The Greenies get spring fever

As soon as the daffodils opened two weeks ago, my children E-Grrrl and Mr. A could no longer suppress the dormant urge to cultivate life. My son rummaged through the kitchen cabinets and found some dry beans which he and his sister placed with wet paper towels into Ziploc bags attached to the window to sprout. He also rescued an onion and a bulb of garlic from becoming part of dinner, setting them in dirt to sprout as well.

The two kids hijacked their dad’s spade and a pile of glass jars from the recycling pile in the basement and went outside seeking plants. They dug up moss, grass, and various and sundry other green and glorious things, transplanting them into the jars and spritzing them (and each other) with a spray bottle full of water.

 For their finale, they raided the potting bench and shook unknown seeds into a planter just to see what would grow. The windowsill in the kitchen has now been transformed into a long and lovely cat salad bar--I mean NURSERY.

When the warm sunny days hit earlier this week, Mr. A and E-Grrrl were eager to explore the wandeling by our home. We squished along the muddy path and admired the budding trees and pink, yellow, and white wildflowers growing on the forest floor. At the pond, my son was looking for tadpoles and was thrilled when E-Grrrl pointed out something even better—mountains of frog and fish eggs in the marshy areas. Mr. A carefully harvested some eggs and put them in the small pond in the terrarium and frog habitat he had created at home. With a little luck the eggs will soon hatch and develop into homegrown cat toys—I mean FROGS.

Recap of the weekend in London

Our 25^th anniversary weekend in London was a lot like our marriage— a mix of "for better, for worse, in sickness, and in health."

For better:

We traveled first class by train and stayed in a five-star hotel with doormen in tails and a very sleek and sophisticated modern interior décor. As Mary Engelbreit would say, “It’s nice being Queen.”

***

When we booked this weekend back in January, I expected cold, damp March weather and planned to spend lots of time in the city museums. Instead, we got blue skies, mild temps, and acres of daffodils in all the parks. We didn’t open our umbrellas once, we got to wear sunglasses, and we were free to explore the city on foot. No wet shoes! This is no small achievement in London (or Belgium, for that matter).

***

It was lovely to be in the city without the children because we didn’t have to stop at every souvenir shop and food concession stand and endure endless questions about when we were going to eat next and what we were going to have.

***

Since this was our second time in London, we kept a slower pace and didn’t feel compelled to cover a lot of ground sightseeing. We strolled past famous landmarks, window-shopped, admired the architecture, and took a long walk along the Thames.

***

When you deal with language barriers every single day, being in an English-speaking country is so liberating and luxurious. I felt unshackeled. It was good to leave my expat ball and chain in Brussels.

***

There were Starbucks everywhere, and E was able to indulge his love of large, takeaway coffees. Carry-out coffee is almost non-existent in Belgium, a place where gas stations sell ONLY gas, there’s no such thing as a convenience store, and fast food restaurants are severely limited. To add insult to injury, coffee is nearly always served in a 6 oz. cup without free refills. This is torture for Americans abroad and makes finding a Starbucks like waking up Christmas morning and discovering Santa Claus has brought you exactly what you hoped for.

***

As a tea drinker, I adored being served steaming tea from a proper teapot. No lukewarm water and messy teabags in a tiny cup. Ah! I went to Whittard's and bought some tea to bring home.

***

I got to have a steak dinner, something I’ve been craving for months. Finally a baked potato!

***

We visited The National Gallery and I lingered over the Impressionist exhibits—Monet, Seurat, Gauguin, Cezanne, Degas, Van Gogh, Sisely. It was an explosion of color and energy. I saw some paintings I’ve been longing to see since I was a kid and first saw them on postcards at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York, plus I saw a favorite Picasso.

***

On Saturday night, we saw the show Chicago, and the music, choreography, and performances were fun and full of sassy style. The theatre was small and we had great seats, and the entire theatre district was pulsing with people and bicycle rickshaws (!).

***

On Sunday, we attended a church service at St. Paul’s Cathedral, a London landmark that is best known in America as the church where Princess Di and Prince Charles were married. When you’re an American member of the Anglican church, there is something special about worshipping in a “real” Anglican church in Britain. It's like going back to your roots. We used a 17^th century liturgy, and I adored hearing the traditional boys choir.

For worse:

The Friday night before we left, we’d planned to go out to dinner and a movie after dropping the kids off for the weekend. Unfortunately, we hit heavy traffic and backups, and it took us an hour and fifteen minutes to get our son dropped off in Waterloo, which is less than 20 miles away from our house. Every restaurant was jammed and parking was non-existent. We finally gave up and drove all the back to our commune and finally found a restaurant and a parking spot. When we got out of the car, E realized he had forgotten to give A the envelope that had A's medical power of attorney, his Belgian ID (required to receive medical care), spending money, and all our contact info in it. We had already been in the car for TWO hours, but now we had to drive ALL the way back to Waterloo to drop the envelope off. By then I was so hungry and exhausted and frustrated by the traffic that I felt sick. Our romantic Friday night dinner for two? Lukewarm food at an overcrowded McDonald’s—the only “restaurant” with parking. By the time we finished, it was too late to see a movie.

***

When we arrived in London Saturday morning, we discovered the Underground stop next to our hotel had suffered a power outage and was closed. We had to get off the Tube early and walk at least a mile carrying our shoulder bags and pulling our suitcases across the bumpy sidewalks in the city. At least it wasn't raining.

***

We should have done a bit of research on the storyline for Chicago before booking tickets for an anniversary weekend. Adultery! Murder! Manipulation! This was not the time or place for a musical that revolves around the lives of women who have murdered the men in their lives because “They had it comin!” And while E may have enjoyed watching scantily clad women dancing in black lingerie and body stockings for two hours, the perfectly chiseled male dancers were clearly all gay. Life’s not fair.

***

E had been on a business trip all week in the Netherlands and spent long periods of time trapped in close quarters with heavy smokers. On Friday, he was attributing his mild cough and post-nasal drip to secondhand smoke. On Saturday, he felt unusually tired and by Saturday night, he was running a fever, had aches, chills, a headache, and a deeper cough. The worst part—we didn’t have any ibuprofen or meds on hand, the hotel was out, and we couldn’t find an open store until Sunday afternoon. E became steadily more congested all day and his coughing worsened. Today he's off to the doctor. I think he may have bronchitis or flu.

***

On the way home, our train was delayed for an hour somewhere in France. We were already going to be getting home kind of late, a source of concern because the kids have standardized tests all this week and really need to be well rested. When the train finally pulled into the main international station in the heart of Brussels, dozens and dozens of people disembarked, all looking for taxis. In the U.S., there would have been a long queue of taxis all competing for passengers. In Belgium, capitalism and competitive drive, are, um, lacking. There were a handful of taxis there when we arrived and more didn’t’show up until we’d been waiting at least 30 minutes. And what was the station taxi steward doing to alleviate this problem? Absolutely nothing. I never saw him pick up a cell phone to call for additional taxis, help people with luggage, or assist anyone in any way shape or form. I’ve seen sidewalk beggars with more drive.

***

When we finally did get a taxi and it took off through the city, I was convinced E and I would not live to see Monday morning. Our African driver was careening through the tunnels at high speeds and I thought I was going to suffer a fate like Princess Di’s. I actually had to close my eyes and practice slow, rhythmic breathing to relax my white-knuckled grip on the seat and keep from feeling faint.

Inhale. Exhale. Definitely a memorable beginning to year 26 at Chez V.

March 12, 2007

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

Channeling Bridget Jones

One of those days…a day when I’m not comfortable in my own skin, when I look at my baggy jeans and clunky shoes and down vest and think, “You should try harder.”

When I wish I was the type of woman who has her hair professionally colored and highlighted, who buys underwear that’s sold off a rack and not in a package, who can walk gracefully in heels, who can look good in a low cut shirt.

The problem with planning a romantic weekend in London is that it reminds me of how far I fall from the carefully marketed and packaged ideal sexy woman. I think one of the reasons I love the Bridget Jones movies is that Bridget is such a mess. She makes trying too hard look silly, and she succeeds in spite of herself. The movie’s message is that being a bit of a wreck is endearing—well, at least some of the time.

So I guess I should quiet the critical voices in my head and tell myself it’s OK not to be thin, beautiful, and perfectly turned out. In spite of wild hair, cotton underwear, and comfortable shoes, I can have a “v. good time on my holiday mini-break.” Right Bridget?

March 9, 2007

From the V-Grrrl Personal Archives

March is a month that’s defined by everything it’s not. Not winter, not spring, not predictable, not festive, and definitely not romantic, but March is the month I was married in.

In a perfect world, I’d have had a fall wedding. My second choice would have been a summer wedding, but I ended up with a March wedding because E’s dad, who was living overseas at the time, insisted it was the ONLY time he could come home for a visit.

Yeah right. I should have said “Tough luck” but I was a Good Girl then, compliant and eager to please, so I dropped what I wanted in favor of what was convenient for E’s dad and inconvenient for everyone else.

E and I were married on the first Sunday of my spring break, midway through my second semester of my second year of college. He was a lieutenant in the Army then, stationed in Oklahoma. I was living on campus in Virginia. After the wedding, we had a week together before he had to go back to his base and I had to go back to school. We wouldn’t live together until  mid-May.

See what I mean about inconvenient?

I remember waking on the morning of my wedding day to the sound of heavy rain. I had shredded wheat for breakfast and did my own hair and makeup, which consisted of pulling my long hair up into a loose chignon and putting on the same makeup I applied every day at school.

I wore my mother’s wedding gown. At 5’7” and 115 pounds, we were the same size. The gown would have fit me perfectly, but unfortunately, my older sister had worn it first and had it altered to fit her petite 5’3” frame. I had to hold my breath as my mom struggled with the long row of satin buttons up the back, and because the dress had been hemmed, I was forced to wear ballet slippers instead of heels. I remember gingerly walking across our muddy gravel driveway to get in the car and go to the church.

It never occurred to me to get dressed at church and not at home. I don’t know why. I truly had no clue about wedding protocols. I didn’t have a wedding fantasy, a copy of Bride magazine, or an etiquette book to guide me. I was crazy about E but low key about the rest.

While we carefully planned the ceremony itself, we kept everything else simple and paid for it ourselves. No engraved invitations, no decorations in the church, no live music, no wedding programs, no photographer, and a pared down reception.

The rain that marked the beginning of the day turned to ice and then to snow in the afternoon causing a mass exodus during the reception as out-of-town guests hit the road before the weather got even worse. E, struggling to put chains on the car’s tires, nearly lost his wedding band at dusk on the side of a winding mountain road. If I were superstitious, I would have seen all of these events as bad omens.

I’m sure other folks had some doubts. I was barely 20 when we exchanged vows, and I left college, a 4.0 GPA, a scholarship, and the place I loved best to follow E to Oklahoma. By any objective measure, this wasn’t a smart move or an auspicious beginning, but looks can be deceiving. While the wedding may have been poorly timed and executed, the marriage has lasted. Today marks our 25^th anniversary, and while I regret not standing up to E’s dad, wearing those ugly ballet slippers, and spending EIGHT years in Oklahoma, in my mind, marrying E remains one of the best decisions I ever made.

March 7, 2007

Copyright 2007 Veronica McCabe Deschambault and v-Grrrl in the Middle. All rights reserved.

There's more than one way to send an electronic card

Today's post is dedicated to Neil Kramer at Citizen of the Month!

Neil's blog is like the big orange sofa in the coffee shop on "Friends." I can't get through the day without stopping by and settling in  with a steaming cup in my hand to catch up on life with my favorite New Yorker (who happens to live in LA).  The only thing better than his original, funny, and thought-provoking posts is the community of commenters he attracts. These are the "friends" who share the sofa and deliver the lines that would make Chandler Bing proud. Neil has built an online neighborhood we all love being a part of.

So today I raise my mug to Neil who has brightened the blogosphere with his wit, charm, and his fabulous cast of supporting characters:

Wishing you a year of good times, good work, good posts, and even better comments!

Happy Birthday to My Blog Crush!

March 7, 2007

Conversation with my keyboard

V-Grrrl: So Keyboard, what are we going to write about today? I owe Expatica a blog entry on life in Belgium, and I think my Muse is vacationing in Spain.

Keyboard: Oh Spain. Wouldn’t it be great to be THERE right now. The food, the architecture, the Mediterranean, the SUN. Give it to me!

V-Grrrl: I wish I could. This time of year in Belgium it seems the wind just sweeps in one howling squall after another.

Keyboard: No wonder your Muse went to Spain. Belgium’s tourism slogan should be: Gray skies. Green grass. Horizontal rain.

V-Grrrl: Oh sure, Keyboard, people would come in droves to experience THAT. I can see the tourists sending postcards home. A photo of Manneken Pis on the front and on the back a single line: “I came here for the beer and chocolate but all I got was wet!”

Keyboard: No, no, no—I’ve got a better one! “I came here for the beer and chocolate and all I got was pissed!”

V-Grrrl: Ha, ha ha! How about “I came here for the beer and chocolate and all I got was FAT!”

Keyboard: Um, V, that’s not funny.

V-Grrrl: Sigh. You’re right. It’s not funny. It’s TRUE! Sheesh, the expat fat is depressing me.

Keyboard: Yeah, and it’s really DEPRESSING the desk chair. I’m glad I get to sit ON your lap and not UNDER it.

V-Grrrl: That’s quite enough, Keyboard! You’re hurting my feelings.

Keyboard: And you’re hurting the chair! Ha, ha, ha. OK, OK, OK, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. Have a piece of chocolate. You’ll feel better.

March 6, 2007

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

Joining my kids for an odyssey of the mind

We spent the weekend in Germany where our kids participated in a problem-solving competition with teams from all over Europe and as faraway as Bahrain!

The Odyssey of the Mind program is an extracurricular activity that challenges kids of all ages to display their creativity. Each team is coached by an adult, but the kids do ALL the work. Adults are not allowed to make suggestions, provide input, or share ideas. They also can’t participate in building or crafting props or solutions. They can lead the kids through a thinking process, ask questions of the team, and help them organize their efforts but the beauty of Odyssey of the Mind is that the kids do it themselves.

Each team has a long-term problem to solve and present in competition and then they also are judged on spontaneous problem solving—given a challenge that they must develop a response to on the spot.

My 11-year-old, Mr. A, was on a team that had to design and build a self-propelled vehicle that can move in a straight line for 17 feet and is capable of picking up “tags” in a specific area. The tags must somehow attach to the vehicle and are designed by the team. The demonstration of the vehicle in competition must include some kind of creative performance.

Mr. A, who avoids extra curricular activities, was eager to join the team as soon as he heard about it. It required a serious commitment of time and effort over a period of months, and his enthusiasm for the project never flagged. His mind was working on solutions ALL the time.

He built several prototypes on his own, and then worked on a final one with his teammates. Their vehicle looked like a UFO, it was made from foam, painted silver, had a plastic dome on top, plastic windows and real working lights. It ran using a propeller and picked up tags using magnets. The boys created a skit around the UFO theme, three of them dressed in alien costumes (they actually decided to wear GIRLS tights, which they’d dyed with green Kool-Aid, headbands with googly eyes, masks they made themselves, green swim caps, and green turtleneck shirts.)

My son is very shy, and the idea of getting up in front of an audience to perform freaks him out, but he overcame his reservations and did it. What impressed me the most was that the boys almost immediately ran into problems with their vehicle at the beginning of their 8-minute presentation, and instead of getting frustrated and upset and giving up, they trouble shot a solution under pressure and kept their cool.

And they won first place. First place in their first competition! They accepted their awards in a ballroom that was PACKED with hundreds and hundreds of people. I was seriously proud that my son, the less-than-impressive student, was being recognized for the skills he has that don’t get exercised in the classroom.

Meanwhile, my 9-year-old E-Grrrl, was on a team that had to create a humorous performance that included a self-centered character and a surprise. The main character had to take advantage of others three times and use the phrase “I’m only thinking of you” at least twice. The third time the main character tries to deceive others, he fails and his true nature is revealed.

E-Grrrls team consisted of second, third, and fourth graders, and they wrote an original script that involved a chef buying food at a market and bringing it home. At night, the food comes to life and tries to escape so it won’t be eaten. They wrote a very creative and funny play, and designed and made the costumes, props, and set themselves.

When they went to perform their play, in the pivotal scene at the end, the light that was supposed to illuminate their screen for a shadow puppet finale didn’t work because of a faulty outlet in the room where they were performing. Without missing a beat, the kids improvised and finished their performance to waves of applause. When the play was over and the kids informed the judges about the problem they had encountered and showed how it was supposed to end, the judges were very impressed. They never suspected the ending they saw hadn't been rehearsed that way.

Not only did E-Grrrl’s team win FIRST place, they also received a special award for their quick thinking and grace under pressure.

Both teams have now qualified for the Odyssey of the Mind World Competition in Michigan. Woo hoo!

March 4, 2007

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

Keeping it under wraps

Before E and I were married, I was vaguely amused by his insistence on keeping his throat warm, especially when he was sick. He was convinced that exposure to a cold draft could initiate a cold or make an existing one worse. Where did he get such a quaint, old-fashioned idea?

A light bulb switched on in my head in college when one of my professors was lecturing on French culture and noted that the French have a strong aversion to “currents of air.” Madame Hogue said they attributed all manner of illnesses to exposure to these evil influences.

Ah, this put E’s concern with chilly breezes in a larger context. Born in the Belgian Congo, he was undoubtedly indoctrinated by his French- speaking mother on the dangers of exposing your neck to the elements. After my revelation, I tried not to smirk when he’d suggest I wrap something around my neck to keep from getting sick. Hey, we’re all products of our cultures and quirky upbringings.

Back in the U.S, I rarely wore scarves. The few wooly ones I had were brought out of storage only when there was snow on the ground or a biting wind chill. Moving to Belgium changed my attitude and my habits.

Arriving in Brussels in mid-March, I stepped into a world where nearly everyone wore scarves most of the time. I was surprised at first, but then after a few weeks of walking everywhere in the cold, damp Belgian weather, I became a convert. Scarves weren’t an accessory, they were a necessity! I was now living in the Land of Horizontal Rain. How else do you keep the fierce wind whipping in off the North Sea from sending shivers down your spine and stiffening every muscle in your back? Scarves were a cozy alternative in a corner of the world lacking sunshine.

Over time my newfound love of scarves has moved from the practical to the fashionable. In two years, I’ve collected scarves for all occasions. Smooth woven woolens and silky pashminas; fuzzy knits, dense microfleece, and gauzy cottons; conservative plaids, bright stripes, and versatile solids; short and long, and narrow and wide, I have amassed a noteworthy selection of scarves to match every mood, jacket, coat, and occasion.

Whether I drape them casually over my collar, loop them quickly for efficiency, or arrange them in careful layers, I rely on my scarves to get me through each day. Indoors and out, they protect my neck and my temperamental back from the vagaries of chills and goosebumps, drafts and winds.

I haven’t had a cold all winter and I’m sure I have my scarves to thank for that—at least that’s what E tells me, and you know, maybe he’s right..

February 28, 2007

© Veronica McCabe Deschambault and V-Grrrl in the Middle. All rights reserved.

Shadows on a cloudy day

Gray. Rainy. Windy in my corner of Belgium.

I gather in the bus shelter with the others who are waiting for the bus to the Metro station. As usual, no one speaks. In America, there might have been a bit of idle chitchat, a comment about the horrid weather or someone saying they hope the bus arrives on time, but here there is a civil silence. We are all together but we are far apart.

When the bus arrives and I take my seat next to a fogged and rain streaked window, my mind wanders into prayer. Lately the list of people I know dealing with heartache or health problems or difficult situations seems especially long, and I use the silence and quiet hum of the bus ride to reach out across time and space to those in need: a young woman in unrelenting pain, high risk pregnancies, a baby that needs a liver transplant, a friend awaiting biopsy results, a woman who has had sinus surgery, a former neighbor battling cancer, E’s mom struggling to walk again, and toughest of all, a little girl we know who appears to have a massive tumor on her kidney.

My bus journey ends, and then my Metro trip begins. Traveling in a bubble of anonymity, I continue to string prayers along like beads, trying to focus and visualize each person, each need.

At Arts-Loi, I step off the Metro and straight into a crisis. Someone has collapsed onto the station floor and is surrounded by several people kneeling nearby. I see black oxfords and pants, a pale face turned to one side with brown hair spilling across the brow, eyes closed, breasts rising and falling underneath a forest green t-shirt, movements that make me think “seizure.”

I pause for just a moment, wanting to dive in and help, but I realize in the same instant that multiple people have already done just that.  I’m blocking people trying to get off the train, I need to get out of the way, I should move on even though part of me feels rooted in the moment, the desire to DO SOMETHING.

I go left and walk away, refusing to join the crowd that is growing around the woman’s body. I’ve always felt it was wrong to linger at the scene of an accident or crisis, that it violates the victim’s privacy at one of their most vulnerable moments, that curiosity should not be indulged. But as I put distance between myself and the drama at the Metro station, I think about the crowd in a different way. For a moment I can see them as a small community, united in concern and sympathy and wishing for a happy ending. I want to be part of it but I continue to trudge up the steps.

Emerging from underground, I cross Regentlaan and see a police van parked in the median and two officers standing beside it. Do they know about the problem under their feet? Should I approach them?

My thoughts are interrupted by approaching sirens, a yellow panel truck screaming down the access road. Ah, it’s an emergency response truck. They park and two men get out in orange vests and yellow suits, toting red packs. They head into the Metro just as an ambulance comes into view and double parks to follow. First one police car, then a second, pulls up with sirens blaring.

What the hell is going on? I’d assumed the woman on the floor of the station was ill; I never considered she might have been injured. Had I just left a crime scene? Had someone attacked her? I have no idea.

With the rain pelting my umbrella, I turn my back on all the activity, the flashing lights, the professional helpers, the unexpected victims and heroes, the unfolding story in the station.

As I walk away, I add the woman in the green t-shirt to my string of prayers.

February 28, 2007

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

Tea drinking is supposed to be elegant...

You can gauge the weather in Belgium and my personal thermostat by the number of teabags that accumulate on the kitchen counter. Yesterday was a raw, damp, February day that kept the kettle humming.  This was the state of the kitchen counter at 2 p.m. before I cleared it and started over!

Tea drinking is so much more civilized in the movies.

February 27, 2007