Little Ramblings

Thank Yous....

2012-01-29T05:22:00.000-08:00

I took a walk the other day. It's the best way to arrange thoughts sometimes. Just me, my boots, fresh air.
I couldn't help but think of a phone call I had made.
It was a bill-paying call back to the States. The CSM was named Tammy. I mentioned to her that my husband was in the Army and we were living overseas. (The reason I mentioned this is she needed our address. I asked if she wanted our overseas address or a stateside address)
Tammy was so very sweet. She immediately asked me to pass along her gratitude to my husband (Which I will when I talk to him). I thanked her for saying such.
She then she told me that she wanted to thank me, she said "I call ya'll the homebound warriors."
I said "Oh. Oh well, thank you!"
(But trust me when I say, the only warrior I am is in the battle of these hardwood floors. Even if it is a chore, I don't feel like I need anyone to thank me for keeping my floors clean.)
It surprised me because that was the first time anyone actually thanked me for...being married to Michael.
She was so sweet and so heartfelt, it was nice. I thanked her & I told her she was a very nice person.

I've never sought gratitude for being married to Michael.

The thought lingered with me. I constantly see and am reminded of women who DO seek that kind of gratitude.
"Oh my husband is in the ARMY."
"My man is in the MILITARY"
"We are MORE special and we work harder than you at our relationships because our husbands are in the MILITARY"

As if they want a gold star for their marriage.

I try to seperate myself from that. Not because I'm not proud of Michael. I am. I am SO very proud of him. Every single day. Even when I catch him picking his nose, ok well maybe I'm more grossed out by that than proud.
When I see him in uniform, I feel such pride.
When he is away and I see guys walking around post in uniform, my heart desperately misses him.
In his uniform, or in his pjs, he is the most handsome man in the world. The bravest man I've ever met. The genuine & most courageous heart beats in his chest.

However, I do not feel I deserve gratitude.
"Thank you for what you do."What I do?
Well, let's see, what I do is love my husband.
That is not a great sacrifice.
I love him.
His job, is NOT my job. I married the person. His job just so happens to be in the Army. Of course that means we spend great amounts of time apart.
In a crisis, it may take him a couple of days to get home.
But, I do not feel I need to be thanked. As though loving my husband was a job. It is such a task that I need people to bow down to me with a 'I don't know how you do it' expression.
I don't want pats on the back, or any type of accolades.
I hate the implication that it MUST be SO DIFFICULT to be married to my husband. Oh poor you, you sacrifice soooo much.
I love my husband. It's not a sacrifice. It's where I want to be.

Some women define theirselves by that, and for them, that is great. I won't try to take that away from them. Being a spouse to someone who is in the military isn't easy.
But, being married to Michael isn't hard.
I married him because I love him. Not because I wanted to wear a yellow ribbon necklace or be a martyr.

When he is gone on training, or on missions, yes I sleep alone. I miss him every moment he is gone. Life is boring without him.
What do I do when he is gone?
I read books.
I do the laundry.
I go to the commissary.
I pay bills.
I make dinner for one.
I watch dvds because let's face it, AFN gets old after a while.
I go out to dinner with friends.
I take the train to neighboring towns to musuems.
I feed the ducks downtown.
I lunch with a friend on Marxplatz.
I call my sister and my mom.
I go to German Class.
I do wii zumba.
I take walks.
I plan out menus of what I will cook when he is home.
I drink coffee by the gallons.
I learn about places/sights/restaurants in our town (or neighboring towns) and then I can teach/show/bring Mike to those places when he comes home.

None of that takes the place of having Michael home with me. However, when he is gone, I know he's not doing things that fun. He is working.
To truly make any marriage work, you have to have your heart in it. The same goes for being married to someone in the Military.
(I still haven't grown to use the term "army wife" or "army spouse" because I am Michael's Wife. Michael's Spouse.)

I see all these poems about how spouses are the 'silent ranks." I'm not in any rank. I'm not in the military.
I've read how women sleep with their phones by them for that call, and that is true. But if he's too tired to call, guess what? I don't cry or get angry. He's just tired. Of course I want to hear his voice, but I love him so much that if he's tired, I'd rather he sleep. He'll call me when he can.
I've read about girls crying and getting so sad that their boyfriend/husband is going to basic training and it will be X amount of weeks before they will hear from their guys.
I can't help but think, What did you expect? Daily phone calls? Not going to happen, sister. The sooner you accept it, the better.

There will always be little girls who want to gossip and spread rumors on military posts. I have to say, I have successfully avoided them. I don't really care who is supposedly doing what with who. I don't. Most of these girls/women I will probably never see again once they move or we do.
I chose my friends carefully and thus far, the friends I've made are awesome.
Any advice I could/would give to someone who wants to marry someone who is serving in the military is this:

1) You will be alone...a lot. You need to be ok with being alone. Alone and away from family/friends. You NEED to like your own company.
2) You need to accept that you will not choose where you live. Not the town, Not the country. And to some degree not even the housing.
3) Go see the town you live in. Make it yours.

And for cripes sake, PLEASE, if you move overseas, remember YOU are representing our Country. Please don't be White Trash, Ghetto, Redneck, Idiotic. Please. It's embarrassing. Honor the host nation by being polite. It's not hard to try to blend in or to respect their culture. Please don't think you are owed something by the nationals. Please. It makes us all look bad. It makes the ones who DO actually respect others have to work EVEN harder to disprove that all Americans are ignorant.

If you can embrace that, when someone does thank you for being married to your husband, it will sound/seem strange to you.

And Tammy, thank you for your kind words. I can't imagine loving anyone else. Michael is the funniest, most amazing person I've had the pleasure to know. I love him more than there are words to express. You should see how cats gravitate to him, and how dogs want to get in his face, and curl up in his lap. He does nerdy dances with me in the kitchen. His mac and cheese is so legendary that it's been renamed Mike-n-Chee. He steals the blankets, and surprises me with little things like my favorite candy bar, a bouquet of flowers, or a sweet little stuffed animal. He folds the laundry because I HATE to. He never left my side for ONE minute when I was in the hospital. In winter he never fails to throw snowballs at me. Sometimes we play chase around the living room, because he doesn't want me to 'credit card' him. He watches the stars from our bedroom window with me. He always always always leaves one of his t-shirts for me covered in his sweet smell when he goes on training or missions. He is my everything, and I appreciate you recognizing that he works so hard! I will let him know you appreciate him.

The Hardest Day? Probably just the emptiest day.

2012-01-19T02:46:00.000-08:00

I had been warned.
"The hardest day will be when you get your first period after the miscarriage."
By several people who had been through a loss like that.
One woman told me that it only stood to remind her of her miscarriage and she couldn't help but sob.

Mine came on a sunny day. Sitting on a bench on Marxplatz while eating lunch from Nordsee with my friend.
I went to the WC, and instead of crying, I smiled.
It meant moving forward, it meant no more waiting to try again.
I actually did a little shimmy dance in the stall before leaving & paying my 50 euro cents to the attendant.
Who would've thought having to buy a box of o.b. would be cause for celebration?
When I came home, I called Michael at work.
He said "Really?! That is GREAT!"
Crack open the wine bottle and let's Kool & the Gang it...CEEELEBRATE good times C'mon! (While I wasn't doing the high kicks or wearing super cool white pants this was pretty much me:

I found it puzzling. I felt fine. Excited and hopeful, even. I rationalized that it didn't remind me of the miscarriage, since I had a D&C. So, it wouldn't stand as any reminder for me. Only a promise of hope at trying again.

Fast forward through the Berlin weekend. To yesterday, Michael left for his weeks long training.
The first time he has been away from me since November 19th. Initially, I didn't think too much about it. Just that I miss him so when he's away.
I woke up at 4:30am to see him off. To stand at the window and wave as he walked away into the dark morning. I got my favorite blanket and pillow bringing it to the sofa. I turned on the television. Piers Morgan was on.
There I was, lounging in the dark just me and Piers and his interviewee (Rosie O'donnel btw)
I snuggled in and the thought hit me.
Wow. The last time you did this, you were pregnant, and awake trying NOT to throw up. And now, you are not pregnant, or sick.
I turned off the tv, collected my blanket and pillow and took it to our bed.

Later on I took the bus to the post office to pick up the package that was waiting. Normally on such a gorgeous sunny day, I'd had chosen to walk, but it was SO bitterly cold out. I opted for the bus.

In our mailbox was a card, a national geographic renewal notice, and a letter from Tricare.

I opened all three letters, standing at the bus stop. I opened the card (a sweet thank you note from Mike's sister) I opened the National Geographic renewal (eh) I saved Tricare for last, only because that was the order I pulled the letters out of the mail box. It was a routine explaination of benefits. Explaining the costs of my blood work from my first prenatal visit.
I held it in my hands staring hard at it. Looking at the words, the cost. Empty words, and a lot of money paid out for emptiness.

That. That was the harder than any period on a park bench.
I climbed on the bus, and chose an empty window seat and watched the sun rays dance through the trees empty of any leaves.
No tears to cry.
Just empty.

Berlin!

2012-01-17T05:20:00.000-08:00

MLK Weekend gave Michael a 4 day mini vacation, which gave us time to FINALLY get to Berlin. We rented a car, and were off to the capital city of Germany.
The trip took us through snow, but when we arrived in Berlin, there was no snow, (Thankfully) only cold weather.

We didn't mind the cold, or that we chose to see this city in winter...there were less tourists. Sure, we had to bundle up, but who cares?

We stayed in the Art'otel in Kundamm. (Go ahead, take a virtual tour here: http://artotel.photowebeu.com/kudamm/index.html)

It was a nice hotel, that we got for a steal on booking.com (Check it out fellow travellers) **Another bonus of winter travel! Reduced rates!
We were in the neighborhood of these fine attractions The Beate Uhse Museum, and Dunkin Donuts. (Of course we breakfasted there, sehr klasse.)

We cram packed Berlin Attractions into our weekend. To achieve maxium sites in as little time as possible, we made a must see list and I highly recommend it for ANY travel destination you are planning...
We saw almost EVERYTHING we wanted to see.
With the exception of the Ritter Sport Bunte Schoko World Museum, and the Currywurst Museum. (BUT, there is always next time, right?)
We started our morning off (of course after a donut) walking toward the Tiergarten. While we didn't visit either of the zoos, we did walk along enjoying how scenic the natural huge park looked.

We met a fluffy dog, and enjoyed the sun rising slowly as we crossed Cornelius Brücke.

We saw the Victory Column (which is still seen by some as a Nazi Symbol) and walked down Strasse des 17 Juni toward the Brandenburg Gate.

We came up on the back side of the Gate, passing the huge Reichstag. Which looked proud covered in German Flags.

It was somewhat strange walking over bricks that represented where the Berlin Wall once stood. The huge soviet memorial stands within sight of the Brandenburg Gate. It looks overpowering and very propaganda-ish. There was a bird on top of the huge soviet statue's head.
It made me instantly sing the wonderful Sesame Street song "There's a bird on me" (Remember it? if not take a trip down memory lane by clicking right here )

The sad quiet memorial of Victims of the Berlin Wall was touching and so very heartbreaking. It stands in the shadow of the beautiful huge Reichstag. (We waved to Angela Merkel...ok not really. She was no where to be seen)

We snapped pictures of the memorial to politicians who opposed Hitler, but did not go in to see the Reichstag.

We did check out Rick Steves suggestions about Berlin..but I have to say, while the book did list the sights near/on Pariser Platz, the book did NOT properly convey that you do not have to go in search of these sites. In fact, the travel guide lead me & Michael to believe we had to search for them.
Nay, They are right there in the open. RIGHT by the gate. For example, Hotel Adlon. The hotel famous for Michael Jackson's baby dangling antics is literally RIGHT there beside the Gate. You can't miss it even if you TRY.
Same with the Kennedy Museum. How can you MISS seeing a GIANT display of Jackie's face? You can't. It's right there by starbucks.

While on Pariser Platz, enjoying the view and posing for pictures, we were approached by SEVERAL women. They would cry out "ENGLISH? DEUTSCH? ENGLISH?"
Then they would hold up a little card that said "please give me money for bread."
She would put their best beggar face on and then say "Please. Please? Please? PLEASE? PLEASE? PLEASE?" despite telling her "no." and shaking your head she would continue to beg please as fast as she could.
Clearly these women do not take no for an answer, and they will follow you down Unter den Linden hoping their incessant begging will wear you down and you will give them "only 1 euro, please please please" just to shut them up.
We ducked into a souvenir shop to get away from the one who zoned in on us. (There were A LOT of these women milling about the platz)
Michael said "I would bet they are part of human trafficking."

It made me wonder....are they simple beggars or is it something more sinister? and why do the Polizei allow them to be so annoyingly harassing?

Regardless we continued our walk down Unter den Linden, which is a street under a lot of construction, we stopped to see the Neue Wache, which is a very sad almost creepy memorial. We visited Bebelplatz and saw where students and professors burnt newly forbidden books in 1933, at the 'request' of Joseph Goebbels.
It's hard to imagine how such a lovely platz could be the place of such willingly stupid destruction.

Despite our lunchtime hunger, we found a minute to stop and admire the beauty of the Berliner Dom. It was fantastic in spite of my growling belly.

We found a cute/trendy place for lunch called Wrap Me. You can build your own wrap. I chose white beans, lemon rice, honey chicken and a spice sauce to top it all off.
Trust me when I say, I killed that wrap. We had walked up an appetite in the cold. (Since we were right there by the Spree River, cold isn't a word to aptly describe the temperature!). Warming up in the restaurant was fantastic.

After munching we headed out to the Neues Museum. Since the tickets were timed, and we didn't want to wait around for an entrance time, we skipped seeing Nefertiti :(.
However, we chose the Pergamon Museum instead. We were NOT disappointed. The sights in that museum are AMAZING. The Pergamon Alter stands there proud and waiting for you to dream of what it looked like in it's glory days.

We saw Athena, the gorgeous gorgeous gate of Ishtar, the market gate of Miletus.

It was truly well worth our time.
We were totally in awe of the Pergamon-Panorama of the Ancient metropolis. The painting by Yadegar Asisi brings to life the ancient city. We could've spent forever just admiring this gorgeous panorama.

After exploring the museum, we walked back along the frigid Spree River. There were artists selling their goods. I wanted nearly everything I saw.

We then crossed back over the city to take in the Murdered Jews of Europe Memorial. Even though the sun was glowing, the Memorial looked dank and highly depressing. As it should. It is a massive memorial.

We left there, and walked down Friedrich Strasse towards Checkpoint Charlie. (not without first stopping at Starbucks for a treat)

At the checkpoint,There were friendly Germans posing as American Soldiers. Michael made friends with one joking and laughing with him as we paid the 2 euro to get get our passports stamped from checkpoint charlie.

Friedrich Strasse is the street of honking horns. As we walked down the street, several cars were good naturedly honking their car horns in various different tunes. We found it highly amusing. I started laughing at the expression of one honker (He reminded of Night at the Roxbury)

It prompted me to say "Wow. Berlin in the town of Honking"
Michael responded "And the capital city of all honkies."
I had to laugh, because it is so true.

We finally made it back to our warm hotel room, completely walked out. We fell onto our beds and talked about how fantastic Berlin is, and when we come back we are NOT missing that Currywurst museum no way.

I admit, I loved Berlin. I had an exciting time exploring the city that has had a colorful and haunting past, but in our hearts, we are partial to southern germany and the easy charm that you can only find in Franconia. :)

Will we go back to Berlin? You can bet your jelly donut on it, JFK!

Ranty Me.

2012-01-06T06:58:00.000-08:00

I am a different person now.
Well, I feel different, yet the same.
The fears I had before, are not the fears I have now.
Some friends I had before, I no longer have.

I mostly feel like not talking about it, the miscarriage, because it's too personal. Too intense. It makes people uncomfortable. Geez, it's been nearly 7 weeks, aren't you over it by now?
I only really talk about about it with my husband. While we lay in bed at night. He and I watching the stars as they move across the sky slowly.

Only a select few have a window into what it was really like there, in the hospital that day. I can count them all on one hand. And I love each one, and pray each one is blessed for their kindness. And because of them, I have a love for Germany that runs deep into my soul.

From two of the people that were there with us, when I have looked in their eyes. I see no pity. Compassion but not pity.

Pity is the ONE thing I despise. I do not want anyone's pity. It makes my stomach churn. It makes me want to snarl. Or at the very least roll my eyes. I want to say to them If you never laughed with me, then you have no place to come and cry with me.
Expressing sorrow for our loss is one thing. It actually is nice and appropriate for someone to express condolences. And for the few people who have openly expressed their compassion and condolences for us, it warmed my heart. It meant more than you can know.

But going the extra mile to say you know, without saying you know, annoys me. Please don't send me packages of stuff in hopes 'stuff' will make me feel better. Or telling me to be glad I wasn't 7 months pregnant, really?

I hate that sometimes it made for fodder for conversation. Making me glad for the Atlantic, and all those sky miles seperating me from it all.

I expect no one to understand what I am feeling.
It's anger. It's saddness. It's frustration. It's fear. It's resentment. All unapologetically. They are MY emotions, why should I apologize?

I am angry. I feel jipped. No one can give me any answers? WHY?
I am sad. Why did my baby have to die?
I am frustrated. WHEN can we try again? SHOULD we try again?
I am afraid. What if it happens again?
I have resentment. I do NOT want to hear about anyone else's morning sickness, or how bad it is. She should be GLAD she is sick. She should relish it. She should take comfort in the fact that she knows her baby is still in there growing. I do not feel sorry for her, or wish her non-sick days before the 1st trimester is over. I don't. Deal with it, because I would've GIVEN anything to have kept feeling that nonstop nausea.

And it is NOT every single day that I feel this way. Some days, I feel just fine. I laugh hard with my husband. We good naturedly trash talk each other when we do our nerdy little jig saw puzzles. We plan trips to Berlin, and Prague. We plan our weekly menus. We go on walks. We do silly dances in the kitchen to crack each other up. We gossip. We quote our favorite movies, and days will go by without any tears falling. I can even look at the Natursutten pacifiers without feeling devastated.

But sometimes, something will catch me by surprise, someone will tell me about someone who is pregnant, and I'll think...I just wish things could've been different.
And I feel in limbo...waiting to start again.

We found love in a hopeless place...

2011-12-05T07:58:00.000-08:00

Thursday night. The night I lost the baby, I waited exactly 2 hours before the phone rang. On the other end was my husband. He told me he was coming home.

I slept very little that night. Maybe 2 hours. In total.

I ate nothing.

The next day, friday, I don't think I left the sofa. I don't remember.

Saturday afternoon there was a knock on the door.

I opened it.

There stood Michael. Skinny, but finally home.

I barely moved from Thursday to Sunday. Terrified of bleeding/cramping before Sunday. I was instructed by Dr. Rosin to go immediately to the Klinikum if I had either symptom. I became so angry at the idea of any other doctor doing the procedure. Angry and nervous.

It hit me as to why I needed it to be Dr. Rosin. He was the only person in the world who had been with me. He was the only one who saw the baby alive, and then he was the one to tell me the baby was no longer alive.

Saturday at 9pm, was the last sip of water I had before the surgery. I had to fast for at least 8 hours before.

Sunday arrived, and Heike took us to the Hospital. Not before hugging me, and securing my seatbelt for me.

At the hospital she did all the German stuff for us, while we just followed her lead. We went to a waiting room, and shortly after, there was Dr. Rosin standing in his white coat, calling my name. He did another scan to make sure.

I saw the scan with clear eyes. The perfect shape of a perfect baby, motionless inside me. My body pretending it was still pregnant. I said "I just don't want to look anymore." He said "That's ok. You don't have to look." I turned my head and cried. The 2nd opinion girl told the doctor in German that it was correct, there was no heartbeat.

My husband looked defeated. This was the first time he saw his child.

I got dressed, and Dr. Rosin explained how everything would go. He told me I could try again for a baby when "you are ok here." and pointed to his head. I nodded.

He lead me, Mike and Heike up to the 13th floor. We waited and waited for what seemed like endless hours.

The doctor came in to apologize for our long wait. There was an emergency surgery which pushed us back. I shrugged. He told me my body was NOT ready for the miscarriage and he gave me medicine to start the process, in addition to an IV to "Take away the thirsty."

The time finally arrived, and the nurses helped me get dressed in the gowns and leggings. The nurse and Michael wheeled me in my bed to the operating room. My husband kissed me and told me he loved me. Then through the doors I went.

The operating room was cold. So cold I was shivering. The nurse told the operating room nurse "Sie spricht kein Deutsch"

And even though I do, I didn't really care. They helped me up onto a warm conveyor belt. I was shivering from the cold. The operating room nurse piled hot blankets on me. The other nurse told me she would see me soon.

I felt like I was going to fall right off the conveyor belt, but really I was just being transferred to another bed.

The operating room nurse put a green hair cover on me, and strapped my legs to the table. I thought to myself "This is some crazy nazi shit."

She then wheeled me over to the operating area. Another nurse came up. I started crying. Not from fear of being put to sleep. I trust my doctor. I knew I was in good hands.

I was crying because this was truly goodbye.

Goodbye to my baby that I'd never meet. I'd never know what color his/her eyes would be. Or if it was a him/her.

Another nurse came up. I heard someone say to her "Sie spricht nur Englisch. Sie hat keine anderen Kinder."

The new nurse rubbed my face and said "What can I say? Nothing. Let the tears flow."

The anesthesiologist said "I just give her tranquilizah now."

I heard Dr. Rosin say "No! You Wait."

Then Dr. Rosin said "Mrs. Suman. Mrs. Suman. Look at me." He was standing by my feet. I saw only his eyes, as his mouth and head were covered in green. He said "It is me. I am here for you. I said I would be here for you. It is me."
Then he told the anesthesiologist to give me the medicine.

Dr. Rosin said "Mrs. Suman keep looking at me. I am here for you."

I said "Oh. Thank you. Should I feel dizzy?"
He said "Yes, you should."

Then I closed my eyes.

I remember hearing a lady say again that I only speak english. So I muttered, "I can speak German."

Dr. Rosin said "Mrs. Suman, say something in German for us."

I slowly from far away said "Blah blah blah."

He said "VERY good, Mrs. Suman."

The next thing I remember He was rubbing my upper arm saying "Mrs. Suman. Mrs. Suman."

I said "Is it over?" But I felt so far away.
He said "Yes. It is over."
I said "Oh. I don't have a baby anymore."
He said "Soon. Mrs. Suman You will have your baby soon."

I then said "My doctor is a Saint."

I'm pretty sure I told EVERYONE that. Although I can't say for sure. It all felt very dream like.

The first face I saw was my husband's. He assured me that I even told him that Dr. Rosin was a 'saint.'
While I was having the D&C my husband bought my favorite German candy bar for me. When I could eat, he went to the hospital 'buffet' and made a sandwich for me, which tasted like heaven. Then he broke off pieces of my chocolate bar and fed them to me.

Dr. Rosin came into my room later. He asked Michael if I was better or still talking a lot. Which made me sort of laugh, because I know I was saying all kind of things before I was fully awake.

He gave me the updates on everything and told me I was free to go home.

Even though, we decided to stay over because I was SO exhausted. I couldn't keep my eyes open enough to get home.

My darling husband slept in 3 chairs mushed together, RIGHT by my side. Waking with a start everytime I had to go to the bathroom. He helped me there each time. He would get up and straighten out the tights they made me wear. I look at him with a whole new deeper love now. I realize how amazingly lucky I am. And how beautiful our love truly is.

The next morning the nurse told us to get breakfast, and would we like it at the buffet, or in our room? I said "We can go to the buffet."

I stepped in and saw the breakfast items and there, in his bassinet a brand new baby. I felt frozen. I felt paralyzed. I felt short of breath.

I broke down crying.

The nurse hurried me back to my room and Michael got my breakfast, and so did she. She came in with a huge tray, and I thought "wow. My husband picked out some strange things for me."

Then in walks Mike with my typical breakfast.

Later that morning I went home. The sun was shining.

I sat on the sofa, and cried.

When I went the following week to see the doctor for the post-op control visit, he told us that he sees no reason why we cannot try after one cycle, and that my chances of miscarriage are now lower. He told us that he wants us to not try to get pregnant but to not try to not get pregnant.

Miscarriage is something no one wants to talk about, really. I've struggled with blaming myself. Even though my dear doctor assured me that it was no fault of my own. It is hard. I need someone to blame. Yet, logically, I know there is no one to blame.

I have to say, out of that horrible experience, I found SO much love. Love from strangers. Kindness and tenderness from people who were under no obligation to bestow it upon me.

I see the good interwoven in the saddness that happened.

Even in my broken hearted state, G-d showed me a love so deep that I am humbled and astounded.

From the elderly man on the bus, to the girl who offered me a tissue to wipe my tears, the nurse who helped me dress, to Josie my dear friend who made phone calls to get my husband home, to the army who rushed to get him back for the procedure, to my dearest German friend who took time out of her Sunday to drive us to the Hospital, to the nurse who rubbed my face, to the doctor who cried with me when my baby died, and made sure I knew it was him who was in the operating room to my darling husband who truly was there in every way for me.

What did I do to deserve such benevolence?

A sort-of Baby story.

2011-12-05T04:58:00.000-08:00

I found out, on October 8th, that guess what? I'm pregnant.

Michael was away on a mission for who-can-say-how-long.

Two pregnancy tests, and calls to family and friends for an over-the-phone confirmation, and there I stood looking at those little double lines in total shock.

3 days later, It was confirmed by the health clinic on post.

Me. Little ol' me. Pregnant.

I rode the post shuttle bus and cried from happiness as the bus driver blasted Colbie Caillatt's song, Brighter Than the Sun.
My heart was singing those very lyrics to my tiny baby who was secretly just in there, doing what they do at that stage of life.

My first doctor's appointment was a mix of excitement, nervousness, and nausea. I sat in the waiting room waiting for what seemed like decades, breathing through my mouth, willing myself NOT to throw up.

The person who coined the phrase MORNING sickness, clearly had things a bit easier than me. I had what could only be described as round-the-clock sickness.

Finally Dr. Rosin called me back. He smiled and shook my hand. "I remember you."

I said "Oh. Really?" (My nerves for male doctors in connection with my hootnanny was still very sketchy.)
He said "Yes, Dee name Suman, stays in my mind."

I sat arrow straight listening to all his advice. I committed to memory all of the do's and do-nots for a healthy wonderful pregnancy. Only eat raw veggies if they can be peeled. (etc...etc)

He smiled and said "Ok, let's see this person we have been talking about."

I stepped into the phone booth sized dressing room and shimmied out of my jeans.

He said "I think you must know our chair by now."

"The CHAIR" can be overwhelming at first, but now, I'm an old-hand at sitting in it and being reclined and lifted for optimum hootnanny viewing.

I said "Yes, I remember the chair... from seeing your wife."

In just a few minutes there we were, looking at the life inside of me.

He was smiling as he said "See dee little fast fluttering that looks like buttahfly wings?"

I nodded "Yes."
He said "Dat is ya baby's heart beating."
I said "REALLY?"

He nodded.
I started crying from sheer excitement. I said "Oh, I'm so sorry for the tears." (I still was unsure of german culture and open crying.)

He said "You are seeing life inside you, is ok to cry. This is your time to cry."
I said "I worry about everything."
The doctor said "You have done your job. You made a nice home inside you for dee baby. Now, is in His Hands. God is in charge." as he pointed to the sky.

I smiled and nodded.
Then the doctor printed the very first picture of my little blueberry shaped baby.

I held it with pride. Like nothing Olan Mills could produce could be prettier.

I got congratulations from the front desk as they worked on getting my blood samples. My little photo sitting on my purse so not to get folded bent or ruined in any way. I kept thinking "I cannot wait for Michael to see our baby!

I almost skipped back to the city bus. I smiled at every baby carriage that strolled by. I wanted to hold up the photo for everyone to see.

I went home and waited for the next 3 weeks to pass, until my next appointment just to see my baby again. Who cares about the bloodwork? I want to see what's going on in there. I had the most bizarre dreams, and food cravings that changed to nausea in the blink of an eye.

I lounged on the sofa like a slug, sipping ginger ale, and praying to NOT throw up, praying TO throw up, and buying 7 different kinds of toothpaste, in the frantic search for one that would NOT make me gag.

I cold-turkey quit coffee, and my beloved diet coke with lime.

I became obsessed with plastics and their recycling numbers.

I bought a Natursutten Pacifier to protect my baby from BPA, and other chemicals.

I bought an Aden and Anais blanket for whoever it was growing inside of there.

My second doctor's appointment came. I was so excited. I rode the bus downtown smiling at the world. I was en route to see my baby. Which, I learned from babycenter, was now the size of a plum. That's a big jump from blueberry.

My favorite front desk nurse greeted me "Mrs. Suman! How are you? Did ya bring dee mutter book with you today?" (A mother's book, is basically a little book that a pregnant woman in Germany takes with her EVERYWHERE. It has all the important info in it. Dr. Rosin explained to me that it was AS important as my passport.)
I smiled "No, I am supposed to get it today."
She nodded "oh yes."

Then she weighed me, and took my blood pressure. She informed me that she will "Erase One Kilo for shoes and clothes. Every visit." I had lost weight from being sick, so erasing 1 kilo wasn't a concern for me at that moment.

I sat and waited for my appointment. I looked at the baby magazine they had in the waiting nook. Smiling at every baby.
Dr. Rosin called "Mrs. Suman?" I stood up, and saw him with his last patient. He was tickling the belly of her tiny baby boy in his little carrier. The doctor saw me and smiled.
I sat in the consult chair by his desk, as he told me everything I was immune to, what I was not immune to. He instructed me not to clean any cat "toilets" because I am NOT immune to Toxoplasmosis. (Which is bizarre since I've been around cats my entire life.)

Then he said "Let's look at the baby, now."

There I was in the chair again. I was watching the projection on the wall. I started getting nervous. I saw no fast heartbeat fluttering. I thought "He'll find it." I glanced at my Doctor, who was sitting there staring hard at his computer screen. My heart fell. Completely fell.

He looked sick.

I could see the wheels turning in his head...wondering how to tell me the bad news.

Finally, He pressed his lips together, and then said "I'm so sorry...the baby is not..."

And I have no idea what he said after that.

I burst into tears.

He rubbed my leg and turned off the picture.

Then he came and sat beside me as the tears fell hard and fast.

I said "I waited...so long for this...." I was crying so hard the chair shook. I said "Is it something I did?" and I looked at him.

He had tears. He was crying with me. He said "No. No Mrs. Suman. You did nothing wrong."
I said, and I'm not sure why I felt he should know, "I'm alone. My husband is deployed."

I asked what I needed to do. He told me I had to have a D&C.

"Will you be the one to do it, please?" I asked through tears.

He said that he would. That it would have to be on Sunday at the Klinikum, since that is when he was on call. (I knew I wanted no other person to remove the baby from me. I couldn't STAND the idea of a doctor who doesn't know me to do the surgery.)

He handed me tissues, then I asked to get dressed again.

The doctor allowed me to sit in his office and cry as long as I needed to.

When the doctor opened his office door to walk me to the desk, the nurse who erased one kilo from my weight saw me from across the way.

Her face fell. She said "Oh. God. No. No. It can't be." and she ran to me.

She threw her arms around me.

I cried all the way to the bus stop.

I cried on the bus ride home.

An elderly gentleman got up and hugged me. Shaky with his cane, he put his arms around me. He had no idea the reason behind my tears. He just knew I needed that hug.

I cried from the bus stop to home.

When I got on the sidewalk right outside our apartment, I thought "Who am I rushing home for? There is no one there."

Once I got inside, I closed the door behind me, and slid down the back of the door sobbing. Earth shaking sobs that I didn't know existed inside of me.

I contacted Michael's First Sgt. to let her know, in hopes that maybe Micheal could call me.

I never expected they would work so hard and fast to bring him home for the procedure.

But they did just that.

Angry.

2011-09-22T01:17:00.000-07:00

There I said it.
I'm angry.

Michael is leaving tomorrow for a mission. We found out last night. During German class, at about 8pm. Which means we had one evening and a day to get ready.
He is spending today running around tying up loose ends. I cleaned our apartment, because well...there's nothing else I can do.
And what's worse? He was volunteered for this. Not that he himself volunteered. Nay. Some brainiac decided "Mike could do it! Michael could fill the slot! Get on the horn with him now and share the joyous news!"
None of the other 3 guys who are going are married. They didn't want married soldiers to go, I guess since they'd have to pay extra for them. I dunno how this crap works. All I know is they chose my husband because they needed one more person. Or something like that. Nice of them to do?
Tell him he's going, and leaving the in about 29 hours.... then tell him nothing else. Inform me of nothing. Which lets me know exactly how much they 'care' about spouses.

I saw Jill Biden on an AFN commercial. Oh she was talking about the sacrifices of military families, and how wonderful they were. I looked at the TV snarled then said "oh SHUT up, already." Out loud. To the tv.

My surliness is unstoppable.

Anyway, they won't even tell us how long he'll be gone. A month? 2 Months? 6 Months? He was told "It will at least be 30 days but it could be 6 months."

All of this fell right at the time we were REALLY trying to have a baby. I would've started the 100mg of clomid in just a couple weeks.
Now, well...clearly that isn't happening. The prescription is still sticking on our fridge, once a hopeful promise, now it's just a mockery.

All I can think is "So, you mean we won't be having a baby, AND my consolation prize is that I probably WON'T spend the holidays with my husband? Oh wait, he may be back by St. Patrick's day...but don't hold my breath? Oh whew. Ok, I was worried there for a minute that we'd miss spending mother's day together, since clearly that's a biggie...for us."

I'm angry that my husband is leaving.
I'm angry that I don't know for how long.
I'm angry that other wives in this unit/company whatever it's called don't have to say goodbye to their husbands for some idiotic mission.
I'm angry that I cannot get pregnant.
I'm angry that every person I see has a baby and a couple of children in tow.
I'm angry that we just got the chance to use clomid, and the first round wasn't strong enough, so we missed our chance.
I'm angry that I'm expected to be happy for every fucking person who gets knocked up or just gave birth AND buy them a gift!
I'm angry that it wouldn't be nice to kick a baby carriage. I'm talking hauling off and kicking the shit out of a baby carriage.
I'm angry at people who say 'just adopt' or 'G-d has another plan for you." I want to say "Oh yeah, are you going to foot the bill for our adoption costs???? AND, since when have you personally seen G-d's blueprint/spreadsheet/power point for my life?"
And mostly, I'm angry that I have no particular person to be angry at except myself. I'm the one who is defective. I'm the one who can't reproduce.
I am the failure.

This, my friend, is exactly what Waylon Jennings was singing about when he belted out "Lonesome On'ry & Mean."
So, I am blasting it loud and proud in this apartment, just to treat the neighbors to my hostility.

Clomifen? Wasn't that the name of a Wicked Stepsister?

2011-09-16T07:05:00.000-07:00

So, here it is. In our journey to attempt to become parents, I took Clomifen...you probably call it Clomid.
I read horror stories of moodiness.
Hot flashes waking people up in the middle of the night, and the bloatedness that accompanies this little white tablet.
But, I thought, it's only 5 days sacrifice, and then....Maybe Baby! Lots of people have luck out the wazoo with clomid. Heck, some even have such good luck they have 2 babies instead of just one. It's a wonder drug! Right?

Day 2 of the medicine, there I was, in my favorite grey loungies, hair in a half fallen ponytail. Feeling fat. Like the kind of fat that requires you to wash with a cloth tied to a stick.
I wanted to cry over everything. Literally. People in love, People out of love, People who are deliriously happy. People making fun of the Pope's Ring, The smell of the brewery whafting it's initial chocolatey scent into our apartment...
Which lead to the ravenous search for chocolate, and the sheer tears of joy at finding my husbands hershey bar chilled in the crisper of our fridge. I tore into it like it was a letter from Ed McMahon from the great beyond telling me that I was a big winner of a bajillion dollars.
Then I proceeded to eat it as though I'd been starved for days, no make that months, and it was the first food I'd discovered.(Sorry Honey, it was the last in the pack, and, well, it was fair game)

Then I wanted to lick the salt of some plain lays and toss the chip to the side like a castaway.
It was not pretty in this apartment.

Day 3 dawned bringing with it the shrill sounds of the neighbor's kid in the courtyard, mingling with the other neighbor who believes in allowing her infant to self sooth (Thus letting her/him ~~cry~~...no scratch that scream bloody murder for half hours at a time all day long. It annoyed me. It made me want to act juvenile and throw something out the window in the general direction hopefully hitting the rambunctious child, and scream at the self soother's mom.
So, I took a walk downtown. Oh and let me just say, it was gorgeous out. 70 degrees (F), sunny, wonderful. Absolutely WONDERFUL.
That was when the hotness decided to flash. Not in the middle of the night, in the privacy of my own bedroom where I could stand in front of the fan butt naked if I so desired.
No, of course not.
It happened right there in the outdoor market. I felt the huge drops of sweat start to form and fall off my forehead. My deodorant decided to skip town on me, my arm pits started stinking, and I grew a sweat bead moustache.
No. One. Else. was sweating. Even the furriest dog wasn't panting.

Day 4. Nothing. No side effects. No desire to cry. No desire to roundhouse kick anyone. In fact, I felt...great. Amazing. NEVER better. I danced around the apartment. I used the swiffer sweeper as a microphone. I was lovin' life.

Day 5, Awesome day. Even the overcast yucky day didn't dampen my mood of glee.

So, Dr. Rosin told me to come to her office today at noon. Specifically she need to see me at Noon. For an ultrasound to see if the Clomifen actually did what it was supposed to, which is to produce follicles.

I got there 10 minutes early. They now know me by name. The receptionist happily greeted me "Hallo! Frau Suman! How are you dis day?"
Then I sat on the white couch and waited. While sitting there, waiting for Dr. Rosin, even though I was looking at my Country Living Magazine, I got nervous.
Not so much about the sonogram. I mean, I'm kind of a veteran at this point.

But it was kind of like...the S.A.Ts for Ovaries....and what if mine didn't study hard enough? What if instead of prepping for their exam, they were lounging on the sofa watching reruns of Good Times, laughing at J.J.'s antics, when they SHOULD'VE been studying analogies.

She came up to me and bent down "Hi! Ready?"
I, looking up from my magazine, shrugged. "I guess so."
We chatted a bit, she asked me some routine questions, then she gave me the gown to put on.
Dr. Rosin got to work right away looking for the follicles. She furrowed her brow and said "Ok, so if you try to be smooth, it vill be...maybe vee can see dee...ovaries better, na?"
I tried to relax, but seriously? relaxing isn't easy, even with Snoopy looking at me from my socks.
She said 'Vell, deer is nossing on dee right sides, so I look at dee leff ones.'
I saw my right ovary up on the projector and I swear it looked at me and sang
"Keepin' ya head above water, makin' a wave when ya can! Temporary Lay offs! Good Times! Easy Credit Rip offs!"
I could almost smell the doritos on my right ovary's breath.

Dr. Rosin said "Veeeeell...dee leff one is..." she sighed "Maybe dis time vee try you for 2 tabletten of dee clomifen per day. More is better for you. Dee leff one, is nossing. Maybe some little fo-leek-ulls, but dey is not big enough to..." she moved her hand around.
I said "Oh." I got what she was trying to say "Ok. Uhm. Is that normal?"
Dr. Rosin bobbed her head side-to-side to indicated she was thinking "Yeah, dis is a little bit normal. So, remember dat clomifen is only dee furrs steps in dee process. Is alvays dee furrs steps."
I smiled weakly.
My ovaries failed their S.A.T.s. Lazy Eggs. No sperm would accept them.
She said "So, I checks dee prolactine again for you, just to make sure dee....levels is good, na? If dey are not so good, I call you. If dey are good, I see you next month for again dee sonograms."

So...my ovaries were duds AND I had to get stuck with a needle? How was this fun?
My needle stick was quick. I like the way Germans stick you with a needle. Quick and to the point. Yes, it still makes me light headed, but I am handling it much better. I only break out in a small sweat now, and I still get light headed but it's more manageable.
I'm pretty sure they don't make a tshirt that says 'Hey, I can't have a baby, but I no longer faint from needles." But you know what? They should.

I stepped out into the sunshine. Immediately dodging 2 (yes 2) pregnant ladies. Side by side. Like attack of the Fruitful and Fertile. I let them and their crowded bellies pass by.
The day was too gorgeous to sit on a bus, I decided to walk to Tegut to get Michael's chicken for tomorrow.
By the time I made it from Dr. Rosin's to the ZOB, I had dodged a total of 4 expectant moms, and countless new parents pushing their cute little Euro strollers.
I decided to call Mike.
He answered on the second ring.
"Hey Baby!" he answered cheerfully. He knew where I was going today.
"Hi!" I said back cheerfully. I decided it was like ripping off a band aid. Just tell him. No frills no tears. "Well, I just got out of Dr. Rosin's. The Clomid didn't work."
He didn't answer right away "Wait, it did NOT work?"
I said "Yeah, but, I mean...it's ok."
He said "Oh. I'm so...sorry."
I said "Don't apologize to me. I mean, it's ok. It's not the end of the world. And she wants to...you know, she wants me to take more next time to see if...well, to see if it works, and plus, I mean my left ovary, it made some..whatever they are..but they were too small. So, I mean she said, there are other options if this doesn't work, but I don't want to do them."
He said "Ok. But...."
I said "To be honest, I don't know if I want to, even continue, this."
He said "Yes. Continue. Just a little longer."
I said "Well, It's just it's NOT the end of the world if we don't have a baby. It's not. I mean there is a lot of stuff we could do instead. Right? I mean...right?"
He said "Yeah. I guess, but What? I mean I want one, too. I want to try."
I standing at a cross walk waiting for the little man to turn green so I could cross Luitpold Strasse I looked beside me, in the stroller was a fat baby sleeping.
I said "But I mean think of what else we could do without a child. Like...travel. We could and...we wouldn't have to clean up...fecal matter...off of another human."
He laughed and said "Not yet anyway, not until we are old."
Which made me laugh.
Then he said "Hey. How bout when I get home the 2nd night I'm home, we go out to eat?" (the 2nd night because the 1st night, well, he doesn't know how late it could be when he walks through the door)
And right then...that was the moment I wanted to cry.
Only because I knew he was trying to do something nice for me.
I could hear it in his voice.
So, I cheerfully said "Sure! that sounds really good actually."

Then I went to Tegut and bought a chicken.

Kittens, Avocado Stoves and not a Pot Roast to be Found.

2011-09-15T08:55:00.000-07:00

When Michael goes to the field, even if it's just for 10 days (like this time), I always like to have something special for him when he comes home. I will make a special dinner and a dessert. I figure he's sick of eating whatever they feed them when they go do whatever it is they do.
Plus, it's my way of saying I love you.

I learned it from my Mom and Grandma, who learned it from the women they came from.
If I feed you, I love you. Rest assured on that.

Typically, Michael puts his two cents in, making requests during his nightly calls home. Sometimes being out in the field brings out the little bit of Southern I've managed to instill in his belly, and he will ask for Skillet Corn (You may call it Fried Corn.)
He's been known to ask for Lasagna, Chicken Pot Pie, whatever.

Two days ago the phone rang. We chatted, he ranted, we laughed, I asked what dinner he'd like when he gets home.
Michael paused, obviously thinking, then said "Hmmm...could you surprise me?"
I said "Uhm...sure. No idea of what you'd like?"
He said no, and I shrugged.

I decided late last night I'd make chicken & dumplins. He loves it, grinning the entire time he's eating them.
The chill in the air, the acorns on the ground, the yellowing of the leaves...the weather is perfect for them. Plus it's been a year since we had the simple deliciousness of Chicken & Dumplins.

Michael called today. For a wonderfully mundane conversation of kittens. Inspired by an ad in a magazine I was looking at while we chatted. It was the cutest little grey kitten going grocery shopping.
I mean, REALLY how cute IS that? A kitty grocery shopping.
It's off the cuteness meter, that's how cute it is. Which absolutely makes me crazy cat lady, to admit it to you, but even describing it to Mike, made him chuckle. (There it is for you to enjoy the cuteness)

I said "So, I figured out what I'm going to make for dinner."
He said "Yeah? What's that?"
I said "Weeeell, you love it."

He said "Ok."
I said "AND we haven't had it in a YEAR at least."

He blurted out "POT ROAST?"
I could almost hear him salivate.
I said "Uhm, honey, it's not been a year since we had pot roast. It's been since June."

"Oh." He said "So, it's not Pot Roast?"

"Uh-uh. Something you love AND it takes all day to make." (well, not really ALL day long...but..He doesn't know that...)
Michael said "Well....I'm not sure what that is."
I said "Chicken and Dumplins!"

Trying to make it sound as glamorous and as Elvis-Glittery as a hunk of beef sweating in the slow cooker with carrots and potatoes as the back-up singers.

I have to admit, I felt like I was the model for the consolation prize on The Price is Right, when the contestant was going for the win of an all expense paid trip to Hawaii, but Plinko had other plans. Plans that let him down and gave him the Avocado green stove top range, instead.

"Oh! Yum!" He sounded excited enough.
So I threw in for extra measure "Since I make them from scratch, and it takes ALL DAY LONG, it will be extra special."
He said "Sounds really good actually. Good choice, baby! I can't wait to be home with you."
I smiled and closed my eyes and said "I can't wait, either."

So, maybe my Chicken & Dumplins aren't an avocado green stove, after all.

The horrors of flying

2011-08-23T03:56:00.000-07:00

After a happy, fun (Regardless of my car breaking down) vacation in the States, the time had come for me to return to Bamberg (home of the barking/howling neighbor's dog). I dreaded saying G'bye. I hate Goodbyes and will cry typically EVERY time. My parents took me to the airport, and as I hugged them bye (quickly) I kept from making too much direct eye contact with them while in line for security. Just to keep the tears harnessed.

My flight was at 10:40pm (And getting through security was a breeze, and NO body scan for me! I dodged it somehow and only had to go through the metal detector.)
I made it to my gate with time to spare, enough time to read People Magazine's Kate extravaganza. In the back of my mind I was silently willing my seat (24A) to be on the aisle.
When the time to board came, we were supposed to be called by row, but around row 35, people threw caution to the wind and it became a free for all.
In front of me was the ugliest Dutch child I'd ever seen. He was blond with curls galore, and looked like something you'd find down in Whoville. It was hate at first sight. He was already throwing a fit. Which set the tone for badness.
I kept willing the parents to take charge of their...spawn, as he kicked and bucked and generally acted like a wild chimpanzee.
Still in my preboarding state, I was still silently begging the Royal Dutch for an aisle seat. (I like the aisle better than the window because a) getting up and taking a stroll is MUCH easier when you don't have to crawl over the sleeping. b) what's to see out the window but endless miles of Ocean? PLUS the shades will be closed to create a night effect. (right?)

Sumie and I aren't elite, and we don't fly 'Business Class'. We slum it with the others in Economy..but guess what? the "Business" don't get there any faster than us...and it's a party in the back.

Anyway, I finally get on board, and begin the seat hunt. There it is, in all it's cramped glory 24A..window seat. SERIOUSLY?
I put my back pack overhead and the 3 JERKS (with the hard core body odor) in the row in front of my row have their seats reclined.
Aisle Seat guy, smug with the pride of my coveted seat gets up for me to get in. I have to situate at an angle thanks to the 3 in front of us. I sit and think "I bet I will have to pee 20 mins into the flight and Mr. Aisle seat will be snoring."
Then, despite how packed the flight already is, I think, BUT, maybe just maybe the middle seat was unbooked giving me and aisley some elbow room.
Much to my disappointment, what should appear but a little man. A little man who looked more like a character than an actual person. In his 50's he had a mustache that was well manicured and blonde, a pot belly, and light brownish blondish hair. He completed his look with khaki pants and a striped shirt.
I sighed.
He sat down and completed our sardining.
"Looks like we're in for the long haul." He was talking ot me.
I smiled weakly. Just to be nice. He took that to me "PLEASE talk non stop to me."
"Amsterdam your final stop?" He said as he unwrapped his giant burrito.
"No. I'm going to Germany." I said.
"Whoa-ho-ho...where in Germany?"
"Nurnberg."
"So, what you're going there to visit? Or..."
Was this man with the census or something?
"My husband & I live in Germany."
"Wow." He said chewing his black beans "How come you live there? What is he in the military or something?"
I nod. Watching his mustache move with each chew. I didn't realize mustaches move but they do.
"Wanna know where I'm off to? Bahrain."
He didn't even give me time to guess. "Oh. awesome." I responded flatly.
"Not really awesome" he said coughing in my total direction "They are in the middle of ramadan."
"Oh. Ok."
I put my headphones on and was tuning into an episode of The Office.
"Wanna know something about Ramadan?" He asked right over the theme music.
"No." I said to him, which is odd because I never am rude.
"Well..." he said continuing to tell me about a holiday I really am not interested in.

Meanwhile in front of me? Yeah the guy with the window seat had his shade open. Not that he could see much at night. A flight attendant came by and said "Sir, I need to ask you to please close your shade. We will be in daylight in an hour and we need to keep it dark in here for those who want to sleep."
He ignored her.
An infant began to wail.
About 20 mins later, Mustache man was still chatting it up, baby was still mournful and another flight attendant came by to ask B.O. to shut his shade. "Sir, You NEED to lower your shade. We will be in daylight in less than an hour." He lowered it to half.
I tuned into Modern Family as dinner arrived (WORD to the wise, NEVER when given the choice, go with the fish.)
Another flight attendant asked B.O. in front of me to lower his shade immediately. He lowered it, only to lift it again when she walked away.

I put the music on to drown out the sounds of that very disgruntled infant, Mr. Mustache (who in addition to scarfing down his burrito also cleaned his airline dinner. Commenting that the potato salad was 'amazing.'
It was about that time that I started to smell the raunch odeur of cheese. Old moldy cheese. Limburger.
Mustache had taken off his shoes...and for the record was WIGGLING his toes. To spread the stinch.

I fell asleep to the sounds of Adele, only to wake to the stinch of sheer...farts... and blinding sunlight.

Here is something you should know about me...given the wrong circumstances, I wake up ready to throw down in fisticuffs.
I look over at mustache. He is sleeping sideways in his chair. Butt aimed and firing right at me.
Black beans.
I look in front of me, sunlight pouring in from the B.O. in front of me. He was obliviously snoozing.

I did something I'm not proud of, but come to think of it, I'm not ashamed of either. Blame it on the sunlight, the cheese feet, the gaseousness, being trapped in a window seat....

But I shook the back of the chair of B.O.
I shook it hard.
Hard enough to rouse him from slumber. He sat up with a look of sleep induced confusion. I smiled. Then I promptly faked sleep so he wouldn't know it was me.
When he drifted off, I shook it again.
I'm so mature.
During my shaking extravangza...Mustache rolled over to face me. Mouth open, burrito smells whafting not only from his rear, but from his mouth too. He coughed and hacked in his sleep all while facing me.

When we landed I wanted to kiss the floor of Schipol. Except I just went to the bathroom to apply some Secret, since there is no A/C in that airport.

On the 2nd flight, a nervous flyer was sitting in my seat by his wife. I took his seat, and thankfully it was an aisle seat, but that flight was only 55mins, so it wasn't that necessary. I look to my right, there was a german man, calmly reading his newspaper, picking his teeth.
He then inspected his tooth residue on his finger and promptly ate it.
I thought..."Well, I'm back in Europe."

Finally after 55 minutes of ignoring my tooth picking neighbor, I made it to Nurnberg only to see my sweet sweet husband's smiling face.
It is good to be home.

And now? Yeah, I caught whatever junk Mr. Mustache had, and so I'm coughing and hacking all over this apartment.

Que Sera Sera

2011-05-18T00:34:00.000-07:00

I went downtown for an afternoon of shopping. Of course, I made a stop by Karstadt. There I stood on the 3rd floor, in glad amazement in front of the many fabrics lined up in blissful display. They were just waiting for someone to come and cut by the meter. I decided right there that I am desperate for a sewing machine.
Yes, I ran my hands over each bolt of sky blue, baby pink, country paisley smiling with each bump. Clearly, I looked like an escapee from the crazy house. Thankfully, I stopped short of dancing in graceful circles, so don't worry about me.

I was truly enjoying myself. Of course I sauntered down to the first floor where the finest display of candies await any jittery sugar junkie fiending for a fix. (I didn't choose a truffle, but went with the standard Bounty Bar. Which is the cousin to the Mounds Bar in the event that you didn't know)

Then I was out the door and on my way. While walking around outside (Looking for nothing in particular and anything really) there was a man with a clarinet beside a man with an accordian. They were living it up and making the MOST lively outdoor shopping music. In fact EVERYONE was amused. Oma's were clapping their hands off beat, some girl was dancing...It sounded like the 1940's come back to life...Ok wait...the 1940's Stateside...not German 1940's...don't want to necessarily conjure up THOSE images....
It was too nice NOT to stop and listen for a song.
Trust me when I say, every euro cent people tossed in their opened clarinet case, they earned that day. And it was money well spent. That music was WORTH probably more than they got.

It made me feel like I was in a movie and Walter Burns & Hildy Johnson would be bantering right there, if I only turned around to look behind me.

The sun was shining, all in all...FABULOUS day.
I climb back onto the 902 bus to bring my discoveries back to our little apartment. I was early, so I knew I'd get a good seat.
In fact, it was 10 whole minutes before the bus was going to pull out. I stamped my ticket and got a front row seat. (Which I like the most because it's a single seat and no one is going to plop down next to you while asking "Geht's?" or "Frei?")
I settled in admiring the way the sun filters through the green leaves. (Funny that I was worried I'd probably never see green again a few months ago.)
There were three little girls sitting behind me to my left. They were probably 10 or no more than 11. They were chatting typical little girl chats. In their rapid conversation, I caught only some key words, Horses, Cats, School, Friends, Books, Songs, Chocolate, Mom, Music (remember I'm still a baby german speaker.)
Then, to my delight, they broke into song. Que Sera Sera. In Englisch!
Their voices sounded so sweet. I turned back to look at them.
It was such a beautiful sight. 3 Little girls, happy, swaying back 'n forth to the words of the song. One with a sticker on her hand, one with her hair falling out of her pony tail, one with smooth gorgeous blond hair pulled back from her face with a tiny head band. All three of them wearing friendship bracelets.

They sang
When I was just a little girl I asked my mother, what will I be?
Will I be pretty? Will be rich?
Here's what she said to me,
Que Sera, Sera
Whatever will be will be, the future's not ours to see...

There voices were so sweet, and so full of childhood happiness...
I turned around in my seat, and looked at the window fighting back tears. It made me want to CRY. Happy tears. A piece of home so far away in those little girl voices.

I couldn't help but hope all three of their futures are full of beauty, riches (even beyond money), painted pictures, lovely songs and many many days as fascinating as mine was that very day.

The List for Love

2011-05-04T13:28:00.000-07:00

In my old blog, I found a list I'd created of what I absolutely wanted in a man. In all honesty, I hadn't even remembered creating this list.
But I do remember that this was very much what I yearned for. I believed these things would be the very foundation for a lasting love. I still believe that.
I wrote this exactly 3 months before Michael came into my life.
When I read this tonight, I sat dumbfounded, with tears in my eyes; because my Michael my darling husband who I love more than words can convey...fills everyone one of these wants and then some (Well, ONE of these he maybe a LITTLE sketchy on but who's counting?)

Sometimes the best way to count your blessings is to go back in time just a smidge to take a good look at where you started....

So basically, I've listed it. The things I want. The things I'm looking for.

He must be able to make me laugh really hard
Be goofy/zany with me
Really listen to me
Not judge me when I reveal the MOST secret thing about me.
Hold my hand
Make friends with dogs or cats and babies easily
Have philosophies on life
Let me put my cold feet between the warm crooks of his knees at night
Have belief in G-d, a Superior being, Something spiritual.
Have formed opinions about politics, principles and pizza toppings
Humor my need to be moody sometimes
Never leaves wet towels on the bed
Understand when I give him "the eyes" in a crowded room.(You know those secret "Can you BELIEVE this person?" Eyes)
Doesn't yell. Not at other drivers, or me.
Will be content to lay on his back in the grass, and watch the clouds, or the stars while talking about the universe, his most embarrassing moment, or the best chocolate cake he ever tasted.
Fake Accents with me
Dance with me
Can relish in the silence sometimes
Read to me. I don't care what it is Chopin, Foote, Us Magazine, Our horoscopes. Sometimes I just like to hear someone talking.
Doesn't shut off emotionally/lie/ Isnt' selectively honest/Never would deam of cheating
Makes me feel like the only woman in the world
Never ever under any circumstanes picks his nose in the car, at the stop light. Or anywhere for that matter. No booger fingers are gonna touch me!
Does not mirror my thoughts feelings completely. I like to banter.
Gets me. Really Gets who I am.
Is unabashedly with me.
Because I know I'll do all these things in return. Without being asked.

Don't think for one minute I do not know that I am a very BLESSED woman.

Bromocriptine, Clomid, and Me, Oh MY!

2011-03-31T01:43:00.000-07:00

There we sat, in Dr. Rosin's office, as she told us, with concern in her eyes, that while my body thinks I'm ovulating, my ovaries...well, they are just sitting there arms folded shaking their heads back and forth saying "nope" in unison.
The tone of her voice was laced with concern, but she tried to ring the bells of positivity with her German accent.
You would think words like "We don't have the time to waste anymore..."
"We can't just keep trying this or trying that in hopes it will work..."
"I don't know if you have any eggs left, or if you have a lot of eggs left but we don't want to risk anything at this point..."
And "If the clomid doesn't work after two cycles, I send you to specialists."
Would cause alarm and panic to rage through my body. I glanced over at Michael, whose eyes were wide, taking it in.
But, adrenaline was not rushing through me. No panic.
I felt calm. Rooted even.

My sister had called me the night before. "Do you have your Bible handy?" She asked right after our Hello! & howareyas?
I said "This is how I'm a terrible person, my Bible is in Georgia."
"Your BIBLE is in GEORGIA!? Well, do you have ANY Bible nearby?" She said.
"Sure. Mike's."
"Go Get it, You HAVE to read this." She said.
So, I go to get it and flip to Isaiah 54.
She said "Yeah, I found this when I was at church."
I read it and said "They taught a whole sermon on this? COOL."
She said "Well, not exactly. I was just looking, and found it."
I said "G-d was like 'yeah yeah...turn the page...keep turning...HERE, read this!"

1 “Sing, barren woman, you who never bore a child; burst into song, shout for joy, you who were never in labor; because more are the children of the desolate woman than of her who has a husband,” says the L-RD. 2 “Enlarge the place of your tent, stretch your tent curtains wide, do not hold back; lengthen your cords, strengthen your stakes. 3 For you will spread out to the right and to the left; your descendants will dispossess nations and settle in their desolate cities. 4 “Do not be afraid; you will not be put to shame.
Do not fear disgrace; you will not be humiliated.

She's been struggling as well, and I know G-d was speaking to her personally. But, I also think He knew I'd need it, the very next day.

So, there I sat in Dr. Rosin's. Fully unafraid. I've seen with my own eyes the Love of My Creator. I've felt it in the air arround me. I know above all G-d is in control.

I know this because of one 4 year old's birthday. It came after 4 years of personal struggle for me. There I sat on the floor watching her rip open presents and with pure joy, exclaiming with excitement at each discovery. I felt overflowing love for her. Love so strong that I was immediately humbled and I heard G-d whisper to me "See, I've been here all along while you were searching so hard for Me." I had always believed in G-d, but at that moment, I finally FELT Him.

I firmly believe that is why I sat there in Dr.Rosin's pretty little office beside my husband, glancing at her desk calendar marked that Saturday was her daughter's 5 year old Geburts party, with the sun shining in through the filmy white and gray curtains, full of assurance. Thinking: This. This is just another trial.

I think I sometimes hear the laughter of Sarah. Like Hannah I have a husband so very much like Elkanah, and I strive to pray with such passion. If we have a child, if we do not have a child, if this medicine works, if it does not...
I know G-d loves me.
Is that one shining moment at that birthday party enough to last me a lifetime? Absolutely.

Austria...the land of no Kangaroos

2011-03-28T01:20:00.000-07:00

Salzburg, Austria.
You may be asking yourself, 'what inspired those two to choose Salzburg as a destination?' Or maybe you're not saying that at all.
But here's the reasoning behind our decision...
Rick Steves. I know you already could tell the two of us are Rick Steves fans. Just look at us. We scream RICK! There we were tuning into his blu ray (Don't judge, YES, we purchase his tv shows.)
While Rick was whisking us away to To "Beautiful Baroque Salzburg!" ... There we sat on our hideious hammie-down sofa, me in my infamous bo duke tee, paired with my favorite blue flannel jammie bottoms (the ones with the cresent moons on them). Mike was in his Star Wars loungies and matching tee.

There was Rick, in all his nerd glory standing in a fortress, talking about the endless Mozart concerts. (The Impromtu on the street concerts AND fancy pants ones in a concert halls.)

I looked over at my husband and said "Wow. That looks pretty. We should go."
He looked at me and said "Yeah. We should!"
Now, typically "yeah we should" means..."we'll get around to it someday..."
But when the episode was finished Mike got up and got our big yellow map book of Europe.
He said "Ya know, it's not THAT far from us."
I said "What isn't that far from us?"
He said "Salzburg."
I said "You know, I read that book (On Hitler's Mountain by Irmgard Hunt.) and her dad took her mom on romantic get-a-ways to Salzburg."
He said "I remember you saying that."

Next thing I know, there our two happy selves are at the Bahnhof buying two train tickets whisking us away to Salzburg.
Everyone but everyone tells you travelling by train in Europe is simple, easy, and agreeable.
And guess what? Those people do not lie. It was thoughtless travel. And before we knew it, there we were climbing off the train in Salzburg.
I have to preface this story with saying....our first impression of Austria was NOT that of a magical fairy land that dances to the tune of Eine Kleine Nachtmusik. In fact, it looks more like a war torn former soviet town. Fresh off the train, the bahnhof area does not seem welcoming, and the rundown dirty cable cars look...like you need to hang tight to your euros.

We hop on the #2 bus (Perfect name for it. It smelled. It looked like you could get Botulism, Leptospirosis, or maybe Trichinosis, just from standing ON it.)
Mike says to the driver: Sprechen Sie Englisch?
The Driver nods and says: Ja, a little. Sure.
Mike says: Will this bus go to the Mercure hotel?
The Driver says: Ja, sure. It goes to deer. Maybe...it is stop...(he counts on his fingers) Seben?
Mike says: Danke!

We count off the stops but at stop 6 NOT 7 the driver yells back "Hello? Dis one! Dis one is dee stops for dee hotel, ja? Ok?"
I yell back "Vielen Dank!!!" as we hop off the bus.

We found this same attitude everywhere we went. So, the bahnhof looks like there are children to be sponsored nearby and Sally Stuthers is going to hop out of the side hatch and ask you to spare a dime for them... But first looks can be deceiving. Austrians are not only nice but HELPFUL, and turns out Salzburg is beautiful, once you get past the grit.

We decided a night walk to old town would be perfect, that and we were hungry. Salzburg was beautiful at night. No shops were open but people were out milling about, despite the cold air coming off the Salzach River.
We were happy to get back to our hotel room and into our warm beds. Yes, we were twin bedding it June and Ward Clever style.

The next morning we got an early start to cram pack in as much Mozart as possible. After all, the town is famous because of him. He was born here, and he is still a major Rockstar. You can't walk without tripping over something Amadeus. He's like their Elvis...without the fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches.

We went to his Geburtshaus (Birth house) and his Residence. If you are ever in Salzburg...skip the Residence, go for the Geburtshaus. It's big, it's yellow and it has a HUGE sign that says "Mozart's Geburtshaus" You can't miss it. We liked his birth house much better. You can see a lock of his hair, his childhood violin, a ring he was given from royalty (you see it in a portrait then on display).
His residence has his original piano and it's an audio guided tour so you do get to hear a lot of his music...but it just didn't pack the same punch as his birth house (In my humble opinion).

We also climbed up to the fortress for views of the city. We had HUGE pretzels, We went into the Salzburg Dom. This is a MUST see. The art alone will make you gasp. I felt so small in the huge cathedral. Interesting fact? In 1944, the Dom was bombed by the allies. I couldn't help but wonder if my grandfather (whose plane was shot down in Austria) could've had some connection with the bombings there...
But, it's now completely restored and very glorious...

We saw the statue of a man standing on a golden ball, and the human sized chess board. There were tons of dogs and lots of babies...and the window shopping is fantastic...but with stores like Louis Vuitton &Vogue, you can rest assured that ALL the Suman's did was window shop.
Like I'm going to spend over 1,000€ for a purse when we have a hand-me-down sofa? Uhm. my goodwill vintage purse find is more up my alley.

The strange/local color things we saw? A caricature of Hilter graffitied on a wall, a silver statue man of Mozart who was handing out postcards and bowing with grace. (He scared me). A man playing Amazing Grace on the accordion (VERY beautiful, too I might add) A mullet that was shaved on top and dred locked in the back, a blond eurotrash decked to the nines, a couple making out more than PG 13 style right in old town, a woman screaming in accented english that her food was "Shit" and she was "piss" (Pissed off). Mike wanted to make a video of that debacle.

Alas, we skipped the Sound of Music tour, promising ourselves we'll do it if/when we return.
We had a lovely time, and I think we enjoyed it more because we weren't in peak tourist season...
Those Mozart concerts that lured us there? Well, we didn't want to pay the big bucks for a fancy pants concert, when really we did a fly by the seat of your pants trip and didn't bring fancy pants clothes, and the impromtu ones? Yeah, there were signs that said "No Koncerts today." Oh well, Macht's Nicht...

Salzburg was still beautiful. Still fun, and still enchanting....

Tess.

2011-03-26T14:44:00.000-07:00

When you live far away from where home is...a whole ocean away... it mostly is exciting. Being in a new place, where the language you speak is the 'foreign' language, everyday can seem like an adventure.

Yet there are many times when the excitement is eclipsed by the distance.
Such was the time when Tess passed away. It didn't feel like a grand adventure. It felt distant. I actually felt exactly how far away we are from family, from friends, from home.

Now, it needs to be said, Tess is a cat. A cat that I tried ever so gently, ever so determinedly, ever so...forcefully to make 'my' cat. My pet. I adopted her. I took her home with me. I named her. I bought her toys and collars, and various kitty essentials.
In a nutshell, I loved her. I still do.
From the moment I took her to my mom's house, when she was but a wee kitten...Tess made it official. She was not my cat. Not for nothing.
Tess couldn't have cared less about me. Not that she didn't tolerate me, because she did. With her impatient tail flick she would let me lounge my head on her big bell. She would head butt me for affection.
From the moment she met my mom...well, I no longer exsisted. Well, no, that's not true. I became...an extra in her movie.
She loved mom. She would sit by mom. Sleep by mom. Spend time with mom.
Me? Yeah, she'd grouchie meow at me. IF she decided to acknowledge my presence.
Oh, but I still loved her.
I loved her for her moodiness. I loved her for her love of christmas. I loved her simply for the sweet way in which she carried her duck (named lucky duck) in her mouth like he was her kitten. She'd walk with him and cry/meow. She did this when she thought she was alone.
One sight of anyone, and she dropped the duck and looked impatiently in your direction. A cool denial of her affection for Lucky Duck.

Despite all her distance (to everyone but mom) She was a loving cat.
She loved music. She would lounge and listen to Aretha with my mom. Tess could hear the theme music to American Idol..and no matter where she was in the house, she'd bound to the Tv. Every single time it would come on. Then, as soon as the show was over....she went back to her business of lounging, napping, or just watching out the window.
She would talk to birds...and in her younger days, she was a huntress. Killing little mice who found a way to sneak inside. In her older days...she let one climb in her food bowl and scurry back outside...leaving the hunting to my parents.

Tess was a good cat. She was a family member. My mom had a close undeniable bond with her. They were a pair. And truly, Tess was in every way, my mom's cat. Or Mom was Tess's person, to put it more accurately.

So when my dad told me over the phone that she had died...it truly felt like a piece of me was missing. Living so far away, I felt the helplessness of not being able to say goodbye. I sobbed on our living room sofa while Michael tried to comfort me.
He gave me a cool washcloth to put on my forehead.
He got me a cool drink.
He looked at my photo album of Tess with me.
I told him about what kind of kitten she was. How silly she could be. The way she took a bite from my sister's sandwich when Tess thought Lynsey was taking too long to eat.
I remember the last time I saw her. She head butted my hand. I told her I was going to Germany, but I'd be back. She purred and rubbed her head against my hand, then flicked her tail.
Funny how when I think of going home...I think of Soozie there to greet me..tail wagging in excitement. And of Tess...hopping off Mom's bed to come say Hi.

She will always live forever in my memory.

Do you believe in love? Cause I got something to say about it, and goes something like this...

2011-02-07T06:53:00.000-08:00

Saturday Michael and I decided to go to Bamberg for shopping and such, but only after the laundry was done and various other little around the housey things.

He left the apartment for what seemed like would be a long time.
And upon his stepping out, I decided to step in to the shower.

I was soaping up, and as I covered my hair in suds, I suddenly got a song in my heart.
One that I couldn't keep inside.
I think showers MAKE people sing. Not for nothing, we've all seen The Flintstones. Fred singing in the shower and was struck with real vocal talent...
In my heart of hearts, I believed the suds, the steam and the echo would turn me into Madonna.

So there I am belting out:

You've got to make him
Express himself
Hey, hey, hey, hey
So if you want it right now, make him show you how
Express what he's got, oh baby ready or not
Express yourself
You've got to make him
So you can respect yourself
Hey, hey
So if you want it right now, then make him show you how
Express what he's got, oh baby ready or not

I'm not saying I was using the body wash bottle as a microphone. And I'm not saying I wasn't. But my eyes were closed (to prevent soap getting in the eyes but also to testify), and the Hey hey's were coming from the heart. I rocked the whole song. The scent of olay body butter with ribbons cheering me on. The water spraying sounding like fans going wild
And after I finished holding out the last note...
I heard giggling "Hey Honey. I'm uhm...home. Just didn't want to scare you. Keep expressing yourself."

I opened my eyes, I put my microphone to my side, my cheeks blushing.
I didn't even know I how long I'd had an audience...
But I think I can pretty much say I have at least one fan.

Trying on sports for size

2011-01-23T00:17:00.000-08:00

I was the kid who kicked and missed the kickball. I walked to first. I picked cloverflowers in the outfield. The only part of my body that ever played volley ball was my head, when the ball would ricochet off of it. I would've rather stuck my nose in a book than dodge a ball. In fact, I never quite understood (even at the tender elementary school age) the desire to throw a ball HARD at someone. Quite literally, it took hearing Taylor Swift squawk out 'songs' before I fully grasped the concept.

I lived my life in contentment, free of sports. Then two days ago all that changed. Michael is on a two week training, and I could just blame this on his absence. As in absence makes Amber believe she should try out sports.
Here's how it went down....

At the Unit/Company/will-i ever-figure-out-Army-terms Christmas party, I met another spouse. Barbara.
Later, I ran into her at German class. We exchanged emails.
Our guys go on training.
We emailed. We went to a play (Nutshell: Germans pretended to be Southern Americans "Let's go to Chic-filla, ya'll")
She says to me "Do you play raquetball?"
Me: No.
She: Would you like to learn?
Me: Sure. Sounds fun (What? WHY? why did I Say that?!)
She: Ok. Let's play tomorrow.
Me: Great!
I mean how hard can it be? Hit a ball off a wall. No problem...it's easy as someone rolling a ball towards you for you to kick....right?

She comes over to bring me with her to the gym. I'm wearing my normal zumba clothes...LONG exercise pants (to cover up the fact that husband gone=3 days unshaven legs) and a regular old tshirt.
Immediately I feel....underdressed. awkward.

Just to set the picture...just so you'll grasp my insecurity.. Allow me to describe Barbara.
She is very striking. She has a model's body, tall, thin, graceful. Her Polish accent makes men stop in their tracks.
And bare in mind she is SO nice that I didn't notice any of this until we were walking into the gym. She's in her cute gym clothes. Which immediately made me realize...she shops for gym clothes...I wear whatever is old enough to get soaked in an unwashable sweat smell and not care.

Standing next to her tallness, I immediately felt like she was Dorothy and I was in the lollipop guild welcoming her to munchkinland. There she is in those capri-style workout pants and a cute tank top..and not even a hint of a fat roll anywhere on her.
There I am in my ol' trusty bo duke tee and...well you get the picture....

I struggled putting on my goggles and felt like Amelia Earhart complete with bad hair, and quite sure that I was going to get lost over the wild and wooly seas of raquetball, never to be heard from again....
While Barbara gently glided on her goggles and looked...like she wasn't wearing any.
What? How did THAT happen?

So, whatever, this is about fun, right?
Uhm. ok. But...

She plays raquetball. And gracefully. She looked like a swan moving to whap that little demon blue ball back to the wall.
Then this poor girl blessed with short little Padgett legs looked like...the little engine that could...n't hit a ball to save a dolphin. Because unlike her, I expected the ball to come to me. Not the other way around.
And one time I even reached out to catch it. I actually tried to catch the ball. NOT the object of the game.

I don't need to do sports. Zumba, sure. The occasional stationary bike, gotcha. Maybe MAYBE an eliptical. Sports. Nein.

She would say "So only let dee ball bounce once. If it comes to you you haff to go leff or right to get it to hit to dee wall, ok?" Her polish accent echoing off of the little cage of doom we'd willingly closed ourself into.

When I did hit it (rare occasion) she would exclaim "Sehr GUT Frau Suman!"

My Amelia goggles were sweating. Not my body, mind you, no. The area around my eyes. Was. Sweating. I was foggin' up. Apparently those damn goggles were too tight, and they suction cupped themselves to my face. Not only that, while Barbara's bun was in perfect place, my pony tail was falling out and looking quite oily.

When we finished she removed her glasses, no sweat build up inside of them. She looked fresh as a daisy in may.
My goggles tangled in my lost-cause pony tail. She started giggling "You have to tell ya baby dat I gave you black eyes."
I said "what?"
She said "Ya goggles is too tight. Ya husband will say 'why you have black eyes?'"
I looked in the mirror...there it was. the perfect imprint of the goggles from forehead to cheekbones. But not black, beet red. No no, beet red is kinda pretty with the magenta tones...I'll just say it TOMATO red.

Barbara then took me to the stretch out room. "Ok, now we stretch."
Honestly, I didn't feel the need to stretch. I just stood there while "playing". I don't think I was at risk in pulling a muscle.
But ok. I'll stretch.

Let me explain...in this room there is a ballet bar along a mirrored wall. Barbara just places her leg swan like right up on the bar. Meanwhile shortie over here had to kick it up there. Several times just to get the foot on the bar. I may have even said HU! but let's not talk about that.....

We stretched...I felt like a gumdrop next to...a candy cane.

After all was said and done she said "Do you know what my nickname is?"
Me: No
She: Basia.
Me: Pretty.
She: We pretty good friends now, so you can call me Basia.
Me: You can call me.....on my house phone anytime.

(I have no cool nickname...and I was thisclose to making one up just to fit in...but I know my husband would eventually blow my cover...as in...
Basia: Hello Am-dizzle.
Me: S'up Basia!
Mike: Who is Am-dizzle?)

Basia then said....Ok we go to the commissary for junk food.
Ok Ms. Metabolism...have at it...I'll just have...a splenda packet or two...

I Used The Men's Room In Brussels.

2011-01-10T08:29:00.000-08:00

My buddy, who has earned a variety of nicknames lately, (My current most-used nickname for him "Hunchy Bear" which I created while trying to say Honey/Monkey/Buddy Bear.) surprised me with a New Years Trip to London.
And at first, I thought it was a joke.
But the boyish grin on his cute little face convinced me that he was in fact telling the honest to buddha truth.
Only catch? We were traveling caravan style on a charter bus.

Before I knew it, we were standing in the snow in front of the chapel, waiting with other shiver-ers for our bus. We scored the other front row seats on the top level of the bus, So we had a clear view of the road, and the motion sickness was cut way down to zip.
Nothing but nothing could prepare us for a 10 hour bus trip across Europe on a bus full of soldiers. At about 12am, I was roused from slumber by two disgruntled soldiers in each others faces. Yelling obsenities at each other, and just before it came to blows, someone came to the rescue and seperated the feuding duo.
Mike woke up and tried to stand up and then said "What's going on?"

Shortly after that, I watched as we blazed (however much 'blazing' you can do at 100 kph) past the sign Nederlands. I smiled. Out of Germany, finally.
I fell asleep and woke up in Brussels. I had no idea when we'd even gotten to Belgium. I just NEEDED to use the bathroom. And I needed 70 euro cents and quick.
I rushed into the bathroom and to my surprise, the bathroom break was a freebie. I wiped the sleep from my eyes just to insure I wasn't dreaming. Then I saw it. Yellow tape over the women's room. All that was available was a Handi and the mens room.
The handi was occupied in a situation very similar to a woman in the movie The Sweetest Thing.
Our "tour guide" a long haired non-rick steves said "Don't worry, I'll hold the line. Go on in." And he motioned to the mens room.
It was dark in there. Dark and intimidating.
There was artwork that I couldn't read, and didn't even want to try to GUESS at the I'm sure Foul Words that adorned the shakey stall walls.

I imerged a changed more jaded woman.

But no less, we were still enroute to Jolly ol'...and I couldn't wait. I was chomping at the bit to step into London. The city I'd dreamed of over and over again as a little girl.

I fell asleep again and woke up just in time to see the Welcome to France sign. I got adrenaline rush. I felt like dancing up and down the aisle of the bus singing "I could've danced allll night!" there I was, in FRANCE. In FRANCE. Who cares if it wasn't Paris. That will come in due time...but France! I thought half way of waking up my snoring Sumie. But I was just too excited. I took it all in. The little houses, the farmland, the factories...all from the light of street lights because really at 4 in the morning, how much light is there?

When we made it to the ferry, my excitement grew. There, as we crossed the channel and England came into view, stood the gorgeous white cliffs of Dover.
I got another stamp in my passport welcoming to me England.
We'd made it.
There we were driving on the wrong side of the road, right into London.
There was no sun light, only foggy overcast. I wanted to cry as we got to London. The houses all lined up, early birds up to get their coffee, tea, donuts, whatever were walking across the zebra crossings. And all I wanted to do was cry. I was THAT excited.
And when our bus went into the city I took it all in. I pointed excitedly to St. Paul's.

We weren't aware that our tour began...immediately. No showers, no freshening up because hotel check in wasn't until 2pm. And here we are at 7am rolling into London, tourists sardine can style.
I chose to wear pj's on the overnight trip. Because...well who wouldn't? It was, after all, most comfortable.

So, when we got off the bus, there I was, in a sleep shirt, and loungie pants, and winter boots. Basically not the outfit I wanted to wear when I first stood under Big Ben. But even the lack of 'real' clothes didn't extinguish my exhuberance.
We walked past Big Ben, West Minster Abbey, into St. Jame's Park where everything was green, and there were swans swimming as though it's no-big deal. I skipped when I saw the Diana Princess of Wales Memorial Trail Marker.
How could I be anything but speechless as the guards on horseback trotted past us on the way to Buckingham Palace?

Standing there by the Palace I'd seen in my many many royal books, I said "Wow. The Balcony isn't as high as I thought it would be." I stood there staring at my childhood dreams. I thought to myself, If someone would've told me when I was a little girl that I'd be standing right by Buckingham Palace....well, I'd feel just as excited then as I do right now.

The good news about our trip, is Michael and I ditched the tour group. For a variety of reasons..the first being...we didn't want to be limited on what we could see/do in our limited time. AND there was a girl on the tour that when she saw ANYTHING with the name Victoria on it she had to ask "But where is the Secrets"
Honestly, we didn't want to deal with the stupidity on this trip...we wanted to mingle with Brits. We wanted to walk down little side streets, we wanted to Mind the Gap, and climb to the Whispering Gallery.

In our few days there we managed to eat fish and chips, see Queen Elizabeth I's tomb, stand where Diana's coffin was during her funeral, Stand in the exact spot where Fergie married Andrew and where William will marry Kate (Everyone gently corrected me calling her Catherine.)
We climbed the stairs of St. Paul's just the same ones Diana climbed on her wedding day. We walked hand in hand down the long aisle at St. Paul's to stand exactly where she curtisied to the queen on that day.
We watched street shows in Trafalgar Square, ate Mcdonald's standing outside the crowded Piccadilly Circus McD's.
I walked the soles off my boots. Happily.

In St. Paul's while we bought a little souvenir bird and plaque, a man said "Where's home?" (Mike & I agreed to say we were from Maryland since being from two different places takes longer to answer that question)
Once we started talking to him, we told him we were actually from Georgia and Seattle. He then began telling us about our respective football teams. It was really awesome to get football updates from a British guy. We smiled about that for days.

Our New Years eve we found ourselves right by the River Thames across from the Eye of London. We enjoyed watching crazy people dancing, all the funny hats, and generally taking part in the good cheer. The fireworks were absolutely unreal. I got misty eyed when everyone sang Auld Lange Syne.

One thing is certain. I did not want to return to Bamberg. I loved England. I loved the friendly faces. I truly loved not having to 'think' about the words to use, the conjugation of verbs before ordering food, or talking to people.

But we did have to come back to Bamberg, where snow mounds awaited, and dreams of London hung like fog in our hearts and minds.

Royal Weddings

2010-11-23T07:16:00.000-08:00

I grew up adoring Princess Diana. If a magazine had her picture on it, I begged my mom for it every step through the store.
I clipped articles from the newspapers. My grandparents showered me with books and various other Diana memorabilia.
At the tender age of 9, I practiced her poses in the bathroom mirror. I was in adoration of the ONLY Princess in the world.
I gave school report after school report about her.
I watched her funeral, and cried all day long.

Still, to this very day, people still give me books about Diana for holidays, and I still devour each book.

So, when Prince William announced his engagement....I was startled, and I admit it, offended even at the sight of Diana's ring...that ICONIC ring...on some brunette.
Someone NOT Diana.
It just felt wrong seeing it there, on her finger. While she smiled at William, and waved her hands around in the interview to be sure that everyone saw it resting on her hand.
I cringed. I did. And I'm a nerd for admitting so.

But I just couldn't believe my eyes.
I thought of her telling her parents and showing them Diana's ring. And it annoyed me.
I complained to my husband. I told everyone I was offended.....

And I wondered if I was alone in feeling so....digusted.

Sharing is Caring...

2010-10-24T06:10:00.000-07:00

Picture it...I was snoozing in our sleep number under our soft green shabby chic quilt, dreaming that Michael is in the living room watching drum videos, it's realistic. I even think "That's Mike Portnoy he's listening to..." and I pop my eyes open with excitement. It's 7:13am. Still dark outside..
I hop out of bed, run to the dark living room and...nothing. Nothing on tv except for the little red light that indicates (in case you unsure) that the TV is in fact, off..
I thought to myself...How RUDE to be startled awake for a false alarm, and besides, why would he come home so early and make his first order of business watching dvds...
Since it was still dark, I decided to do what anyone else would...I crawled back into the warm bed.

I realized that someone was outside, closing their car doors and that had to be the 'drumming' that woke me up.
As I lay there in bed disgruntled...I thought... Man...I share my husband with a fatlot of people. Family, friends, coworkers, some people I'll never even meet....
I woke up again to daylight at 9.
Shuffled to the kitchen and made coffee. Coffee that I drank while standing up, making a grocery list. Since the commissary is closed on Mondays, I had to get my few things for the week, today.

I literally just missed the bus as it flew past our buildings. The decision was made for me, I was walking to buy my food.

As I walked I thought about not knowing exactly when Michael would be coming home. His online hints flew way over my head. "I am doing this on that day...so that should be a hint of when I'll be home." and "I stopped doing that on this day...so that is another hint."
I strained my mind to think...did we have a code? Did I forget it? Is this a reference to something I should know?

As I kicked through the huge yellow leaves that carpet the ground I thought...Funny...I am keenly aware of where the phone is at in the apartment all times just incase I get a morale call. Which, who knew that 10 minutes of listened-in on conversation would be the highlight of my week?

I thought about how all the pretty leaves will be gone by the time he gets home...and thought of what dessert I could make for him, and how I seriously hope that I do get an email letting me know when he'll arrive. And yes, even what color of lipstick I'll wear the day he gets here.
I thought the most selfish thing anyone could possibly think...I thought "I hate sharing him with everyone and their brother. I wish he was home. Sharing is NOT caring. Whoever was the first person to cross stitch that on a pillow can KISS it."

Then I saw them...all the welcome home banners tied to the fences for soldiers returning from deployment. Standing out like party decorations against the grey sky.
Welcome Home Daddy!
Welcome Home My Hero!
I've Missed You my Husband!
Banners decorated with pictures of smiling wives, chubby babies, happy soldiers....

And I thought this is only a temporary mission that Michael is on. He's only been gone a month and 4 days. Here I am whining and these spouses have dealt with a year apart. They have been sharing their spouses, and way more than my little selfish-self has even thought about doing.

I felt like such a terrible woman, a selfish wife. Making sure everyone knows that I've only had about 3 months with Michael out of our first year of marriage. Seeing a picture on a banner of a baby that her daddy has missed nearly the entire first year of her life, kinda puts things into perspective....

And I walked the rest of the way in the wind to the commissary thinking of how lucky I actually am....

Church bells in the Rain

2010-08-23T03:11:00.000-07:00

I sit, by the open window...listening to the rain falling and the church bells clanging...
It's really lovely...
Which I believe I can only say this today because I had 3 days of sunshine...or two and a half..however you slice the pie... Friday/Saturday/MOST of sunday.
It was nice and warm and I unfortunately spent it on the sofa, whining with bronchitis. Napping, and watching DVDs of Family Ties.
Granted, Michael and I did take a ride through Bamberg...which was all the engery I could muster. No walks. No marketing. No nothing but sitting in a car, drinking water to fight my cough and then coming home to nap, and drink gallons of hot tea with Echter Deuschter Honig.

The rain here in Germany is nearly constant. It had been going non stop for at least 20 days. Not only was it rainy, it was also cold. And by 'cold' I mean...in the 50's.

And last week, the night before I went to the doctor. I appeared in the kitchen door, (wearing a night gown, a pair of blue thick winter socks, and his flannel thick coat. Quite the ensemble...I may add my hair was wiley and my nose was red.)while my husband was cooking dinner (He forbad me to cook due to my being sick...sweet man, he is.)
He looked at me with kind of a stunned expression.
I wailed extra dramatic with cheese "I'm NEVER going to see the sun again. Ever. Until the 2 weeks in July when it comes out again."
and I promptly broke down into hard tears. I know for the most part, it was my being under the weather. I will cry over everything/anything/nothing when I am sick. It's the charm of me.

Micheal looked heartbroken for me. Standing there holding a stirring spoon up in the air like Lady Liberty and I was his tired, sick, poor and hungry. He came over to me, hugged me and said nothing.
I said between coughs and sobs " Everyone at home is having summer, still. I'm not used to this. I'm feeling smothered by the rain."
When in reality I know now it wasn't the grey clouds or the rain smothering me but my cold was keeping me from getting a deep breath.

Friday when the sun peeked through and burst out of the sky, my lovely husband wanted to call me from work. Just to tell me to have a little gander...
I was so thankful for this weekend of warm dry weather and lots of sun...
It makes the rain that came on this monday morning..not so bad after all.

Weekends, German Class, and Rude People.

2010-08-19T06:54:00.003-07:00

The weekends find Michael and I off discovering little things about Upper Franconia. We explore Bamberg, trying to get to know our new hometown. It is so exciting to mingle with the crowds of other saturday shoppers.

We pull our little phrase book to find the right things to say when the florist at the street market tells us that Nein. She does not Sprecht Englisch.

She smiles and waits patiently as we stumble through telling her how main Stücks of this flower, or that flower we'd like. Nodding when we get the words just right, or even kind of right. She presents us with our bouquet almost like it's a gift, and not something we're paying for.

She's chubby and short and reminds me of an elf. I decided, even when stumbling through our communication that I liked her. I liked the way she looked at us, trying to size the two of us up.

We sit at outdoor cafes drinking Spezi, most times with a dog panting at the table beside us. Sometimes the old dog will raise his head lazily and give a bark, just to add his two euro cents into whatever conversation...

We walk around cathedrals amazed at the beauty. Sometimes honestly, we went in not caring about the beauty, but seeking relief from the heat. The giant Cathedrals are cool inside, like G-d turns on the A/C for His Holy places. We were just happy to be in the sweet coolness, and we missed the most famous of all Bamberg's statues. Bamberger Reiter (the Horseman).

I stood right under him my perplexed gaze finding more interest in another statue. I didn't realize this until weeks later, when I was looking at a guide book.

I said, randomly, as if Mike should know exactly what I'm referring to, "What! We were right under that famous statue and I didn't bother to look up!"

He looked up from what he was doing and said "what are you talking about?"

I said "The Bamberg Horseman, we were standing right under him, but I was too obsessed with the grown man that was baby sized sitting on a woman's lap."

He said "Hmm..really?"

Some saturdays we are walking around old Castles, or palaces. My words alone could never capture the absolute thrill of standing on such historic sites. The age and history behind the buildings..incomprehensible to me. I'm standing in a Castle where ages ago, men held look out for intruders! or Kunigunde probably summered here.

Kunigunde, by the way, is my most favorite of Bambergers. I even LOVE her name. Any lady in history who proved her innocence by walking over hot coals has my admiration.

Saturdays, for the two of us, are filled to overflowing with excitement. We come home tired, bags in tow, Spezis in hand, grinning from ear to ear. Proud of ourselves for speaking German. Or astonishing over the fact that the sample lady at Tegut (our favorite little grocery) was giving out wine samples. While I'm handing Michael butters and cheeses to put away into the fridge I smiled, "Can you BELIEVE we shopped in a grocery while I drank wine?"

To which He responded "I know! That would never happen in the states!"

Every Saturday evening, we hurry inside our little apartment to pour over our loot like trick-or-treaters late halloween night. Or we rush into the kitchen to make dinner with whatever goodies we found in the outdoor markets or in the markt. Rosemary butter chicken, fresh veggies. Cheese. We are always about the cheese. In fact one of the first words we learned in German was: Käse. We barely get the front door closed before we are desperate to sample our findings.

But during the week....there's not much going on. Michael goes to work. I clean, I go to the library. But my favorite is German Class. I look forward to it.

The instructor, Heike, is a sweet woman who reminds me of a Garden Gnome. She says "Ja. Ja" in a deep voice. Or when someone says something correct she says "SUPER!" or "Ja wohl!"

Our class had a Brotzeit. (Brut-zyte)Which is a picnic. There were little breads or "brotla", spreads, various ham, radishes, pickles, polish tomato salad and pickled green beans. Our instructor and her Schwiegermutter prepared all of this for us. I was surprised by the kindness, and the excitement she had at sharing a Brotzeit with her class.

We sat around a picnic table and did baby german. "May I have a plate?" and "Can I have a fork?"

It was fun.

Except for...if you've ever wondered "well, why DO people hate Americans?" and you've probably thought this, based on yourself... You're nice. You have manners....etc...What could be so bad about Americans, right?

I say this because I felt the same exact way. I had no idea why anyone would hate Americans...

Well, here's the reason. I will tell you because I think you should be made aware.

There was a woman at our Brotzeit. Her brassy cluelessness made her annoying and highly rude.

She interrupted our "May I have a spoon, please?" exercise by saying "Yeah. But how you ask for a napkin?"

The tone she used made everyone stop talking.

We all looked at her.

She continued, without noticing that we've all got our eyebrows raised against her rudeness, "Cos I was at a restaurant and I ask for a napkin and no body know what I was wantin'. I had to act it out. Still they didn't know. So finally I say 'Gimme a KLEENEX.' And they know what I want then."

Hieke said "You only have to say 'Haben Sie eine Serviette.'"

The woman purses her lips, raises her eyebrow and says "I have to say all that? Can't I just say 'kleenex'?'"

And I couldn't help but think....The people at the restaurant, they knew exactly what you were wanting, they just didn't like how rude you were asking. That's why they made you act out what you wanted. Just to make you feel stupid. I kinda wanna high five the waitress.

This wasn't the only time she made herself seem like a rude/mannerless/idiotic American. She announced that no one would help her find her way from Schweinfurt to Bamberg. So she yelled "WHY no body WANNA help ME?"

Well, honestly, if I was in my hometown, and someone was yelling in her native language...well, I'd just keep walking, too.

My husband had huge eyes and just looked at the table.
It was like a fart in church. All the people in the class were dead silent.
Here we were, surrounded by the kindness of a lady trying to assist us in learning the language and customs of her home..and this rude woman is so full of ingratitude.

She sat there with an air of entitlement, not of graciousness.

Sadly, It is not an isolated case, either. I am often shocked by the sheer rudeness of our own people. It makes me want to apologize. It would mortify you. You'd think, these people are going out every day representing our good country.

It makes me feel terrible, especially when someone is going out of his or her way to make friends or show kindness to us Americans.

I can say with honesty that when my husband and I go out into town, we try to use the language, even if we say things wrong, we are greeted with smiles and nods. We have met more friendly people than rude. Never once have we ever had to stand in a street and yell "WHY WON'T ANYONE HELP US!" We never have had to play charades for a napkin, either...

I think cultural differences are harder for some to learn...but I think it's a good idea to learn about them before you ever step foot aboard your plane to your foreign destination.

Your trip will be less frustrating and you'll get to see how friendly the people can be....

It is my sincere wish that people like the woman in my German class would understand that this is NOT America, and many things will be different.

There are differences that I find difficult, too, like the staring. Germans stare very hard at people. And trust me, it feels weird, and awkward, but for the most part, we smile or nod and it ends the stare down.

I don't feel the need to scream at the top of my lungs in the middle of Schwienfurt.

I'm not perfect, I know I probably do things inadvertantly that offend Germans...but I try to be friendly and I try to speak their language...and I find myself greeted with more smiles than blank stares.

A little remedy for enduring the heat without A/C

2010-08-05T00:42:00.000-07:00

I've made no secret about the sheer lack of air conditioning. In fact, I've complained and whined about the predicament to anyone or anything that has ears. I've acted like a wilted flower, I've pouted, I've stamped my foot, I opened the fridge and freeze a stood in front of it a la Laverne & Shirley. I even cried actual tears for my longsuffering.

Unfortunately, my audience has mostly been my understanding husband.

But I've also found a new ritual in which to escape the heat. My beloved and much needed mid-to-late afternoon cold bath (Sometimes with Caress pulling double duty as body wash AND bubble bath.) It is literally the only reprieve that can be found from the heat.

I make a lovely production of it, if I do say so myself.

I turn the lever on the facet to cool. I'm not looking for luke warm. I want cool as can be. Cooler than a cucumber. I want Shiver-me-timbers! That is Cold!

I make my hair into a haphazard bun.

I put my latest favorite music on loop.

I stick a toe in and feel the delightful coolness wrap around my toe, inviting me to just sink in.

Once inside, I swing my bathroom windows open, letting in any breeze (even if it is stale), and not minding the sun shining down on the water.

I sink back into my divinely deep soaker tub, happy that I'm hidden in my own world from the prying eyes of neighbors.

I close my eyes and sing along with Ella...
"Fish got to swim, birds got to fly, I got to love one man 'til I die. Can't help lovin' dat man of mine...."

Early thoughts about Germany....

2010-08-04T07:29:00.000-07:00

I would like to say that Europe is a fabulous place, but seeing as I've only truly had the small town Germany experience, I feel I'm unable to report on the continent as a whole.

But Germany is lovely.

My first day went something like a dream. I was jet lagged into believing it was still, in fact, Friday (The day I left America).

Imagine standing on a bridge that houses the centuries old town hall, right in the middle of a flowing river.

A river that has seen more excitment and horror than imaginable.

Listening to people speak rapidly a language that you only know a few of it's baby words.

Smelling all the various local aromas...

And not feeling like you're dreaming, especially after traveling beside a man who smelled of moth balls, jovan musk, and almond breath for 7 hours.

It's like a fairy land. Something ripped from the pages of Grimm's.

And I instantly without a doubt loved it here.

I stood there with the excitement of a new convert to a different religion. The thoughts going through my mind were as follows:

1. It's so beautiful here.

2. I don't speak the language, so therefore, I can just talk freely with my husband 'cause we are in our own little bubble.

3. This has to be a dream.

4. I wonder if that old man staring at me was a Nazi in his hayday.

5. I smell Armpits.

It is so very beautiful here. The old part of town is absolutely astounding. It looks like a fairy tale came to life, and is just happilserving you coffee and a side dish of kraut at a sidewalk cafe. (Yes. Kraut is a side dish. It comes in a pretty little bowl. Just like we'd get a side of mashed potatoes. They have their kraut.)

I walked around with Michael, and since everyone was speaking loud and fast German and all I could possible conjure was "Tschuss! Danke!" For that one day, no one exsisted in the world, but me and my husband.

All the rest were extras in our movie. The only conversation we engaged in was with each other. It was absolutely marvelous.

After we left the Cathedral of Bamberg (There is a ton of churches/cathedrals here, but that one got top spot because a pope is buried there. Pope Clement. Rest Clem's soul. Ohm. Or whatever holy sound catholics make.) My darling lovely husband led me, without telling me where we were going, across the Cathedral Square to New Residence and through a gate. I love this about my husband. He delights in small surprises. I said "I smell...Rose's."

He smiled "Yeah?"

"Yeah." I said "Strong. It's...nice."

He smiled at me, I said "Do you smell it? Smell. Smell it?"

He said "Yeah. I do."

I was not prepared for what enchantment I was thisclose to beholding. The Rose Garden or Rosengarten.

We walked through an archway, and before me was every rose in the universe. (I found out later it was only 72 different varities. But I bet that's close to every variety known to the universe.)

It was so stunning that I just couldn't believe I wasn't asleep.

Michael said "Oh. Wow. Wow. This is...amazing."

St. Michael's cathedral was up above us, just adding to the glamour of it all.

Shortly after we were meandering around laughing at names of Roses (Schneewitchen, Yankee Doodle, Paprika) Some elderly German men broke into song.

No. I'm serious.

They were just singing their hearts out, letting their words fly over the red rooftops of Bamberg.

I said "Are they for real?"

Mike said "It's so beautiful here."

I said "I think you've dropped me into a dream!"

He said, clearly amused by my enchantment, "I love you."

It may be uncouth of me...but I'll say it. Every old person in Germany scares me. Every last one of them. Even the one walking with two canes down the sidewalk of Zollnerstrasse, even though I know I could've totally taken her, she scared me. I'm not frightened because I'm afraid I will catch TB from them, or that standing by them will make ME smell like moth balls, also.

No. It's because despite the fact that it was over 60 years ago, I can't help but see them as they were. All blonde and blue eyed. Crowding the streets. Heiling Hitler. Smiling. Cheering. Waving their little Nazi Flags. Some of the women with posters of Hitler on their bedroom walls thinking he was "So Dreamy."

Men, all decked out in Nazi regalia soullessly causing murder and mayhem to run it's evil course.

I think of how they made their little children wear SS uniforms. And how those indoctrinated children today, are white haired and wanting to sell me a Schnitzel. AND, if they were indoctrinated at such a toddling about age....how can they not still hold to the idea that Hitler was their hero?

It makes me shiver to think that while they were cheering on an evil doer, millions were being baked in ovens.

And so, when I see an elderly person, I walk on the other side of my husband, and hold onto his arm. Keeping the reality of what they did as far from me as possible.

However, it must be said, that the Germans I have met, so far, are very nice. In fact, most of them go out of their way to teach us the German word for this. Or remind us that the football game is on in one hour.

Even one particularly stinky teenboy with lots of facial piercings came up to us asking for a light for his cigerette and politely said "Entschuldigung...."

I say stinky because truly, everyone knows that Europeans have a knack for...smelling like they have two thick slices of white onion, one stuffed under each armpit.

It's true. They do. I always used to judge them. I admit it. I did. I was so judgemental. I felt so high and mighty with my Degree Fresh Rain Scented Deoderant. I wondered why they chose not to use any at all.

By the end of my second day in Bavaria, I understood their plight and was sympathic. Why, you ask? Because by Sunday night, I smelled just like them.

You see, despite caking deodorant on (and, sister, cake is the WORD. I applied it with ferver!) I still managed to smell like there was a new scent out by Lady's Speed Stick called Garlic and Onions Der Frau.

I blame it on their boycotting air conditioning. Trust me when I tell you, this is a virtually aircondition free environment. Which means, you literally sweat. Like Richard Simmons, but without the catchy oldies to sing along with.

However, instead of giving up the fight and letting the armpits win...I upgraded to clinical strength secret. Problem solved!

Thus far, I have found that I love our new found home. I love the church bells. I love the laid back street markets, I love the bakery smells and the Italian Ice Cream, I love the abundance of Spezi, I love the little blonde baby who leaned, shirtless, out of his hot apartment to look at us. When I said "Hi!" I remembered he probably doesn't speak English so I quickly said "Guten Tag!" he smiled, and waved at us. Not the open-close hand wave that babies are so famous for, but he put his chubby fingers together and waved, Queen of England Style, amusing me and my husband. I love the fact that the sun rises at 4:30am and does set until after 10pm. I love the candies, I love Bavarian Charm, and I love driving through the countryside passing castles like it's nothing.

It's just about perfect.

I just wish you all, every one of you, could be here, too.

The most beautiful thing ever said to me.

2010-07-15T06:01:00.000-07:00

I was standing in our kitchen, the summer air sticky all around us, while my darling husband made himself a turkey and gouda sandwich.
I was telling him about the book I was reading. Which is a ritual of ours. I drone on and on about what book I've got my nose stuck in, and he listens, adding his own 2 cents in every now and then.
This book, Here if You Need Me by Kate Braestrup, had brought me to tears. She writes about the loss of her husband due to a terrible car accident.

I, emotional from I just read,said to him "Please. Be careful with you. I don't ever want to lose you."
He was holding his spreading knife, with some smears of dijon left from his business of spreading, and said with the softest look in his eyes ever:

"I don't want to lose you from my being lost."

I threw my arms around him as my tears spilled down his uniform undershirt.

The journey of a few thousands miles starts with....a plane ride

2010-07-02T01:34:00.000-07:00

So, leaving the states turned out to be harder emotionally that you'd imagine. Sure, I was beyond excited to get to my wonderful husband. But the giddiness didn't start until I was in the air and zooming over Newfoundland.
It is so hard to say goodbye to family. Esp. my sister, mom and Grandma.
It started the day before, as I was driving, Cyndi Lauper's sadist song "True Colors" came on. And when she sang the line "I can't remember the last time I saw you laughing..." I broke down in tears, thinking of my sister's wonderful laugh.
And That is all I will write about that, due to the fact that if I write anymore I will be sitting here, sobbing.
So, that was what started my crying bouts.
My sister made a wonderful dinner for me. My favorite chicken dish. Corn on the cob, and her divine pineapple casserole.
We ate. We laughed. I cried. She made me laugh, saying (even if neither of us believed it)"but it's not sad..it's...HAPPY."
I thought "Oh man. I can't do this. I don't want to go to Germany."
But, then, I'd think of my husband and think "I want to go so bad!"
conflicting emotions are never easy.

Fast forward to the next day.
I stopped by Lynsey's work and hugged her extra hard. And she started crying and so did I.
At Dulles, I checked and got my grandma a wheel chair. She made the long trip to DC just to say Bye to me. My sweet little grandma. I love her so.

I didn't even start to cry until Michael called and told me to tell the trio at the airport (Mom, Dad, & Grandma) Bye for him. I choked up on the phone and had to go, RIGHT THEN.
I cried goodbye and cried extra hard when dad kissed my cheek. I couldn't look at Mom. But then I decided to look back and wave as I was leaving for the underground world of security.

Once through and at my gate, I stopped by Great American Bagel and stuffed my face with A chicken pesto panini and waited calmly for my flight.

I flew KLM. Which is Royal Dutch Airlines, if you are as clueless as I am. I need to say, KLM's seats are...extra cozy. And I was in the middle.
I felt the effects of that panini quite fast, I may add. I felt like I needed to use the airline phone to call Jenny.
A few seconds after settling in a large robust man from Nigeria plopped down beside me.
"Hello. You have ever been to Nigeria?" He asked all in one swooping howdy'do.
"Hi. No. I've not been." I answered.
"Well, I extend an invitation to my country."
I said "oh. Ok. yes. thank you."
he said "I invite you right now."
I scratched my nose and felt awkward. Like "you mean right now? I'm en route to germany...but uhm...thanks?"

Nigeria-man pulled out his Bible as I pulled out my portable dvd player, and tuned into season 4 of sex and the city.
Pretty soon I felt something on my left shoulder. I dodged my eyes that way and there it was....nigeria tuning into my dvd!!!
Not that he could listen in as I had on my head phones. But I noticed that while clutching his Bible he was never missing a samantha scene.

KLM flight crew wears royal blue leisure suits.
That is a random fact you may want to store away for future use...like Halloween.
They were nice though, and over fed us.
Which did nothing for the seating.
We got a hot towel and almonds their first go round. I chose NOT to eat the almonds. Not my style. (I had turned off my show to collect the almonds and coke from the air crew man. Nigeria told me "Do not to turn it off, only pause next time." Ooooohkay.)
Then we got a hot towel and dinner. Which was possibly in the running for the grossest thing I've ever put to my lips.(I arranged everything on my plane to signal to the air crew that I was finished, but thanks anyways. Even placing my almonds on top. Nigeria saw this, raised his eye brows picked up the baggie of almonds and looked at me. I shrugged and said "Go for it." And he DID! He ate my trash almonds!!!!!)
KLM shut out the lights for a few hours, and I tried to steal some zz's.
They popped the lights back on and threw another hot towel (which the euro men right in front of me used to bathe down.) I declined it as I was already like richard simmons listening to run-around-sue.
KLM then threw breakfast at us.
Really?
How could anyone possibly feel the need for breakfast? I could see through their lame attempt at trying to trick us out of jet lag.

We landed in Amsterdam, and I got my very first passport stamp. And searched. As in the whole nine. I even got patted down. I was caked in sweat, as there was ZERO a/c in the airport.
A young guy pulled me to the side "Mind if I cheeek yaour bag, meeess?"
I smiled and said "No, please go ahead."
I had to pull all electronics out of my carry on. and open up everything. Which included: A hard drive. Our camera. The mini dvd player, which I had to take out of the case and open the dvd disc holder.
He saw the dvd inside and said "Sexs in dee see-tee?"
I smiled and said "yes."
he said "Cah-ree."
I nodded.
He said "I loauve dis show. You are tip-ee-cull womman, no?"
I said "I think so."

Then I practically had to run to my next gate and Schiphol is a HUGE airport.
If someone ever tells you that Europeans stare. Believe them.
They do.
They stare hard. In fact, it may be some hobby of sort.
There I was caked in sweat (I could feel it running down my back) and feeling VERY out of place. The dress I was wearing was white and thin. So I had the added worry that it would become like a wet sundress contest of amsterdam.
I finally made it to my tram (yes, we had to tram out to our city hopper plane.)
A man said something to me that sounded rude and I was clueless as to what he was barking at me.
I just looked at him.
He barked it again.
I yelled back "I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT YOU ARE SAYING TO ME!!!"
He said "Oh, Dis Way to Tram, Ma'am."

We city hopped over to Nurnberg, and I was seated by the Nervous farter who stole my window seat (He may as well have sank my battle ship!)
The air crew on that flight (Still in the blue leisure suits) asked in her darling british accent if she could get a drink for me, love.
I said "Yes. Coke, please." (Playing it safe with beverage choice)
She said "Would you like Coke light, love?"
I, completely unsure what coke light even is, said "Oh sure!" (Turns out it is just diet coke.)

We landed I collected my bags and Walked through a little sliding glass door and there before me, stood my Michael. Smiling.
And I breathed a sigh of relief.

In-sha-bo-bo and Travels overseas....

2010-06-17T09:13:00.000-07:00

Last Tuesday I was in my Grandma's sitting room when the phone rang. My husband was a-callin'.
He said "Good news or bad news first?"
I sighed "Bad first."
I knew it was about housing. And for the past two weeks housing news had been bad, and I was one antsy woman. I wanted to get on with it already and be with my husband.
Having quite the flare for the dramatic, I was announcing with tragic production that I would maybe be in Germany for Thanksgiving, and what's worse? They don't even have thanksgiving...do they? Oh how forlorn.
Michael sighed and said "I went online to check out our housing status. Y'know to see where we were in line for a home."
I said "Yeah?" hearing the dread mixed with agitation in his voice made my poor little balloon deflate completely.
"And we were 29th! I was so upset that I called."
"Oh." I didn't even TRY to muster any positivity. Not that I had much to go on at all.
"Yeah, so I called. We get a place on the 21st! You can come out after the 22nd when they bring in our loaner furniture!"
I was shocked then excited. I said "WHAT REALLY!?"
He said "Yeah. Truly."
I said "If you were here, I'd poke you in the chest for that!!"
He went on to explain we would be living as primative as can be, like Robinson Cruso with out A/C. Apparently Germans are a-gin conditioning their air sweating it out in the summer.
Oh well...C'est la vie...or however they say "That's Life" in German.

My sweet husband in all his comedic glory tried to teach me how to say Excuse me in German. I couldn't help but laugh so hard. He said with such authority that to say excuse me in German...all you have to do is say "Inshobobo."
"In sha what?" I said laughing "That CANNOT be excuse me. That sounds like you're scatting. I think you're scatting."
"No. It's true. Inshobobo is excuse me. I'll prove it."
So when someone walked by he said "Hey. Hey man how do you say excuse me?"
The guy said "Oh that's uhm....Entschuldigen."
"oh. Close enough."
Inshobobo it is...

I had to go to Ft. Gordon in Augusta yesterday to file my No Fee Passport. Guess what? EVERYONE was nice. The lady who filed my paper work is an army spouse herself. She gave me pointers about married life and told me how hard her experience moving from Arizona to Ft. Drum and then having her husband deploy.
Kiss that Angel Lady at Ft. Meade!!!

On the route back from Gordon my husband called again with good...no scratch that GREAT news. I have a flight. A real live flight!! Arrangements! Actual ticket info. It became so real when he told me. I leave at 6:30pm from Dulles on the 25th. I will switch planes in Amsterdam and I will arrive in Nurnberg at 10:45am. That's 10:45 am Michael's time. 4:45am real time.
It made me so excited that I couldn't eat.
I gave the rest of my gordita to my dad. Quite pleased with the situation.
Quite excited to see my baldie!
Yet, sad to leave my family and friends.
Which is a quandry. Which should I be happy or sad?
I can't fight the feeling of excitement. It seems like a looong time coming. I've been beaten up by Ft. Meaders. Lonesome from missing my husband.
Had my feelings hurt thinking the Army didn't care about families....
Waited patiently for loose ends to tie...
Waited intolerantly for loose ends to tie up...
And here it is.

I've been so happy to be Georgia. Being with family... spending a summery afternoon with my beloved girls Katie & Jackie..making brand new friends...spending time with Stephanie and Aiden the sweetest cutest little boy in the land...laughing with Mom...going to the movies....and just enjoying the incredible heat and air condition that my wondeful beloved peach state has to offer....

Wednesday was like a Saturday in New Oxford, Pa.

2010-05-13T09:48:00.000-07:00

My sister had yesterday off from work. And me...well I have every day off from work, until I finally become an official expatriate. But until then...It's watchin' tv and waitin'...but that isn't what this blog is about...

This blog is about how yesterday was like saturday in the fact that Lyns did NOT have to work, and thus, it was a day of glorious sisterly glee.

Our first idea was to go to DC...so that she could gaze upon those Ruby Slippers..and I could grab a magnet for my ever growing ever beloved collection...Because of all the times I've been to DC...I've no magnet to prove it. Which in a way is a lesson in don't take anything for granted...except it is just a silly fridge magnet...but you know what I mean...

I always knew I'd leave DC...but just didn't know when...Ok I still don't know when...but how about I just didn't think it would be so soon...

Ok..so, we got dressed, we put on make up...we serenaded the bischon. We goofed off. We ate breakfast...and then...it was a little too late to go to DC AND have time to make it back to this area by 5pm for a meeting she had to attend...No...not AA.

So, in lieu of DC...we decided on New Oxford, Pa. Which is a charming place to visit. It's motto is ","The Little Town with the Beautiful Circle," Don't believe me? Check the link. It's all true.

We pulled around the circle in the middle of town, and there like a caffieniated beacon of hope in a historic building stood the coffee house/welcome center.

Which is ingenious if you ask me. You get a cup of coffee, and welcomed all in one stop. Not to mention, they also sell pregnancy tshirts. Tshirts with quippy little sayings like "Don't drink the water" with a huge arrow pointed at your baby gut. Or my personal favorite "Mostly likely to kick" with a swirly arrow pointed to your beach ball belly...

The shop is quaint...with little iron table and chairs out doors...and my most favorite thing about the place? The old doors. The kind with the windows and low door handles....gorgeous!
Once inside, however, dangers lurk behind the pastry cabinet...in case you are wondering...they have a plethora of sugary confections just tempting you from behind the curved glass.

I ordered the fresh apple cake. Apples=healthy. Apple cake=healthy-in-theory.
The lady working shop, who was slightly rude with a chance of friendly, wiped her hands on her apron and said "Want it warmed or what?"
I said "No. Unwarmed is good."
She looked at me like I was running with scissors around the shop. As though my preference for cold as opposed to warm cake was somehow some way against the Holy Catholic Church and all the Saints in Heaven.
I almost apologized. Only Almost though.

She made our coffees, and pulled out my cake from behind the glass and said "Well, is that everything for you two?" Apparently I'd really chafed her perseption of me...by not allowing her to micro my treat.
Lyns, pointing to the bottom shelf of the case, asks "Could I getta slice of the Coconut cake?"
She pursed her lips as she asked "Well, is this to-go??"
She didn't have to sigh a sigh of discontent..I could hear it in her tone.
I said "No. It's to-stay."

She plunked down our pastries, we paid, and headed over to the sofa area for munches.
Note...Even though it is NORTH of the Mason-Dixon, Coffee Co.'s coconut cake tastes like someone's southern meemaw made it in her old fashion kitchen, with her good old fashion applicances with good old fashion love. Yeah, it was THAT amazing.
and I can say this with honesty, because we forked each other's cakes.
And the apple cake? Well, let me just say...it could replace sex as the nations favorite pastime.

Before leaving, we signed the guest book...and if you ever find yourself there...and are browsing through the guest book and happen across the name Mander Nancy Holsenback from Ducktown Tn...well, just know that you probably have read her blog....and know her real name not just her Pseudonym.

So, the two of us, Lynsey & Mander-Nancy, decided to walk around the circle and found ourselves at a "Thirft Shop" in a historic home. Which is a bonus because
1.) we can dig through some junk.
2.) we get to go into an old house.
Once inside, we realize that it is possibly the smallest thrift store ever with wall-to-wall thick shaggy green carpet!! One elderly lady was running the place. And she looked none too happy that we were trodding in cramping her style and making her miss her programs.

I did however find one very awesome costume jewelry necklace for 2 bucks as well as a 10 commandments charm bracelet minus one commandment.

My sister, post drinking coffee, had to run to the bathroom. I was looking around, and I realized that we were in a Catholic thrift shop. What tipped me off was the giant statue of Mary, and a bust of blue eyed Jesus looking to the sky mournfully. In addition to a fine array of prayer cards, and up on the bulletin board was a brand new church bulletin/prayer list AND a list of Mass times.

I chose my vintage slip off the rack, for just 1.50. It still had the tags on it from way back when.

Lyns busts out of the rest room. She says "Dammit! I just squirted damn soap all over my leg. Look at this! Dammit!"
I mouthed "We are in a catholic thrift shop."
She, not being fluent in lip reading, gave the finger to the bathroom area.
I looked over my shoulder at the old lady pursing her lips in our general direction, and feeling much like a heathen.
I whispered "It's a religious thrift store."
She whispered back "What? How do you know that?"
I whispered "I saw Mary and Jesus statues...in there."
She said "Oooh. crap."

Despite the lady looking at us like we were sure fire on our way to spending some hard time in Purgatory, we made out like bandits!
Seriously, I felt so giddy with the pompatus of getting a good deal, I bought a 10 puzzles in one box jumbo set for $2. I sided with the standoffish old lady....She probably likes puzzles too.

I also had my prized necklace, charm bracelet, and a pair of clip on earrings...yeah, I have pierced ears, but They were just sooo avent garde, and 1950's chic...I couldn't...no I wouldn't turn them down...not with that glorious $.25 price tag they were dangling from.

Once outside and safely on the sidewalk, Lyns said "Can you BELIEVE I flipped the bird in a catholic thrift shop?"
I laughed and said "I know. And I'm walking with my jumbo box of puzzles down the middle of the street, like I'm proud."
She said "But I gave the finger. THE BIRD to a Catholic thrift shop."
I said "A catholic thrift shop bathroom, and that lady was fairly sure she didn't like us."
We had rounded the corner, and were putting all out loot in Lyns' Rover when a frenchman approached my sister...
Yeah...I know...how did a french person FIND New Oxford? THAT is the million dollar question.
And you may be asking yourself, "But how did Amber know he was French?"
Yes, he was wearing loafers, no socks...but that wasn't it.
He said "Excuse me, Do you know where zee Rest-OH-RAN on zee square ees? I am lookzing fow zis."
Lyns shrugged and said "I dunno. I'm not from here."
He shrugged. "Ok."
I hopped in the passenger seat and saw that we were parked literally in front of the restaurant. He was actually standing under the sign when he asked.

I said "Lyns! Look!" And pointed to the sign.
She hopped out of the car and said "Sir! Sir! It's right here!"
He saluted her and marched back over and went inside.

We then took ourselves to Frederick, MD so she could pick up some paperwork at her MD's and then we entertained ourselves at Goodwill in Frederick with a glorious fashion show as the rain poured down outside....

my lil' treasures

Flowers in New Oxford.

Lovely garden statue

Front Porch

Why Motherhood Matters...to me.

2010-05-07T07:53:00.000-07:00

I always knew I wanted to have children. Seriously. I even tucked in my Fozzie Bear at night when I was 3. I mothered everything. I stuffed pillows under my shirt, I nursed a rag doll when I was 4. (Ok. I was weird.)

Point is, I always wanted a luscious buttery sweet smelling chubby baby. Or two. Or five. Who can seriously resist a happy fatty that has drool sticking to it's fat fist? (Unless the fatty is over the age of accountability...then that is just Jonathan Winters as Mork's child weird...Although...I loved Mearth. There I was a tangly red haired preschooler tuning into the show waiting to see the "baby" I didn't care/notice that he was full grown.)

I don't think I ever rationalized that it wouldn't be 1.2.3 easy for me.
I didn't imagine that I'd ever get pregnant from a One Nighter...but I didn't think I'd not get pregnant...like the daring young man on the flying trapeze....with the greatest of ease.
Even though that song was about a guy so it's not like he'd get pregnant with ease either...although there was that circus case in People magazine back a few years ago where some guy had a baby...but turns out he was hanging on to the uterus 'just in case'. Greedy!

It could be because birthday number 34 is looming around the corner...and my husband and I have been apart since February....So not only is my biological clock flashing at me like a digital after the electricity has been out "set me! Set Me! SET ME!" but I can't do anything about it!
In lieu of being with my husband...I didn't the next best thing...I reached for the internet. Don't be dirty!
I did some innocent searching on %s and such. As I read that a 34 year old woman has a 75% chance of conceiving naturally I stared at the screen and thought...is that what it comes down to? My fertility reduced to a statistic...a number....and a not-too-pleasing odd either. But still if the weather woman said there was a 75% chance of rain...I'd take an umbrella...I guess...but still...
Where is the romance in that, pray tell?

I decided right then that I was giving up the ghost of wanting someone in my life who has yet to be created. Just like that...
And oh, I was so smug, so self righteous about it.
I thought, I am happy. My life is good. Why screw it up with sleepless nights spent with a screaming infant? Cleaning up runny diarrhea? Projectile vomit aimed straight at me?
Why willingly lose freedoms like...sleeping in late, cereal for dinner, going to a late-late movie, going to any movie?
Why would I volunteer to have poison control on speed dial, boogers on fingers pointed right at me? Wiping someone's nethers until age 3 (it is 3 that people can wipe their own kit-n-kaboodle, right?)
I actually like making out with my husband right in the living room/dining room/kitchen/multi colored sofa, using off color language and making off color references, and the occasional few cocktails...in a row..., I like not having to censor my words, actions, life.

I proudly announced this to my husband. I could hear him smile as he told me about the weekend that he spent with a childful couple. How the 2 year old threw mammoth tantrums...and all he wanted was to go home.
I said "So, you're ok if we don't have a child?"
He said "I'm ok with it, only if you are."
Good enough for me!
We both high fived each other.
Well, the only kind of high five you can give via the telephone...but you get the picture.
We were on the same no-kids-for-us page.
I wore it like a girl scout badge of honor. The "I decided I don't want kids!" badge. If you're wondering, it's a little embroidered patch with a margarita smack in the middle ...and I sewed it like a good childless woman, right on the front of my modern day grown up girl scout vest.
Then I went out to do more good in the world.
I scoffed at mom's in target who had the annoying 3 pack of kids in the buggy, who were all simultaneously screaming for their lives. A trio of terror. Where was homeland security? I announced loud and proud that I was SO thankful I wasn't in that boat. And "oh sweet vishnu can't she DO something with that?" Yes, I was totally honestly 100% unabashedly objectifying the three caterwauling heathens she'd loaded into the Orangish buggy. I looked down my nose as I looked at the tote bags "Good Ganesh, she sould've used a condom."

And that resolve lasted....it did, really.

Then I saw Fozzy Bear in the back of my car...how he got there, I don't know. Well, could be I'm taking my prized possessions back to Georgia (Don't judge, Fozzie is prized to me!) and I tossed them all in my car.
But nevermind all that, there he was...looking at me like "Waka Waka...you're gonna bail on me? What happened to all the gotta-tuck-fozzie bear in at night routine? What happened to lil' miss mommy?"
I pursed my lips and told him "I was 3 and you should count yourself lucky that you aren't in a warehouse in Virginia."
"I'm just saying...." He retorted.
I looked in my review mirror...there he sat, love worn, full of jokes. Eyebrows raised at me, questioning my newly embraced I don't want no kids crampin' style philosophy...

I thought of my own real life Fozzy Bear living la vida europa... who at that very minute was snapping a picture of himself and emailing it per my two days ago request.
"We both already decided. We like our life... I'm getting too old. Right?" I asked no one but myself.

Later I opened my email and saw Michael's ocean eyes smiling back at me from his self photog moment. So endearingly that I smiled back at the computer screen. Suddenly, the image of his sheer joy of having my best friend's child asleep in his arms came into my mind. I heard his excited voice whispering, to not wake the baby, "I really want us to have one." and all of our "I hope it looks like you!" "NO! I hope it looks like you!" conversations came rushing back.
My heart stopped beating, my eyes misted over....

And from the back seat of my car I heard a fuzzy worn bear lovingly say "Waka. Waka."

My Passport in my hands.....

2010-05-05T08:29:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, coffee still in my cup...the fed ex man pulled into Lynsey's drive on a mission.
The fed ex man in his fed ex shorts knocked on the door in a fed ex fast fashion. Each knock yelling URGENT!
Chloe went crazy-go-nuts at the commotion and decided biting someone/thing would be appropo. She took out her aggression on her raccoon toy named Bobby.
I opened the front door and he held out his little electronic scan tron with a No. 2 computery pen for me.
I signed the little signature pad, in an excited scribble. I knew. I just knew what was safely sealed inside the flat envelope.
As soon as the door was shut, standing in Lyns' foyer, in a beige vintage night gown, hair still proudly displaying the fact that it hasn't been awake long, I ripped the little "pull to open" tab across the envelope.
I saw a blue legal sized envelope. Stamped: RETURN TO CSM OFFICE
I gulped...thinking...noooo...what!
But I cast it aside and looked deeper into the darkness of the fed ex envelope. (turns out it was just my birth certificate.)
There...quietly in the darkness was the glorious navy blue booklet.
I lifted it out, held it in my hands and thought "This is what cost us $165 bucks?"
I opened the front page, Saw Francis Scott Key and the first part of the National Anthem...quote by Abe Lincoln...yeah yeah yeah..I'm not gonna forget that stuff...
And I turned the page...
There in all it's gloriousness...The Bald Eagle standing guard over the photo of me...in my brown cord jacket...kinda smiling...kinda not...but mostly looking like I'm smelling poop..and my face...looking a lot fat.
Awesome.
I was smelling something stinky when the picture was made...but it was more of a vegetable soup and sandwich variety. I thought of Chef...snapping the picture in the old musty building there at ft. meade.
The way he referred to himself in 3rd person while he was out to lunch.

I did a happy dance. Which was more-or-less some disco shuffle mixed with a lady ga-ga arm punch/leg kick. Which wasn't as stylish as Madame Garland's 'c'mon get happy' dance routine...but I didn't have the ensemb of men falling at my feet while I shimmied to a show tune.
But, it was my dance o' joy. My one-step-closer-to-my-husband-who-is-living-in-Europe-already dance.

I realize that I'm not going to Germany tomorrow..and there is still the whole waiting on the paperwork thing...but...
If I HAD to get to my husband...at least now, I know I could :)

SJP NYC & Letters from the State Department

2010-04-26T07:36:00.000-07:00

Saturday, in all of it's glorious overcastness...found Lynsey & I in her yard. Planting.
She bought the most amazingly stunning Azalea. Whom we named Eleganza. Partly because of Rupaul, mostly because it is literally the essence of eleganza. Yeah. It's that gorgeous.
So, there we were, two sisters and a shovel, digging up her rocky soil.
We got Eleganza safely in the ground and started digging the hole for her wine cup plant, named Martha.
Michael called, and I sat on the porch to talk to him. As he told me the news about why his buddy Carl called me at 1:30am, my time, looking for my husband, Lyns kept digging the hole for Martha.

(picture it...1:30am...phone rings. Strange number. I answer immediately and in my sleep daze I'm thinking it's Michael. Cell reception here is horrible I say in my "hey! i was asleep" voice "hello?" bad connection..."Hello? hello, honey? Michael? Honey? hello? can you hear me?" Dead connection.
I call back "I just got a call from this number..."
"Yeah...I'm looking for Mike...Michael...This is Carl...His buddy."
I said "Michael's in germany. this is his wife."
Carl says "Germany? How long's he there for?" Clearly Carl was bright eyed and bushy tailed and to his alertness I responded "3 years. I'm drowsy."
He said "3 years! Wow. I guess I forgot about the time difference. I called to tell him about a guy from our old unit."
I said "ok. I'm drowsy. but I'll tell him you called, because...he has a magic jack...and I don't know the number. but when he calls you...it's a washington state number. And...I'm drowsy."
Which, clearly the re-announcement of my drowsiness was part of my I-can't-keep-my-eyes-open-ness.)

So, there I was sitting on the porch listening to the scuttlebutt as to why Carl called me so early in the A.M.
And my sister is cussing. And throwing rocks out of the hole she was digging. Jumping on the shovel, and basically digging to china.
Then she announces with glee and a slant of pride "I DID IT!" She had proceeded to dig a rock...no scratch that...a boulder out of her yard.

After digging, and talking...we went to Ft. Meade. To shop the PX, to check the mail, and to get groceries at the commissary. In. that. order.

We skip out of the PX with our new fragrances in tow....SJP NYC. And it smells Y.U.M. We walk down to the P.O.
As I put my key in the box I say to Lyns "I am not getting my hopes up that there will even be a passport in there."
She said "yeah. don't blame you."
I pull out out some junk mail and a letter marked United States State Department Washington Passport Agency.
My eyes are like saucers. I rip it open. Heart beating faster
I see it's just a letter.
My heart starts to sink.

I unfold it and read the first line:

Dear Mrs. Suman (Since when am I "dear" to them???)
Thank you for your recent passport application. We need your help in order to continue processing your request. (My eyes scanning the letter faster. I started to gasp for breath.)
You will need to provide your permanent street address ( I started to struggle to breath. I don't have a permanent street address. I don't even have a home...but I could use mom's address, but that's in GA and I need this passport to show the no-fee passport angel lady that I have it...and I need it soon...and...)

If we do not receive .....blah blah blah... your application will be denied....blah blah blah...

Although the letter in itself doesn't warrant a sobbing breakdown right in the middle of Ft. Meade Post office. The letter wasn't bad or worded wrong. Or offensive, or even boasting any typos.
But it was the straw that broke the camel's back.
So, right there, in Fort Meade post office... Right by the window that looks out into the parking lot... While SJP NYC still lingered fragrantly on my arm where I'd spritzed a sample on not 20mins before.
While gasping for breath I began to sob.

People came in the post office. And I continued to sob. Some cries you can't stop just to be polite and spare other people from witnessing your moment of weakness. And this was an all-get-out-can't-stop-it-cause-the-dam-done-broke cry.
Lynsey read the letter. She listened as I sobbed. She walked with me out to the car while I sobbed my way to my paint chipped ford, in the drizzle.
I got inside and said
"It's..." gasp "just" gasp "So" gasp "MUCH to put" gasp "on one person." SOB.
I apologized for sobbing 'like an idiot'
I said I was never going to get to Germany. I was releasing all the stress that a had piled onto me since Michael left.
My eyes were puffy. I stopped crying and sobbing and got hold of myself.
I said to Lyns, before going into the commissary "Does it look like I've been crying?"
She said "yeah. A lot. Here...put on some more make up or something."
So i did.
I said "What about now?"
she said "Hmm...try on my glasses.. that may help."
I put them on and looked at her "well?"
"Hmm.." she said looking at me. Her face an open book. Clearly, my break down was still visible to anyone who chose to look at me..
I said "well, let's just go in anyway."
I entertained her with my antics walking in her glasses into the commissary.

Mrs Sandman & Sam Cooke. Just a tale about moving....

2010-04-18T12:44:00.000-07:00

April 13th isn't a day that will life in infamy. Which doesn't hurt my feelings even a little. It was the drizzly day that Executive Movers came to the little Suman Apartment in Columbia.
Their arrival time was between 8-10am. I woke up at 6. Just to make sure everything was ready. All the i's were dotted and the t's were crossed...and that all the DO NOT MOVES were in central un-ignorable places.
Which happened to be our cabinet/pantry in the kitchen, and in the bedroom popout window area.

10:30 rolled around and there was a knock on the door. I opened it and there before me were 3 huge strapping men. "You need movin' right?" Clearly the littlest man of the trio was the boss.
I said "Yes." as they introduced themselves to me.
They burst into the apartment with the force of three tornadoes.
They collectively groaned when they saw the mounds of books.
"He don't lie when he say they had tons of books."
I felt almost like apologizing. Then stopped myself. Why should I apologize? We like books. End of story.
I chewed my lip as the littlest man ordered the biggest of the trio to bring up some "Three-oh's"
I'm not in the know when it comes to moving lingo.

When the big guy came up with the three-ohs that's when the mad dash packing race began. I said "I think...I'll just put the cats...uhm...in the other room for now."
Joe, the biggest of the three, and a cat-person said "Ah, now. They wouldn't scratch a fly. They cute little things."
I smiled and said "Yeah, but they get scared..."
So, I closed them into the spare bedroom...after chasing Allie into a corner to pick her up. She detests moving. So, I didn't want to risk her making a great escape.

The little guy took the kitchen, Joe decided to start on DVDS and Harvey took the bedroom. I stayed put in the living room on our "Colorful" sofa (Which Joe decided to call it that.)

I ended up putting the cats in their taxis when the movers kept going into the spare bedroom.
So, there we were, two cats and a red head sitting awkwardly on the edge of the sofa while 3 strange men busked through the apartment.

Joe decided he felt talky. I liked him immediately. He saw my buddha he said "So, oh lawd. You like these things too huh?"
I said "Which things?"
He said "Them fat buddhas. Lawd, my sister, she got a big ol white one. She say to errbody 'dontchu touch my buddha. I say 'i only rubbin that belly for luck.'"
I laughed and said "I think that's the biggest one my husband will tolerate."
He laughed and said "Wheeew"

Joe asked me where I was moving to, I told him to Germany.
He decided to sing "Change Gonna Come" from Sam Cooke to Jessie & Allie. Complete with hand
flourishes, the man was testifying.
Harvey was busy packing up my unmentionables, and truly, I didn't even think about it until after the fact.
Joe eyeballed Jezebel, my prized houseplant. He said "Mrs. Sandman?"
I said "Yeesss?" (Who could resist????)
He said "Whatchoo gone do with this flower?"
I said "Oh. her? My sister wants her....so...I guess she'll have a new home."
He said "oh. Yeah. I see."

I told the head honcho that lunch was on me, and asked what they liked on their pizzas. Pizza=cheap and more bang for the buck...
He informed me that they didn't like pizza. They'd had it so often. It was just boring to them. I thought...oh crap. They packed up the phone book. I don't know what else delivers. And I couldn't help but think...who gets choosey when it comes to free lunch?
Thankfully, my darling husband rushed in to save the day...all the way from Bamberg.

He called. I said "they...uhm...don't want pizza. they have it...uhm....too much."
He said "What? Uhm...okaaay."
I said "Yeah..." Trying to maintain my nice tone.
He said "What about...oh...uhm...what about Chinese? Do they want chinese?"
Head Honcho said "UH HUH! Yes!" to chinese. Even placing his order for "General Toe-Sew's Chicken. Wit Rice."
Harvey said he'd go for some chicken wings and rice.
Joe said "No. I don't eat chinese. They all the time eatin cat. but if they had chicken wings, I be ok with that. As long as they threw in rice."
My husband called and placed the order, and soon, chinese was en route to the suman abode.

About 5mins before our lunches came, so did two other movers. Actually, they were packers. Two ladies. Bettylyn who announced to the men that her husband was out of town. She was elderly and this cracked me up.
The other was a lady around my age, who I liked. She was chatty.
I told them lunch was en route, but I'd be happy to order some chinese for them, too. Bettylyn said she'd like an order of General Tee-Sews chicken. While the lady around my age wished for an order of peppersteak and rice.
She said "So, what will you do with your plant here?" Apparently Jezebel puts a spell on all who gaze into her hugeness.
I didn't have time to answer. Joe called from the dining room "No. Her sister been cryin' for it."

Which made me smile thinking of Lyns with a kleenex in her hand sobbing and begging me to give Jezebel to her.

Lunch arrived, and the delivery guy says "You move in?"
I said "No. Moving out."
He said "Ah. To where you move?"
I said "Germany."
He said "oooh Germany. You move to capitol city?"
I said "no...uhm...bamberg."
He said "That near capitol city?"
I said "No."
I also told him I'd see him in a few minutes, because more orders were placed. He bowed and said "See you soon, Ms. Lady."

When he returned bearing the Pepper steak, and general Tee-Sews chicken, he said "My sister she go to Germany."
I said "Oh! really? Did she like it?"
he nodded over-the-toply "Yes. Like it berry much"
I tipped him...again. He bowed and said "Tank you ms. lady have good aaaaventures in germany."

I told Joe to make sure he got some Egg Rolls, since there were over 12 of them on the counter.
He said "No thank ya Ms. San-mun. I don't be eatin them. You never know if they gone have some cat in them."

The movers stayed until 6:15pm. they left only the do not moves in the bedroom.
The headhoncho took cokes for the road, and all the left over egg rolls.
Joe, Harvey and the ladies also helped themselves to more soda and some bottled waters.

My voice echoed in the now empty apartment as I told Jessie & Allie they were free to explore our furinture-less apartment.
I went to the PX for a pillow and a blanket...

When I got home, I opened the DO NOT MOVE cabinet pantry door to help myself to a treat. Only to discover, that Head Honcho had indeed packed up our food. To include...my opened loaf of Whole Wheat Bread. Some Opened boxes of Life Cereal & Oatmeal Squares Cereal, some Egg noodles and various other foodies....

I grimaced imagining how furry that food will look when I see it again.....

Grumpy. Antsy. Restless. Sulky.

2010-04-11T16:23:00.000-07:00

It's been a beautiful day. It's a lovely evening. yeah yeah yeah.
I've done laundry all day long. Literally. All. Day. Long.
Getting crap ready for the movers to come to pack up all our stuff, and put it in a magical place referred to as "Storage, Pending Overseas." Where ever that may be. It could be far away in some storage unit. It could be close by. Getting re-infested with Stink bugs, like our stuff did in Public storage. It doesn't really matter, because it will be nowhere near me.

The EFMP lady sat around for a week and didn't get in touch with me about my bloodwork results and all the other needle torture they are going to put me through.
I know I'm going to have to have a lot of vaccines. They don't even have to tell me. I just can already guess that one.
They will probably invent some other weird vaccine that I will have to get...but I'll have to wait for development and research to approve it.
So, While I'm busy doing all this waiting...the movers are coming.
To take all my stuff away.
My blankets. My pillows. Our ugly sofa. Our stuff.
All the while I am still waiting.

I can't apply for a NoFee/Official passport until I am put on Mike's Orders. I can't be put on his Orders until the 5888 form is signed. That won't be signed until I have all the ridiculous amounts of needles poked into my body, and I can't get any shots until the EFMP woman makes an appointment for it, and she won't make an appointment until someone looks at my bloodwork. And I have no place to live. Lovely.

AND, guess what? they aren't even giving us seperation pay. Why? because I'm not on the orders. And I can't be on the orders until....well, you get the picture.

It's like I've been drop kicked into a Keystone Kops film. While the EFMP lady takes smoke breaks, It's-a-pretty-day breaks, personal days, pops some popcorn, and scratches her ear and looks at her finger, I am waiting. And waiting. AND WAITING. AND WAAAAAAAAAAAAITING.

We paid $165 for a tourist passport. But what good is that? I can't afford to buy a ticket to Germany. AND if I did, I could only go for a visit. And Honestly, there's nothing in Germany that I want to pay to see, except for Michael. And should I really HAVE to pay to see my husband?

I don't know if this is some kind of pyschological test/ practical joke that the army is playing on me. I don't know if they are just wanting me to throw up my hands and say "Ok. OKAY. You win. You don't have to get me to my husband. I'll just go back to Georgia and live my newly married life seperated. Kthanksbye." I honestly do not know what the deal is, but I do know, I've not met anyone who has gone through this.

I'm just so frustrated. I have no more patience. None.
In february, I was so sure I'd be with Michael in March. In March I was SO sure it would be April. April is here, and I'm fairly certain I won't be there until end of June, if ever.
And it's making me hate Germany.

There. I said it.

I feel stuck. Stuck here, but kicked out of my home. So, now, not only did the Army take my husband away, they are taking my stuff away, too. Except for what I can cram into two suitcases.
And one of the suitcases will be crammed full of my underwear, because gross. I don't want some sausage link fingers stinky man fondling my underwear while packing it up.

I'm frustrated. My darling little Padgett Temper is brewing. I've kept it from bubbling up for as long as possible.
AND to top it off, I did a search of how long this EFMP process takes. The answer I got was it varies from person to person family to family. Fair enough.
But then I read of a Filipino woman who married a military man, and was joining him in Korea from the Philippines, and it only took her 2 weeks.
It made me SEETH.
2 weeks? she's not even American!!!!! and I'm on what? 2 months. Nice.

Just call me a Trypanophobic.

2010-04-08T20:52:00.000-07:00

I had joy. Sheer joy when the EFMP coordinator told me that she had indeedy put in an appointment for me to get bloodwork at the Lab.
And this is huge considering, I hate needles. I will avoid needles at all costs.
Except...when it comes to going to be with my husband.
If you're holding my husband from me...and the ransom is me getting blood drawn...well, then I will let you poke me with a needle...but not without a panic attack. And it's embarrassing. I hate it about me. I feel so absurd.

So, my blood letting day... it started like this...
I wake up to a sunshiney day. Good Friday.
I take a long shower to prolong the needling.
I finally go to Fort Meade. And I see a line of cars. As in...the main gate is backed up. I think...What the...it's a sign..I shouldn't Go. And PS...what is up with this line?
Turns out...People need a DOD sticker now-a-days to get on post.

I continue on my way to the lab..thinking "it's good friday..I'm getting nervous for nothin' cause they are going to be closed and I won't have to do this." Even the parking lot kind of (KIND OF) encouraged my denial...it was empty enough that I got a parking spot CLOSE to the front door. Which nearly never happens at Kimbrough.
I walk in so smug. Almost smiling. So confident that there wouldn't be a needle...but also kinda scared...what if there's NO needle...then I will still be no closer to my husband...Either way...lose-lose.

Except...the pharmacy had waiters. Waiting on their numbers to be called for their medicine. Doubts started to creep in when I heard that they were now serving B620. Probably the lab was open.

My palms started to sweat. I started to feel that the best option when it comes to fight or flight would be flight...to somewhere else...somewhere fantastical. Or somewhere non fantastical....just somewhere away from the Lab.
Which I'm sure "The Lab" is one of the 9 circles of Hell in Dante's Inferno. After all, it seems like no coincidence that the poem starts the day before Good Friday...and this already IS Good Friday...

I find myself standing at the door. Hand on the Handle. Turning it and half hoping that it's locked. Closed for Spring break, and all those wacky Phlebotomists are going wild at a needle convention raising their shirts for a box of syringes.
My image was destroyed as the door opened to a waiting room...where a man argued with the lady at the desk that his wife was his dependent...so he should have rights to hear about her blood tests for her "cholesterol thing."
She said "I can't tell you. It would break HIPAA law."
He put his hand on his hip, and chewed the air and said again "She's my dependent."
Finally he left in a huff.
And I took a number into my sweaty palm. Sat in a chair and thought....Just don't look at that Old Korean Lady staring at me....Pretend you dont' see her staring.

My number was called. F761.
The lady at the desk took my humid number and put it in the number holder.
I said "look. I hate this. I'm nervous. I passout. You need to know this. I definitely passout."
She goes "Girl, don' go passin' out on my watch. We take care of you. You ain't passin' out I promise. I got ways."
I smiled weakly.
A 50 something woman pipped up from the waiting area "Yeah. Don't worry, it's No big deal."
And sidenote..but that REALLY ticks me off. No, it's not a big deal....TO YOU. But to me, Yes. It is.

So, the lady at the desk tells me to take a seat around to the right, and she will be right in to take care of me.

I walk into the room, expecting...well, not this scene.
This 'scene' is litereally just a circle of chairs. In one room. Blood drawing is NOT a private thing at Ft. Meade.
Nay, drawing blood is a group effort. All we needed was a camp fire and wow. it'd be a day at summer camp.
I sit in the big green torture chair (I'm sorry but any chair that an arm folds over the front of you, is a torture device of Medieval caliber.)
I try to look at nothing. But I see blood tubes riding on the blood tube carnival ride. I look away... To the box of syringes that someone won at spring break 09.
I decided it was best to look at the stitching on the chair.

The girl came in and said "Ok. Girl. You ready, or do I do her first?" And pointed to the woman across from me.
I said "Her. I'll go last."

That was when there was an influx of people. All happy and giddy taking their seats. Like it WAS a joy ride.

My turn was up. My lab tech says "Ok. Mrs. Soozman? Sue-Man? Seaman?"
I smiled weakly and said "Su-man. And I'm going to close my eyes now, so I don't see anything."
She said "Girl, no. Don't close them eyes. No reason to. I need you keep 'em open up ok? Cause all I'm gon' do is...."
but I cut her off and said "It's ok. please don't walk me through it."
She laughed and said "Ok." as I heard the pop of the arm wrapper thing-a-ma-bob or the needle popping into place or something...I felt my head start to swim
Ms. Lab tech said "OH Girl...ok make a fist, make it pump up, girl. What yer husband name is?"
I said "Michael."
She said "Ooh Micheal. Stop pumpin' you fist honey. He cute?"
I said "Ouch. yes. Uhm...very. I miss him. REALLY bad."
She said "You miss Michael? Why you miss Michael?"
I said "Because he's..."
She said "Ok...Mrs. Suman...open your eyes. Where he at?"
I said "Germany."
She said "you got kids?"
I shook my head no then muttered it weakly.
She said "You gone have kids?"
I said "Hope so."
She said "how many kids you want?"
I said "I.. don't care."
She said "How ever many God blesst you with?"
I nodded.
She said "How many you hope He blesst you with? 2? 3? Keep yo eyes open. Ok?"
I open them and see the little old Korean Lady staring at me like I'm a show that she got front rows at, by winning them from a call-in radio show. She was literally 2 inches from me. She started at me expressionlessly. In anticipation.
I said "yeah. sure. 2. that is a good number."
She said "Ok, honey you hold this to your arm ok. Keep you from bleetin on your shirt ok?"
I said "I need to lay my head down now. please. Because I can't...."
Everything in the room started going grey. The Lab lady shoved a yellow lollipop in my mouth. She said "Hold that. Taste it. Ok. What flavor is it?"
I heard the 50 something woman say with an air of snotty "If I ACT like I'm Nervous, will I get a lollipop?" She sounded so far away.
The sweet sweet Lab lady said "Firs of all, this ain't no ACK. We gets people like this all day. That's why we got the lollipops here. An' no. you wouldn't."
I was covered in cold sweat and freezing.
Lab Lady brought me in cold towels and told me to hold them on my neck. I said "I'm... ok. I think I can leave."
She said "Girl, no uh-uh. No way. You ain't leavin' until you ain't white as a ghost. When the color come back to your face, you can leave. Not until then."
A lady who just came in said to me "Did you pass out?"
The lab lady said "No. She did not."
the 50something said to me "I wish I could've seen you when I had my hysterectomy."
I wanted to say "Yeah, well YOU wouldn't have seen me when you had your hysterectomy, because YOU were probably asleep, punk."
But, nay. I did not. Instead, I sipped the ice cold pepsi that was put in front of me..and felt like a moron.

Now I just wait to see what vaccines I need, and what other needle torture these sadists want to bestow onto me to keep me longer from Michael....

Calorie Free Weekend...A blog about Fatness Fatness Everywhere!

2010-03-28T15:08:00.000-07:00

Lyns arrived Friday night, much to my delight. She brought New Moon, for us to watch, since last weekend we got too sleepy after watching Twilight. We were going to play catch-up. And MOST definitely watch the movie this weekend.

But before we could settle into any movie-thon....We went firstly to the commissary to load up on mounds of junk food, which any good calorie free movie watching weekend demands.
Lyns & I walked around and around the commissary, dodging the hoverround gang that seemed to gaggle it's way into our aisle at every turn.
We couldn't decide on anything definite....everything looked good, but yet, nothing looked good. It was a hard decision but we settled on a chocolate peanut butter cake and some molly mcbutter. (Ms. McButter was for future use in Hobo Popcorn.)
AND some Lay's Pepper Relish Potato Chips (Mmm. Mmm. Deeelish!)
We came home, ate a non delivered Digorno...supreme. It lived up to it's name...it was Supreme...in deliciousness.

The Two of us, did not, in fact, make it to New Moon. Nay. Instead we laughed until we cried at Dane Cook's Vicious Circle.
We called it a night, and woke up saturday for shopping/junking/coffee drinking.

I made the world's strongest coffee, because that is how I like it.
We drank a cup, and headed to Dunkin Donuts...were we got MORE coffee and a delicious breakfast of Donuts.

Next stop? Goodwill Jessup.

There was treasure to be found...and Lyns had a new surname given to her. Trayvon, her robust cashier with sausage link fingers decided, that her last name was Goodwin.
Lyns said "GoodNo...It's Goodno."
Trayvon said "Oh...looks like...an E in there..."
This is just one more knotch in the running tally of "how many people can mispronounce our last names..."

Her running tally/My Running Tally:

Good-now/Shuman
Goodwin/Shoe-MON
Goody/Shumaker
Goodluck/Shultz
Good-n-plenty/Schwartz
GoodnessGracious GreatBallz of Fire/Shooweeisthatthelitterbox

We took our hard-to-understand surnames & carried on with our day, which took us less than a mile away to the wonderously amazingly mothball smelling Salvation Army.

There was very little debachery in the Army of Salvation.
We spotted some oh-so-lovely wedding gowns.
Some glorious acid washed jeans
And some sexy lingerie....circa 1962.
We passed on everything....
Even though Lyns found it positively heartwrenching to walk away from the acid washed Jeans.
We promptly went straight to the showrooms of Ikea.
Our mission? To get the basket, lamps, arty prints, organizers and cinnamon rolls on Lyns' list.

And to count up the number of fat pregnant women. (Any pregnant woman got on our tally of fat pregnant women)

We instantly found 2 pregnants, and what is without doubt the ugliest baby on the face of the planet...in it's division. (being the college park area of MD) Possibly the WORLD.

First of all, don't judge for me calling that baby ugly. Because, If I'd had my camera, I'd have proof. But I did NOT have my camera, so You will absolutely just HAVE to take my word for it.

She was blonde. Her hair was in sweat curls hanging limp around her head. She was fat. And that wasn't her downfall per se. I love fat babies.
But she wasn't just "hey, i'm a baby with some good old fashion chub-a-lub" fat. NOR was she "Look at my buddha belly isn't that cute?" robust?
No. She was a "I-can't-get-out-of-my-crib-due-to-my-girth-so-bring-me-a-box-of-fish-sticks-and-some-tartar-sauce-stat-then-call-Maury-and-book-me-on-an-episode" lard.
She was asleep in her Chicco stroller.
The bulk of her fat head was resting calmy on her fat fat face. She had the biggest weirdest cheeks I'd ever seen. They were bright red. I was only sure that it could be, getting too hot while she slept, Alcohol Abuse, Balsam Apple Poisoning, Barber's Rash, Rosacea, or Exercising.
(Although...I think it's safe to eliminate the last from the list)

Her siblings were equally annoying. The Brothers were throwing "juice" from their sipper cups, at each other, except...it was going everywhere.
The parents...well, they were trendies. And proceeded to ignore the fact that Zoey was bitch slapping her brothers with a sense of glee. And I would've felt gleeful watching, except the older sister was on my nerves with her face.

The mom said "Trevor...Alex...I don't want JUICE on my things."
I thought..."Well, neither do I, lady...but you're the one with 4 spawn...so...might I suggest a Tubal Ligation/Vasectomy/NuvaRing/Depo Provera/IUD since barrior methods apparently have no appeal to you two horndogs?"

Lyns sneered at the 2nd to the youngest of the Poop-in-Your-Pants Brood as he grabbed our buggy and tried to do-si-do while we waited for employee assistance.

On our way out, we did indeed pick up a box of their Glorious Cinnamon Buns....FOR Sunday Breakfast...not for right now...
However, it must be said that We worked up an appetite in all the kid hating....and went to the Ghetto Fabulous Laurel Chic-Fil-A.
Lyns told me a story about someone she knows. I said "yeah. but who cares...she's fat."
Lyns said "Yeah...but she lost like 37 lbs. She's on the biggest loser diet.."
I said "She IS a loser."
She laughed. I munched a waffle fry.

Post Chic-fil-a-ing we went across the parking lot to Target. We debated on Baby Binks, but just said NO! To the potential calories lurking inside the bunny's two glorious sugar eyes.
Relying instead on the many calories that were provided in the Dark Mocha Cherry Jubilee we found at Starbucks.
First of all, the sign on the chalkboard says "Admit it, you WANT to try the new Dark Cherry Mocha Latte!"
And I'm the first one here to admit that NO. You don't.
It's gritty.
It's bitter.
It's....nasty.

The two coffeed up sisters returned to the apartment, wherein the brother-in-law and chloe came for slumber party parte deux.

We had subway, and yes, we Finally watched New Moon, and lounged around in our calorie infested day...It was glorious...

The only sad part?
When they loaded up their loot, and new found treasures and went back to PA.
And I am going back to a low-calorie week :)

Sunny Weekends

2010-03-21T21:43:00.000-07:00

Spring is springing forth as I type. This past weekend was positively lovely. I was happy to see the yellow blossoms on the Forsythia, even if it makes my eyes ooze icky stinky gunk.
No matter...it's SPRINGTIME! The weather is warming up, and I'm actually wearing flip flops without cold toes!
It's amazing to me that just a mere...what....2 and a half weeks ago, the ground was covered in snow, and I had no hopes of seeing a daffodil anywhere.
This weekend, I went to PA to spend time with my Lovely baby sister, and her husband and pup.
We made homemade pizza, laughed too much, and sipped Mango Margaritas.
The only thing missing was Michael.
It is so very difficult to live your newly married life miles and miles apart. Especially when it seems as though there is no end to the gap between us.
Boarding a plane headed towards Nurnberg seems like a dream. It seems like a fairytale.

Hearing his voice on the phone makes me very feel very Kim Wilde. It keeps me hangin' on.
I think about how fast the butterflies will be flying around and around in my stomach when I'm on the plane inching closer and closer to him.
How excited I will be to throw my arms around him, and actually hug my husband.
That is what I want. I want to HUG my husband. I want to see his smile and look in his beautiful eyes.

But until then, I have weekends with Lyns and sunny days that are only growing warmer!

Retro Post.

2010-03-17T16:23:00.000-07:00

I found this post from my other blog. It was from Michael & I were dating.

Sunday, October 14, 2007

Farts...Hey..everyone does it.

Current mood:Down for the Count

Last Night, I visited Michael. In Augusta. I put my hair in low Marcia Brady Piggy tails per glamour magazine. (They suggested that men find loose low pigtails/ponytails very alluring..and yes..I do feel like an idiota for even admitting to reading glamour..but there..I said it.)

You'd have thought I have a bladder of a 2 year old on potty training. I stopped in Smyrna. Covington. Eatonton/Madison. Sparta. AND exit 190. Which is AFTER the Laurel & Hardy Museum exit.

I arrived in a very non prompt fashion. Pony/piggies in place. Lip Gloss in check.

When I pulled into our ritual meeting place, he pulled in shortly after. Smiling he jumped out of his quickly parked truck, and ran around to me. He enthusiastically put his arms around me and kissed me all in one sweeping fashion. (Hoorah Marcia Brady Hair!!)

Apparently he was as happy to see me, as I was to see him.

We found a hotel room. The girl behind the counter (who was quite avant-garde with the body glitter) said "well, I just gave away the last non smokes room to the man who was just standing here."

I said "Ah..yes.."

She said "I got a smoker room."

We both looked at each other with grimaces (Not the purple mcdonalds kind) but before we could make any comments, she piped in with 'Our maids is real good. Which means they clean out all the smoke smell."

Mike said "Mind if we go check it out first?"

I tried to make her laugh with some "Is it just me, or does this room smell like Camels?" joke.

I had to tap my invisible microphone and say "Is this thing on?"

We went up to room 209. Opened the door, and were whafted with what smelled like the Marlboro man had just been in this nice room.

We turned around, and went back to the 'office'.

She referred us to their sister. (Hotels have relatives).

Turns out, this place was nice---er. And smoke free. It came complete with everything. Alas, we JUST missed the round bed suites. And all the jacuzzis were spoken for.

We put down our junk and turned on the a/c.

As it was getting quite late, we decided definitely dinner should be at Firehousesubs.

While we're sitting at our little table, eating and talking, and munchin' on these delightful sammiches, the tiniest little girl walks up to our table. Specifically looking and directing her conversation at Mike.

He has a way with kids. They like him. They flock to him.

I topped off the dinner with my kosher dill. I have barely any resistance to those. I decide to save my chips for 'tomorrow' thus reserving room for Cold Stone.

We stand up to leave, and it hits me. The biggest ball of gas. Right in the stomach. NOT the kind you can burp out.

I thought..Oh man..I sooo don't want to fart in his truck. Or the air outside of his truck. Or around him in general. I don't want this man to think that I fart.

In the car we play "name that band". He played a tidbit of a song, and I had to guess the musicians. All the while I'm willing away the gas. Telling my stomach that she does NOT have free fart reign. I could see in my mind, that woman "Take Beano now, and there will BEANO gass later." I wanted to bitch slap her. Had she been en route to Cold Stone, I'd have instructed the driver to pull over.

Despite my airy situation, I did rather well on the guessing game. He even played my favorite Candlebox song. (Far Behind). Loud. Which was fine by me.

In Cold Stone, we were trying to decide what to choose. He said he was "definitely going for real ice cream, this time."

I said "I think I will too."

I had my eye on the cotton candy one. It's how I'll never grow up. I'll always have a part of me that is 5. I wanted it for the blue color.

Mike chose the birthday cake ice cream bonanza. I'm not sure exactly it's name. I saw that it had a whole brownie in it. That they crush up. BROWNIE may as well have been a boston baked bean. I knew if I ordered that, I'd fart him into oblivion.

The girl behind the counter kept trying to get her fellow employees into sing alongs.

I ordered my "Like it" cotton candy sans add-ins. Add-ins would just encourage the air-outs.

While we're waiting an adorable baby girl (Maybe a year and a half) stands up in her chair. Looks at Mike and dances saying "Mmmm MMMM" in reference to her ice cream.

Kids love him. He was enamoured with her. I told him her dress was 'no bigger than a minute."

He looked at me and said "I've never heard that before."

The moment he was handed his "love it" birthday cake. I knew I wanted it. It looked like a party. It smelled like a party.

He let me eat it. First it was "Just a bite."

I offered him some of my blue. He declined.

Mike smiled as I took another bite.

He asked "Like it, huh?"

I said "Yep! It's like a real party. With Cone shaped hats and everything!"

He was extra generous and let me eat the majority of it.

After the ice cream we went to his barracks to collect his Dvd's. He showed me where he talks to me on the phone. And then up to the top floor to his room. Before entering the barracks he said "Hold your breath, it smells like a huge Fart in there."

I have to admit thinking "Ah..my clever disguise!"

It made me smile thinking of him walking all that way for cell service, just to talk to me, and hear me ramble on in nonsense.

I must say, Mike & his roomie keep their area so nice and tidy. He gave me the grand tour, showed me where the too-packed carnival was happening. Where he sits when he's on duty..the whole nine.

Then we headed back to our big room, to climb into our big bed, and watch Me, Myself & Irene (my choice).

Except, lounging on him while we watch movies (ritualistic of us) was just encouraging the gas. And it was making it highly difficult to hold it in. When you add in the humor factor, I was literally just hoping I could hold it.

Later on, I was dozing off. Almost to that glorious deep sleep. And I hear it.

LOUD.

PFFFFFT!!!

I pop open my eyes. Thinking 'OH geez. Oh good lord. OH MY Sweet Sweet Lord!" Almost certain it was moi.

Then I hear him say my name, quietly, as if he was testing the water to see if I'd heard it. And I realized it wasn't me. I pretended to still be asleep. Trying so very hard not to burst into my 11 year old glee and giggle.

So, apparently, Firehouse gave him the same issue.

This morning we had a WaHo breakfast and non stop conversation. Promising to see each other as much as humanly possible before he leaves Georgia. It was just soo hard to say goodbye.

But 3 hours later, we were yakkin' it up on the phone again...

Losing The Great Baby Race

2010-03-16T21:14:00.000-07:00

When your husband is on another Continent, it becomes completely impossible to even jog in the amazing baby race. It's more a standstill situation.
Biological clock is ticking crazy fast, my husband is shipped away from me, and I'm told I can join him....later.

It gets frustrating, because every person in the universe is pregnant, looking for cutsies in the line for the bathroom, looking for some poor tired soul to ride the train standing up so she can sit, getting her primo parking spot as though she is handicapped. They are everywhere in the commissary, shopping with their toddler running amuck, one in the baby seat, one in the baby bjorn, and pregnant again.
There is even a tv show about teen girls who can get pregnant.

And time keeps flying by for me. Fertility in a woman's 30's drops quickly and rapidly.
And I'm not blessed with 'hey my husband sneezed in germany and whoopsy poopsy! I'm now preg-nant.'

So, having said all that, I have been having recurring dreams about a baby boy. When I dream reocurringly of a baby, someone is going to have a baby. The dreams stop once I know who is pregnant.
It's like clockwork. I can't explain it, and I've never been wrong...

Process of elimination is that it isn't Lynsey...so there I am sitting on the sofa, and it hits me...maybe what if it was me? It could be me. I'm not every month regular. I'm every other month regular. So who knows...it could in theory be me, right?

So I take a test.
I'm used to the tests that only show ONE line when I pee on them. And of course
One line= Hahahahahaaha! Wahahahahaaha! You really thought you were pregnant?
Two lines=Are you sure you didn't borrow pee from that extra fertile girl you know and sprinkle HER pee on this stick? Cause sister, you did it.

I"ve never seen two lines. Ever.
The one line dealio..that's my middle name.

This test...well this test had TWO lines on it!
I looked at it.
I rubbed my eyes.
I looked at it again.
I thought "No. Surely...No. Can't be. That' can't be TWO lines, I didn't sprinkle anyone else's pee on this."
I chewed my lip.
Yeah...that's two lines alright.
I smiled. MY pee made two lines! MINE.

No. No, it can't be.

Then I looked at the instructions.

Three lines. For this test. It takes Three Lines to be pregnant.
Again. One line short.

The reality of how pathetic I actually am coursed through my veins.
I wanted to throw it. I wanted to throw that pee covered stick as hard as I possibly could. I wanted to throw it so hard it would land on some pregnant woman.
Except, I didn't throw it. I just dropped in the trash...Turned off the bathroom light, got in bed and thought
"I quit."
And I didn't even cry.

The Gorton's Fisherman, Chef & Hobo Popcorn.

2010-03-10T21:38:00.000-08:00

My To-do list today had two must accomplishers on it.
1. Get taxes done at 9am
2. Get Passport Photo made at 12pm.

I woke up early, shuffled into the kitchen hair an albatross nest, one eye only half open, the other still too foggy to focus. Even my blue and white night gown was asking for 15 more minutes of sleep. The cats didn't move from their posts on the foot of the bed.
I opened the freezer to get the coffee out, because I was in dire need of the beautiful strong Black Silk that only Folgers makes.
Only, I had used the last bit of it, yesterday. (Yes, I scraped out the very last ground, like a junkie grabbing for any tiny bit of his poison)

In my dismay, I groaned "Really?!"
The contents of my freezer looked back at me. Mocking me.

The Gorton's Fisherman tried to come on to me. He was so egotistical in his yellow rain slicker and his burly grey beard. I told him it was too early for fisherman monkeyshines, and I wasn't interestd in his goods this morning.
The Jolly Green Giant taking offense at my rejection of that sauve man of the sea, insulted my virture. Signature phrase, my tailfeathers!

Lindy's Pistachio Gelato Man made a scathing hand gesture in my general direction.
They're a touchy crowd in the Am.

I shut the freezer door in disgust. I didn't need to be insulted by products, when I was already injured by the lack of coffee goodness.
I had to do what no woman wants to do...No...it didn't involve that schmoozer fisherman...
I resorted to the 'emergency coffee stash...AKA...Taster's choice.

After downing the coffee....
I went to the ft. meade tax office...and even though it seems impossible...I got lost. Totally lost looking for the tax office.
Nevermind that I went there with my husband. That was way back in January. And all those buildings look exactly alike. Regardless...I DID find it. Eventually. And the taxes were done.

I had just enough time to dust off my hands and then it was on to the Photo lab...

This building looked like it truly WAS there when Ike had his day in the sun at Camp Meade.
It was old. It was rickety.
Walking in, I felt like I was entering no man's land.
I followed the signs that pointed the way to the PHOTO LAB.
I walked to the window.

A man who looked like Chef, complete with red tee (no hat) was sitting there, chewing his food. I said " I have an appointment."
He nodded and swallowed and said "Yeah. He's not in right now. He's at lunch. He'll be back."
I nodded ok and took a seat.
Two other would be travelers came in. In Uniform. One was Jack Black, the other Richie Cunningham. both carrying shirts.

Five minutes later music comes on. Babymakin' music. Chef sticks his head out of the window, clears his throat and says "Ok. I'm back. Ma'am. You ready?"
Apparently when Chef is out-to-lunch, he refers to himself in 3rd person.
He asks the men if they brought shirts. They start taking off their uniform top to put their regular shirts on. I had to stifle my laugh and bite my smile.
It is very personal to watch someone put on a shirt. And I could just picture them in their homes. The Jack Blackesque guy stretching the shirt as he slides it on. The skinny guy singing while attending to the buttons...
I looked away to give them privacy. And so they wouldn't see me giggle.

I got to be first to mug for the camera.
It was very very middleschool year book picture.
Little stool to sit on.
Background.
Move my head a little this way.
Up just a little this way
and one two three say "My grandma's a monkey's uncle!" and click.
This picture will haunt me.
Nothing Chef can do to change it.

Then I raced back to my apartment to meet my sister. We lunched. We laughed. We visited our good friend Ollie. We had coffee...ahhh...alas. the good stuff.

She brought me a box of thin mints, & a cadbury egg.

We came back to my apartment, watched possibly the BEST episode of Gilmore girls, and made Hobo Popcorn.
Good day indeed.

Sunshine and 60 degrees!

2010-03-08T12:12:00.000-08:00

The sun is out, sky is blue, birds are singing and Rita's is open....Which means spring is here! (Even if not by calendar standards yet.)

Yesterday it was so lovely. I had the balcony door open much to the delight of the cats. I cracked the windows. Even though there was a still a chill in the air, it was refreshing.
I played Mariah Carey and cleaned the apartment.

I had to run to Harris Teeter, as my supply of diet coke with lime was running low. I had two options, walk over or drive. And in lieu of the crazy eyed red car man incident the other day, I decided to drive.

(Note: A man who probably gets paid by the government for his being touched by an angel, came staggering up to me last week in the parking lot of our complex. I was unloading groceries from the back of the car, and he just stood staring at me. His tobbaggan was askew and looping off his head at the top. He was smiling, as he swaggered my way. I knew some of his crayons were missing from his 64 pack box o' crayolas, but he didn't care. He looked like he'd hug too hard and once he broke into laughter, he wouldn't be able to stop. His eyes were dark an unsettling, and lo and behold, I was parking right beside his little red.....honda? Anyways, I was so startled by his staring, his somewhat sinister smile, and his toboggan hat that I actually got back into my car, and locked the doors. I was ready to pull off if Mr. Crazy-go-Nuts tried to pull a fast one. I don't know if he took that to mean that I was revving my engine for an old school drag race, but he hopped in his car and drove away. Yeah, I was shocked, too, that Maryland granted him a drivers license. Since that incident, I've decided to drive, not walk to the H.T.)

Anyway, I made it to my car, and over to Harris Teeter without so much a sniff of Mr. Looney Tunes. I walk into the H.T. and right before my eyes in all it's pastel array of beauty, are the Easteries, and the Passoveries that they have on magnificent display.
All located right by the floral department, where bouquets of springy flowers seemed to burst forth out of their water filled holding buckets. The Hydrangea and the daffodils seemed to be singing sweetly to the reese's eggs, the hershey's variety packs, the mooshy gross marshmallow eggs only Michael and my Grandma buy.
I was torn away from the candy to admire the floral displays.
It made me miss Michael, and the way he always brings me 'just because' bouquets. The sweet way he presents them to me, sometimes holding them behind his back, sometimes holding them out like a little boy.
I admired the flowers, the bunnies, the kosher macaroons, the cadbury eggs, the big boxes of Matza.

There I was, so giddy. I love spring. Everything seems so.....new. Like the world is reborn. Not a hustle-bustle like in Autumn, but a slow moving burst of color. People crawl out from under their winter bunker blinking in the sunlight and stretch off the cold.

The old man sniffing stinky cheeses at the obnoxiously expensive cheese corral didn't annoy me. Even though he stood in my way. The kid telling his dad the he wanted chocolate carrots, and the dad told him that there was no such thing didn't annoy me. (Althought I did want to say "There is too sucha thing! Lindt makes them, which means your kid has good taste in chooclate. They are shaped like little delicious umbrellas. Did you NOT see the Easter Candy explosion that greeted you as you walked in the door? Get the kid a chocolate carrot, man!")

Nothing or nobody was gonna break-a my stride, and nobody was gonna hold me down, oh no.

Even the fact that I had to choose Diet Pepsi with Lime didn't truly make me upset. Despite the fact that it is dis-gust-ing.

I paid for my purchases, and walked back out into the sunny day.
It was then that I saw the hubbub. The commotion. The ballyhoo. The hullabaloo. And I wondered, "What's all the the big stink about?"

It was pandemonium, people were walking, power walking, and a dad & his 4 year old daughter were skipping with the pompatus of joy.
I decided that I needed, no I HAD to uncover the root of the cause of this bruhaha.
But it did not take me long, nay. Not long at all.
Because as soon as the word bruhaha entered my mind, the answer, like a light bulb appeared over my head.

RITAS.

I didn't even have to see Ritas in her little nook of the shopping center. I just knew.
It had lay in abandon since labor day, forgotten and silent.

But they were open. I threw Pepsi's lame attempt to cash in on Diet Coke with Lime's masterpiece into the back seat of the Escape, and I ran in slow mo to the Ice-Custard-Happiness Stand while Chariots of Fire's Theme played... in my head. (Ok, ok, I'm glamourizing it. I didn't run. I just walked, but I tell you, I did so gingerly.)

I stood in line behind other equally excited patrons. Some people sticking to traditional flavors keeping it gloriously simple, while some went right in for the middle of summer mix up. (
Which personally, I think mixing flavors should be worked up to, not diving in head first at the inauguration of the season, but when it comes to Italian Ice/Frozen custard/gelati/blendinis....anything goes.)

I ordered my regular sized Frozen Vanilla custard, with a lid. No sprinkles this time, baby steps.
And I drove it back home, keeping my eyes shifting to sniff out ol' Mr. Shifty Eyes himself.

I went up the stairs carrying my dessert like it was a trophy, proud despite of the fact that in the other hand, I was holding diet soda.

Lerory Sanford and the lingering smell.

2010-03-05T20:39:00.000-08:00

The Cartwright movers were supposed to be here bright and early this morning, or so said Orlando, the voice of the moving company. Yeah, we've talked. We were on first name basis cause me and Orlando go all the way back to Monday.
Orlando, or Landy as I like to call him, said the movers would be here at 8am. Sharp. And stay no later than 10am. Exactly

So, I cancel walking the kids, I set my alarm for 7am to get my two cups of coffee in, and to attempt to wake up properly.
I was sure they'd come a-knockin' and everything would be "mission a-go."

At 10:30, I was munching on a fiber one bar, tuning into the biography channel. Wondering if Orlando stood me up.
Another hour passed, when there was a thundering knock on the door. So much so that Jessie bolted to the safety that can only be found under the sanctuary of the sleep number. Allie ran willy-nilly looking for a fast escape, which lead her to the not so concealing spot behind the Tv. It's skinny, she's bumply. She kinda stuck out, but at least she thought she was hidden.

I opened the front door, and before me stood, not Landy (I reason he was just the receptionist, no heavy lifting for him. Who knows, maybe he had a hernia which keeps him off heavy liftin' duty) But before me was Fred G. Sanford.
In the flesh.
With his hair haphazardly sticking out from the sides of his truckers cap.
He says "Mornin'. You got some shipments going to Ger-min-ney?"
I say "Yes. Right this way."
He says "I'm Lerory." stressing RORY.
He walks into our spare bedroom, where I've piled the footlockers and various other Michael things.
He assesses the situation by cocking his head left then right.
He chews his lip and says "K. I be right back."

I think he's going down to the truck to tell the big dummy to come up and lend a hand, and if not Lamont, then AT least Grady or Melvin.
Instead he comes back up, with brown shipping paper, boxes, tape and a dolly...smelling distinctly of cigerettes.
I'm shocked that the company would send Redd Foxx...and I was terrified I'd hear him in the sparebedroom calling out to Elizabeth. Oh this is the big one...I'm coming to join you!

Lerory is working hard in the spare bedroom, and I feel guilty for just sitting on the sofa watching tv. I offer him a bottled water.
I offer him a Diet Dr. Pepper.
He declines.

He says he has to go back down to the van.
And comes back smelling strong of cigerettes.
It hits me, LeRory is taking smoke breaks.

I half think of febreezing our apartment, but think it may be too rude to Air Effects the apartment while Lerory is still inside of it.

Finally he takes our load down, comes back and has me sign off on the little list of things that are now en route to Mikely.
While I'm standing there, looking for where I need to sign, I imagine if he was a cartoon character, he'd have been PigPen. because the smell is radiating off of him. In little clouds.
But it's not just cigerettes....it's more...involved....more....drastic.
It's...butt.
Cigerettes and Butt.

He says "So, all this stuff is goin' to Ger-min-ney?"
I breathe through my mouth and nod while signing the stack of paperwork, "Yes, eventually, all of it."
He shakes his head and says "Well, I got off easy, that's for sure."
I say "Yeah, it's going to be a lot of work."
He said 'Yeah, I already feel them 3 flighters of stairs. Three flighters of stairs is a lot for anyone."
I thought "oh no. here it is, Elizabeth, he's coming to join you, and it's all because of me."
I offered him a water, again. A baby aspirin, anything.
He again said "No, honey, I be ok."

Lerory's endearment made me feel guilty for breathing through my mouth, and for counting the steps to the cabinet to where the Air Effects was gearing up to perform it's job.

He said "But I do tell you this, they gonna earn they keep when they move this stuff to Ger-min-ney. You gonna have to feed them chicken wings for climbing those three flighters of stairs"

He left, taking a little piece of Michael with him, and leaving a little piece of his smell behind...
I googled to see if Dominos has wings.

And I realized....I hoped Lerory had a good day for his troubles on our three flighters of stairs, because really, he IS too old to have to work so hard.

Poopstained Sidewalks, The Commissary, Unaccompanied Baggage, and EFMP.

2010-03-01T15:10:00.000-08:00

My day was full of it.
In fact, I should've taken it as a sign all the dog craps along the sidewalk that I was dodging this morning, when I went over to walk the kids to their bus.
I mean SERIOUSLY shelter cove apartments, you can't get a leash or a diaper on that renegade pooping dog?
SO glad we don't live there anymore.

It was exactly one hour after poop dodge that everything got really shitty.

First stop...the commissary. Of course.
I had my little list.
I had my coups.
I was careful in picking the greenest of the green bananas.

It wasn't going too bad, until I got to the condiment aisle.

I needed salad dressing, and it was buy two get a dollar off. Which, excuse me, but where is the deal in that?
What if I only need ONE? Why can't I have 50 cents off my solo adventure? I hate those coupons. I absolutely hate them.

I had just safely tossed my Romano Basil Vingerette into the buggy, and I heard it.
One of thoses moms that I want to gut punch.
The kind of mom I call a talky-talk. The tone she uses with her kid, makes her think that YOU think she's in the running for mom-o'-the-year...in reality YOU know she spends zero time with the kid because she's talking to him like he's a stranger's child.

His name was Jackson. (That's 2. I hate that name. They probably spelled it with an X to be different.)
He runs in front of my buggy and dive bombs himself onto the lowest shelf. And apparently there was a sale this past weekend, because it was empty.

He yells "BET you can't FIND me, Mommy."
And she says "Oh dear me! goodness! I think I've lost Jackson. Oh where oh where could he beeeeeeeeee?"
Any real mom would've said (and I quote) "What is WRONG with you, get OFF of that shelf."
Jackson laughs and says "Can't find me toilet paper head."
And I thought for half a second that kid may have a point she probably could benefit from a charmin treatment to the forehead.
The mom didn't correct him for saying her head was something beneficial to cleaning your nethers post 'usin' it'. Nope. She played along.

I stood there thinking I'll see them on an episode of Supernanny in 2 years when he is punching her and calling her toiletpaper head, and the mom is crying saying she doesn't know where she went wrong.

I went to fetch the pets some fancy feast.

Lo and behold, they followed me. Jackson said that he wanted a dog toy. His mom said "Oh Jackson, that is not appropriate for a little boy, and that is what you are, my little boy."
He said "Well. I want it."
She says "Why do you want a toy that was manufactured for a dog?" (YES, she said that.)
He said "I want it." squeaking it to the beat of the band.
She said "No. Not a dog toy, you can pick out a human boy toy at another store."
He says "Why can't I HAVE IT??????"
She says "Because, Jackson-boo, I say no, and that has to be good enough, ok? Is that okay?"

An old man looked at me like "I'd make him pick out his own switch."
A woman with a baby rolled her eyes.
I farted.
Well, ok, I didn't, but I wanted to.

The day only got better....

I go to Transportation, only for the millionth time. In fact, I didn't have to say a word to the lady at the welcome desk. Upon seeing my red head waltz in, she said "Lemme guess....transportation?" I nodded.

So, I take my number (F716) To tell Friendly Mustache that I didn't think the unaccompanied baggage shipment was going to work for my husband, since it's supposedly going to take a month and a half to get to him, and he kinda needs it pronto. And I really wanted to use the word PRONTO with authority. Because it IS a good word.

The waiting room is crowded. With two TVs. One on CNN, one tuned into Regis and Kelly. I find a chair and sit.
A woman, with her kids in tow, decides that since she has 2 children, she has somehow gained expemption from waiting.

I blame those grocery store parking spaces they've designated for people who can procreate.
And people everywhere who give up their space in line for the bathroom to a pregnant woman.

She says to the window, and to anyone who will listen, "Excuse me, why I gotta wait? I got 2 kids."
The lady in the window says "Well, it's first come first serve."
The mom chomps her gum and says "Yeah, well, I got two kids. I shouldn't HAVE to wait. Can't you fix something and let me go on on?"
She's hit with a first come first serve answer, yet again, much to her dismay.
So, to protest that she has been sentenced to wait for her number like the rest of us childless peons, she allowed her 2 buck wild kids to jump on the chairs, and beat themselves in the chests like tarzan.

Finally, it was my turn, before hers, and I admit I cast her a smug smile. Friendly Mustache tells me there is nothing he can do to get the unaccompanied baggage to my husband faster. It is what it is.
Yep. That is what he said.
I didn't even get to say Pronto.

So, I come home after filling up at at cost of 2.69 per gallon (Where are the gas tantrum throwers now? Or doth I protest alone??)

I am greeted by a lovely little email...
My EFMP, the screening I have to have before the army deems me ok to go to Germany to be with my husband is wrong.
The doctor who signed off on it, wasn't the right doctor to sign off on it. AND my sponsor (Mike) needs to redo the paper for me.(Except he's already IN Germany.)
I have to have a do-over.

The Offiical passport that allows me to travel to and live in Germany? Yeah, The Crazy Angel Lady? she told me the wrong form to complete. She insisted I fill out the minor official passport form. NOT the spouse passport.

Which is par for the course so far, considering how many times has my husband told them he has a spouse? And how many times has his paperwork stated he only has one dependent and that's his kid?

So...I have to start that over from scratch, as well. An Official DO over for my Official Passport.

And oh yeah, did I mention I have to vacate the apartment on April 15th?

Music in my husband's circles...

2010-02-21T13:09:00.000-08:00

My husby left his hard drive full of music behind for me to listen to at my leisure.
And since we aren't cool enough to have a radio in the apartment, I mostly reort to either streaming Atlanta radio online, or I get crazy with the cheese whiz and blast our amazing music library via the hard drive.
Mike has everything under the sun stored in that little black box.

Bored with streaming radio, and needing something less likely to freeze for background noise, I went with the hard drive option. So as to entertain myself while I got Michael's clothes ready for movers to ship on the 5th.
I stumbled across a folder of music he got from our friend this past summer. I found a song in the mix that I hadn't heard since Bush Sr. held office.
I was giddy with the anticipation of retro-gloriousness as I gleefully clicked PLAY! (Yes with an exclaimation point, no less.)

The dramatic beat started up, I was instantly whisked to my childhood. Summertime, in the back seat of the family car, drinking yoohoos in my hand-me-down panama jack tshirt. Smiling with the huge 'i just got my big teeth' gap between my front two. Singing along with the catchy tune, with my skint knees and cabbage patch kid under my arm as the wind blew through my hair.

I had never really paid attention to the lyrics. I never knew what he was singing about. I was astounded.

I think I'll call my dad.

No passport despite the angels....

2010-02-19T13:36:00.000-08:00

So, this week, I have been running all over fort meade to take care of little errands here and there.
Let me preface this by saying, there are 2, yes count 'em 2 people who have actually been nice to me at Ft Meade.

One is Chuck in transportation. I liked him for his friendly mustache. There is a difference in mustaches. Some ARE friendlier looking than others.

The second is a woman named Dimple. At tricare she fixed my hospital bill fiasco. Wherein Northside Hospital swore I didn't have Tricare, and they weren't even going to listen to me tell them about my insurance.
Dimple got on the phone and straightened them out.

Well, and I guess I could throw in the crazy-go-nuts woman at Family Health.
I say she's crazy-go-nuts based on the fact that her hair was wild as an albatross nest...AND it wasn't windy outside. That and, She proceeded to tell me of her long lists of husbands and how she's not good with keeping them. I lost count after the 4th husband.
But if someone can't maintain eye contact with you in a 20 minute conversation, it's not a far leap that she can't maintain a relationship.

So ok, there are 3 nice-ies at Ft. Meade thus far.

So Tuesday I get a jump start to try to at least feel like I'm getting things in order to FINALLY get to my husband.
(Really, I feel like I have to run an triathalon to get to be with my own Husband! and let me tell you, I am so unathletic that if I am within a 10 mile radius, a volleyball will clunk me in the head. It's just fact)

There I am all smart, in my winter coat that makes me look and feel like the stay-puffed marshmellow man. It's stuffed full of feathers. And it proceeds to make me sweat even in subzero temperatures. I feel like I'm really accomplishing SOMETHING. I feel like the volleyball is coming towards my head, and I'm totally getting read to pull a soccer move and bounce it off my head.

I brave the flurries, sweating myself into the old building to talk to Transporation.
After I successfully arranged for my husband to have 500lbs of good shipped to him...I walk up the flight of stairs to room 205.
To ask a question about my official passport. One question. I just need ONE answer. I don't even have to pull up a seat.

It was 11:20am. I have over a half hour before lunch hour, right?

I see the sign on the door says OPEN. However the door is slightly ajar.
I knock.
I can see there's more than one cubicle in there. And by all rights, should just be able to sashay in. But I'm trying to be respectful. I'm new to this world. What do I know? Maybe you need to knock.

She swings the door open like I just woke the baby or something. She barks "Yeah?"
No "Hi, can I help you?"
No "What can I do ya for?"
Phrases like that are for loser wussies.
This was a situation that called for nothing but "Yeah?"

I am stunned. Not for the incredible rudeness, no I'm used to that at Ft. Meade now. What was so stunning was that before me, in her cubicle, along her desk on top of her cubicle and across the window ledge was a showcase of angels.
At least 75. And that's estimating low. EASY. Angels busting out a variety of different poses. Some standing arms raised to the sky. Some with just one fist raised in defiance. Some watching over little kids, some sitting in rocking chairs, some sleeping against a rock. Baby angels, Old lady angels, Angels in kente cloth, Angels in flapper wear...

Growing more impatient with me as I gazed around at the bizarre collection, she said "YEAH?"
I stammered, "Uhm..well, I have some uhm...." (Is that a fat angel?) "questions about my official passport?"
She pursed her lips. Almost to nonverbally say "Are you KIDDING ME??? What do I Look like?"
She seethed out "Do you KNOW what time it is?"
I see the clock on the wall and say "11:20."
She licked her lip and said "Yeah. and I go to lunch at 11:30."
I had at least 10 minutes. I saracastically said "Ok?"
When what I really wanted to say was "Yeah, well I need this damn passport to get to my HUSBAND. I AM on more LIMITED time that you. All you have is a date with your sandwich!" But alas, this woman holds the power to my travel....

She said "So you're best bet is just call me some other time. Cause it's LUNCH."
She scribbles the phone number to her angel hut down on a sticky note and thrusts it at me.

As I backed out, all I could think was "For someone who surrounds herself with figurines of something that is supposed to represent benevolence, she sure is unpleasant."
I think, in all honesty, her hoagie wouldn't have spoiled if she took five minutes to answer my question.
She still had 10 minutes until official lunch time began for her.

When I talked to Mike I told him about the crazy lady angel. He said "Yeah! She was RUDE to me too!"
I said "What was up with all those angels? You know that's a sign of crazy to have that large of a collection on display at your work."
He said "Yeah. it is a sign of crazy."
I said "How do you think she brought all those in? A few at a time? Like carrying one in each hand? OR did she stuff her purse with them?"

Because I was wondering...How does a person get such a hefty display of anything into your place of work?
I like to think she stuffed her purse full of them....and carried one in each hand up the stairs to her office, bright and early in the morning...
While spending the rest of her day earning our tax dollars by arranging all those angels juuuuuust right.

An Army Wife.

2010-02-16T12:22:00.000-08:00

In my quest for any tidbits of Bamberg information I can gather, I came across several Army Wives blogs.
Some of them who live in Bamberg, some who live in Ohio.
Apparently there is an entire network of women who blog about being an Army Wife.

I decided to read some blogs, get a feel for overseas living. After all, my husband is in the army, so I figured, Hey!we probably have some things in comman.
And, After reading a few blogs Turns out, probably not. I don't have 6 kids whoall have runny diarrhea or use sharpies on the family dog. In fact, I don't even have a family dog. I don't have one kid let along 6. I don't scrapbook. I don't bunco, or bingo, or book club.

One blog in particular made me realize, some people just refuse to be happy. Her Army Wife blog was a lament. She was bickering with her husband.
She was dealing with a teething child.
She was bickering with her husband again.
She was wanting to go to Bunco but her kid was struck with a case of constipation and it was hold down the fort and bunker down for the event.
She was FIGHTING with her husband.
She was happy her pamper chef was on it's way, but sad that she spent the money when she should've saved it up for decoupage class..

And I realized, I don't think of myself as an Army Wife. I think of myself of Michael's Wife. A woman who just so happens to be married to a man whose job being a soldier. That doesn't make me his rank, and I don't feel the need to toss around military jargon in order to impress other Army Wives at the weekly swap meet.

Maybe they do, but, I don't recall women who marry men of other professions riding the coattails of their husband's job (Well, except for maybe Michelle Obama...I'm the President's Wife.)
But seriously, I've yet to see a tv shows, tshirts, or blogs entitled:

Insurance Agent Wife
Custodian Wife
Garbage Pick up Wife
Fork Lift Driver Wife

Having said that, I am intensely PROUD of my husband. I am proud to be his wife. I'm proud of his accomplishments, his work ethic, his many many sacrifices. I am honored to be his wife. I love him so profoundly, so completely. I support him in everything he chooses to do. My respect for him is boundless. He is a beautiful wonderful man.
I know his job is all encompassing. It determines where we live and how we live. I am thankful that he has a job to go to everyday. That it's not just a 'job' but a career.
But, I took a vow to Michael to go where ever he goes. To love him all the days of my life, in sickness and in health until I die.
I married the man, not his career.
Maybe it seems bizarre for me to say that, and yes, the army does effect my life. It effects my life right now. While I am finishing up our life in Maryland, he is starting our life in Bamberg.
It's not convient. It's not fun. It's just formality.

So I worry, with my perspective, I won't fit in with Army Wives.
I worry my hobbies aren't the same.
I don't know how to decoupage, or die cut.
I won't have a baby on the way, one on the hip and one tearing through the swap meet like a maniac off his ritalin.
So I worry about fitting in with the other spouses.
I feel, again, like a new kid in school with no one to sit with at lunch time.

I am in no way reluctant to call myself an Army Wife. I just would like to know what it truly means first. Is it the persona that I've seen at the commissary, at the craft shop, in the network of blogs I discovered? Or is it something else entirely?

Is being an army wife just making awesome scrapbooks for your husband and children?
Or is it being there to support your husband regardless?
Or is it whatever you wish to make it?

Fiasco Burritos

2010-02-15T12:37:00.000-08:00

It's snowing again. One cat is snoozing, one is taunted by the birds and falling flakes.

If only snow made me feel frisky or snoozy, it just makes me stir crazy. I want to bake brownies. Scratch that, I want to eat brownies. But there's only so many brownies you can consume, and only so many episodes of Sanford & Son you can watch without feeling....trapped by the frozen fluffy water that just won't quit it already.

Valentine's Day Eve I had a sleep over at my sister's house. Laughing at Voters in the 90's with their mullets, filling in the bubble for Clinton.

We watched Whip it and Couples Retreat. Which I promptly put on my "Must buy" list. We ate moist store bought Valentine cake.

With Lynsey, it was like a barrell of monkeyshines and hijinxs of laughter.

On Valentine's Day Proper, the two G'nos & myself went to Taco Bell/Pizza hut for Valentine lunch/dinner. My brother in law had his mind made up first, and ordered a T6 combo meal. The guy looked at him like "Oh the pressure...the costumer is always right...but we don't have anything called the T6...." That's when the giggles began. I couldn't make eye contact with Lyns. I couldn't. She said "Did my husband just order a T6?"

Her turn was up.

My sister proudly announced to the chap at the counter that she'd like a Fiasco Burrito. (Click it, I found a link to a coup for a freebie) Meaning Fresco. I couldn't even place my order.

I was laughing so hard.

I just had a vision of the burrito causing her to need a bathroom and stat, thus causing a fiasco. The more I thought the harder I laughed.

She kept saying Fiasco. I kept laughing.

After the Taco Bell Fiasco, they brought me back to my little apartment. I found Michael's hiding place for my Valentine. I was so careful not to peek until Valentine's day proper.

In there I found a festival of candy.

Even a heart shaped box that played "Baby I need Your Lovin'"

The card itself was funny, the sweetness he wrote inside brought me to tears.

I stood there with the card in my two hands, and felt like it was forever until I go to my husband.

I talked to him earlier today, he said he misses the sunshine. He's yet to see it in Germany. My little Seattle-ite is tired of the overcast...

While he is probably starting his nightly almost-bed-time rituals, I watch the snow rain down heavy and relentless....

Big Mac Attack!

2010-02-12T17:50:00.000-08:00

I heard the plows going outside, and the icicles were dripping, so you can guess that I got giddy with the pompatus of clear roads.
Because clear roads mean I can actually send out valentines.

I took the trash out, and saw that cars were...Gasp! driving! Breezing by. Oh those drivers were so arrogant. Like they were all Roger Miller, and quite proud of themselves.

I see my golden opportunity. I run down salted sidewalk, like a happy bowling ball with mounds of snow standing in as gutter guards. I run up all 43 steps to our apartment. I bust in like 'whodunit!' and grab my valentines.
And I think, this is a cinch.
All i have to do is move a lil' snow around the tires of the car, and presto! I'm no longer on lock down!
I grab the dustpan, because it is at least shovel like.

And at first, I dig proudly. I'm evening humming king of the road to myself.
Then I move to the back of the car, To clear off the hump. It was going OK. It was slushy.
I stop to rub my forehead and there I see him.
A man, we'll call him Alejandro, is standing there. Hands on his hip watching me.
I shrug like "YEAH. It's a DUST PAN! Un Recogedor."

He chews his lip. And keeps staring. And now I'm self conscious. He's staring at me and my dust pan converted to hand held shovel. Staring. Like I'm an episode of Amigos y Rivales. (which by the way, I got addicted to a few years back, So i know what i'm talking about. You just can't help but stare, it's such good bad tv.)
So I turn my back to him. Then I become even MORE self aware because despite eating a crap load of oreos this past week my pants are too big, and i'm afraid they will slide down enough to reveal my underwear.
Then my hat falls over my eyes. I have dirty snow on my gloves. I try the air blow tactic to no avail.
Alejandro is still just staring.

I want to yell "Take a picture, whydon'tya!?" Except he had a cell phone, and he may think that gives him paparazzi rights. And that wouldn't work because 1. I'm not famous and 2. I didn't really want my underwear showing butt in the air picture plastered all over his myspace.

I decided I was quite satisfied with my digging job, and just KNEW I'd get out. So the time to try was right now.

I hop in.
I start the car.
I put it in R.
I mash gently on the gas.
I move!
I move backward!!
I do a punch-the-air-dance in my head. Only in my head, because I'm too scared to take my hands off the wheel.
So my punch to the air dance in my head only manifested itself via a lip bite/brow furrow.
I move oh, maybe 1 foot. as in A foot. One.
A whole foot, and my tires start to spin, and my car starts to fish tail.

I took a deep breath and tried again. I had visions of pulling off, and flashing the finger to alejandro, for his lack of faith in me and my dustpan. Except, I was a talapia en route to becoming a filet each time I tried.

I pulled forward. I put it in park. I got out. It was a lost cause. High stepped, snow crunching under my feet, away from my escape. Fighting back tears, I couldn't even look at Alejandro.
I called my sister.

She had made it successfully to the grocery store.
I was walking. fighting back tears.
She told me that yes, she had a mac attack, as in, so stressed from living in/driving in these conditions that she got a Big Mac.
I sniffled. I told her it was stupid to cry about something so idiotic.
And I'd call her back when I was finished at Harris Teeter. (I hate Harris Teeter. It's trendy. Everything is priced doubly. People fill the aisles trying to be trendy choosing gelato flavors, but that's a different soap box.)
So I walk around and around, looking for anything that seems to say "Eat me. Eat me, you redheaded crybaby" (wow, the food at harris teeter is quite verbally abusive.)

I found a nearly $6 pack of hotdogs (they weren't even Hebrew Nationals), and i found some "cold chicken". I called my sister, and I said "what do I want....Hot dogs, or...cold chicken."
She said "Those are your choices?"
I said "yep. that's it."
She said "You should walk over to McDonald's for a Mac Attack!"

To me, that sounded like a fairly good idea. Despite the fact that I don't eat beef, and I'll pay ruthlessly for it tomorrow....
So after I paid for my necessities at H.T. (How Trendy!) I walked right over to Mc Donald's holding my Dr. peppers, and grocery bags, and put in my order for a Number One, Medium size. No shame. Just like that.

As I walked back in the sunset, the roads were becoming frosty and icy again. I looked at my car and snarled at the snow.

Walked back up the stairs and treated myself to a big mac dinner at Chez Suman....

so exquisite that billions are served everyday.

Real Estate, for the Love of Love!

2010-02-11T21:49:00.000-08:00

I was watching House Hunters today, a show that Mike got me COMPLETELY addicted to. The couple featured were looking for a new home. They were looking in Baltimore. At row housing. They wanted a view.

A nice city view.

Bless their hearts. A nice view of Baltimore? The best view of that place is the rearview. I'm just sayin'

And it must be said as I was watching them go round the trendy neighborhood,

I liked the men. They seemed really cool, and in love.

I couldn't help but think of my own lovey, and our whole last year in the DC/Baltimore area.

We did go to the Inner Harbour a few times, but it wasn't fabulous.

I thought of our version of Baltimore which went more like....Driving warp speed down Route 1 through straight up CrackWhore Hood. Hoping we make it out alive. Trust me, there were no green tree lined streets. It was dark, the street lights were on the fritz, and the streets of the Baltimore I've seen, are trash lined. NOT tree lined.

But that Baltimore wouldn't sell homes on HGTV.

I realized...While I love love..

..I hate Baltimore.

I do. No apologies.

It's not trendy. It's icky.

It's not up and coming. It's down and dirty.

I can't even watch their local news. It's so....low quality.

I prefer tuning into DC news.

And I don't think it's just the snow making me disgruntled. I've not liked Baltimore since...well, since I the first time ever I saw it's face.

Bare in mind, it's not all of Maryland that I dislike.

Annapolis is stunning.

Western Maryland is beautiful.

I realized if just seeing the town on tv can make me feel such disgust, it just can't be the snow. I wanted to yell at HGTV "It's NOT a trendy town! It's NOT a pretty town!"

I always try to guess which home they bought.

It's a lame guessing game, I am aware of this, but I guess away anyways. (Me at the grand finale of House Hunters: Don't choose the two bedroom charmer! Charmer means fixer upper....you'll rue the day!

But in this edge of your seat episode instead of guessing, I was thinking "Don't buy that one! Or that one! OR that one!! Move to Annapolis."

As the happy couple chose their humble abode, I put the remote down, in time to answer a call from my husband. He is now in Bamberg.

Safe and sound.

He broke the news gently to me that the post is super small, by telling me to "Hurry and get your passport." (AKA...It's boring here, and I want my wife)
We will probably live on post, because it's more affordable. but he has to 'set up' a home before they will allow me to join him.
I feel like it's one stumbling block after another in getting myself across the pond!! (Passports, Doctor's visits, Movers, Travel, etc...)

Mike told me we can walk out the gate into town. Just like that. Just hello! I'm in Bamberg. And they supposedly have lots of festivals.

I wondered what kind of festivals. Dancing? Beer Fests? Sausage? Christmas? October?
I wanna go to the festivals!!!!
I want to mix and mingle!!

Since we'll be walkin til the car arrives, I realized...I must step up on learning the language. I read about the customs of Germany...

Apparently, when in Germany one shouldn't....
Smile too much. Germans think it's fake.

Mention WWII.

Think it's rude that people are going to gawk and stare.

Never NOT say GUTEN TAG!!! when you go into a store...even if no one looks at you.

Same goes for saying G'bye.

I think I can do all of that and more....so much more!!!

Lil' tidbit of randomness....if you are snowed in and want something good to read...Might I suggest these two really good books: Still Life with Chickens: Starting Over in a House by the Sea by Catherine Goldhammer AND Dewey: The Small-Town Library Cat Who Touched the World by Vicki Myron.

Annapolis

Sideways Snow, Oreos, and Quick Phone Calls.

2010-02-10T12:43:00.000-08:00

It's snowing. Again. This time sideways and sometimes swirly. But most assuredly, nonstop.

Baltimore had called off plowing, due to visibility.

DC is closed down, and the National Guard are chauffeuring the police about town.

There was a 50 car pile up in Virginia. No kidding. Really. The weather channel doesn't lie.

We've been warned time and again to stay inside and only go out if we must.

And I'm thinking...they called off the plowing. They called it a day. Threw in the towel. The Plowers gave up. Which means...we are stuck.

Thank Nabisco I bought a package of Double Stuffeds at Harris Teeter yesterday, cause I'm in for the long haul. So I'm curled in, tuned into WGN, escaping to the sweet 1960's. To the snow free world of I Dream Of Jeannie. (if the next episode even mentions snow, I'm changing channels.)

But even the mayhem of Jeannie's dark haired 'sister' (Whose voice I believe Kim Cattrell channelled for the infamous loveable Samantha Jones) the antics of Jeannie, the baffoonary of Major Nelson's cohorts AND the Double Stuffeds cannot distract me from the endless fall snow and the unavoidable clean up that will follow.

The highlight of the last two days came via a short phone call from Germany. I was in line at Harris Teeter waiting for 30 mins for my 3 little items, and the phone rang.
I answered quickly and heard his voice on the other end. He said "I miss you SO much."
It made me smile. I told him numerous times that I miss him and love him.

He told me about the woes of traveling, how he got kicked awake by a seven year old. He asked me what time it was, and couldn't grasp the time change.

He told me NOT to open the spare room closet door until Valentine's morning. That there is a present in there for me.
I explained I'd have to mail his valentine late. I can't get to the post office.
I don't know when I'll feel "safe" to drive.

Mike told me he hadn't seen much of Germany, to know if it's pretty or not.
Before we hung up he promised to email and to call me as soon as possible.

We hung up the phone, and I walked home, beside the literal walls of snow. Where plowers just pushed and pushed snow into gigantic walls of solid frozenness.
I was looking at it (Which was triple or fourple the height of me) and I thought "How white. How Racist!"
Which made me giggle.
For a second I stepped up my pace to our apartment, to rush home to tell my husband my new snow is racist joke.

My thought as I walked up the freshly salted stairs in our building: Everything is so much more fun when I'm with Michael....

Crying Goodbye at BWI.

2010-02-08T21:39:00.000-08:00

Michael left for Germany tonight.

I knew the day was coming, and mostly it didn't seem real that he'd be boarding that plane, crossing that ocean to start our life in another country before me. Especially in lieu of the tremendous snowstorm that pummeled us relentlessly earlier this week...I had a slither of hope that it would cancel flights and I'd steal at least one more day with him.

But alas, BWI was up and kinda running...or at least limping.

I admit it without shame, I bawled my eyes out. When Red Heads cry, it's not attractive. It's not cutesy. There isn't just one pretty tear drop sliding down your porcelain cheek like in a 1930's movie. It's more like...tears falling ninety to nothing out of puffy eyelids while sploshing over red splotches that resemble hives. I do myself the only favor I can....I buy waterproof mascara.

Anyways, I ended up crying en route. We stopped by the PX on post. It wasn't until after we navigated the huge walls of plowed snow, that we discovered that while the commissary was open for business, the Px, was not.
The roads were a mix of slush, ice and thick slick snow.
Lynsey called me after I'd stopped crying...but hearing her voice brought on the tears again.

Michael wanted to run for the border one last time before boarding the plane to the Land of no Taco Bell.

We finally made it to the airport. He was loaded down with huge duffle bags, suitcases, garment bags, backpacks and a small duffle.

We were directed to the "international' area of BWI. It was like we were on the nina, pinta or the santa maria discovering new lands. I never knew that BWI had a whole area designated to international flights.
It's not a very large airport, so seeing they had an entirely different area for people who want to fly to exotic places like Montego Bay, Mumbai, Papeete, or Toronto was interesting to me.

Considering they shuffle these travelers to the opposite end of the airport, it makes it seem like a no mans land. Even the random quilts they have on display doesn't combat the edge of the world feeling you get walking through the dark corridor of the airport.

We pass Air Canada as the clerks looked at us longingly like "Ski Saskatchewan? No?" Insert shrug here.
We went directly to Air Command. An elderly gent whose TSA hat was askew said "Orders please? Gettcha Orders out. I needa see 'em."
Mike fished them out of his carry on. While I tried to pretend I hadn't been crying.
He looked over Mike's orders and said "How much ya weigh?" "How many weapons you got witcha?"

What? really? there's a weigh in on international flights? There's over a 2 feet of snow on the ground and this man is laying a weigh in on us? Forget the weapons comment. There's a man guessing weights for a flight to Ramstien? Does this come with some cotton candy or a goldfish in a plastic baggie?

Mike said "maybe it's to figure how much to fuel up."
I said "Well then I'm saying I weigh in at 375lbs."

The elderly gent then proceeded to give Mike sweet cutsies. Infact, we walked around people herder dividers, which had about 50 people probably en route to Toronto.
They held the line for him.

As we made our way to security, I felt my chin tremble again. Mike hugged me and kissed me and hugged me again. I proceeded to stain his shirt with tear drops.

And yeah, I know I'll be seeing him in 2 months give or take...But saying goodbye isn't a day at the carnival, even if there was a man guessing weights.
Saying goodbye to the person you love so completely is even more difficult.

Apparently baltimore travelers have never seen a woman cry saying goodbye to her husband at an airport.
Because let me tell you, people looked. No scratch that. They stared. They sat on the edge of their seats and ate popcorn watching us.

I watched my husband go through security. He turned back and waved. Once he got his boots back on his feet, he looked up, and searched til he saw me, he blew a kiss to me. I blew one back. And he turned around towards Germany.

I drove home on the dodgy roads through the ice and snow. Wrestled the car back into it's parking spot, sank into the snow trying to get to the path to the apartment, fought the keys to unlock the door, came inside and found a card from Micheal to me.

Telling me he loved me and he is carrying me in his heart.

And yeah, I cried again.

Blizzard of 2010...and people wonder why I hate snow.

2010-02-06T11:53:00.000-08:00

There we were...all cocky about building a fire. You have a fireplace. You buy some logs, you throw a match in it, and shazam. It's a roaring fire all toasty and warm.
It's picturesque. Snow is falling at maniac speed. It's cold. We have no where to go....
Fire+Snow=isn't this how it's supposed to be?

Fireplaces and snow go together. It's just science. It's 1970's ski lodge romantic, without the sideburns and awesome fashion.

We put our logs in the grate thing-a-ma-bob. We get our 'starter' paper. We light it, put it under the log. And....
Nothing.
We try again. Nothing.
We move the logs around.
Nothing.

So there we sit, in front of our fireplace. For 2 hours. Trying to get a freaking log to burn.
Mike scratched his head and said "We'd be terrible arsonists."
Finally. After even the cats gave up on the idea of curling up next to the heat, the log caught fire and we were in business.

All the while the snow just kept piling up outside. And there was nothing we could do about it.
In fact, while I sit here, the snow is STILL piling up outside.

I woke up to a window full of snow. It made me growl. I literally growled. Seriously? Is over a foot of snow at 8am necessary? I looked out the front door and saw the Guatemalan workers shoveling the sidewalks. I caught eye contact with one soul. We shared a knowing nod andI could tell he was thinking "Could you tell me again what was my reasoning to move away from Huehuetenango to Maryland?"
I shrugged.
After we were fully up and at 'em and filled up on the standard snowday breakfast of Pillsbury Orange Sweet Rolls, we decided to take a walk to access Mother Nature's damage.

Yeah, the shoveling those men did, it was all in vain. You couldn't even tell they'd been out there.

We walked down to Hwy 32.
And it became apparently clear to me....No one is going anywhere for a while. Everyone is stuck. No cars can get out. No airplanes flying to somewhere fabulous like Cinnamon Bay. At least not from BWI.

So, here we are...just me, mike and mounds of snow.

Man, I wish we'd bought those Double Stuffed Oreos yesterday.

It's snowing....again...

2010-02-05T13:05:00.000-08:00

The news people warned us. I tuned into My Fox DC like it was the Chicago Bears doin' the Superbowl Shuffle circa '85...basically, I was hooked.
They had the little snow flakes falling around the backdrop, warning us all of impending doom and peril that accompanies all major snow storms. Promising that today at promptly 10am the snow would begin and not cease until Saturday night.
Schools were closing in advance.

We had an ample warning. At least 3-4 days of forewarning. Mike & I bought our supplies in advance. The Commissary wasn't a-buzz. Unless you consider a-buzz retirees stalling out in their store provided electric mobility 'abuzz'. Or if you consider a random military wife, (whose hobbies include but are not limited to, scrapping and procreating) standing in front of the chef boy-ar-dee trying to decided if their 4,3, 2, and 1 year old would rather have beef-a-roni OR ravioli, a bruhaha, then... well it was mini-a buzz.

But suffice it to say, we bought our bread, and milk for hunkering down in our apartment in advance. We even bought a small bundle of wood.

This morning, however, we had a few more things Mike had to gather before he says "Bis Bald" to me and hops his flight to Germany.
Like stopping by Transportation to get extra info on our move. Picking up records.

I have to say, Transportation Man was the very first nice person I've dealt with at Fort Meade. And I mean that.
I liked him instantly. He looked like...well, the good humor man. Without Ice Cream, but wearing a "heard it's gonna storm!" cosby sweater. He told me his name was Chuck, and there would be a pop exam on all the info he was about to bestow on me. I told him I'd study hard...to make him proud. He gave me packets of info on getting Mike's truck to the port in Dundalk.
He suggested we not move all our stuff, since digs will be smaller in Germany.

I thought kind of wistfully..."oh sweet couches named Darrell and Gary...you must remain behind. Germany is no place for you. Go. Keep your Baltimorey selves right were they belong..."

We bid Chuck adieu.

It was 10am when we walked outside. Lo and behold, to my dismay Sue Palka didn't lie. Tiny little flurries were lazily falling down right in front of my nose.
We made our way to the commissary for 2 more bundles of wood. Realizing if she was that on-it to predict the exact time the snow would start, then we gonna need more wood!

Our first tip should've been the parking lot. It was full. as in...I've never seen every spot spoken for at the commissary ever. Finally, after many minutes of searching, we find one empty spot at the very end of the parking lot. We cut off and elderly asian lady and a man with a seeing eye dog just to get it. Don't worry, the dog was there to look for him. He didn't get hit.

We walk inside, and have to wait for a buggy. Tip off number 2 that we should probably just leave. Alas, Sumans don't give up that easily when there are Double Stuffed Oreos in the store a-waitin.
We did get our Double Stuffed, and some juice, and basically nothing we needed since we had everything already.
Then we see it.
The line.
As in the line to check out. It started in the back of the store in the produce section, and quite literally it wrapped around the store to the front. My jaw dropped open. Mike parked the buggy beside another of it's adandoned siblings and we went to Weis.

Where we found 2 bundles of wood. The Double Stuffeds were sold out, and so we settled on 3 bags of Jelly beans to ride the storm out with.

We have since been home, watching the snow fall steady and begin to stick to our balcony. We watched a few episodes of Gilligans Island...and I wish I was on an uncharted desert isle where it was nice, warm, and not a chance of snow.....

The Newness of a New Blog....

2010-02-01T18:28:00.000-08:00

After keeping a blog for many years on another site, I decided to move it all over to this site. I figure newness is in order.
Being a newlywed in a new decade, and moving to a new country
New Blog seems in order, if only to me.

It's still strange to think of myself as 'a wife'. I still smile everytime someone calls us "The Sumans" or when I overhear Mike say "My wife....".
There's a calmness and a happiness that I feel bubbling deep inside when that occurs.

Before re-enlisting Michael asked me how I felt about living in Europe. I have to admit, I didn't hesitate in my answer. I romanticized it completely.
Picturing myself in Paris. At a cafe. Eating crossiant. Pretending to fit it lovely, ignoring that I'd stand out as American without even opening my mouth.
And that's how I picture Europe. Very Parisian. Very romantic. Very Avant-garde.

Except.....we aren't moving to France, with all it's art and love.
And it's not England with it's refinement.
And not Italian with it's food and family.
It's Germany.
Land of the Robust. Land of Pork Products.

We have been duly warned that Germans will sit at our dinner tables at restaurants. Awkward. How does THAT conversation go? Guten Tag....Hope your sausage is......sausagey. Cheers to the Beers!

But then, my dear husband found out we are moving to Bavaria, specifically.
Mmmm....Bavarian Cream!

Throw in Wife and mix it with Expatriate. It seems unreal. The realness of living abroad hasn't sank. It seems like a dream, or some far distant pie in the sky kind of plan.
We are still here in snowy maryland, kicking the snow off our boots and talking about living Europe. And in my mind it's still some fairy dream that only exists in our 'one day' stories.

In reality, Michael leaves on Monday.
And I really need to Rosetta Stone it. If Michael Phelps learned Chinese, and retained it with all that pot he was smoking, it has to work! Hopefully that stone that is beloved-by-olympians will teach me very useful phrases. Like all learn language fast programs do. After all everyone needs to learn vital phrases like "I washed the dishes" "the dog is brown." "The taxi is fast."

By the time my sister visits in 2011 I want to be able to say "The Shirt is Yellow." and "I like to play Tennis." and "Do you speak English?" to every person we meet in Germany.

I know I have a few months before I join my zany husband...and so I'm not going to think about saying Goodbye to my family just yet......
I'm going to think of Goodwilling it with my sister on Super Sundays.