Tuesday, November 18, 2014

Barf with Whine

I haven't been updating because I like the idea of you, dear readers reader, imagining me happily munching away on Belgian chocolate and waffles with my lightning fast internet, wearing my cute leather boots and strolling around my adorable European neighborhood. Hell, I like to imagine myself in that scenario. But the truth is, even in a cherry post like Belgium, any PCS (Permanent Change of Station, or, Poop Crap Shit if you prefer, as I do) is just freaking hard. And I haven't wanted to be all whiny, because we are getting paid to live in Europe. Don't get me wrong, we love it here, but we just passed that gushy honeymoon phase and went right to the, "Belgium, why you gotta leave the toilet seat up and throw your dirty socks on the floor?" phase. The good news is that Jack's missing college UAB, which was packed out in July, finally showed up. Here in Brussels. With destination: Los Angeles clearly marked on the front.

Anyway, since I've started getting "are you alive?" emails, I figured I'd go ahead and just whine a little, because the contractor next door just saw my boobs. Here's how it happened. I was safely several floors up in my dressing room, looking for a bra, when I turned to see a guy on a one of those truck ladder thingies right outside my window. Now, normally I would run through the house, closing all the heavy draperies, screaming, and hiding out for a week, but right at that moment the school called to say one of the kids was vomiting. And since we don't have a car yet because we don't have our Belgian ID cards (what is this, Brazil?) and we can't get a car without a Belgian ID card and blahblahblah I had to call a taxi. All the workers happened to be out having a smoke when I went outside to wait for cab, natch. Ignoring the smoking looky-loos, I go to the school, grab my daughter after spending ten euros on cab fare just getting through all the security checkpoints at their international prison school, and hightail it back home, Another 30 euros later. Unfortunately, some other contractor working on the same house as the peeping Tom guy was blocking our driveway and the cab driver had to park about a block away because of the traffic. Let me just say that these guys block our driveway every single day and normally we don't care, but on this particular day, with my retching daughter, walking a block while holding a ziploc bag to catch her barf just sent me over the edge. I got her settled in the house and I marched right over there. Oh, yes I did. Boobs and all.

"GRRRR! BAD FRENCHENGLISHPORTUGUESE CAR IN MY DRIVEWAY SICK DAUGHTER MORE BAD FRENCHENGISHPORTUGUESE EVERYSINGLEDAY!" I said. Oh, yes I did. And this guy had the nerve to tell me that I should speak to him with respect, and can't I see that there is no where on the street to park? "GRRR. BAD FRENCHENGLISHPORTUGUESE HAD TO HOLD A BAG OF BARF BECAUSE YOU BLOCKED ME FROM GETTING IN MY HOUSE BAD FRENCHENGLISHPORTUGUESE".  And, oh my gah, is this a thing here? Because you taxpayers pay good money for my right to use my driveway. Let's just say it ended with a score of diplomacy=0.

So that was my morning, and that's enough complaining for one day, except one more thing. Okay, the European refrigerator? I mean, it would be perfect if I was in college and only had room for a pack of Chips Ahoy that my mom had Amazon deliver and a bunch of beer my roommate got with his fake ID (not naming names, here), but I've got a family to feed, yo. But it's workable. Worst case scenario, I go down to the basement where I'm certain bodies are buried from one of those Big Wars and did I mention Waterloo was right down the road from my house? And every time I go by I have to sing the ABBA Waterloo song? Where was I? Oh, yeah, so there's a refrigerator down in the scary basement that I can utilize to keep my sauvignon blanc properly chilled. No, it's the tiny European oven I'm having a hard time with. None of my beautiful pans fit in it. At least I won't have to worry about fitting a turkey in it next week because Mitch has to work. I think it's because he's so important? That, like, NATO will shut down or something if he spends Thanksgiving with his family after a year of missed holidays? Causing another Big War? Or something like that? So, back to my oven. How tiny is my oven? There's barely room for my head in it, you guys.

Everything else is pretty good. I still haven't started working because someone has to sign a piece of paper somewhere saying I'm still relatively secure, and I think that takes a really long time because who has a pen these days?

1 comment:

Nomads By Nature said...

Sorry, but I am giggling heartily at your multilingual rant description. And if Belgium has window washers like The Netherlands had when we were there, you will most likely flash your boobs several more times.