S is for Scoliosis

When I was 15, I was diagnosed with scoliosis during a sports physical. Scoliosis is an "S" shaped curvature of the spine that often develops in children as they grow. Other than vaccination appointments when we were babies, my parents belonged to a generation that didn’t take their kids to the doctor unless they were sick—and you had to be really sick.  At 15, I hadn't been to a doctor at all in at least five years and have no recollection of ever getting a physical as a kid.

By the time I was sent to an orthopedist at the University of Virginia medical college for evaluation, the curvature of my spine was noticeable to the casual observer and just  shy of the range where surgery is often recommended. Surgery that was not without significant risks. Surgery that would have involved inserting steel rods into my back and fusing my vertebrae. Surgery that at that time would have kept me flat on my back in a body cast for at least six months recovering.

If only I had been diagnosed sooner. If only my parents had taken me for yearly physicals or been more aware. If only the rural school I attended had had a nurse and done scoliosis screenings. If only my PE teacher had noticed my hips dipping to one side, my uneven shoulder blades, the way my left ankle and knee pronated in.  As an adolescent I was more concerned about the size of my nose and my chest to consider the shape of my spine. Still, it shocks me that my body was dramatically off balance and no one noticed until it was too late for therapy, too late for bracing, too late to do anything but watch and see if it got worse.

The back pain started when I was in college. Sitting to type was a particular torture and caused my initial bouts of back pain. I’d been a competitive runner in high school, and in college I continued to crank out a few miles a day, took PE classes, occasionally went swimming in the college pool and later took aerobics classes. I was reasonably fit and very active, but it didn’t matter.

One day when I was 26, I woke up and couldn’t turn my head. My spine was in a painful “lockdown” and I had extremely limited range of motion. I was 66 miles away from home. My husband was traveling. I managed to get into the car, and I drove (without being able to turn my head!) to a chiropractor’s office in my hometown.

I didn’t know what else to do. I‘d been seeing orthopedists for 11 years and basically they said what was done was done. I should stay fit. I should watch my calcium intake. If it got really bad, I could have surgery to straighten my spine but there was no guarantee surgery would end my back pain.

When I started chiropractic treatments, I had a very limited range of motion, the way my weight was distributed between my two legs was dramatically uneven. My left hand, which is my dominant hand, was inexplicably weaker than my right. The middle fingers on that hand would occasionally go numb. I was in so much pain I could barely carry a magazine across campus, let alone my textbooks.

During that first major episode of back pain, the chiropractor recommended a nutrition regimen that included B vitamins to boost neurological function and reduce inflammation, adjusted my back three days a week, used electrical stimulation to reduce muscle spasms, and applied moist heat. He also gave me exercises to do at home.

I’ve continued chiropractic treatments now for almost 18 years in an attempt to keep my spine flexible and moving, my back as balanced as it can be in its awkward S shape. I think chiropractic has minimized major episodes and kept me functioning but back pain remains a part of my daily life.

I had to give up running, which I really enjoyed, by the time I was 30 and stick with low impact aerobics or activities. While core strengthening exercises are critical for me, I find them very difficult to do because of the condition of my back. I am forever caught in a cycle where the very thing that might help my back (weight training, pilates) is also a trigger for more back pain and spasms that make me unable to do ANY exercise. I walk for 45 minutes several days a week, I do some yoga, but I know I don’t do enough.

Long car rides are a challenge. My chiropractor tells me to avoid sitting for more than an hour at a time. My back tells me the same thing. Very few chairs are comfortable for me. I can’t sit on bleachers, sit at picnic tables, or even sit comfortably in a restaurant or kitchen chair for more than 45 minutes of so. The only chairs I like are my recliners.

If I get chlled, my back locks up. I have more sweaters, scarves, and outerwear than anyone you know. I travel with ibuprofen in my pocket and an instant heat wrap in my suitcase. The worst thing for me is to be standing still in cold or damp weather. If I’m walking, I’m usually OK, but to watch an athletic event, parade, or even stand around a playground while the kids play is uncomfortable at best, painful at worst.

I don’t go swimming anymore because what feels brisk and refreshing to someone else is paralyzing for me. I don’t go camping with my family because I can’t sleep on the ground or risk being out in damp air for hours on end. For the most part, I can’t carry anything for more than an hour or so without discomfort or pain—it doesn’t matter if it’s a backpack, a small purse, or even a camera. This is a literal and figurative pain in the neck when you’re shopping or trying to be a tourist. Every time we plan a weekend or vacation, I'm wondering if my back can take the trip, the sightseeing, the mattress, the weather.

I normally spend at least a $120 a month on back care. Some months the figure is over $200.

I don’t mean to whine. All things considered, I’m pretty lucky. Major episodes of back pain are rare, and with minor adjustments and a few ibuprofen, I can do nearly everything I need to do. But a day doesn’t go by without back pain, however mild, punctuating my hours and limiting my activities in one way or another. I don’t expect it to do anything but get worse as I get older. I live in fear of debilitating arthritis in my spine.

So take care of your back and keep an eye on your children’s. Make sure they get yearly physicals and that the physical includes a scoliosis screening. While things could be much worse for me, they could also be much better. Scoliosis is preventable and treatable--when it’s caught in time.

Copyright 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

April 3, 2006

The down side of healthy eating

Yesterday I had a high-fiber, high-protein cereal with skim milk for breakfast, soybean cakes for a snack, black bean soup for lunch, and chicken and broccoli for dinner.

How shall I put this delicately—all this healthy eating is fueling a lot of violent gastrointestinal activity.

Or more bluntly—if farts burned calories, I’d have lost 10 pounds by now.

The only thing I’ve lost is my self-respect. Look at me, I used the F word in my blog!

Have a good weekend.

What I don't miss

In the year since I left my home in Virginia behind, there have been many people, places, and things I’ve missed and longed for. I’ve often mentioned how much I miss my grrrl friends, familiar faces in my community, the chance to visit with family, the house we left behind, my children’s old school.

But the flip side of that is I’ve realized there are many things about America that I don’t miss at all, that I dread returning to, that I’ll miss when I leave Belgium. Here are a few examples.

For starters, I don’t miss the noise. Belgium is a much quieter place. People put a higher value on not disturbing their neighbors. No one runs lawnmowers on Sundays, and it’s rare to hear power tools or trimmers in the middle of the day when babies normally nap. People bring their dogs in at night and don’t leave them out in the yard all day to bark at everything that moves.

Rent an apartment in Belgium and most likely you’ll sign an agreement that says no showers will be taken or appliances run after 10 p.m. or before 6:30 a.m., that there will be no loud talking in the corridors, stairwells, foyer or elevator, no TV or radios playing loud enough to be heard outside your door. When I lived in an apartment in the center of the city, my sleep was never disturbed by noises from inside the building, only from the street below. One of the most annoying national phenomena in the U.S. is outfitting cars with enormous speakers and sound systems and blasting nasty-ass rap music from them day and night. Thankfully, this isn’t a practice embraced in Europe. The parks aren’t polluted by boom boxes either.

Even the children are quieter. There seems to be a much higher premium put on teaching children not to scream, shriek, or shout except at the playground. I almost never see Belgians take small children into restaurants other than fast food places like Quick. It’s just not done. One native of Brussels with three children told me he didn’t consider it appropriate to bring a child into a restaurant until the child could sit quietly. He and his wife go out to eat frequently, taking their 9-year-old son with them while leaving their younger children at home.

I joke with my husband that I’ve seen more dogs in European restaurants than I have children, and the dogs are universally better behaved than the noisy kids in the restaurants at home. Americans are considered LOUD because, um, we are loud. I’ve also yet to meet a Belgian that talks non-stop. Americans (myself included) have a tendency to do just that. It’s tiresome—especially in restaurants and on trains.

The second thing I don’t miss about American life is being chained to my car. Back home it was impossible to do errands or go shopping without getting into the car. Not only are residential and commercial spaces completely separate in the U.S., but except in the big cities, there aren’t sidewalks, bike paths, or pedestrian crossings. Public transit is non-existent in most places and is limited elsewhere. Directly and indirectly, American culture is built around cars—which means growing traffic, pollution, and an ever burgeoning demand for oil that threatens the environment and political stability.

Which brings me in a roundabout way to the third thing I don’t miss about home: political apathy. While living in Belgium and traveling in Europe, I’ve seen more protests and been impacted by more strikes than I had in my entire life in the U.S. While the American government is quick to try and export democracy, the majority of Americans fail to participate in it at home. Presidential elections might get people’s attention but local and state elections often do not. People don’t register to vote and those who are registered don’t turn up at the polls. I’d be willing to venture that most Americans can’t name their elected officials. They leave political activism to the professional lobbyists who will support any position at a price and use their money to grease the wheels of government behind the scenes. And except in Washington, D.C., it’s rare to see people gather in the streets and protest ANYTHING.

Yes, the strikes and protests here can be inconvenient at best and violent at worse, but at least people are passionate about the issues that affect them and are willing to publicly take a stand and participate in democracy. I admire that and will miss it when I’m gone.

Another cultural element I don’t miss is the way Americans let work invade every corner of their lives and consider their busy-ness to be a mark of success. A European can take a three-week summer holiday and no one raises an eyebrow. The standard American vacation (for those who even take vacations) is one week. The standard work week in the U.S. is 40 hours but professionals and people in positions of responsibility or management regularly work 50 hours (or more) a week.

When we first moved to Brussels, it was an adjustment to get used to dealing with stores that closed at 5 p.m. or 7 p.m. and did not open on Sundays or Monday. It was a shock to see restaurants, pharmacies, and stores shut down completely for as long as a month in the summer so that the owners, managers, and workers could take a vacation.

In America, we were accustomed to being able to shop at almost any hour, day or night, and on any day of the week. It’s not uncommon in the U.S. to see grocery or discount stores open 24 hours a day. And even when the big stores are shut, there’s always a corner convenience store that is open. The bottom line is that in America, if you’ve got a dollar to spend, you can always find a place to spend it.

Yes, in some respects we were spoiled in the States. We did not have to plan our shopping trips in advance or worry that we’d need something and not be able to buy it. But the dark side is that the 24/7 retail environment is built on the backs of workers who cannot expect to have the weekend off, who work long hours and often very odd hours.

So while I find the limited store hours in Belgium inconvenient at times, I secretly admire a culture that would rather close the shop doors than add more euros to the till. Europeans seem unafraid to admit that while work is important, so is leisure, relaxation, time devoted to loved ones. I think this often translates to a quality of life that we as Americans can’t buy or embrace—unless we’re lucky enough to be expats.

© 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

March 30, 2006

Wardrobe Malfunctions

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

Scene 1:  College

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

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

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

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

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

Scene 2:   Gym

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thank God I was wearing matching shoes.

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

 Comments?

March 29, 2006

Shipping back my expat fat

OK—it’s official. My expat fat’s one-year visa expired on March 21. It’s time for the pounds to kiss my ass goodbye. Now that I have been here one year, I’m evicting all my excuses.

The other day I went by the mirror in our foyer and was sobered by my reflection. Baggy sweatpants, slightly high water, revealing white socks and big clunky Nikes, stretched out turtleneck covered by a floppy charcoal gray zip front cardigan sweaters. OMG, since when did I start embracing the “Mr. Rogers in a Nursing Home” look? All I needed was a walker to complete my sad, saggy ensemble.

My descent into ever uglier daytime attire has been fueled by the ascent of inches around the waist and hips. My cute sweaters did not look cute while gripping my gut. My jeans and chinos have been clenching an area far more personal. Every time I pull them over my hips I feel like I’ve just had an encounter with Chester the Molester. To avoid the degradation of my uncomfortable moments with Chester, I gradually became an all sweatpants all the time kind of gal.  Sheesh.  Not pretty!

So to escape both Chester the Molester and Sweatpant Syndrome,  I bought two “healthy weight loss” cookbooks and two magazines with the same theme. Yeah, I already know how to cook light, cook healthy, and lose weight. Five years ago I lost 15 pounds and kept it off until we moved here. Weight loss isn’t rocket science—it’s just hard work.As such, it's easy to procrastinate getting started. Spending the money on the books and magazines represents a commitment to JUST DO IT. The new recipes with nutrition information should inspire me to change my evil ways and keep track of what I eat. I’ve been doing pretty well with aerobic exercise but need to add weight training to the mix.

No, I’m not bold enough to post my starting weight here but I will tell you my goals:

• I want every pair of pants and every straight skirt in my closet to fit again. No more muffin tops! Goodbye Chester!
• I want to be able to wear my more fitted sweaters and short sleeve shirts without feeling like a random fug.
• I don’t expect to be “skinny” or “buff”—just healthy and trimmer.
• For all this to happen, I probably will need to lose 10-15 pounds and at least one to two inches off my hips and waist.

There now, I’ve put it in writing. This is my contract with myself. You all are my witnesses and virtual support group. Anyone that wants me to join me can send an e-mail or post a comment and we’ll encourage each other. I’ll provide a progress report once a week on Tuesdays until Memorial Day.

Anybody with me?

March 28, 2006

Going to Chievres

One of the expat perks we relish is the ability to shop at American military PXs and commissaries overseas. This is a huge benefit for us both in terms of cost and comfort. Shopping at the commissary and PX allows us to buy American products at reasonable prices.

Things you’d never see in a Belgium store, such as pretzels, cake and brownie mixes, chocolate chips, mac and cheese, Tex-Mex ingredients, cupcake liners, Campbell’s soup, fat-free dairy products, and familiar kinds of peanut butter, salad dressings, condiments, flours, baking ingredients, and frozen foods, are all available at the commissary. It’s nice to get cuts of meat you recognize, labels you can read, and get all the nutrition info that doesn’t appear on European food labels.

The PX carries most of what you’d find in a Target or Walmart--clothes, health and beauty items, shoes, over-the-counter drugs, books, jewelry, candles and colognes, housewares, small kitchen appliances, seasonal items, electronics, sporting goods.

The nearest U.S. military base is located about an hour from Brussels in Chievres, Belgium. Because of the distance, we only go to Chievres once a month and I’m embarrassed to admit how big a deal this monthly outing is for our family.  More than a mere shopping trip, it’s a taste of American life and we treasure the opportunity to unselfconsciously speak English and enjoy a bit of our native culture.

The drive is half on the highway, half on back roads that roam through a beautiful rural area of Belgium. The kids grab books and I normally take a magazine but once we exit the highway, I put my reading material aside and take in the scenery. I love the impossibly old buildings, the barns, sheep dotting the pastures, gently rolling fields, old stone churches, homes with front doors that open straight out onto the sidewalks of small villages.

When we arrive at the airbase, our first stop is the PX. Considering the scope and scale of my shopping choices at home, you’d be amazed that going to the PX makes me happy. It’s the size of a small discount store, kind of like Ben Franklin’s in the South. I can let my kids roam it freely because there’s no chance of them getting lost or being more than a few steps out of my sight. I always check out the women’s clothes—just in case there’s a gem hidden among the ordinary. There are a lot of no-name labels and a smattering of offerings from department store staples like Polo, Tommy Hilfiger, Liz Clairborne, Izod.

The key word here is “smattering.” Brands appear and disappear, just a few sizes are stocked in any given item, and what’s going to be on the racks any given month is a mystery. There is no glitz or merchandising here, and the offerings don’t follow the usual retail calendar in the U.S. I never realized how my shopping life marched to the U.S. retail rhythm until I came here. You can never be sure when the collections representing the next season will appear or when things will be marked down. If you were counting on buying discounted gloves and scarves, for example, don’t look for them in January. No, those weren’t discounted until late March!  The clothes in stock don’t always match the season or the Belgian climate. Last summer there were too many tropical looks for Belgian’s cool and rainy weather, the summer clothes lingered on the racks for months and into the fall at a time when I was desperate to see some corduroy and sweaters.

Saturday they had a big clearance sale going and I found a pair of Dockers corduroys that fit me for 75 percent off as well as a pair of Polo yoga pants. One time I found the perfect pair of black velvet flare jeans--in June. The successes keep me coming back and picking through the merchandise.

I love to linger in the book section, eyeball the makeup, test the colognes (of which there’s a large selection of high-end products) and browse through the CDs. And of course I load up on the basics.

The PX also has a small beauty salon staffed by Belgian stylists who speak English, though their native language is French. I’ve started getting my hair cut here because it’s convenient. Unlike in the U.S., the salon isn’t busy on weekends because most of the military wives don’t work, and they get their hair done while their kids are at school during the week.

The stylists are young girls dressed in black dress pants and fitted black knit shirts. They all seem to have a variation of the same hair cut, a long straight shag that reaches below their shoulders but has fringed bangs and graduated piecey layers around the face. Kind of an Ashlee Simpson look. It’s cute. Wish I had straight hair or the patience to blow my curls out and pull off that kind of look. I have neither.

My layered bob works well with my fine, naturally curly hair but at times I think it’s such a boring, old-lady style. So when the stylist asks me in broken English what I want done, I indicate with my thumb and forefinger how much length I want trimmed off and then tell the stylist to make it “A bit more shaggy, and less round.” She says “OK” and I try not to wonder if she understands what I mean—does “shaggy” have a French equivalent? The end result is definitely less round but not exactly shaggy. Then again, it’s hard to get curly hair to look shaggy, except when you’re not trying. I pick up a tin of Bedhead Mastermind, a product and a line I’ve never tried before but that promises add texture and “piece out” my hair. Hmmm. Maybe I can banish my church lady look if I try.

After shopping at the PX, we have our monthly taste of American fast food (ah, real hamburgers!) at Burger King and then migrate over to the commissary for food shopping. This is where the outing begins to lose a bit of its glow. Food shopping, even with a list, requires concentration and thinking, especially when this is your “once a month” opportunity to get what you need. My kids relentlessly pummel me with questions and requests as I move through the store, derailing my train of thought over and over again until my brain is wrecked.

Every fiber of my being wants to tell them to shut up, but instead I tell them nicely to be quiet so Mama can think, or “Don’t ask me about items on the next aisle, I’ll get there when I get there and I’ll pick out what I need.” And “No, you may not have Lunchable anything.” “No I’m not buying frozen dinners.” “No Easter candy in the house until Easter.” “Yes, you can pick out any fruit or vegetable you want, please go to the produce section!” (They pick out kiwis and a coconut, strawberries and grapes.)

All family members are trying to help me shop but for the most part the incessant interruptions and questions just make it all take longer. By the time we hit the dairy section, I’m frazzled and worn out. E unloads the basket, the Belgian employee scans everything, and then gives us the total $410.68.

E is shocked—“Are you sure that’s right?” exclaims. This is one of the “thinking out loud” comments he is famous for and that drive yours truly crazy. The Belgian cashier doesn’t know what to make of E’s comment and searches his face for clues. The receipt is a mile long. A neighboring cashier, who perhaps is the manager, comes over unbidden and glances at the receipt and sort of smirks, as if to say, “What did he expect? Look at all that food!”

All that food indeed. Loading it into coolers and the trunk requires all of E’s engineering skills. We end up with overflow bags that get jammed between E-Grrrl and Mr. A in the back seat and around my feet in the front. By now we’ve been shopping for close to four hours. We’re beat. We’ve had enough. We try not to think about having to unload and carry everything up the stairs at home. As soon as we're on the highway, I close my eyes.

Copyright 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault

March 27, 2006

Update on March 27, 2006 at 2:13 by V-Grrrl

Update on the problem some of you had leaving comments last week:

Last week, Squarespace was making adjustments to the system to block spam from certain ISPs and inadvertenly blocked all comments originating from blogspot.com addresses. Problem lasted about 48 hours, I think. Thankfully, it's been resolved. If anyone is still having problems commenting, you can e-mail me. Thanks for your patience!

Things That Make Me Go "Hmmmm...."

1. On a tag attached to a $50 purse manufactured by Esprit:

This item is made of fake nubuk. If it gets wet, the color may transfer to textiles. This is not considered a grounds for complaint.

Translation: You’re spending $50 on a fake leather purse that will stain your clothes the first time you get caught in the rain. Hey Stupid, don't make me say you weren't warned.

2. Belgians love frites ( fries) and potato chips. The snack aisles in the grocery stores are full of every imaginable variety of potato chips--BBQ, paprika, dill pickle, vinegar, onion, sour cream—but even in the biggest super stores, you can’t buy a bag of pretzels in any shape or form.

3. Printed on the back of a bag of sugar-free Jelly Bellies:

“Warning—consumption may cause stomach discomfort and/or laxative effect.”

Translation: This candy will make you fart—or worse. Do not consume before long car rides, job interviews, dates, or a visit to the gym.

These are not sold in Belgian stores but they are sold at the American Embassy. If Americans have an image problem abroad, we can blame it on the (jelly) beans.

4. An ad seen almost daily on my Yahoo home page proclaims:

“You can live and work in the U.S.A!”? (Well, DUH! Been there, done that!)

“You’ve been pre-approved to participate in the U.S. Government Green Card Lottery” (U.S. Government Lottery? So what do people have to do—buy a scratch card or pick six? This could be an international money maker!)

“Get a Green Card that lasts a lifetime” (Hey, even my driver’s license is only good for a few years. I think non-citizens are getting a better deal—or they’re dying shortly after arriving in America.)

Being a good American capitalist, I’m investigating whether I can lease my U.S. citizenship to someone else until I move back to America in 2008, just in time to elect a new President.

5. V-Grrrl climbs into bed and realizes E-Man has her favorite pillow. Ever the demure and compliant wife, she hollers, “Hey! You’ve got my pillow! Pillow thief! I don’t know WHY I love you. The outrage! (Sigh) I can see I’m going to have to find myself a new husband.”

E-Man replies without looking up from his book: “Good luck.”

Bricks, bricks, and more bricks

A popular dance song by the 70s R&B band the Commodores was called Brick House. When the funky lead singer leaned into the microphone and drawled, “She’s a brick----hooooouse,” we all knew it was a compliment. A woman was a brick house when she was stacked, good looking, built to last.

I was thinking that maybe Brick House could be Belgium’s unofficial architectural theme song. When I first flew into the country, the image that imprinted on my brain was of red tile roofs and brick buildings gleaming in the morning sun against a backdrop of green. On the ground, I saw bricks, bricks, and more bricks. Homes, barns, commercial buildings, mailboxes, walls, sidewalks, steps, streets--everywhere I turned.

There were charming town houses with stepped roofs, brick buildings with fancy Art Deco flourishes, farm buildings standing stout in the fields, adorable brick cottages with shutters and window boxes full of flowers, sleek and modern homes with vast expanses of glass and industrial details, aging brick rich in texture and history.

Forget the boring expanses of concrete and asphalt that dominate the American landscape, Belgians use brick to create artwork under their feet and wheels. Driveways, sidewalks and roads boast pavers laid in classic running bond fashion or fancy patterns like herringbone, fan, and basket weave. Varying colors are used to punctuate and highlight the designs. It’s a joy to lean out my third-floor window and admire the artwork below.

I live in a peaked-roof brick cottage with a red tile roof, ceramic tile floors, and some brick interior walls. The wind may howl and moan but this house never creaks and squeaks. Only the shutters shake and rattle the calm. No matter the weather, the house stands firm.

A native here told me there’s a saying in Belgium that each baby born is born with a “brick in the belly.” This makes perfect sense. Stalwart Belgians are grounded by that “brick in the belly.” It reflects their national character. The ubiquitous red brick is sturdy and a welcome wash of vibrant color against the omnipresent gray skies and silver rain.

I sometimes imagine that carefully laid brick is the ultimate symbol of Belgium’s past and present. Its pervasiveness unites a country divided by long standing cultural and economic issues. Brick stands strong, transcends time, and withstands the forces that buffet and blow across the Low Countries. Thus far, Belgium has too.

© 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

March 23, 2006

Big Lou Strikes Back

Well dear readers, Lefty the Hamster is missing again.  Emboldened by a taste of freedom and family heirlooms, he is once again on the prowl.

I have alerted our cat Amy and offered her a reward.

Am I searching frantically? Am I methodically going through the house room by room? Of course not.

What I am doing is stacking all my wool sweaters  in a tower on top of my husband's dresser. I have my priorites people. Saving this hamster's furry ass is not one of them.  I am leaving the hamster's fate to karma and Big Lou.

It's sunny today. A good day for digging in the yard, if I do say so myself.

Stay tuned.

Powered by Blogger--or not

So many of my favorite blogs are powered by Blogger--or should I say not powered by it at all. I never know when I click on a link on my blog roll what will happen next. Will a window snap open with the latest entry laid out for me to read, or will I hear my computer grunt and groan, watch my browser icon blink frantically, and stare at a white monitor until my eyes glaze over? Waiting for Blogger to wake up and gets its virtual ass in gear makes me want to reach through the screen and retrieve the files myself. A virtual smash and grab if you will. Call me thug grrrl.

Even when the blog downloads, my thug impulses aren’t quelled. Reading and leaving comments is a test of my patience. I imagine there are hamsters on the Blogger server running on wheels that drag the comment box up and pry it open. Hopefully by the time it unfolds on the screen, I haven’t forgotten what I was going to say. Once I type it up, I face my final challenge in the Blogger triathalon: word verification.

Ah yes, there’s a string of gibberish to be typed, and it always includes letters you don’t normally touch much on the keyboard, like X, Z, and J. The letters are twisted and distorted like images in a Salvado Dali painting. I lean forward and peer at the monitor. I clean the smudges off my glasses. I ponder whether those are two n’s that are enjoying a romantic moment or simply an “m” going solo? Of course, it could be an “r” shaking hands with an “n." Is that a lower case "j" or an "i" doing yoga?  I debate all the possibilities. Then I type my best guess up v-e-r-y s-l-o-w-l-y, which, is after all, the Blogger way. Sometimes my comments don’t post. Grrrr.

So to all my peeps trapped in the Twilight Zone with Blogger, let me just say this: I’m not ignoring you—Blogger is ignoring me. Be free! Escape the Blogger traffic jams. Your words deserve better. Check out www.squarespace.com. Free trials. No software to download. Easy to use. Great support. All for as little as $7 a month. Go for it!

March 21, 2006

Update on March 21, 2006 at 12:36 by V-Grrrl

Did I speak too soon?

Thanks to The Queen Mama and Michelle for letting me know my blog has been sketchy about accepting comments lately. Some folks tell me they write the comment, hit post, and nothing happens.

I've got a note into tech support.  If you've been having problems with my site, e-mail me.

Thanks!

V-Grrrl

***********

OK, if you're having problems leaving a comment, this may be why. Tech support's response:

I noticed that your latest post does have a comment on it so it does appear to be working. Why it isn't working for these other people could be a myriad of reasons such as their web browser type, web browser settings, firewall settings, ad blocking software, and so on. The most important thing is to ensure that their web browser, software, or firewall don't conflict with the Javascript code that we use. Can you check with them to confirm the following with them?

That they are using one of the following browsers.
http://www.squarespace.com/browsersupport/

That they haven't turned off cookies or javascript with their browser.

That they aren't using firewall or anti-virus software with ad blocking.

If the comment feature isn't working for you and these trouble-shooting tips don't apply, keep me posted. You can e-mail me using the Contact feature on my navigation bar. I appreciate the feedback and if there's a glitch, I really want to get it worked out.

V-Grrrl