Southern Living

Last time I was at the PX in Chieveres, I was excited to pick up an issue of Southern Living. For those of you outside the South, Southern Living is THE magazine for tradition-loving Southerners. It celebrates the South in every section—travel, books and music, entertainment, decorating, food, and gardening.

Starting a subscription to Southern Living is a rite of passage to adulthood, a sign that you’re ready to make a HOME, plant your own flowers, set a nice table, settle down and appreciate your life. It can be a little Martha with the garden parties and elaborate centerpieces and floral decorations, but I love it anyway. I can pretend to be more refined than I am.

Now those of you who have lived in the South know that its identity is all wrapped in its food. Southerners are unabashed foodies, but not in the gourmet, try something unexpected vein. Southerners are all about homestyle cooking, happy with the food they’ve made for generations. Let it be known that unlike everyone else, they are NOT interested in any commentary on the nutritional content of traditional Southern food. Remember, the South is known for sweet tea, killer desserts, pork products, and all things fried. It is a region that never met a dish that couldn’t be made better by smothering it in cheese or cream gravy or adding a bit more butter.

No surprise then that for most Southerners,  friendliness and hospitality are directly proportional to one's girth. Southern Living’s recipes are all about taste and tradition and being with friends and family, not about the health of your heart. Y’all just have to get over it. Relax! Pull up a rocker. Y'all are way too tense about calories and whatnot. Have a glass of tea and a good laugh. Live a little!

The latest issue of Southern Living includes recipes for classics like macaroni and cheese (baked with crushed saltines in it), ham and bacon quiche, classic coca-cola glazed ham, deviled eggs, banana pudding, and browned butter pecan shortbread. (Don’t you dare sass Southern cooking until you’ve had my pimento cheese or Lynn’s collards. Yum, yum, yum.)

Times bein' what they are, Southern Living felt compelled to produce a Healthy Living issue. In its special section, it  includes, ahem, a recipe for brown-sugared turkey bacon (55% of the calories from fat), bacon-wrapped beef fillets (seasoned with salt-free Greek spices!), and a light version of Chocolate Coffee Cheesecake with Mocha Sauce that has 464 calories per slice (46% from fat). The mocha sauce adds almost 100 calories per tablespoon, more than half the calories from fat.

Woo wee! Now you know why they normally don’t publish the nutritional information on their recipes. Why ruin a good thing? And as you can see, it’s clear the food editor was not supportive of the whole idea of a Healthy Living issue. I think the publisher broke her little heart with that one. Maybe she should have just skipped the mocha sauce...but what's life without bacon?

But hey, before you think Southerners have absolutely no culinary sophistication, let me just draw your attention to the recipe for Parmesan-Portabello Grits. Ain’t that something? Mushrooms and grits with Italian (pronounced eye-talian) cheese! The perfect accompaniment for a nice porkchop pan-fried in butter.  Whadday'all think? A little cream gravy and bisuits on the side? I thought that sounded good too.

Copyright 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

May 5, 2006

The national past time

While the Belgian climate seems awfully gray and cold to this Southern grrrl, I have to say there has been some compensation for sacrificing sunny, warm weather. Belgians are devoted and skilled gardeners and their dedication to the art of landscaping is something that enhances my life in every season.

In general, Americans are not devoted gardeners. There are exceptions, of course, but the typical house has shrubs planted around the foundations, a large expanse of lawn, a few trees around the yard’s perimeter. A lot of folks have a flower patch or two, some potted plants, some have impressive beds, but by and large most yards and gardens don’t merit a second glance. Americans are often fastidious about their lawns and surround their homes with great carpets of green but they are less interested in cultivating the rest.

In Belgium, it’s the opposite. The lawn (if there is a lawn) is just a backdrop in a scene where flowers and foliage rule. Immaculately trimmed hedges frame yards with gardens overflowing with blooming ground covers, shrubs, and trees as well as crocuses, daffodils, grape hyacinth, lavender, tulips, and countless other sorts of flowers that a non-gardener like me can’t begin to name.

Walking through the neighborhood early in the day, I feast my eyes on yards covered in color. There’s a cream-colored cottage by my children’s bus stop that never fails to charm me—and the landscaping is a big part of the reason. Its owner has trained blooming vines to frame the front and garage doors, the window boxes outside each sweetly shuttered window add a smile to the front of the house. Little E-Grrrl says it looks like a fairy tale house. The brick driveway and front walk are surrounded entirely by flower beds, and these are dormant only in the dead of winter. Blooming shrubs and bushes lean over a white fence to the right of the house like friendly neighbors ready to exchange a greeting with the passersby.

The house next door to us appears unremarkable from the street, but our neighbors tend a secret garden behind it that I can enjoy from my third-story windows. Their yard isn’t large but their garden is remarkable, spreading out from a patio with winding paths, a fish pond and fountain, rose bushes, a porch swing tucked into a green arbor, and multiple beds with perfectly timed blooms that supply new color just as another fades. What a treat to lean out my window and see it all, to smell the roses when the wind shifts, to hear my neighbors’ little girl racing down the garden paths.

Lately, as I ride the bus or walk to town, I get almost dizzy craning my head this way and that trying to take in the sights, textures, colors, and heady scents. Belgium’s gardens are irresistible in the spring, but the best part is knowing they’ll still be making me smile all the way through November.

© 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

May 4, 2006

Helpless, not hopeless

Arabella is having surgery today to improve her chances of getting pregnant. Teebs has spent a remarkable amount of time with her feet in the stirrups trying to get to the bottom of her infertility. Brooke has suffered four gut-wrenching miscarriages and is trying to line up financing for IVF. Untitled has been trying to conceive baby number 2 and despite shots in the ass and sex on a schedule, she’s let down each month. I have close friends and family who have lived through these cycles of heartache, including a sister-in-law who had a viable pregnancy and lost it unexpectedly when she was about five months along. She almost died in the process. Her only child died in her arms.

For all my whining about back pain, heart medication, PMS, and life in the slow lane, when it comes to reproduction, my body has pretty much done the right thing. I was ambivalent about having kids for 12 years, but when we finally decided to give it a try, everything went smoothly, more or less. Mr. A decided to be born on Labor Day weekend instead of close to Halloween, when he was due. Yeah, delivering a premature baby was traumatic in its own way, but I thank God his life was never in danger and he was spared major complications.

I had a miscarriage and D & C with baby number 2. My doctor gave me Valium because I couldn’t stop crying. And while there was sorrow and questions associated with that whole sad experience, I quickly became pregnant again and had a healthy pregnancy and birth that brought me my darling E-Grrrl.

I have no comforting words for those of you who have been beat up and broken in a hundred private ways by infertility. I have no advice on getting pregnant, no clue how or if your situations can ever be bearable, no idea if you’ll ever have peace or the babies you desperately want. In short I have absolutely nothing to offer—and that helpless feeling as an observer of your dilemmas gives me the tiniest glimpse of how enormously frustrating and disappointing it is for all of you to live with a sense of powerlessness in the face of infertility.

So today’s blog is for Arabella, Teebs, Brooke, Untitled, KK, V, and L and all those who have been put through the wringer of infertility. A portion of sympathy. A large dose of prayer. Hope that things will get better.

Copyright 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved

May 3, 2006

Deportation of the expat fat

It took me year to gain the expat fat and it may take me a year to lose it. I’m not following a specific program but  trying to make incremental changes in eating habits and life style to lose this weight. No surprise then that without a dramatic approach, I’m not getting dramatic results. Depending on the day of the morning weigh-in, I’ve lost up to five pounds. I have at least 10 pounds to go.

I’ve ratcheted up the exercise program, walking about four times a week for 60 minutes, sometimes twice a day. I continue to use the FOUR flights of stairs in my house to supplement my formal exercise. I’ve been doing some stretching, if not full blown yoga, about three times a week. I pulled a strength training exercise poster out of an issue of More magazine (the magazine for Grrrls over 40), and my next step is to put it up in the TV room and JUST DO IT.

As for eating, I’m trying to limit portions and eat smarter. Some days I do that well, other days I don’t. However, I think the balance tips towards more good days than bad days so I tell myself that even when the scale doesn’t register changes, I am eating healthier overall.

Remember the “diet” cookbooks I bought when I started? Haven’t used them at all. Shame on me! I’m like an old dog trying to learn new tricks. Recipes and meal planning fall into that category. I’ll get there eventually. One change at a time.

I did pull out my summer clothes and try them on, knowing full well the pants wouldn’t fit. I figured seeing my clothes and visualizing myself wearing them again would inspire me to do the right thing and make good choices day in and day out. Really, I’m sick of dressing like a college student, pulling up the same pair of jeans or sweatpants day in and day out.

Final thought this week: I resolve not to eat anything standing up. Seriously.

I often grab a handful of this or that while standing in the kitchen. All those calories add up and I’m not even fully aware of what I’m eating and why. I need to make myself SIT DOWN and pay attention every time I put something in my mouth. One of my goals is to eat only when I’m hungry—no exceptions!

How are the rest of you doing? Progress? Pointers? True confessions?

May 2, 2007

The ties that bind

Last week’s mail brought a letter from my sister Mary full of pictures of her grandchildren—Madeline, Eric, Kathryn, and the newest addition, Kayla Mary, born just a few weeks ago. I linger over a photo of my sister’s daughters, my nieces Natalie and Leah, and bask in a flood of memories.

I remember when Natalie was born, a big baby with dark hair and olive skin who arrived in the dead of winter in upstate New York. I can still see her tucked into her sweet sleeper, dozing with her bottom straight up in the air during her first visit to my parents’ house on Long Island a month or two after she was born. My mother had been unable to be with my sister during the difficult birth and recovery because she was caring for my grandmother, Germaine. My sister chose Germaine as Natalie’s middle name, tying the generations of the family together, a tradition many of us have continued in naming our babies.

The youngest in a big family, I became an aunt when I was only 10 years old, and I relished my role. I loved holding the babies, playing with the toddlers, and taking the preschoolers on walks. In some ways, my nieces and nephews were more like younger brothers and sisters.

I actually rode the school bus with my oldest niece Granola Grrrl. Her dad, my oldest brother, had built a house on the farm my parents had settled on in rural Virginia. I was a sophomore in high school when Granola Grrrl started kindergarten. We were the first ones to get on the bus and rode it for an hour while it snaked through the scenic back roads to school. Despite the noise and the winding, bumpy ride on paved and dirt roads, I always fell asleep on the ride home in the afternoon. Little Granola Grrrl, her red hair in two crooked braids, would give me a gentle tap on the shoulder to let me know when it was time to get off.

When I was a sophomore in college, my oldest sister and godmother Louise, died of a rare form of cancer. She was only 33. At the funeral, most of my siblings were all sitting with their spouses and children. E-Man and I weren’t married, and he was in the Army stationed in Oklahoma. He didn’t make it to the funeral in New Jersey. Granola Grrrl, only 10 years old, left her seat with her family and moved back a few pews in the church to sit with me. She held my hand and silently handed me Kleenex during the funeral.

Granola Grrrl and I have always had a special relationship. I’m her godmother and she became godmother to my son, Mr. A, when he was born. When he was less than a year old, I was Granola Grrrl’s maid of honor. In an amazing turn of events, Granola Grrrl and I later became pregnant within weeks of each other and e-mailed constantly while waiting for the arrival of her twin sons and my daughter, E-Grrrl (who was named after my mom and sister)

When E-Grrrl was 4, she was a flower girl in my niece Leah’s wedding. E-Grrrl loved getting to know her grown cousins Leah and Natalie better and hanging out with her teenage cousin Kim—all glamorous “big girls” to wide-eyed little E.

And now Kim is set to begin her journalism career and two of the other “big girls” are beautiful moms to the next generation of round-faced, rose-cheeked babies and toddlers. 

I have five brothers and sisters, ten nieces and nephews, and eleven great nieces and nephews. I’ve met less than half of the members of this youngest generation in my family. Even before we moved to Belgium, we were so spread out across the U.S. that it was rare to get together with family members. E-Grrrl and Mr. A don’t even realize how big our family is, though they make periodic attempts to connect with their young cousins by mail and thoroughly enjoy those times they’ve shared together with relatives.

They wear their older cousins hand-me-downs and then when the clothes are outgrown, we box them up and share them with the younger ones. I joke that in our family, the ties that bind are the yarn and the thread in the hand-me-down clothes. We have our own version of the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, including photos of our kids at key moments wearing the same dress, jacket, or t-shirt. Those clothes have gone from New York to Virginia to Belgium to Texas to Michigan. 

When I was choosing what to bring to Belgium, I agonized over what to do with our family photos. I wanted to have them with me but I was terrified of shipping them overseas, consumed with the thought of them getting lost or damaged during the two months they would be in transit. So I left nearly all of them behind, traveling to Belgium with a few duplicate photos of E-Grrrl and Mr. A in my suitcase and a small framed photo of my mother in my purse.

I’ve missed my photos, and more than that, I regret that I never considered how much my children need the photos to visualize and remember far away family and friends.

Today I pulled out all the photos I do have, ones that have been sent to us by friends and family since we’ve moved here. What better way to spend a Sunday afternoon than creating a photo collage on the refrigerator?

After all, home is where your heart is—and where loved ones gather in the kitchen.

April 30, 2006

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 accidental ambassador

America is like a Hollywood film star. Every move it makes is scrutinized, every action broadcast, and every misstep magnified. When America is “hot” and “on top of the world,” everyone is looking to be invited to our party, to claim a connection, to be part of our circle. And when America screws up, people take a special delight in noting our failures, how far we’ve fallen, how much ground has been lost.

For that reason, it’s not easy being an American overseas, a citizen of a high-profile country that absolutely everyone has an opinion on. Every where I go, I carry America ’s image with me. Every time the President opens his mouth or the Secretary of State visits Europe , the perception of who I am and where I come from shifts for good or ill. Like it or not, I’m an accidental ambassador for America , an unpaid emissary, a lightning rod for opinion. Some days I’m tempted to try to pass as a Canadian so I can just BE.

This point was driven home for me when I was flying out of Heathrow recently. Sitting at the gate, I was watching a large screen TV that was broadcasting a news story on tourism. According to the program, the U.S. government was working to lure more tourists from Europe since international tourism had dropped after the September 11 attack and the increased security that followed in its wake. The reporters went on to investigate why, other than security hassles, people don't want to visit America .

As the reporters were providing background and voiceovers, the screen showed photos of enormously fat men and women waddling around on beaches and toting bags and cameras. According to the newscast, the American government believes Europeans have a poor opinion of America because they’ve encountered so many horrible American tourists in their own countries. Based on this premise, the U.S. government is now handing out pamphlets to Americans who plan to visit Europe to advise them on the proper way to behave to convey a positive image of America while abroad. The reporters said the pamphlet instructs Americans to respect the local culture and not complain about things like restaurant service, food, or local customs, policies and procedures or make comments comparing America to the country they’re visiting. Well, duh! Do I need the government to act like my mother?

I was mortified by the broadcast, and thought it was ridiculous the American government was treating its citizens like little toddlers, telling them to mind their manners abroad. Not to say such a message doesn’t have some merit, but I think the U.S. government is conveniently ignoring how its foreign policy has a far greater impact on the image of America abroad than the fat guy wearing a ball cap and big white sneakers talking too loud on the Metro. Most Americans that have the means and interest in visiting Europe aren’t ignorant, ill mannered, or expecting a vacation here to be exactly like one at home. I will concede Americans are often loud and have taken casual dress to an extreme, but I think most Americans are friendly and polite and no better or worse than tourists from other countries.

If the U.S. wants to increase tourism from Europe , it should worry less about “accidental ambassadors” like myself and more about the words and actions coming out of the White House, the Capitol, and the Pentagon. I’m doing my best to be a good citizen of the world. I expect my government to do the same.

© 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

April 27, 20o6

The day after I posted on this topic, Yahoo posted a Wall Street Journal article on the same thing. Check it out.

Life of V: The Movie

There’s a Web site, www.myheritage.com , where folks can upload a photo of themselves and computer analysis determines what celebrities they most resemble. As Debbie and Wordgirl have discovered, the results are often comical. I haven’t tried playing that game, but it got me thinking: If a movie was made about my life, who would I want to play my role?

To me this is less about physical resemblance and more about the intangible qualities actors bring to their roles.

I think Kate Winslet and Laura Linney could capture my life the way it is now. I’m thinking of Kate’s performance in Finding Neverland and Titanic, and Laura Linney’s in Love Actually and You Can Count on Me. I also relate to Virginia Madsen’s acting as the love interest in Sideways. That scene where she describes what she thinks about when she samples fine wine is so rich in words, imagery, and passion. Love it.

Now, if the movie was set in my teens and twenties, Winona Ryder would be a good choice. There’s something about her skinny-chick vulnerability and intensity that conjures that time in my life for me.

What about you? If a movie was made about your life, who would you want to see cast?

And for those of you who know me, what do you think of my choices?

Life in the slow lane

E-Grrrl is playing softball and while she practices at the school, I walk on the track. Last week when I stepped onto it for the first time, I was beyond impressed. It was perfection--a brightly marked red oval of shock-absorbing material. It reminded me of all the spring afternoons I spent working out during track season.

My pal Low Maintenance Grrrl and I were co-captains of our high school track team. She ran middle distance and the mile, and I ran the mile and two mile. We wore ill fitting dorky uniforms, froze at the beginning of the season and cooked at the end, got nervous before meets, rubbed Tiger Balm into our sore calves, complained about our shin splints and won a lot of races cheering each other on.

Low Maintenance Grrrl was a remarkable athlete, strong and sure and able to play a variety of team sports successfully. Me, I was skinny, not especially coordinated, but I was a decent runner by sheer strength of will. I was helped along by a serious set of long distance legs.

Our track team in rural Virginia won the district championships every year I was a member of the team. As I recall, we never lost a meet. The miracle of our success is that we didn’t even have a track. Yes, you read that right—we had a championship team but not a track. Not even have a cinder track, let alone one as beautiful and high-tech as the one at my children’s school. No, Low Maintenance Grrrl and I trained by running around a bumpy grass field, the distances marked by our coach. We never had a home meet, all our competitions were away.

I kept running long after my high school years, but I stopped competing. Around the time I was 30, my doctor suggested I pursue other types of exercise because running was too hard on my back. I gave it up reluctantly, and while it’s been years since I’ve run, I still miss it. When I stepped onto the track last week to walk, every fiber in my being wanted to run. Instead I dutifully took my place in a lane and started circling the practice field like a dog on a leash.

Before my health problems started to take their toll, I was known as a fast walker. I can’t tell you how many times my college friends begged me to slow down because even when I was just walking across campus, I had a tendency to shift into high gear. When I was a youth group leader, E and I would lead hikes and I regularly left kids half my age in the dust.

Oh how the mighty have fallen. Last week I started walking on the track at what I thought was a good pace, and I found myself consistently being passed by other walkers. Let me tell you, this was beyond depressing.

When I developed cardiac problems a few years ago, I was shocked.  I’d always been an exerciser. All my stats were awesome—I had very low blood pressure, remarkably low cholesterol. But for reasons that can’t be explained, I developed a heart arrhythmia. I have to take medication twice a day to keep my heart beating regularly. The meds actually slow my heart rate down and in the process, have slowed my whole life down.

Mentally, life in the slow lane is hard for me to take. I used to have a lot more energy and stamina. When I realize I’m being passed on the track, my long buried competitive streak surfaces and all I want to do is pull ahead.

“I will not be passed! I own the inside lane! I’m going to kick your ass. I’m going to leave you huffing and puffing behind me.” Yeah, in my wildest dreams.

Since I’m not the Grrrl I used to be, I  silence the voices in my head, swallow my pride and try not to feel old when someone flies by me on the right and effortlessly scoots ahead.

OK, I didn't bank on having to downshift so much in my 40s. Still, I’m happy that despite leaving my running days far behind, I continue to move forward and keep my own pace. I may be slow, but I’m determined not to spend my life on the sofa, even if it means getting used to occupying the outside lane.

Copyright 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

April 25, 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