Oh, the humor....
Just the other day I e-mailed a friend of mine with a funny story about Grace. Grace, my middle child who acts like, well, a middle child. Always pushing the limits, always in trouble, and always getting away with murder because she has the sweetest face on earth. Yeah, that Grace. So I'm sharing my story with you to lighten your day, give you a laugh, and remind you that despite the frustrations and failures of parenthood, having children is the smartest, most wonderful thing I've ever done.
For any of you who think that the pressures of this world to be beautiful don't affect children, perhaps my anecdote will change your mind. About a month ago, Troy came to me and said, "Mom, I'm tired of having a uni-brow. Can you do something about this?" Now I'm not one to push vanity around here, but Lord knows I can relate to the whole uni-brow thing, and it would have been nice when I was a teenager to have had someone tell me how ridiculous I looked with a giant eyebrow across the top of my head. So I told Troy that we had 2 options: wax or tweeze, his choice.
The thought of putting hot wax in between his eyes and having someone rip off the hair didn't really appeal to Troy (imagine that), so he opted for the tweezers. A few days later I was talking to Grace and noticed that her eyebrows looked different, so I asked her what happened. Apparently, Troy told her that she, too, was sporting a ridiculous looking uni-brow, and this upset her greatly, so she decided to tweeze also. I explained to her that she is a beautiful little girl who needs no help in the eyebrow department, so from now on, to leave my tweezers alone! I explained to her that she is too young to worry about makeup and tweezing. I encouraged her to be a kid and save the grown-up years for, well, when she's grown up. She cried a few tears but nodded her head in agreement.
And my words went in one ear and out the other.
Last week Grace came to school with a very stylish hat on her head. I wasn't phased at all by this; Grace loves to wear hats and looks pretty cute in one, I might add. But during math, she kept playing with the hat, pulling it further and further down over her eyes. I finally got tired of the distraction and said to her, "OK, that's enough. Take the hat off and let's get serious about school." Blank stare. Dead silence. "Did you hear what I said? Take it off. Now!" Still no movement from Grace. When I started to take the hat off myself she held on to it for dear life and started bawling. I managed to get the hat off her head and then saw what she was crying about. Her eyebrows. Not tweezed, but GONE. She had decided to shape her eyebrows by shaving them and had managed to shave them half off!
My first reaction was anger because she had disobeyed me. I ranted and raved and spanked her for disobeying, but once I calmed down, I couldn't help but laugh. Why in the world is a 7-year-old worried about her stinkin' eyebrows?? What does she know about shaping eyebrows, and why does she even care? Shouldn't she be playing with dolls or riding her bike? This is the same child who went to the bathroom during church one Sunday and came back with boobs. Oh yeah, she stuffed her shirt with toilet paper, gave herself some boobies, and pranced in to church with her shoulders back, head up, thinking she was 15. The real kicker to that story? I didn't even notice.
Geez, nobody ever told me motherhood would be this hard. But I wouldn't change it for the world. So after you read this, go hug your kids and remind them that you would do it over again in a heartbeat. Just be sure to hide your razors.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
If you've ever read Shakespeare's ROMEO AND JULIET (and let's face it, who hasn't been forced to endure Shakespeare at some point in his or her life?), then you'll remember that the star-crossed lovers were from an Italian village called Verona. Verona, Verona...just a short 40-minute drive from Vicenza, Vicenza, where we spent our awesome Italian week. OK, so it was mostly awesome. Except for the "oh, let's go to Verona today!" decision that was made on Thursday morning sometime around 9 a.m.
After spending Wednesday in bed the whole day (sinus infection---don't 'ya love those?), I knew we had to make the most of our last 48 hours in Italia, so on Thursday morning we made a last-minute decision to head to Verona, home of Romeo and Juliet and a gaggle of ancient Roman ruins that the kiddos were just dying to see.....right. Anyway, I debated and debated on whether or not to take the train (which would have taken an extra 30 minutes because I could only afford the el cheapo slow train) or to brave the lunatic Italian drivers and take the car. I settled for the car. How hard could it be? Famous last words....
It really wasn't so bad getting there. All autobahn. Pretty safe. Finding parking was a challenge, but it only took 25 minutes of Mr. Tom Tom telling me to "make a U-turn whenever possible" because I kept missing my stupid street. I finally found the parking lot I was looking for, the one pretty close to the Roman amphitheater. I loaded up my backpack with necessary baby items, credit cards, euro, and keys, placed it on the passenger's seat next to me, and headed around to the other side to get little Rachel out of the car. As I was positioning her in the baby carrier, I heard a clicking sound, followed by the slamming of a door. Only then did I realize that Grace had locked the car with my backpack safely secured inside. Inside the car, that is. With my keys safely secured inside my bag. Along with my money. And my cell phone.
At this point I did what any level-headed, calm, sophisticated southern girl would do: I yelled a not-so-nice word about 14 times and then sat down to have a good cry. Of course I had to apologize to the children later on for my profane response, but they were more than understanding. To make a long story short (too late), I had to play charades with the parking lot attendent to explain my situation, waited 45 minutes for a locksmith (who showed up armed with the latest coathanger technology), and then waited another hour for same locksmith to call the garage and request a tow truck. Yup. I had to have the van towed to a garage to get my keys out. So, 4 hours and 200 euro later, we hopped back in the car and headed back to Vicenza.
Now I know the real reason Romeo and Juliet killed themselves. Stinkin' Verona.
After spending Wednesday in bed the whole day (sinus infection---don't 'ya love those?), I knew we had to make the most of our last 48 hours in Italia, so on Thursday morning we made a last-minute decision to head to Verona, home of Romeo and Juliet and a gaggle of ancient Roman ruins that the kiddos were just dying to see.....right. Anyway, I debated and debated on whether or not to take the train (which would have taken an extra 30 minutes because I could only afford the el cheapo slow train) or to brave the lunatic Italian drivers and take the car. I settled for the car. How hard could it be? Famous last words....
It really wasn't so bad getting there. All autobahn. Pretty safe. Finding parking was a challenge, but it only took 25 minutes of Mr. Tom Tom telling me to "make a U-turn whenever possible" because I kept missing my stupid street. I finally found the parking lot I was looking for, the one pretty close to the Roman amphitheater. I loaded up my backpack with necessary baby items, credit cards, euro, and keys, placed it on the passenger's seat next to me, and headed around to the other side to get little Rachel out of the car. As I was positioning her in the baby carrier, I heard a clicking sound, followed by the slamming of a door. Only then did I realize that Grace had locked the car with my backpack safely secured inside. Inside the car, that is. With my keys safely secured inside my bag. Along with my money. And my cell phone.
At this point I did what any level-headed, calm, sophisticated southern girl would do: I yelled a not-so-nice word about 14 times and then sat down to have a good cry. Of course I had to apologize to the children later on for my profane response, but they were more than understanding. To make a long story short (too late), I had to play charades with the parking lot attendent to explain my situation, waited 45 minutes for a locksmith (who showed up armed with the latest coathanger technology), and then waited another hour for same locksmith to call the garage and request a tow truck. Yup. I had to have the van towed to a garage to get my keys out. So, 4 hours and 200 euro later, we hopped back in the car and headed back to Vicenza.
Now I know the real reason Romeo and Juliet killed themselves. Stinkin' Verona.
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Ok, so it's been a while. And when I say "a while," I mean almost 4 months. And a lot has happened in that 4 months. Way too much to blog about in one sitting. So I'll just start by telling a funny story. A funny Grace story....
Our trip home from the States after Christmas was an eventful one. We missed our connecting flight in Detroit, got put on a different flight to Amsterdam (not Frankfurt), and had to catch a third flight home to Frankfurt after flying for nearly 12 hours. The only rays of light in all this madness: we got to fly business class from Detroit to Amsterdam (by the way---caviar is DISGUSTING); and my children.
As we were waiting to board the flight to Amsterdam, I suddenly remembered that we had forgotten to pray. Now, if there's anything that will bring me to my knees, it's having to fly in an airplane. I hate it. Don't ask me how I ended up married to someone in aviation. It terrifies me. So I've made it a tradition to pray before every flight. I pointed this out to the kids, of course, as we were standing at the gate. Our conversation sounded something like this:
Me: Kids, we forgot to pray. We HAVE to pray before we get on this plane.
Troy: Mom, no, we can't. Remember those Jewish guys a few months ago that got in trouble for praying on a plane?
Me: No, Troy, you're thinking of the Muslim clerics that started praying in the terminal and made some other passengers suspicious and nervous, so they reported them to security.
Grace: Mommy, what happened to them?
Me: Well, honey, they threw them off the plane.
Grace: (with look of horror on her face) YOU MEAN, WITHOUT A PARACHUTE?
Yup, traveling with my kids is a blast. They keep me grounded. They keep me laughing. And by the way, we said our prayers without being thrown off the plane. Life is good.
Our trip home from the States after Christmas was an eventful one. We missed our connecting flight in Detroit, got put on a different flight to Amsterdam (not Frankfurt), and had to catch a third flight home to Frankfurt after flying for nearly 12 hours. The only rays of light in all this madness: we got to fly business class from Detroit to Amsterdam (by the way---caviar is DISGUSTING); and my children.
As we were waiting to board the flight to Amsterdam, I suddenly remembered that we had forgotten to pray. Now, if there's anything that will bring me to my knees, it's having to fly in an airplane. I hate it. Don't ask me how I ended up married to someone in aviation. It terrifies me. So I've made it a tradition to pray before every flight. I pointed this out to the kids, of course, as we were standing at the gate. Our conversation sounded something like this:
Me: Kids, we forgot to pray. We HAVE to pray before we get on this plane.
Troy: Mom, no, we can't. Remember those Jewish guys a few months ago that got in trouble for praying on a plane?
Me: No, Troy, you're thinking of the Muslim clerics that started praying in the terminal and made some other passengers suspicious and nervous, so they reported them to security.
Grace: Mommy, what happened to them?
Me: Well, honey, they threw them off the plane.
Grace: (with look of horror on her face) YOU MEAN, WITHOUT A PARACHUTE?
Yup, traveling with my kids is a blast. They keep me grounded. They keep me laughing. And by the way, we said our prayers without being thrown off the plane. Life is good.
Monday, October 16, 2006
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Flashbacks...
You'd think after almost 34 years of living, I would know by now that any hair-related decision I make impulsively is going to turn out bad. Very bad. Hideously bad. And yet, I keep on doing it. Deciding on a whim to cut my hair, color my hair, perm my hair, and every time it ends up being a disaster.
Like today, when I decided during lunch to have my bangs cut. Never, ever make a serious hair decision while ingesting copious amounts of pasta. There is a chemical in the pasta that relaxes your brain to the point that you shouldn't even be allowed to drive, much less make important decisions.
Or was it the wine?
Either way, my grand idea to whack off my bangs has left me in a sullen mood. Why, you ask? Because the woman decided to give me bangs that are so thick and heavy (girls, you understand what I'm saying), that I look like a reject from a bad 80's movie. These aren't cute, choppy, stylish Sandra Bullock bangs. These are the bangs I had in the 5th grade, which I happily wore along side my hot pink corduroy jeans, jelly shoes, and matching twist-a-beads. I'm getting woozy just thinking about it.
To make matters worse, a rogue band of pimples has overtaken my face in the last 4 hours. I'm living a pre-teen nightmare. Let's face it--I'm the poster child for DORKS-R-US.
May as well have another glass of wine.
You'd think after almost 34 years of living, I would know by now that any hair-related decision I make impulsively is going to turn out bad. Very bad. Hideously bad. And yet, I keep on doing it. Deciding on a whim to cut my hair, color my hair, perm my hair, and every time it ends up being a disaster.
Like today, when I decided during lunch to have my bangs cut. Never, ever make a serious hair decision while ingesting copious amounts of pasta. There is a chemical in the pasta that relaxes your brain to the point that you shouldn't even be allowed to drive, much less make important decisions.
Or was it the wine?
Either way, my grand idea to whack off my bangs has left me in a sullen mood. Why, you ask? Because the woman decided to give me bangs that are so thick and heavy (girls, you understand what I'm saying), that I look like a reject from a bad 80's movie. These aren't cute, choppy, stylish Sandra Bullock bangs. These are the bangs I had in the 5th grade, which I happily wore along side my hot pink corduroy jeans, jelly shoes, and matching twist-a-beads. I'm getting woozy just thinking about it.
To make matters worse, a rogue band of pimples has overtaken my face in the last 4 hours. I'm living a pre-teen nightmare. Let's face it--I'm the poster child for DORKS-R-US.
May as well have another glass of wine.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
I Think I Need to Go Home.....
Let me be clear about something. I wanted to come here. I wanted to live overseas. I prayed....or rather, begged.... that God would give us orders to Germany or Japan or England, or any place that didn't include the words "little" and "rock" in its name. I want to make that perfectly clear so that when you read the next few paragraphs where I whine and moan over everything that I absolutely hate about living here, you'll understand that it's just a phase. I will overcome. I will get better. I will survive.
The main problem here is that I haven't been home in over a year. For any of you who know me, you will know how that is killing me. Family is everything to me. I am extremely close to both parents, my brother and his wife, not to mention a gorgeous neice who is about 18 months old and transforming into a young lady before my very eyes (via e-mail, of course). She is walking, talking, clapping her hands, playing in the swimming pool....all the things you'd expect a toddler to do. When I left her, she was sleeping and pooping. See what I'm missing?
My father, a Baptist minister, took a job at a new church in March. I have yet to meet any of his church members, or even see a picture of his new church. In the past year, my parents have removed a huge tree from their backyard, added on to their patio, rearranged furniture and hung new pictures. I've missed all of it.
I know that people back home take it for granted, but I'd give my right arm to go shopping at Walmart.
I think Sunday was the breaking point for me. As we were driving to church (of course, because don't all the bad things happen on your way to church???), this German guy came screaming up on my butt, driving like a madman (which is the only way Germans know how to drive), yelling at me and motioning for me to get over. This is a huge pet peeve of mine, tailgating, and I'm pretty sure it was the Germans who invented this, so I did what any good American would do: I tapped my breaks and slowed down to about 30 km/hr, which is about 18 miles per hour. Translation: really, really slow. The whole time I was sobbing and yelling, "I hate these people! I hate this country! I want to go home!"
So that was my low point. I've managed to pull myself together, but the emptiness lingers just the same. I miss my family. I miss my friends. I miss Outback. I miss Wendy's. And no matter how much I love Germany; no matter how much I love the travel; no matter how thankful I am for the experience, sometimes a girl just needs the comforts of home.
Let me be clear about something. I wanted to come here. I wanted to live overseas. I prayed....or rather, begged.... that God would give us orders to Germany or Japan or England, or any place that didn't include the words "little" and "rock" in its name. I want to make that perfectly clear so that when you read the next few paragraphs where I whine and moan over everything that I absolutely hate about living here, you'll understand that it's just a phase. I will overcome. I will get better. I will survive.
The main problem here is that I haven't been home in over a year. For any of you who know me, you will know how that is killing me. Family is everything to me. I am extremely close to both parents, my brother and his wife, not to mention a gorgeous neice who is about 18 months old and transforming into a young lady before my very eyes (via e-mail, of course). She is walking, talking, clapping her hands, playing in the swimming pool....all the things you'd expect a toddler to do. When I left her, she was sleeping and pooping. See what I'm missing?
My father, a Baptist minister, took a job at a new church in March. I have yet to meet any of his church members, or even see a picture of his new church. In the past year, my parents have removed a huge tree from their backyard, added on to their patio, rearranged furniture and hung new pictures. I've missed all of it.
I know that people back home take it for granted, but I'd give my right arm to go shopping at Walmart.
I think Sunday was the breaking point for me. As we were driving to church (of course, because don't all the bad things happen on your way to church???), this German guy came screaming up on my butt, driving like a madman (which is the only way Germans know how to drive), yelling at me and motioning for me to get over. This is a huge pet peeve of mine, tailgating, and I'm pretty sure it was the Germans who invented this, so I did what any good American would do: I tapped my breaks and slowed down to about 30 km/hr, which is about 18 miles per hour. Translation: really, really slow. The whole time I was sobbing and yelling, "I hate these people! I hate this country! I want to go home!"
So that was my low point. I've managed to pull myself together, but the emptiness lingers just the same. I miss my family. I miss my friends. I miss Outback. I miss Wendy's. And no matter how much I love Germany; no matter how much I love the travel; no matter how thankful I am for the experience, sometimes a girl just needs the comforts of home.
Monday, September 11, 2006
I Remember, Too....
September 11, 2001
My day started like any other. Up at 7, get dressed, get breakfast, get Troy ready for school. Sweet Troy. My baby boy, who had just started the first grade. I took Troy to school, then returned home to feed Grace and get ready for my Tuesday morning Bible study. I remember exactly what study I was doing....Beth Moore, Jesus, The One and Only. We were only two weeks into the study, and already Tuesday mornings had become the highlight of my week. I loved the fellowship, I loved being in God's word, I loved it all. As I drove off base, I sang songs of praise to God for all that He had done in my life, for all the blessings He had given me and my family. My heart was so full of joy.
Little did I know, that at the exact moment my car left the front gate of base, the first plane was crashing into the World Trade Center tower.
When I arrived at church, I headed right for the nursery to drop off Grace. I walked in and saw several ladies gathered around the radio. I couldn't imagine what they were listening to so intently. I asked, "What's going on?" to which they replied, "Shhhhh!" I put Grace in the walker and went to listen. I only heard bits and pieces...."Plane....crash...trade center....dead." I was stunned and confused. We all decided that it was such a tragic accident. And then I kissed Grace goodbye and headed to class.
It seemed like only minutes later, the secretary of our church came into the classroom to tell us that another plane had hit the second tower, then the Pentagon, then news of the crash in Pennsylvania. Of course it was clear by this time that this was all a huge terrorist plot. We all began to sob. We prayed and cried, then prayed again, then cried again. We didn't study at all that day. Later on I found out that the base had been completely shut down, and only housing residents were being allowed to enter. The school was also dismissing the children. I rushed to pick up Troy, headed home, turned on the TV to pictures of fire and ash, and held on to my precious children for dear life. Blake was working in Georgia, and I felt so alone. I was scared. Very scared.
People say that hindsight is 20/20. Sometimes we can look back on the pages of our life and see so clearly how God worked. How he protected us. How he used the bad to bring about such good. September 11, 2001 was one of those times. A few days later, Troy was asking me questions about life and death, Heaven and Hell. I explained to him how Jesus died on a cross for our sins; how He loves us and wants to live in our hearts; how we can trust in Him and live forever with Him when we die. It was a casual conversation, but Troy was hanging on every word. That night, as I tucked my precious baby into bed, he said, "Mommy, I want Jesus to live in my heart. When I die, like the people in those planes, I want to see Jesus. Can I pray now?"
Yes, good can come from bad. From the ashes of September 11, 2001, my son was given life...Eternal Life in Christ. And that is something I will never forget.
September 11, 2001
My day started like any other. Up at 7, get dressed, get breakfast, get Troy ready for school. Sweet Troy. My baby boy, who had just started the first grade. I took Troy to school, then returned home to feed Grace and get ready for my Tuesday morning Bible study. I remember exactly what study I was doing....Beth Moore, Jesus, The One and Only. We were only two weeks into the study, and already Tuesday mornings had become the highlight of my week. I loved the fellowship, I loved being in God's word, I loved it all. As I drove off base, I sang songs of praise to God for all that He had done in my life, for all the blessings He had given me and my family. My heart was so full of joy.
Little did I know, that at the exact moment my car left the front gate of base, the first plane was crashing into the World Trade Center tower.
When I arrived at church, I headed right for the nursery to drop off Grace. I walked in and saw several ladies gathered around the radio. I couldn't imagine what they were listening to so intently. I asked, "What's going on?" to which they replied, "Shhhhh!" I put Grace in the walker and went to listen. I only heard bits and pieces...."Plane....crash...trade center....dead." I was stunned and confused. We all decided that it was such a tragic accident. And then I kissed Grace goodbye and headed to class.
It seemed like only minutes later, the secretary of our church came into the classroom to tell us that another plane had hit the second tower, then the Pentagon, then news of the crash in Pennsylvania. Of course it was clear by this time that this was all a huge terrorist plot. We all began to sob. We prayed and cried, then prayed again, then cried again. We didn't study at all that day. Later on I found out that the base had been completely shut down, and only housing residents were being allowed to enter. The school was also dismissing the children. I rushed to pick up Troy, headed home, turned on the TV to pictures of fire and ash, and held on to my precious children for dear life. Blake was working in Georgia, and I felt so alone. I was scared. Very scared.
People say that hindsight is 20/20. Sometimes we can look back on the pages of our life and see so clearly how God worked. How he protected us. How he used the bad to bring about such good. September 11, 2001 was one of those times. A few days later, Troy was asking me questions about life and death, Heaven and Hell. I explained to him how Jesus died on a cross for our sins; how He loves us and wants to live in our hearts; how we can trust in Him and live forever with Him when we die. It was a casual conversation, but Troy was hanging on every word. That night, as I tucked my precious baby into bed, he said, "Mommy, I want Jesus to live in my heart. When I die, like the people in those planes, I want to see Jesus. Can I pray now?"
Yes, good can come from bad. From the ashes of September 11, 2001, my son was given life...Eternal Life in Christ. And that is something I will never forget.
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Don't Try This at Home....
This is one of the pieces of construction equipment that has been tearing up our road for the past 2 months. This particular road is the ONLY way in or out of our house to the rest of the civilized world. The top of this big hoe can swivel 360 degrees so that the driver can dig dirt from one side of the road and drop it on the other. Do you see where I'm going with this?
And this is what happens when the driver of the hoe doesn't see you coming around him. Wait, I mean when he doesn't even bother to LOOK to see if you're coming around him.....
The hoe (which weighs in a several tons, I'm sure) hit Grace's side of the car. Fortunately (but not coincidentally), Grace had asked to sit on Troy's side today. Still think there's no God?
The driver of the equipment told the German POLIZEI that he was to blame....The police didn't even question me after the driver made his statement. (By the way, this picture was taken through the big hole where dark glass used to reside)
Here's a better view of the impact site. In the States, this damage would probably be repairable. Over here, they'll most like consider my van a complete loss. We were only 6 months away from having her paid off. Maybe I'll get my mini Cooper after all.
Monday, August 28, 2006
Mysterious German Pasttimes
It's hard to believe that I have never blogged anything about junking. Junking is a national pasttime around here, at least with the Czechs and the Poles. So what is junking? Junking, which takes place in each village only twice a year, is when people throw out any household items that are too big for the regular garbage can, and the city garbage folks come around and pick up and dispose of everything properly (if I haven't said it before, Germans are super sensitive about protecting the environment....yet another one of my gripes about living here). Anyway, there are no thrift stores in Germany, no Salvation Army upon which to dump your unwanted trashy items; no garage sales allowed; no super-sized garbage cans for disposing of things like couches, bookcases, mirrors, cabinets, carpets, etc....So people just put it out on the streets.
Now here's the fun part. Once it goes out on the street, it becomes fair game and anyone can pick it up. This is where the Czechs and the Poles come in, for when it's a junking day around here, you'll see tons of big, white vans with CZ or PL license plates cruising along, ready to snatch up any half-way decent items for future sale at their flea markets. I had heard about these folks when I moved here last year. I heard about junking, and how it's addictive, and how many of our wives will snatch up items just to keep the foreigners from getting said items, whether those wives want the stuff or not. I heard these stories, and laughed, and thought how pathetic it all sounded.
Why am I telling you all of this? Besides for your cultural enlightenment? Because today I participated in my first junking. It almost sounds illegal, doesn't it? I found this awesome tall cabinet--with drawers--on the side of the road, stopped in the pouring rain, and loaded it in my car. (It definitely needs some paint, but I'm thinking it will be great for storage...assuming I ever take it out of my van). What's even worse is that I was so excited, I spent most of the next hour driving around my stupid village looking for other junky items I could take home and use to clutter my house.
I'm pathetic.
It's hard to believe that I have never blogged anything about junking. Junking is a national pasttime around here, at least with the Czechs and the Poles. So what is junking? Junking, which takes place in each village only twice a year, is when people throw out any household items that are too big for the regular garbage can, and the city garbage folks come around and pick up and dispose of everything properly (if I haven't said it before, Germans are super sensitive about protecting the environment....yet another one of my gripes about living here). Anyway, there are no thrift stores in Germany, no Salvation Army upon which to dump your unwanted trashy items; no garage sales allowed; no super-sized garbage cans for disposing of things like couches, bookcases, mirrors, cabinets, carpets, etc....So people just put it out on the streets.
Now here's the fun part. Once it goes out on the street, it becomes fair game and anyone can pick it up. This is where the Czechs and the Poles come in, for when it's a junking day around here, you'll see tons of big, white vans with CZ or PL license plates cruising along, ready to snatch up any half-way decent items for future sale at their flea markets. I had heard about these folks when I moved here last year. I heard about junking, and how it's addictive, and how many of our wives will snatch up items just to keep the foreigners from getting said items, whether those wives want the stuff or not. I heard these stories, and laughed, and thought how pathetic it all sounded.
Why am I telling you all of this? Besides for your cultural enlightenment? Because today I participated in my first junking. It almost sounds illegal, doesn't it? I found this awesome tall cabinet--with drawers--on the side of the road, stopped in the pouring rain, and loaded it in my car. (It definitely needs some paint, but I'm thinking it will be great for storage...assuming I ever take it out of my van). What's even worse is that I was so excited, I spent most of the next hour driving around my stupid village looking for other junky items I could take home and use to clutter my house.
I'm pathetic.
Friday, August 11, 2006
It's official.
Summer is over.
At least for people in Germany, that is. I realize that the rest of the world may be broiling in 100 degree temperatures, but here at home it's a whopping 57 degrees, as in FARENHEIT. This is August, right? Did I overdose on Ambien and sleep through 3 months of my life (say it isn't so!)? Is this my fault? Did I complain too loudly? Can't I just get a happy medium? We missed spring all together, and now it seems our summer has been doomed to only last a mere 3 weeks. At this rate, we'll be taking our family ski vacation over Labor Day. What's wrong with this picture?
Even worse--I finally got our winter clothes packed away at the end of June, and I can't remember where I put the boxes.
Summer is over.
At least for people in Germany, that is. I realize that the rest of the world may be broiling in 100 degree temperatures, but here at home it's a whopping 57 degrees, as in FARENHEIT. This is August, right? Did I overdose on Ambien and sleep through 3 months of my life (say it isn't so!)? Is this my fault? Did I complain too loudly? Can't I just get a happy medium? We missed spring all together, and now it seems our summer has been doomed to only last a mere 3 weeks. At this rate, we'll be taking our family ski vacation over Labor Day. What's wrong with this picture?
Even worse--I finally got our winter clothes packed away at the end of June, and I can't remember where I put the boxes.
Saturday, July 29, 2006
Joke of the Day
A friend of mine sent this to me. Considering all of the antics of left-wing lunatic Democrats I've read about recently, I find this one pretty amusing! Enjoy.....
A driver is stuck in a traffic jam on the highway. Nothing is moving. Suddenly a man knocks on the window. The driver rolls down his window and asks, "What happened?"
"Terrorists have kidnapped Hillary Clinton, Ted Kennedy, Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton. They are asking for a $10 million ransom. Otherwise, they are going to douse them with gasoline and set them on fire. We are going from car to car, taking up a collection."
The driver asks, "How much is everyone giving?"
"About a gallon."
A friend of mine sent this to me. Considering all of the antics of left-wing lunatic Democrats I've read about recently, I find this one pretty amusing! Enjoy.....
A driver is stuck in a traffic jam on the highway. Nothing is moving. Suddenly a man knocks on the window. The driver rolls down his window and asks, "What happened?"
"Terrorists have kidnapped Hillary Clinton, Ted Kennedy, Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton. They are asking for a $10 million ransom. Otherwise, they are going to douse them with gasoline and set them on fire. We are going from car to car, taking up a collection."
The driver asks, "How much is everyone giving?"
"About a gallon."
Friday, July 21, 2006
Today's forecast for Weilerbach, Germany: HOT.
Tomorrow's forecast: EVEN HOTTER.
Next week's forecast: DAMN HOT.
Seriously, this is what I get when I search Yahoo for our weather forecast here in Germany. The temperature has finally climbed into the lower 90's, which makes for excellent swimming at the pool every day and oh-so-miserable sleep at night. I'm sure all you folks in south Georgia are screaming at me right now, probably something like "WE WOULD SELL OUR SOULS FOR 90 DEGREE WEATHER!" But you must keep in mind that we don't have air conditioning here in Germany, so when it's 90 degrees outside, it's at least 85 inside my house. And the stores where we shop. And the restaurants where we eat. Sometimes I feel like I'm living inside a huge crockpot and slowly cooking from the inside-out. Last night we all decided to sleep in our basement apartment, which is about 10 degrees cooler than our house. It was the best night of sleep I've gotten in weeks. If I had a working TV down there, I'd just move in permanently.
I guess some people are never happy. In January it was too cold; in July it's too hot. As my daddy would say, "I'd probably complain if they hung me with a new rope." Hey, in all fairness, I'd complain if they hung me with an old rope, too. Wouldn't you?
Tomorrow's forecast: EVEN HOTTER.
Next week's forecast: DAMN HOT.
Seriously, this is what I get when I search Yahoo for our weather forecast here in Germany. The temperature has finally climbed into the lower 90's, which makes for excellent swimming at the pool every day and oh-so-miserable sleep at night. I'm sure all you folks in south Georgia are screaming at me right now, probably something like "WE WOULD SELL OUR SOULS FOR 90 DEGREE WEATHER!" But you must keep in mind that we don't have air conditioning here in Germany, so when it's 90 degrees outside, it's at least 85 inside my house. And the stores where we shop. And the restaurants where we eat. Sometimes I feel like I'm living inside a huge crockpot and slowly cooking from the inside-out. Last night we all decided to sleep in our basement apartment, which is about 10 degrees cooler than our house. It was the best night of sleep I've gotten in weeks. If I had a working TV down there, I'd just move in permanently.
I guess some people are never happy. In January it was too cold; in July it's too hot. As my daddy would say, "I'd probably complain if they hung me with a new rope." Hey, in all fairness, I'd complain if they hung me with an old rope, too. Wouldn't you?
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
If you didn't read my previous post on our visit to London, GO READ IT! If you did, here are a few pictures of one of the coolest places on Earth, so far. Enjoy.......
Trying to give away the kids in the tube station.....we had no takers.
Traveling down Buckingham Palace Road on the top of a double decker bus
Westminster Abbey
Dad with the Tower Bridge in the background
Troy and Grace with the "Royal Guard" at the Tower of London
Our "beefeater" gives us the history of the Tower of London
Dad, Troy, Mom, Grace and Blake in front of the Tower of London
Troy, Amy, and Grace in front of Big Ben (or the clock that holds Big Ben!)
Grace, Blake, Troy, Mom and Dad stand on the bridge overlooking the Thames River and the London Eye
Trying to give away the kids in the tube station.....we had no takers.
Traveling down Buckingham Palace Road on the top of a double decker bus
Westminster Abbey
Dad with the Tower Bridge in the background
Troy and Grace with the "Royal Guard" at the Tower of London
Our "beefeater" gives us the history of the Tower of London
Dad, Troy, Mom, Grace and Blake in front of the Tower of London
Troy, Amy, and Grace in front of Big Ben (or the clock that holds Big Ben!)
Grace, Blake, Troy, Mom and Dad stand on the bridge overlooking the Thames River and the London Eye
I must confess, I didn't really want to go to London. It wasn't on my Top Ten list of places to visit before I die (or before I leave Germany, whichever comes first). I was just forced into going when my very impulsive husband spent one arm and two legs on tickets to see Bon Jovi in concert in Coventry, England, which is only a couple of hours away from London. So, I put on my "let's make the best of it" face and dutifully boarded our RyanAir flight at 11:15 p.m. for a quick jaunt across the English Channel. I had no idea what waited for me on the other side.
I have this friend named Eric who travels to and from London all the time. He e-mailed me about 4 pages worth of very important things to "know before you go," like which way to look when you cross the street. Of course, at most intersections in London, the English have been kind enough to paint instructions on the ground for those of us who aren't used to traffic on the opposite side of the road. "LOOK LEFT" or "LOOK RIGHT" signs can be found at each crosswalk, a subtle reminder not to step out in front of the giant double-decker busses that race through the city. Thank you, British folk.
Eric also gave me the 4-1-1 on riding the tubes (that's the subway), shopping at Harrod's (the largest department store in Europe, possibly the world, but also the most expensive---probably where Gwyneth and Madonna shop for the little ones), river cruises and bus tours, and the many famous pubs. We didn't really make any definite plans, but we had a general idea of where we wanted to go and what we specifically wanted to see. So off we went to the tube station, armed with the latest Rick Steves book and a few hundred British pounds, ready to see this magnificent place called London.
We boarded the tube and once we figured out which direction we needed to go, we set out for Westminster, home to Big Ben, Parliament, Buckingham Palace, the London Eye, and Hard Rock Cafe (you can't make a trip to London without stopping at the Hard Rock. Where else can you buy a T-shirt that says "I spent more money on my lousy hamburger than on this pathetic shirt"?). We tried to blend in with the locals, but the more we tried, the more we stood out like giant sore thumbs. I'm not sure if it was the fanny packs we wore to protect ourselves from rampant pickpocketing, the 59-pound digital cameras that hung around our necks, or the fact that Mom kept referring to our location as "WestMINISTER," in spite of my subtle corrections.
Needless to say, I fell in love with London the minute we stepped out of the dark subway tunnel and onto the bustling street right across from Big Ben. London went from being way down on the bottom of my "to see" list, straight to the top of my "must see 100 times before I leave" list. In fact, I'm planning a girls-only trip back to London in the fall, after the kids start school. But Blake doesn't know this. So let's keep it on the down-low, OK?
By the way, the concert in Coventry was awesome. After 20 something years of singing, recording, and touring, Mr. Bon-Geriatric-Jovi still has what it takes to wow a crowd. Seriously, it was terrific and I'm glad that we went. Of course, I'm still wondering when the ringing in my ears is gonna stop.....
I have this friend named Eric who travels to and from London all the time. He e-mailed me about 4 pages worth of very important things to "know before you go," like which way to look when you cross the street. Of course, at most intersections in London, the English have been kind enough to paint instructions on the ground for those of us who aren't used to traffic on the opposite side of the road. "LOOK LEFT" or "LOOK RIGHT" signs can be found at each crosswalk, a subtle reminder not to step out in front of the giant double-decker busses that race through the city. Thank you, British folk.
Eric also gave me the 4-1-1 on riding the tubes (that's the subway), shopping at Harrod's (the largest department store in Europe, possibly the world, but also the most expensive---probably where Gwyneth and Madonna shop for the little ones), river cruises and bus tours, and the many famous pubs. We didn't really make any definite plans, but we had a general idea of where we wanted to go and what we specifically wanted to see. So off we went to the tube station, armed with the latest Rick Steves book and a few hundred British pounds, ready to see this magnificent place called London.
We boarded the tube and once we figured out which direction we needed to go, we set out for Westminster, home to Big Ben, Parliament, Buckingham Palace, the London Eye, and Hard Rock Cafe (you can't make a trip to London without stopping at the Hard Rock. Where else can you buy a T-shirt that says "I spent more money on my lousy hamburger than on this pathetic shirt"?). We tried to blend in with the locals, but the more we tried, the more we stood out like giant sore thumbs. I'm not sure if it was the fanny packs we wore to protect ourselves from rampant pickpocketing, the 59-pound digital cameras that hung around our necks, or the fact that Mom kept referring to our location as "WestMINISTER," in spite of my subtle corrections.
Needless to say, I fell in love with London the minute we stepped out of the dark subway tunnel and onto the bustling street right across from Big Ben. London went from being way down on the bottom of my "to see" list, straight to the top of my "must see 100 times before I leave" list. In fact, I'm planning a girls-only trip back to London in the fall, after the kids start school. But Blake doesn't know this. So let's keep it on the down-low, OK?
By the way, the concert in Coventry was awesome. After 20 something years of singing, recording, and touring, Mr. Bon-Geriatric-Jovi still has what it takes to wow a crowd. Seriously, it was terrific and I'm glad that we went. Of course, I'm still wondering when the ringing in my ears is gonna stop.....
Thursday, June 15, 2006
Thank you, Mrs. Altman, for keeping me on my toes and reminding me that I haven't written in the Smith Family journal for a while! We've been so very busy lately, and yes, I know that is EVERYONE'S excuse-du-jour. But for me, it's also the honest truth. My parents came to visit us three weeks ago and spent 14 whole days with us! Troy had a baseball tournament that weekend, so we gave them a little time to rest before we started dragging them all over Europe. My Dad brought us all a special gift from the States: a cold, which he gladly passed along to everyone except Troy. Within two days of their arrival, Blake, Grace and I were coughing and sneezing and drinking NyQuil like it was water. But we still had a pretty good time. Here's the low-down of our adventures:
Friday, Saturday, Sunday: baseball, baseball, baseball. Troy played a total of 7 games in 3 days. We had baseball coming out our ears.
Monday: rest and recover from baseball.
Tuesday: took a drive along the Mosel River, up towards Trier and Cochem. Our goal was Cochem and the Cochem castle, as I have been there 3 times and have YET to see the dang castle. But alas, we never made it. We did stop at a beautiful town called Bernkastle. It was breathtaking. Dad bought a "coffee mug" for his collection; we kept telling him it was a beer stein, but he didn't believe us. Hope he doesn't walk around the church drinking out of it---he won't keep his new job very long! Mom bought a few postcards and souvenirs as well. Blake was sick--very sick--so we left Bernkastle and headed home. But the drive was great.
Wednesday: rest and recover and eat great Chinese food for dinner. Believe it or not, Mom and Dad actually flew across the Atlantic Ocean to see Germany, and I took them to eat at a Chinese place. Run by German Chinese people. Huh?
Thurdsay: it was off to Strasbourg, France, which was NOTHING like I imagined it to be. I was picturing this quaint little French village, full of quiet locals, delicious cafes, and lots of history. What I got was a booming metropolis that challenged my driving skills and tested my patience. It was incredibly nerve-racking, especially with Mom in the back of the van screaming at every turn. I finally just said to Dad, "I think I'll make myself at home," and I began driving like the other idiots in Strasbourg. That made it much easier. We found a central parking garage, made our way to the incredibly huge cathedral that makes Strasbourg so famous, took a minitram tour of Strasbourg and "La Petit France," and enjoyed a wonderful French lunch, complete with French fries, French dressing, and French bread. It was great.
Friday: rest and recover (are you beginning to see a pattern?)
Saturday: Troy left on Friday for a Boy Scout campout near Nurnberg, so we loaded up the van on Saturday morning and headed his way, not only to visit him, but also to see a part of the Bavarian country that we had never seen. We toured around Nurenberg, and although we didn't get to see any major museums, we did get to (finally!) enjoy some of the mini-bratwursts that traditionally are only found in Nurenberg. Mmmmm, good! We stayed at a hotel about an hour away, in the middle of nowhere, where no one spoke English and a group of rowdy Germans celebrated at a wedding party half the night. Mom and Dad didn't hear a thing in their room, but my room was RIGHT OVER the dance floor, and I heard every stupid song the band played. It wasn't so bad until they started karaoke at 1 a.m. There's nothing more aggravating than listening to a drunk German trying to sing "Sweet Home Alabama" when you're trying to get some sleep. I went downstairs in my pajamas to chew someone out, but alas---all the staff had gone to bed. So I grabbed a pint and joined the party......just kidding.
We decided on Sunday morning to drive over into the Czech Republich, since we were only about 45 kilometers away from the border. That's an entirely different blog.
Monday: left at 11 p.m. for a flight to London. We arrived in London at 11:15, stood in line at customs for 30 minutes, waited 45 minutes for a taxi, finally checked in to our hotel at about 2:30 in the morning. Our hotel was only a 10-minute walk from the "tube," which is the London subway system, so Tuesday morning we set out for Westminster. Mom kept referring to it as "WestMINISTER," and she was quite offended when I asked her to pronounce it right. Oh no, we didn't stand out as tourists or anything. Nooooooooo. Anyway, London was NOTHING of what I expected. Stay tuned......
Friday, Saturday, Sunday: baseball, baseball, baseball. Troy played a total of 7 games in 3 days. We had baseball coming out our ears.
Monday: rest and recover from baseball.
Tuesday: took a drive along the Mosel River, up towards Trier and Cochem. Our goal was Cochem and the Cochem castle, as I have been there 3 times and have YET to see the dang castle. But alas, we never made it. We did stop at a beautiful town called Bernkastle. It was breathtaking. Dad bought a "coffee mug" for his collection; we kept telling him it was a beer stein, but he didn't believe us. Hope he doesn't walk around the church drinking out of it---he won't keep his new job very long! Mom bought a few postcards and souvenirs as well. Blake was sick--very sick--so we left Bernkastle and headed home. But the drive was great.
Wednesday: rest and recover and eat great Chinese food for dinner. Believe it or not, Mom and Dad actually flew across the Atlantic Ocean to see Germany, and I took them to eat at a Chinese place. Run by German Chinese people. Huh?
Thurdsay: it was off to Strasbourg, France, which was NOTHING like I imagined it to be. I was picturing this quaint little French village, full of quiet locals, delicious cafes, and lots of history. What I got was a booming metropolis that challenged my driving skills and tested my patience. It was incredibly nerve-racking, especially with Mom in the back of the van screaming at every turn. I finally just said to Dad, "I think I'll make myself at home," and I began driving like the other idiots in Strasbourg. That made it much easier. We found a central parking garage, made our way to the incredibly huge cathedral that makes Strasbourg so famous, took a minitram tour of Strasbourg and "La Petit France," and enjoyed a wonderful French lunch, complete with French fries, French dressing, and French bread. It was great.
Friday: rest and recover (are you beginning to see a pattern?)
Saturday: Troy left on Friday for a Boy Scout campout near Nurnberg, so we loaded up the van on Saturday morning and headed his way, not only to visit him, but also to see a part of the Bavarian country that we had never seen. We toured around Nurenberg, and although we didn't get to see any major museums, we did get to (finally!) enjoy some of the mini-bratwursts that traditionally are only found in Nurenberg. Mmmmm, good! We stayed at a hotel about an hour away, in the middle of nowhere, where no one spoke English and a group of rowdy Germans celebrated at a wedding party half the night. Mom and Dad didn't hear a thing in their room, but my room was RIGHT OVER the dance floor, and I heard every stupid song the band played. It wasn't so bad until they started karaoke at 1 a.m. There's nothing more aggravating than listening to a drunk German trying to sing "Sweet Home Alabama" when you're trying to get some sleep. I went downstairs in my pajamas to chew someone out, but alas---all the staff had gone to bed. So I grabbed a pint and joined the party......just kidding.
We decided on Sunday morning to drive over into the Czech Republich, since we were only about 45 kilometers away from the border. That's an entirely different blog.
Monday: left at 11 p.m. for a flight to London. We arrived in London at 11:15, stood in line at customs for 30 minutes, waited 45 minutes for a taxi, finally checked in to our hotel at about 2:30 in the morning. Our hotel was only a 10-minute walk from the "tube," which is the London subway system, so Tuesday morning we set out for Westminster. Mom kept referring to it as "WestMINISTER," and she was quite offended when I asked her to pronounce it right. Oh no, we didn't stand out as tourists or anything. Nooooooooo. Anyway, London was NOTHING of what I expected. Stay tuned......
Saturday, May 20, 2006
This blog isn't meant to be political, but I found this today and really thought it needed to be shared with the world. My sentiments exactly.
As for the rest of my mundane existence....we're very close to getting our apartment finished and ready for use by my parents who are coming to visit next week. Not that we'll be home much. I've already planned an action-packed itinerary for every one of the 14 days they are with us. I hope they remember to bring their pills.
My daughter, Grace, is still keeping me on my toes, literally. In fact, I had a minor surgical procedure done on my left big toe the other day (it was so insignificant, I won't even go into detail), and later that night, once the anesthesia had worn off, it really started to hurt. So I did what any normal person would do--I scarfed down a couple of Darvocet. Good stuff, by the way. I never lost consciousness, but I definitely zoned out for a while, and at some point I gave Grace permission to give me a makeover and draw "tatoos" on the bottom of both feet with a permanent black marker. I'm really lucky, actually. She first tried to draw them on my lower back. I'm sure that would have looked great with my ultra-low rise jeans and red lace thong. The moral of the story---do I really have to spell it out for you??
Oh, and today, I finally found about 8 missing receipts from various purchases I've made this week. Grace had folded them up into little fans and taped them all together. Thank God for on-line banking and carbon checks.
And thank God for little girls like Grace, who makes my world go round, even if it feels like it's spinning out of control......
Monday, May 15, 2006
When I was only 20 years old, I took a co-op position with the EPA in Atlanta, Georgia. My cousin, Kim, graciously opened up her home to me in Roswell, so I packed up my meager belongings and set out for the city. Now, you must understand that at this point, I had spent most of my life living in small, rural towns in south Georgia, which meant that I had little big-city driving experience. I knew it would be an adjustment for me, but I had no idea just how crazy Atlanta drivers could be. My dad drove me to Atlanta, helped me unload my boxes and set up my bed, and then decided that we should wander downtown to find the office where I would start working the following Monday. My dad is a wanderer, an adventurer. He will drive into a new city, sans map, and know every street, intersection, and alley way by heart within 24 hours. He's not afraid of getting lost or taking a wrong turn, and he seems to have this built-in sense of direction that drives Mom and me insane. He can do no wrong. I, on the other hand, get lost in my own driveway. Living in Germany makes it even worse because Europeans don't believe in directional signs, which means they don't tell you if you're going north or south or east or west. People still ask me, "Do you live east or west of the base?" and I always give the same answer: Huh? You can imagine the difficulty I had in a place like Atlanta.
Dad and I hopped in the car and set out for the interstate. I was confused before we ever made it out of the subdivision, which wasn't a good sign. It took about 20 minutes to get downtown via I-285, which is the bypass loop that circles around Atlanta. Really, 285 is just a big circle, so no matter which direction you head, you'll eventually get to where you want to go. But in rush hour traffic at 6:00 in the morning, it isn't a good idea to miss your exit. Which is exactly what I did my first day of work. I had to leave the house no later than 5:45, and by then traffic was already at a stand still. It was dark outside, my brain was in "sleep" mode, and I was scared to death. Sure enough, the exit to I-285 south was upon me and I was sitting in the wrong lane. I couldn't exit, and I couldn't get anyone to let me over to the right lane. So what did I do? I started crying. No, sobbing is more like it. I didn't continue driving, or attempt to turn around at the next exit, or try to push my way in like a local. Nope, I just sat there, with my blinker on, and wept...like a baby. Of course, people were honking at me and yelling (and I can imagine some of the words they were throwing my way), but I sat still, cried, and prayed for someone to let me over into the exit lane. Finally, after what seemed to be hours, someone took pity on my poor soul and let me in. I made it to work, on time, but I was frazzled and my makeup was ruined and I vowed never to drive in Atlanta again....at least until 4:00 that afternoon, when it was time to go home.
After a couple of weeks, I was driving like an Atlanta pro--cutting people off, honking my horn, running red lights (sorry, Dad), outrunning the cops....just kidding! Of course, that was many years ago, and since that time, I've once again lived in rural areas with little traffic. So you can imagine my fear as I drove through Paris last week on our trip to Normandy. Because Atlanta traffic doesn't even BEGIN to compare with Paris. Our first mistake was leaving K-town in the afternoon so that we hit Paris at rush hour, about 5:00. Traffic was bumper to bumper. Literally. At one point we were actually rear-ended by a French lady driving a roller-skate. She didn't even bother to pull over or stop to exchange insurance information. She just scooted around us and went about her business, as if that is common place in Paris. Of course, compared to her skate, my car looked like a monster truck on steroids, so we figured she probably sustained more damage anyway...no big deal.
What was a big deal were the motorcycles that drive IN BETWEEN cars whether they are moving or not. They come out of nowhere and zoom past at lightning speeds. It's crazy. Talk about cutting to the front of the line. At one point I was so stressed, I thought sure I'd suffer an aneurism before we ever got outside the city limits. Oh, and there are no rules of the road in Paris. Okay, so there are rules, but no one follows them. You just go or get run over. Push your way in and force your way out. Pure insanity.
Coming back was much, much easier. Traffic was lighter and I had a better idea of where we were going. Plus I got an awesome view of the Eiffel Tower on the way into the city. It is truly a majestic sight to see. So the next time we go to Paris, I'll be driving like a pro...oh, who am I kidding? The next time we go to Paris, we'll go on a train! Vive la France!
Dad and I hopped in the car and set out for the interstate. I was confused before we ever made it out of the subdivision, which wasn't a good sign. It took about 20 minutes to get downtown via I-285, which is the bypass loop that circles around Atlanta. Really, 285 is just a big circle, so no matter which direction you head, you'll eventually get to where you want to go. But in rush hour traffic at 6:00 in the morning, it isn't a good idea to miss your exit. Which is exactly what I did my first day of work. I had to leave the house no later than 5:45, and by then traffic was already at a stand still. It was dark outside, my brain was in "sleep" mode, and I was scared to death. Sure enough, the exit to I-285 south was upon me and I was sitting in the wrong lane. I couldn't exit, and I couldn't get anyone to let me over to the right lane. So what did I do? I started crying. No, sobbing is more like it. I didn't continue driving, or attempt to turn around at the next exit, or try to push my way in like a local. Nope, I just sat there, with my blinker on, and wept...like a baby. Of course, people were honking at me and yelling (and I can imagine some of the words they were throwing my way), but I sat still, cried, and prayed for someone to let me over into the exit lane. Finally, after what seemed to be hours, someone took pity on my poor soul and let me in. I made it to work, on time, but I was frazzled and my makeup was ruined and I vowed never to drive in Atlanta again....at least until 4:00 that afternoon, when it was time to go home.
After a couple of weeks, I was driving like an Atlanta pro--cutting people off, honking my horn, running red lights (sorry, Dad), outrunning the cops....just kidding! Of course, that was many years ago, and since that time, I've once again lived in rural areas with little traffic. So you can imagine my fear as I drove through Paris last week on our trip to Normandy. Because Atlanta traffic doesn't even BEGIN to compare with Paris. Our first mistake was leaving K-town in the afternoon so that we hit Paris at rush hour, about 5:00. Traffic was bumper to bumper. Literally. At one point we were actually rear-ended by a French lady driving a roller-skate. She didn't even bother to pull over or stop to exchange insurance information. She just scooted around us and went about her business, as if that is common place in Paris. Of course, compared to her skate, my car looked like a monster truck on steroids, so we figured she probably sustained more damage anyway...no big deal.
What was a big deal were the motorcycles that drive IN BETWEEN cars whether they are moving or not. They come out of nowhere and zoom past at lightning speeds. It's crazy. Talk about cutting to the front of the line. At one point I was so stressed, I thought sure I'd suffer an aneurism before we ever got outside the city limits. Oh, and there are no rules of the road in Paris. Okay, so there are rules, but no one follows them. You just go or get run over. Push your way in and force your way out. Pure insanity.
Coming back was much, much easier. Traffic was lighter and I had a better idea of where we were going. Plus I got an awesome view of the Eiffel Tower on the way into the city. It is truly a majestic sight to see. So the next time we go to Paris, I'll be driving like a pro...oh, who am I kidding? The next time we go to Paris, we'll go on a train! Vive la France!
Thursday, May 11, 2006
Last week we FINALLY got the heck out of Dodge...I mean Germany...and made our way across the border into France. We had a 5-day excursion to Normandy planned for Troy's 11th birthday. Gosh, just saying those words makes me feel incredibly old. Anyway, we loaded up the car early Wednesday morning and set out for a new adventure.
Let me just stop right here and give a super big THANK YOU to one of the greatest school teachers I've ever had, Mr. Lou Tiller. Mr. Tiller was my very larger-than-life French teacher for 4 years at Vidalia High School in south Georgia. He was one of my favorite teachers (and had I been chosen as Star student, I would have picked Mr. Tiller as Star teacher.....right after Mrs. Eidson). Anyway, Mr. Tiller did his job and did it very well. It's been 14 years since my last French class, and yet the language came back to me as if I'd studied it my whole life. I always thought I could "survive" in France, as I have always remembered the most vital questions like "Do you speak English?" and "Where is the bathroom?" But I did more than survive last weekend; I interacted. I held conversations. I bought souvenirs at the market in St. Lo. I asked for directions to a restaurant and then understood those directions. I navigated our way to Normandy by reading traffic and road signs. Now I'm not saying that I spoke perfect, fluent French (I'm sure I massacred quite a bit of their beautiful language), but after 8 months of feeling like a fish out of water in Germany, I was finally at peace traveling in a foreign country. For that I owe Mr. Tiller a world of gratitude.
Traveling through France was beautiful. The French countryside was exactly as I had always imagined it to be. Rolling hills, quaint little villages, huge fields full of beautiful flowers and other vegetation. It was hard to focus on driving when all I wanted to do was observe everything and soak it all in. We stopped at a rest area not far into France for Grace to use the bathroom. All I can say is GROSS! It was the nastiest potty I've ever seen. I had to hold her six inches above the toilet seat for fear that some vicious micro-organism would jump on to her rear end and cause the next Eboli outbreak. It was horrible. I decided to hold it, and hold it I did for the next 200 kilometers. Blake was amused because in the men's room there wasn't even a potty, but rather a couple of holes in the ground. In the poetic words of my husband, he just had to "aim and shoot." 'Nuff said.
Driving through France is seriously expensive. We had to buy gas on the economy. We're pretty fortunate in Germany to be able to use gas coupons that we buy through the base. This just means that we pay the average American price for gas, even when we're off base. You'd be amazed at the difference in cost. Europeans pay an average of $5.85 a gallon for gasoline. In some countries, like the Netherlands, it's even more expensive, topping out at almost 7 bucks a gallon (remember that the next time you're at the pump complaining). Outside of Germany, we have to pay what the Europeans pay, which means we bought gas at almost $6 a gallon while we traveled. Then there are the tolls you must pay for traveling French motorways. We spent almost 60 euro ONE WAY in tolls alone. And let's not forget that the dollar is almost worthless against the Euro. So......expensive gasoline + expensive tolls + worthless dollar = very broke Smith family. C'est la vie.
Driving through Paris was a whole other adventure, which I will write about in a separate blog. You just thought Atlanta was bad. We did manage to catch a quick view of the Eiffel Tower. Sweet. I can't wait to visit in the summer with Daniel and Amy (my brother and sis-in-law), so come on guys! Get packing and get ready to travel the world!
Let me just stop right here and give a super big THANK YOU to one of the greatest school teachers I've ever had, Mr. Lou Tiller. Mr. Tiller was my very larger-than-life French teacher for 4 years at Vidalia High School in south Georgia. He was one of my favorite teachers (and had I been chosen as Star student, I would have picked Mr. Tiller as Star teacher.....right after Mrs. Eidson). Anyway, Mr. Tiller did his job and did it very well. It's been 14 years since my last French class, and yet the language came back to me as if I'd studied it my whole life. I always thought I could "survive" in France, as I have always remembered the most vital questions like "Do you speak English?" and "Where is the bathroom?" But I did more than survive last weekend; I interacted. I held conversations. I bought souvenirs at the market in St. Lo. I asked for directions to a restaurant and then understood those directions. I navigated our way to Normandy by reading traffic and road signs. Now I'm not saying that I spoke perfect, fluent French (I'm sure I massacred quite a bit of their beautiful language), but after 8 months of feeling like a fish out of water in Germany, I was finally at peace traveling in a foreign country. For that I owe Mr. Tiller a world of gratitude.
Traveling through France was beautiful. The French countryside was exactly as I had always imagined it to be. Rolling hills, quaint little villages, huge fields full of beautiful flowers and other vegetation. It was hard to focus on driving when all I wanted to do was observe everything and soak it all in. We stopped at a rest area not far into France for Grace to use the bathroom. All I can say is GROSS! It was the nastiest potty I've ever seen. I had to hold her six inches above the toilet seat for fear that some vicious micro-organism would jump on to her rear end and cause the next Eboli outbreak. It was horrible. I decided to hold it, and hold it I did for the next 200 kilometers. Blake was amused because in the men's room there wasn't even a potty, but rather a couple of holes in the ground. In the poetic words of my husband, he just had to "aim and shoot." 'Nuff said.
Driving through France is seriously expensive. We had to buy gas on the economy. We're pretty fortunate in Germany to be able to use gas coupons that we buy through the base. This just means that we pay the average American price for gas, even when we're off base. You'd be amazed at the difference in cost. Europeans pay an average of $5.85 a gallon for gasoline. In some countries, like the Netherlands, it's even more expensive, topping out at almost 7 bucks a gallon (remember that the next time you're at the pump complaining). Outside of Germany, we have to pay what the Europeans pay, which means we bought gas at almost $6 a gallon while we traveled. Then there are the tolls you must pay for traveling French motorways. We spent almost 60 euro ONE WAY in tolls alone. And let's not forget that the dollar is almost worthless against the Euro. So......expensive gasoline + expensive tolls + worthless dollar = very broke Smith family. C'est la vie.
Driving through Paris was a whole other adventure, which I will write about in a separate blog. You just thought Atlanta was bad. We did manage to catch a quick view of the Eiffel Tower. Sweet. I can't wait to visit in the summer with Daniel and Amy (my brother and sis-in-law), so come on guys! Get packing and get ready to travel the world!
Saturday, April 29, 2006
I apologize to all of my adoring fans (all 2 of you) who actually read this blog. I have been incredibly lazy the last few weeks. I actually got an e-mail from a close friend informing me that my web site needed to be updated. I made a mental note, then went back to eating my bon bons and watching Oprah.
Actually, I've had so much to write about that I don't even know where to start. I guess I can begin by letting you know that hubby returned home from deployment last week. Of course I'm glad to have him home, but I must say that the reunion wasn't all that I had imagined it would be, and the last 10 days have been rather tense around our house. My fantasy, which I had been dreaming about for 6 weeks, was like something out of a romance novel: He stepped off the plane, dropped all of his luggage, and ran to her with his arms open. He embraced her lovingly, kissed her passionately, and declared his undying love for her. "Oh, I've missed you so much! You are the most beautiful woman in the world! How did I ever survive all these months without you? You are my heart and my soul. I am empty without you!" He kissed her again, and they ran off into the sunset together, living happily ever after.
In reality it was more like this: He stepped off the plane, slight smile on his face, gave her a little kiss, then took his daughter by the hand and walked off, leaving her to wonder if she had a giant booger hanging out of her nose that disgusted him completely. Or if the 10 pounds she gained during his absence was a big turn-off. Or if he never really missed her at all and was heading to the squadron to sign up for another tour.
I have heard from several friends that this is completely normal. Family support gave us material on the homecoming, but I didn't bother to read it. I focused all of my energy on handling life while he was gone. I never thought that his return would be stressful! Boy, was I wrong. Chalk this one up to inexperience. I'm sure there are lessons to be learned here; when I do, I'll share my newfound wisdom with you all.
Actually, I've had so much to write about that I don't even know where to start. I guess I can begin by letting you know that hubby returned home from deployment last week. Of course I'm glad to have him home, but I must say that the reunion wasn't all that I had imagined it would be, and the last 10 days have been rather tense around our house. My fantasy, which I had been dreaming about for 6 weeks, was like something out of a romance novel: He stepped off the plane, dropped all of his luggage, and ran to her with his arms open. He embraced her lovingly, kissed her passionately, and declared his undying love for her. "Oh, I've missed you so much! You are the most beautiful woman in the world! How did I ever survive all these months without you? You are my heart and my soul. I am empty without you!" He kissed her again, and they ran off into the sunset together, living happily ever after.
In reality it was more like this: He stepped off the plane, slight smile on his face, gave her a little kiss, then took his daughter by the hand and walked off, leaving her to wonder if she had a giant booger hanging out of her nose that disgusted him completely. Or if the 10 pounds she gained during his absence was a big turn-off. Or if he never really missed her at all and was heading to the squadron to sign up for another tour.
I have heard from several friends that this is completely normal. Family support gave us material on the homecoming, but I didn't bother to read it. I focused all of my energy on handling life while he was gone. I never thought that his return would be stressful! Boy, was I wrong. Chalk this one up to inexperience. I'm sure there are lessons to be learned here; when I do, I'll share my newfound wisdom with you all.
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