Plotting Revenge.

Hold on to your britches Mildred, this is going to be a bumpy ride.

Disclaimer:  For those that are faint of heart… look away now.  Or get out your smelling salts.  This post is never going to make it to Martha Stewart Living.

Some days just don’t go the way you want.  It’s a like black fly in your chardonnay – as Alanis would say.

Do you know what this is?

This is a little bugger that had the audacity to park her green arsed car half across my driveway this morning…

And this?

Might not look like much now that I have had to run my car over it 4 times… it is the mountain of gutter snow that I had to negotiate because little arsed green car parked half her arse across my driveway.

Every time I drove in and out of my driveway today… I cursed that little arsed green car. 

“What did you say, mummy?”  Nothing dear… just talking to myself.  Can’t have Miss Eight repeating anything that might get me into big trouble with Dear Mr Husband. It is bad enough that she learnt to say SHIT at the appropriate time….when she was three.  Hey!  At least she used it appropriately.

But back to the little arsed green car. 

I sat in my kitchen, drinking my cup of tea, and starting thinking about all the things I was going to do to that car.  I gave that little arsed green car my evil eye for all I was worth.  I considered using my ‘so my neighbour maintains’ woefully inadequate snow shovel to bury it.  I reckon I could have turned that whole car into one of those nice ice carvings you see in China. 

But that was too good.  I wondered what would happen if I poured a year’s supply of red cordial into that little gap in the window – then stuck in paddle pop sticks.. she would have a giant icy pole on wheels!

At 5pm, just as I had finished negotiating that HUGE pile of snow and the narrow gap to my driveway for the 7th time today…a lanky brunette strutted across the street, pulled out her keys, jumped in her little arsed green car and drove off. 

I stood on the side of the street and waved my tiny fist in the air….

“Yeah! baby… run, run away… you want some a this!!!  I brought two kids into the world…. I have no problem taking out your  little arsed green car!”

She was scared….. I could tell….. shakin’ in her boots. I swear she nearly swerved off the road in fear… or maybe she just hit that patch of black ice at the end of the street.

I showed her!

There is something very liberating about saying ‘arsed’.  I think I should say it more often.

 

A Non-Single Expat Marriage or “What was your name again?”

That pretty much sums it up.  And has done for over 20 years. 

It’s not like I didn’t know what I was getting myself into.  I had worked in the same industry as Mr Dear Husband, so knew what it was like to be caught up in the tidal wave, glance at my watch and think “Holy Cow… I just pulled a 18 hours shift!”.  The scary bit was having the energy to then go ‘out for a drink’ after work, where I was on a first name terms with barmen that didn’t start work until the wee hours of the morning.  There was none of this wide-eyed, fantasy stuff about my marriage.

Two decades later, I still wonder how I managed and why my children have turned out to be such well-adjusted human beings, lord knows, they certainly have grounds to want to wring our necks for all the changes we put them through (and still do).

One of our most exotic postings, where we both worked full-time, we had a phenomenal social life.  Both of us were constantly invited to all manner of grand and wonderful gatherings.  We had been in the country for over a year when we happened to be attending the same event, and somebody tried to introduce us to EACH OTHER!  Many people had never seen us working the same party at the same time.

Now I find it tough when he is here all the time.  There are moments when he sits on the sofa, switches on the TV (to a sporting event, what else) and I instantly find myself tensing up.  I think “Hey, who said you could chose what is on the TV!”.  Yesterday I was mad because he didn’t fluff up the sofa cushions before going to bed… nuts or what!

And so, here we stand.  For the first time in over 20 years, we have to learn how to BE with EACH OTHER.  All the time.  Perhaps I will start introducing him as my boyfriend… that could put a little spark into an everyday, normal as Joe, married life.

The Visitor

“Could you possible mind my baby for an hour?” Her voice wavered a little…

“Was I the only one you could reach?”

“Ummmm…yes.”

“Ok, see you in 10 minutes.” There didn’t seem any reason to make her sweat.

“Ummm, hi!…. so I guess it is just you and me. I would appreciate it if you could wait to fill your diaper until your mother returns. Deal?”

“And you might have everyone else wrapped around your little finger, but I will let you know right now, I am no push over, buddy.”

Well, maybe I am, but I thought it best to assert my authority right from the get go. I know how it is with these little guys, one minute they are all cute and smelling like sunshine, and the next, they have the key to the liquor cabinet and a tattoo that says “MOM”.

“No! you may not borrow the car tonight! If you can’t hold your own head up, how on earth do you expect to be able to reverse out of the driveway.”

Jeeezzz kids today! I’ll just make myself a coffee, don’t get up to anything while I am in the kitchen.

“That better not be your baby version of giving me the stink finger!”

“Ha! there you go, getting that happy face on, but I can smell the reason you are looking so joyful, and I thought we had a deal!”

“Just for that, you can read me a couple of chapters of Harry Potter. And I want ALL the silly voices too….so no skipping…. hey! did anyone ever tell you you look a little like Dobby the house elf?”

“Oh yeah…that was the doorbell. Seems your mother came back to get you after all. Quick hide the Jack Daniel and the cigars….”

Lessons in Snow Etiquette

If you are going to use an Egg Flip to clean the ice off your car windscreen…

…don’t get caught by the neighbour who already thinks you are a little weird. Telling him you ‘couldn’t find the ice scraper’ will win you no love.

When shovelling your front path, do not enter into a competition with aforementioned neighbour…

…he is a pensioner (senior citizen), having the cleanest path in the street is the highlight of his day and he will keep going until he breaks you.

If you are going to open the boot (trunk) of your car BEFORE you clean off the snow…

…be prepared to spend the next hour shovelling snow OUT of your boot before your husband finds out.

Should you run out of grit or salt to stop your paths from icing up…

…using that expensive salt from your last holiday in the South of France, is not a good choice.

Mis-judging the curb when crossing the street during a partial thaw…

…can result in EXTREMELY cold ankles, your child will learn words that are NOT age appropriate and a squelching sound that attracts unnecessary attention in the library.

When you are walking down the street in Germany and you see this sign:

...do NOT look up!  It took Miss Eight 10 minutes to stop laughing before she asked, “Would you like a tissue?”

I am still trying to work out why I even bothered leaving the house today.

Jack of all trades…

"What's an expert? I read somewhere, that the more a man knows, the more he knows he doesn't know. So I suppose one definition of an expert would be someone who doesn't admit out loud that he knows enough about a subject to know he doesn't really know how much." Malcom S Forbes

Jack of all trades, master of none.  I seriously considered putting that on an application this week.  Instead, I wrote in, “the lady that puts pickle bottle labels on pickle bottle jars.”  Will they be impressed, do you think?  The saying comes from my Nanna.  It was her greatest training tool.  “Learn your times tables or you will end up putting pickle bottle labels on pickle bottle jars!!!”  I wonder if she could see me now, would she reconsider her motivational skills.

Many times, I have thought, “Hell, I am just going to become a doctor, so that at the next cocktail party, when Hans Von Smellybottomholesinhisunderpants asks me “what do YOU do?”  I will be ready for him.  “Oh me?”  Here I will just try to brush it off like it is nothing, toss my long, golden locks, take a sip of my wine… “I am a doctor, I save people’s lives everyday.” Hmm maybe that last bit was laying it on a bit thick.  He will be so impressed that he will immediately leave me in peace to finish demolishing the hosts supply of white wine and potato latkes.

Germany brings all my insecurities to the surface.  Last year, during an interview with ‘the authorities’, the beamter (public servant) was trying to enter my employment history into her computer.  It went something like this:

“I have tried to enter in ALL the different qualifications and positions you have held in the past 25 years, but unfortunately, they don’t fit our strict parameters.  Unless I am able to tick at least one box, I will not be able to process your application.”  Then she just sat there, stabbing at her computer and making a tisk-tisk sound.  Until finally, she looked up at me and said: 

“Well… I could put you down as a cleaner, because that does not have the German requirement of at least a 4 year university degree, followed up by a 2 year unpaid apprenticeship, and finished off by another 1 year probation period, where you will be required to wear a giant P on your back during working hours.”

And she was deadly serious.

Dear Mr Husband was squeezing my arm VERY TIGHTLY, as if he instinctively knew that I was about to jump across the woman's desk and start pounding her head into her exasperating keyboard.  Tears sprang into my eyes, and a deep, red blush rose up from underneath my collar and filled my face.  I tried to concentrate on the tacky pictures of angels she had pinned on the walls of her windowless cubical, so as not to allow the tears to start rolling down my face.

“I see you have a picture of Machu Picchu behind your desk?.”  This was Mr Dear Husband, ever the diplomat, and probably trying to save my tormentor from spending the next 3 years in the company of her plastic surgeon.  “Have you been there?”  He can be so polite.

“OH NO!”  Gasp, horror showing on her face.  I love to look at the picture, but I would never go there… it is a terrible thing that all those dreadful tourists do to such wonderful sites.”

We left the office.  It was very quiet as we walked down the stairs.

“What a fruitcake!”

He knew just what to say… and I felt a little better.

The Original Expat Brat

“When I was in therapy about two years ago, one day I noticed that I hadn't had any children. And I like children at a distance. I wondered if I'd like them up close. I wondered why I didn't have any. I wondered if it was a mistake, or if I'd done it on purpose, or what. And I noticed my therapist didn't have any children either. He had pictures of his cats on the wall. Framed.” Spalding Gray

There are not a lot of references to LuLu’s Big Daughter.  Mainly because she now lives a happy and productive adult life in (the witness protection program) Australia, and I haven’t asked her if she minds being fodder for my blogging. OK, OK… so maybe it is because she said something like, “Mum, if I EVER read about myself on your blog, I am cutting off your allowance and you are grounded for a month!” …or words to that effect… I never listen to threats… nah, nah..

But…Someone reminded me about some of her early episodes as an expat brat, and I figure that she won’t REALLY mind if I relate a couple of them.  As the original Expat LuLu babe, she went first.  Big Daughter was all of 20 months old when we got on the “Let’s get outta here train.”  Raising her was often more than any normal parent should have to deal with, let alone, doing it in crazy, new countries where you can’t drink the water.

*****

Floating around in a swimming pool.  The Island is Lombok (before it turned into a mad tourist infestation).  It is warm, soothingly warm.  The service is sublime.  The air is clean. I have a drink with an umbrella in it… and an orchid behind my right ear…

Says the American businessman to then Miss 7(older version):

“I have been listening to you for sometime, but I can’t pick your accent, young lady.  Just where DO you come from?”

I don’t open my eyes, but my ears prick up and I wait for her reply…only remembering to breath when I start feeling faint.

“Well…”  Miss 7(older version) was never shy.  Some would say she could talk the leg off a wooden chair.

“My mummy comes from Australia.  My daddy comes from Germany.  We live in Bombay, India….  but I think I might be Turkish.”

Mr American businessman looked confused… shook his head and swam away to try his luck at the pool bar.

I kept my eyes closed and decided that it was best to just remain silent.

She was obviously already confused enough without my weighing in.

Truly a child of the united nations.

The things you learn…

All it takes is someone to put an idea in my head and it can take me ages (sometimes years) before I can get it loose.

I totally nicked this photo off the net… I wonder if these boys know that when you Google ‘baggy pants’, their ‘boxered bums’ come up more than any other?

In response to yesterday’s post about German School Kid Fashions, the gorgeous and baby-upped (I know that is not a word, but it fits the language of the style we are discussing… besides, it makes me hip, slick and cool…right?…RIGHT!) Miss Global Librarian told a little story and it would be such a shame not to share it.

Mind you, I will never be able to look at those boy’s with the droopy pants in the same light again:

“When I worked as a public librarian in Kansas City (US), I worked in a gang neighbourhood. (They were not gangsta-wannabes. They were the real thing.)
I did not allow the droopy pants and gang colors in the library. Partially because library was neutral territory and I didn't want them fighting with each other. But also because I thought the look disrespectful and they should treat the library, its customers and its staff with respect. (I was well-known in the neighbourhood. And gang activity of any kind DID NOT happen on My Watch.)

I used to enjoy explaining to the young boys how the droopy pants thing came to be. See, in prisons, where young men are locked up for long periods of time and "anything goes," wearing droopy pants signals to the other prisoners that you are a "bitch" and your back side is "open for business." The young men would always pull those pants up quite quickly.

I really, really wish I knew enough Swiss German to explain this to the young men I see wandering about Zürich. If those silly white boys ever appeared in my old neighbourhood, they would get their asses whipped by the real gangstas.”

Just too good a story to let slide.

Have a good one, people!