jobs!”

Oops, not quite what I was getting at. Where to go from here without saying more than she needs to know at this point? I just want to introduce a concept here.

“No, that’s not exactly what I mean. I’m not talking about girls living with girls or boys living with boys as friends. I’m talking about when they live together as a family. When they’re not just roommates but want to be together like Daddy and I are together, forming a family….”

I trail off, knowing I’m heading in the right direction but not sure how far to go down this road.

“Oh,” she says, “They want to be a family?”

“Yeah, “ I said, and then added, “But that bothers some people. Because most people in the world make a family with someone who is the opposite sex, some people don’t like those who don’t feel the same way. People who want to be with people of the same sex are called gay people, and some people don’t like gay people because they think being gay is wrong, and that gay people should not have boyfriends or girlfriends. Some people really hate gay people.”

E-Grrrl becomes indignant.

“That’s crazy. Why should anyone care who you make your family with when you’re a grown up! It’s none of their business. It doesn’t affect them! What difference does it make who you live with when you’re an adult?”

“You’re exactly right. That’s true. What you have to understand is that because most people are one way, they feel uncomfortable around people that are different. It’s understandable if you feel uncomfortable; we’re all uncomfortable in new situations. After a while, what seems strange at first doesn’t seem so strange to us anymore. What you need to remember is that feeling uncomfortable or strange isn’t a reason to treat someone badly, to call them names, or to make fun of them. Some kids might do that. If you ever hear someone using the word “gay” to tease someone or make them feel bad, you need to do what you can to stop that, and you should never do that yourself, even if your friends think it’s cool, “I finished.

Enough information for one day. There’s much more to talk about as we move from the facts of sexuality to the nuances, morality, risks, and responsibilities of it.

Oy. So much territory left to cover. I hope I can continue to find the right words--one small conversation at a time.

May 14, 2007

Copyright 2007 V-Grrrl in the Middle and Veronica McCabe Deschambault.

Karma is a bitch

So, two days after posting about the madness of Belgian drivers we were involved in a car accident that was, um, entirely our fault. I suppose we had it coming. Altogether now: bad Americans! Bad, bad, bad Americans!

E was driving and we were approaching an intersection with a major thoroughfare, and we needed to turn right onto it. There was a Yield sign at the intersection, and E was busy looking to the left to confirm the way was indeed clear so he could turn right. When he glanced back to his lane, he saw the car in front of him had come to a stop. He hit the brakes hard and our new Volvo smacked right into the back of a young woman's Citroen.

She was attractive in a low key way and very calm. She didn't go ballistic or cry, and thank God, she spoke English. She and E quietly inspected the damage on their respective cars, filled out paperwork, exchanged IDs and insurance info, and waited for the police to arrive. It took a while for them to show up, but they were nice guys who cheerfully administered breathalizers to E and the young woman. They told E there are a lot of accidents at that intersection because people often come to a full stop even when there aren't cars on the road simply because they have to be sure there aren't bikes on the bike path.

Neither car was heavily damaged, but we all have the stiff necks and mild headaches that come with whiplash.

After the accident, we went to the movies and saw the completely ridiculous Mr. Bean goes on Holiday. E-Grrrl loved it. It's a very silly, slapstick sort of comedy. The perfect post-accident entertainment. Pass the sugar popcorn, please.

So the weekend comes to a close and Monday looms with calls to our insurer and the chiropractor, and the kids telling all their friends at school about Dad's Accident. Of course, I'm much more discreet. I'm not telling ANYONE.  

May 13, 2007

So you think Belgium is dull? Clearly you haven't been driving

It’s spring in Belgium. The sun is shining, the birds are singing, the flowers blooming, the fields and forests are green with new growth. It’s a time to embrace optimism and a positive attitude—unless of course you want to leave your neighborhood, in which case it’s a time to buckle up, grit your teeth, and abandon all hope of arriving at your destination on time.

Yes, spring in Belgium means road construction projects, and no matter what direction you head, you’re bound to encounter orange cones, heavy equipment, and piles of paving stone, dirt, bricks, cable, and pipe.

Omleiding. Deviation. Wegomlegging. Detour. In any language, it means the same thing: trouble. While E and I have recently been blindsided by closed roads, unexpected dead ends, lengthy backups, and orange arrows that point nowhere, the truth is that we’re not really surprised when we can’t get where we’re going.

Whether I’m behind the wheel or in the passenger seat, driving in and around Brussels is always a challenge. A native once described the local traffic as “a bit more dynamic than what you see in the United States.”

I smiled and bit my tongue, not wanting to offend her by telling her I thought there should be an international team of researchers investigating why the otherwise quiet, mild-mannered, and reserved Belgian people morph into assertive daredevils behind the wheel of a car. Perhaps if you live here long enough, you develop calc deposits in a part of the brain responsible for caution. It’s all clouded in mystery.

Anyone who’s lived here for any period of time knows that Belgians aren’t renowned for their interest in speed or efficiency when it comes to customer service or bureaucracy, but put a Belgian in the driver’s seat and all that he or she is concerned with is the shortest distance and fastest route between two points. If this involves driving on sidewalks, passing on curves, speeding through residential areas, running through red lights, creating new lanes, or just cutting in front of other drivers and jockeying for position, so be it. C’est la vie. All’s fair in war and driving.

At first, I attributed the aggressive driving habits to the road conditions here. After all, navigating narrow bumpy streets clogged with parked cars, pedestrians, and cyclists is an exercise in frustration. Yet the longer I’ve lived here, the more I’ve begun to think Belgians secretly like all the obstacles thrown in their path.

Driving here isn’t about ease, it’s about SPORT. It’s all part of a national commitment to make some aspect of life in Belgium exciting. Deep in the heart of the city is place where government officials gather to create driving regulations and practices as twisted as a downtown alley.

Why else would people choose to park on the street instead of in their driveways and thus reduce two-way traffic to one lane? It’s part of a plot to create drama and near head-on collisions in their neighborhood.

Likewise, the thrill-seekers in charge make other nefarious rules to increase adrenaline levels in the otherwise calm populace:

Let’s not mark the roads and see what happens!

Let’s have an ever-changing rule of priority and indicate it by at least three different sorts of signs so we can see who’s really paying attention!

Let’s print street signs in two languages and place them where they can’t be seen until it’s too late to safely turn!

Let’s see who’s bold enough to steal the right of way at this intersection!

Yes, the popular way to prove your mettle here is to barrel around blind curves, tailgate, invent your own passing maneuvers, and speed like a German on the autobahn.

Driving is the unofficial national sport and the Belgians want to see who triumphs in the end: you, the other driver, or the Grim Reaper.

This is the automotive version of a ménage a trois—and it makes me want to curl up in bed and stay at home.

May 11, 2007

©2007 V-Grrrl and Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.