The trash picker and the shoe whore

Tomorrow is “Big Trash” day and Mr. A is already cruising the neighborhood looking for stuff to reuse or recycle in his summer “projects.” In June, he rescued some wooden blinds from the end of our neighbor’s driveway and over the summer used them on a variety of projects.

They were the perfect width to be carved into sword blades and receive a cardboard handle and a covering of foil. The blind slats had some natural spring and bend to them which Mr. A harnessed when he made a bow and arrow set, using recycled PVC pipe scraps for arrows.

Perhaps his greatest creation was his three-way catapult featuring blind slats mounted on a wooden box with small plastic cups nailed to the ends. Not only can they can be pressed back and released, sending the sponge marbles Mr. A made out of Model Magic flying, but you can also store extra ammunition INSIDE the box. He attached wheels and a handle to the box so it can be hauled from place to place like a piece of luggage.

Super cool. I try to think of Mr. A as a budding engineer and not as a weapons-crazed evil genius. I am his mother you know. It’s my job to see the best in all that he does. He is not a future war-monger, he is an up and coming physicist and inventor.

Meanwhile, E-Grrrl is in heaven with a different sort of recycling project. Her friend’s mother is going through her enormous shoe collection and showering E-Grrrl with her cast-offs. Mind you, E-Grrrl is not quite nine years old but is big for her age. Because she’s my darling daughter, I won’t say, “My God she has freakishly large feet.” But, ahem, y’all get my drift. Her friend’s mom, on the other hand, is one of those petite brunettes in her 40s that can buy her clothes in the juniors department, the sort of woman who could guest star on Desperate Housewives. (The sort of woman who makes me, at 5’7”, feel like a freaking amazon warrior.) Her size 6.5 shoes actually fit E-Grrrl, who is a complete shoe whore and thinks clicking through Zappos.com is better than watching a Hillary Duff movie and let me tell you, she loves Hillary Duff. (Yeah, I know, it's embarrassing. My Grrrl! Hillary Duff! What can I say? I once loved David Cassidy. I cannot cast stones.)

About half of the shoes dropped off at the house are fine for E-Grrrl to wear—they’re clogs and mod loafers with wedge soles. Now the others would be OK if E-Grrrl were meeting her third-grade pals for cocktails or going on a job interview. (What type of job would she interview for? Shoe buyer for a department store, of course!) She puts on these high-heeled pumps and sandals and struts across the ceramic floors, pivoting with aplomb at the end of her imaginary runway even as she wobbles a bit on the spiked heels.

Click, clack, click, clack, click , clack.

“Oh Mama,” she exclaims, “isn’t that simply the BEST sound in the world?”

Oh Mama indeed.

I let her keep the black and white polka dot pumps—just for the fun of it.

August 6, 2006

© 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

Just wondering...

Does anyone else think Uma Thurman looks like a praying mantis?

Or that in certain photos Brooke Shields looks like a man dressed as a woman?

Do you ever wonder why there are blush sticks that say on the label that they can be used for "cheeks, lips, eyes?" Who wants to put any shade of pink or red on their EYES? That's just icky, people. You'd look like a white rabbit--or like you have the flu, an eye infection, or stayed up all night crying. With pink eyes you become the person no one wants to get in an elevator with. Strangers hand you a kleenex.  Co-workers hope you won't use their phone. If you're lucky, someone will make you chicken soup.

What's your favorite fragrance?

Since Lynn and I's visit to the perfume factory in Namur, I've been obsessed with teasing out the various scents that make up the complex oriental fragrance we both purchased. Orange blossoms? Musk? Amber? White lily? The perfume guy told us this unisex formula called Passion  includes many elements and has notes of chocolate and coffee in it. No wonder I love it. It's so rich and mysterious and the scent lasts  forever on the skin, and while the coffee scent escapes me, I CAN smell the chocolate. Thankfully, I haven't done anything freaky like lick my wrists when I'm wearing Passion, but I do sniff them a lot, which I suppose looks just as freaky.

Other fragrances I like:   Red by Giorgio, Romance by Ralph Lauren, So Magic by Lancome, Noa Fleur by Cacharel, Tommy Girl Summer Cologne 2005, Bobbi Brown's  Beach, Clinique Happy  and assorted cheap but fabulous Avon colognes: Skin to Skin, Individual Blue, Rare Ruby.

Are you bored yet? Yeah, me too. Let's wrap this up--but don't forget to tell me your favorite fragrance--it doesn't have to be one you wear, just one you love to encounter.

August 4, 2006

Photographs and Memories

My children both have September birthdays and every August in anticipation of their big days, I’d have them professionally photographed. First I’d schedule a session for my son, then for my daughter, and finally a joint session of the two of them together.

The photos would be sent off to friends and family, the latest one prominently displayed, and the others lovingly arranged in the big leather-bound photo album I’d bought just for their portraits.

Before our move to Belgium, I debated what to do with our family photos. As much as I wanted them with me, I was terrified that somehow, somewhere in their crossing of the Atlantic, they’d get lost or ruined.

In the end, I decided to leave them in our house in the States. Our tenant, a colleague of my husband’s, graciously agreed to let us use one of the bedroom closets to store family heirlooms that needed to be in a safe, climate-controlled space.

I wish I’d had time to rummage through my photos for duplicates to bring with us, but in the hair-pulling frenzy that is an international move, there was no time for such luxuries. I packed one 8 x10 and one 5x7 of my kids into my suitcase and slipped a small framed photo of my mother into my purse. I left thousands of photos at home, including the portraits.

I didn’t think it was that big a deal at the time. I reasoned I had E and the kids with me, so why did I need photos too? Live and learn.

Not having photos of my children’s early years eroded my sense of wholeness. I never realized how thumbing through all those albums revived our sense of family and shared history. I needed to see pictures of the babies I’d rocked, the toddlers I’d chased, and the kids I sent off to elementary school to fully appreciate the almost 9 and 11 year olds I live with now.

When August 2005 came and went without professional portraits being done, I felt incomplete. In the U.S. there’s a photo studio in every mall and town, but there are far fewer here. Last summer I was still coping with the upheaval of our move and didn’t have the energy to track down a photographer who could speak English and be reached by public transit.

Instead, I purchased all the half-assed portraits the school photo people took, wondering how anyone calling themselves a photographer could do such crappy work. Yes, I know they can’t control the expression on the kids’ faces or fuss with their hair, but they can make sure the lighting is right and the children positioned correctly relative to the camera. Some of those pics looked like mug shots, some were out of focus, and the outdoor ones were underexposed, lacked contrast, and showed Mr. A and E-Grrrl slouching like trolls.

When an American photographer showed up to photograph E-Grrrl’s softball team, I talked to him to see if I could arrange a private sitting. “Sure,” he said. When I got my softball photos and saw what he was selling I dropped any plans to work with him again. This guy was clearly interested in collecting checks, not creating a cherished photograph.

Happily, I recently found a studio nearby with an English-speaking photographer and booked an appointment for the kids to have portraits done. I didn’t even ask how much it would cost when I booked, and then I called back and learned my “session fee” would be $150. Ouch. Seemed like a lot but I didn’t want to cancel. What I didn’t know at the time was that this fee included a photo package so it wasn’t a bad deal, but the fact that I was willing to put $150 on the line just to have my kids photographed qualifies my desperation.

The photographer did a great job putting the kids at ease. He kept them relaxed and comfortable and got my camera-hating boy to lose the tense expression on his face and made the most of my camera-loving girl’s enthusiasm. He spent 45 minutes with them in the studio. He caught my daughter’s bubbly personality and a glimpse of my son’s sly sense of humor.

With prints in hand, I finally feel normal again. If only I had my leather album to mount their portraits in….

August 3, 2006

Copyright 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

Conversation with the Keyboard

Keyboard: So, what are we going to write about today?

V-Grrrl: Beats me. I’ve exhausted all the hot topics: the weather, the price of watermelons, acceptable colors of nail polish, and what I did on my summer vacation. Yesterday I blogged on how tired I am. When you’ve explored all the really important issues—what’s left?

Keyboard: Um, maybe you could write about something dull—you know, sex, drugs, politics?

V-Grrrl: Ah, I don’t want to write about Bush or bush. The E-Man would freak out.

Keyboard: How about health and fitness?

V-Grrrl: Listen, if I give my expat fat another 15-minutes of fame, it will never ride off into the sunset. It already has a bloated self-image. I’m going to sit on that topic and hope it disappears.

Keyboard: You could blog on your kids….

V-Grrrl: True, if only I could remember all the funny things they say. I don’t want to immortalize their whining and bickering. Right now they’re painting and fighting over whose picture is best,  who’s wasting paint, and who just farted. It’s not a Kodak moment. It’s not a sitcom moment. It’s more a Planned Parenthood moment.

Keyboard: Maybe you should get out of your bathrobe, have another cup of tea, and see if the Muse comes calling.

V-Grrrl: Great idea. Why would the Muse speak to an over-40 chick in dorky glasses with bedhead and Ugg slippers? I need to improve my image and shed the bathrobe. Now where did I put my sweatpants?

August 2, 2006

Copyright 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

Afternoon

The sofa is calling my name and I’m resisting with every fiber of my weary being. Even my oak desktop looks like an appealing place to lay my head down. I’m so tired even my teeth hurt. I’m yawning until my eyes water behind my glasses.

I shouldn’t be this tired. Yes, I got to bed late, but I slept late. I got my eight hours but sometimes eight hours isn’t enough. I’m one of those people who should have the t-shirt that reads, “Damn right I’m good in bed—I can sleep for days.” So tacky. So true.

There’s a mass of dirty dishes in the kitchen, including the particularly icky things I procrastinate on washing forever—the macaroni and cheese pan, the oatmeal bowl, the stained coffee mugs.

The washing machine is tossing the sheets through a soapy bath. There’s a queue of laundry piles snaking across the basement floor waiting for me. There are clean clothes in a heap on the folding table, waiting to be taken upstairs. I’m out of underwear.

The plumber came yesterday and waltzed through a mobile of drying bras in the basement to reach the boiler. I guess that took our “relationship” to a new level of intimacy.

My wrists ache from typing and mousing. I’ve pulled on my wrist braces on and now look like some 19^th century Dickensian character toiling away in fingerless gloves.

The Dixie Chicks are singing—“How long do you want to be loved? Is forever enough, is forever enough?”

The song is called “Lullaby.”

“As you wander through this troubled world in search of all things beautiful, you can close your eyes when you’re miles away and hear my voice like a serenade.”

July

This is the month that dims our memories of the short, gray days of winter, the fog shrouded nights, the chilling damp and endless rains and wind of spring. In July we take blue skies and white clouds for granted. They are our due.

The lane between the cottonwoods is dusty, not muddy. The puddles have disappeared and the trees deliver a towering canopy of shade. The straw has been cut and baled. The fields are full and green, the corn chest high, the wheat growing golden, the berries not ready for picking. The frog pond glows a vivid shade of green, its surface obscured by water plants. We envy the frogs disappearing into the coolness. We drink bottle after bottle of water, our skin damp in the heat. The queues at the ice cream stands match those at the bakeries--are we living on bread and ice cream?

The traffic is lighter and the neighborhood streets doze during the day. The shuttered houses announce their owners are on holiday. Take a stroll after dinner and see tanned women walking their dogs, children calling between bicycles, men bent in two over flower beds, boys with their arms around the waists of willowy girls, and cats warily eyeing the action on the streets.

At night the heat makes the patio pleasant, the bedroom stifling. The sheets lie crumpled as we toss and turn and long for a breeze to carry us into sleep before the sun delivers another hot and languorous day to our doorway.

(This is part of a series I started last September when I began writing short entries capturing the essence of individual months. They're collected in my By Topic archive under "Seasons.")

Sunday night

Finally the heat has broken. Temps hit 68 degrees today, and we had the kind of gentle steady rain Belgium is known for. The plants and flowers lifted their wilted heads and the browning lawn revived and smiled.

The curtain has drawn on a memorable week here at Chez V. With Lynn and her children visiting, our house has buzzed with a happy, easy vibe.

Her daughter and mine, ages 7 and 8, have spent every waking moment side by side, writing, drawing, playing school, sharing clothes, and combing each other’s hair. Mr. A, teetering on 11, took Lynn’s son little T, a rising kindergartener, under his wing. Together they retreated to the basement to make swords, catapults, and bows and arrows. They flew Mr. A’s planes, watched videos together, and caught lots of bugs and one lizard.

I will always remember how full my heart felt, walking behind the girls who were happily hand in hand, and seeing my big tall son and little T also holding hands as they navigated new and familiar places together.

All week Lynn read to the kids, hers and mine. I know mine will always remember hearing a chapter of Harry Potter at bedtime, and her tireless reading of several Geronimo Stilton books in the van.

We chugged all over Belgium in the Espace, visiting castles, windmills, a living history museum, underground caverns, playgrounds, parks, and a swimming pool. We drank bottle after bottle of water in the heat, and sampled Belgian cuisine—Speculoos cookies, Cote D’Or chocolate, gauffre (waffles), croissant and pain chocolat, and lots and lots of frites.

Yesterday Lynn and I stumbled upon an exclusive perfume factory in the citadel in Namur and treated ourselves to the same spicy oriental scent and bought our girls matching bottles of cologne. The charming young man who waited on us remembered we were from Virginia and introduced us to another pair of women in the store who were also from Virginia. Chit-chatting with the women, we discover we all went to the same small college and one of the women now lives in Brussels, not far from me. She and I exchanged cards and e-mail addresses and plan to get in touch.

Tomorrow Lynn and the children will return to the States, E will return to work, the Espace will be returned to Europcar, and the kids and I will be left with lots of photos, happy memories, and time to savor them.

July 30, 2006

Give Peace-a Chance

This week Neil at Citizen of the Month organized Bloggers Across America, a homegrown attempt to heal America's wounds and unite a nation divided by politics, sex, race, and American Idol.  Bloggers of all types stepped forward to claim their States and create a virtual chain across the Internet. They didn't, however, have to sing Kumbaya, they just had to touch their monitors in unison.

My vision is even bigger. As an American living in Belgium, I'm caught between two continents, two cultures, multiple languages, and no agreement as to whether egg belongs on pizza. So in the interest of shamelessly stealing Neil's concept advancing the cause of cultural understanding,  I'm launching Bloggers Across the Globe. To participate, all you have to do is announce your presence and pizza preference on V-Grrrl in the Middle and join our diverse community of pizza and peace lovers.

 In the comments section, please tell us who you are, where you're from, and  your favorite pizza combo.  Please note, everyone is welcome here regardless of whether they crack raw eggs on top of  piping hot pizzas and call it edible.  Our motto is Give Peace-a Chance.

Finally, in the spirit of promoting lots of blog comments world peace together,  participants are asked to gather with friends on  Saturday night, order a pizza, and raise a glass and a pizza slice to the vast circle of V-Grrrl in the Middle  readers around the world,  sharing their piece of the global pie and changing the world one topping at a time.

July 28, 2006

Sitting around the table

Tonight we enjoyed our first watermelon of the season with Lynn and her children. In the South, the watermelons are big, sweet, juicy and cheap. Belgian watermelons look more like pregnant peas with stretch marks. The one I picked up at GB cost 5 euros, which is about $6.25. All y'all eating ginormous three dollar watermelons in Virginia count your blessings. 

The good thing about our little round watermelon was that I could carry it easily to the car, and we could eat the whole thing in a sitting. Important since the refrigerator will not accommodate any leftovers.

Mr. A, who is 10 years old, offered to cut the watermelon. After all, he says, he has his Cub Scout whittling chip, earned because he has demonstrated his ability to handle a pocket knife.

I nix that idea, telling him he has not earned his watermelon badge but that if I'm ever serving twigs for dinner, I'll call upon him to slice and serve at the table.  

Mr. A replies, "Fine! Dad can butcher the melon instead."

The melon was slaughtered  sliced at the table and paper plates distributed. The kids were excited, the juice was running down their chins, and soon the laughter was passed around with the napkins.

After two slices of melon,  E-Grrrl announced dramatically. "I can't eat another bite! I filled my dinner hole AND my dessert hole and still I kept on eating."

Her brother, Mr. A, replies "You're not a cow, you know. You dont' have three stomachs."

E-Grrrl starts to laugh and I warn her not to snort or watermelon seeds will come out her nose.

Snorting ensues. The napkin flies up to the face, the eyes turn red and are squeezed shut, but much to our disappointment, watermelon seeds do not come out her nose.

It was almost a perfect evening.

July 27, 2006

About the purple nail polish

The heat wave has encouraged me to loiter  shop for a very long time in the only air-conditioned space in my community--the grocery store.

Because even a purchase of two bags of produce and a bottle of milk causes my small European refrigerator to reach capacity, I've had to resort to buying vastly overpriced non-food items to kill time and pay for the store's air conditioning.  Buying light bulbs, cat food, and laundry detergent is a no-brainer and doesn't provides a legitimate reason to indecisively linger in front of displays. This is why  I've devoted myself to the cosmetics aisle, the only place it's socially acceptable to spend an improbably long amount of time debating a purchase. 

This would explain why I bought PURPLE nail polish. Surely no one just waltzes into a store and pulls a bottle of purple polish off the shelf and checks out. Whether or not to buy purple nail polish is a big decision requiring some serious consideration and internal debate.

You can savor a lot of air conditioning while considering the following: Is this the right shade of purple or will it make me look like a cardiac patient needing oxygen? What is the right shade of purple? Will dark purple make me look like a vampire or an artist? Will light purple make me look like an aging sugar plum fairy or a well groomed woman with a whimsical sense of style? Am I too old to wear purple nail polish in the first place?  Do women who dress head to toe in Eddie Bauer clothing have a right to even consider purple nail polish? Am I being bold or am I being stupid?

Well let me just say  I'm both bold and stupid. My son would add "tacky" to the list--his reaction to my color selection.

After I spent 45 minutes or so at home doing my nails and waiting for them to dry, I'd have to agree. This nail polish is way too Miami for me. It almost glows in the dark, a luminous cross between lavender and orchid. Barefoot and overweight, I could pass for Britney Spear's best friend with one glance at my atomic colored nails. What's a woman who lives in earthtones doing with nails like this?  Enquiring minds want to know.

The good news is that because this color is SO WRONG, I have a valid reason to go back to that nice cool store and debate my next nail polish purchase for at least a half hour. See how this works? Yeah. Maybe next time I'll talk myself into a mint green pearl polish and continue my trend of poor choices masquerading as wise choices masquerading as poor  choices. Or something like that.

Has the heat wave driven you to stupid purchases--either online or at the mall? Are you going to bad movies just to get a two-hour reprieve from being hot and sticky? Have you loaded your grocery cart entirely with selections from the popsicle freezer and soft drink aisle?

Do tell. Don't leave me out here looking foolish by myself. And BTW,  do you think I'm too old for baby blue polish?

July 25, 2005