R&R

We've been in Washington for a month. I'm not ready to write about my mom's passing, but here are a few things the kids and I have been up to lately:

Hiking at Riverside State Park:

Spotted: the elusive American Teenager hanging back, too cool for ice cream or photos.

Oh, Henry.

.

The girls and I had planned an awesome American Girl birthday/outdoor movie party for before we left Brazil, and they were such troupers about it getting cancelled for our swift trip to the States. They spent their Ninth Birthday at the hospital with an ice cream cake my sweet aunt brought them.

However, the hospital is no place to spend a birthday, so we hit the road to Seattle to spend a little time with some friends and finally see the American Girl Store. 

The bathroom stalls have doll holders!

 Here is Kanani enjoying the, uh, view.

 How do you like Olivia's face? You should see the sidewalk. It didn't stand a chance.

 A girl after my own heart: hitting the shoe department first.

You know what two things don't go together? Eleven year-old boys and the American Girl Store:

Nope, he's not stepping foot through that door.

While we were dollin' and moping it up, Jack was busy with trapeze school, courtesy of his best bud's mom:

Seattle was f-f-f-f-freezing, that is, until we all bought jackets and the sun instantly came out. Right as we were leaving town.

 Crab and shrimp fettucine at the Fisherman's Terminal.

We stopped at the Wild Horses Monument at the Columbia River Gorge on the way back to Spokane.

Oh, Henry.



My Mom

Thank you for all the sweet notes and emails. For those of you who don't know, I've been in the States with the kids for the past few weeks.  My mom has passed away, but we were incredibly lucky in that we got to spend time with her before she left us. I'm too sad to write anything else.

Peace.

Camping? Um, Ew.

It's been an eventful week here in Brasilia, and I'm not talking about the entire case of Italian Wedding soup I ordered that exploded in the Diplomatic Post Office. Mitch and I had events on both Friday and Saturday night, and we hired our favorite babysitter, Jack. The younger kids LOVE it when he babysits, because he's not allowed to act like their brother or he doesn't get paid his allowance for the week. Anyway, Jack was arguing with me about letting the girls watch a PG-13 movie that was billed as a cross between 'The Blair Witch Project' and 'Cloverfield'. I finally said, "Not one more word. I refuse to discuss it."  This is the point Jack called me a "Hater of Reason".  I loved that so much I sat down to change my Facebook name to Kate Hater of Reason, and he was all, "You'll spend 20 minutes figuring out how to change your Facebook name but you won't spend five minutes hearing me out about the movie!?"  Yep. A Hater of Reason doesn't need to be reasonable, after all.

Friday night was a charity "Ruby Ball" and we didn't get to bed until 2:30. Here we are all grumpied gussied up:

That's Mitch's pre-drink "I don't wanna talk to people and go out in public" face, but we did have a great time. I was feeling said great time all day yesterday, so I asked the kids to be quiet while I took a nap (poor Mitch had to work all day). Anyway, I woke up two hours later to a silent house. The kids had washed the dishes, folded the laundry, and done all their homework, and I hadn't even asked them to. I KNOW!!!! I was heaping praise on them when Henry gave me his most angelic face and said, "Can you buy us this video game so Jack and I can play it together?"  Ahhhh ha. I saw how it was. And hell yes, I bought the little operators a video game. That was an awesome nap.

I was looking at my pose in that photo, and remembered a photo I came across the other day of a trip to the Nutcracker from several years ago. Notice Grace's pose. Like mother like daughter. Red patent shoes should be noticed, dammit.

Today I let Jack have my  hour when Vagana (the 'g' is a hard 'g', fortunately) arrived to do our massages and the girls and I headed out to a fair to do a little shopping for gifts to take back home next month. We came home with no gifts, but we were all sporting some lovely new jewelry for ourselves.

Treat. Yo. Self.



We came home to find this set up in the backyard:

That's right. We're getting ready for a big camping trip next weekend. Considering that my idea of camping is staying in a hotel that doesn't have room service, my camping list probably won't surprise you:

This little doll won't be going with us, but now that his eyebrows are growing back in, I thought I'd show you how he's getting cute again:

I'm pretty freaked out about camping in a Brazilian jungle, but I'm told there are showers and whatnot, and it's supposedly a real campground, so we'll see. What you may not know about me is that I'm a disaster magnet. The other night I was at a friend's house and we ran out of firewood for the little firepit, so some ladies were pulling dead branches out of the palm trees to burn. They got all they could reach and asked me to get some since I'm the tallest. "No," I warned them, "Nothing good will come of that. It'll end in tears."  Well, they cajoled me and I pulled out a branch. A giant bug fell on me, but I shook it out of my hair and was fine. They cajoled again. "Pull really hard and get a big one!" they encouraged. So I did. I got a huge dead palm leaf and dragged it over to the fire. I leaned over to pick up a big chunk of it (it was very dark out), and I noticed that the chunk was swarming. I had pulled down a huge wasps' nest. There was screaming and running and a brave lady who speared the nest and dropped it into the fire, saving all our lives. The next day, the girls came home from school (I hadn't told them about the bees) and were all, "MOM! Is it true that you pulled a bees' nest out of a tree with your bare hands? Everyone was talking about it at school!"  The moral of this story, children, is don't rely on me to save you if the ship's going down, because it's probably sinking from something I did. But generally with the best of intentions.

So, stay tuned for tales of our camping adventures.  Meanwhile, I grilled a pizza tonight. It didn't suck. Well, the first two did, but the third time was a charm:

PS. Yes, I DO let Jack eat some of the food.

Must Be a Good Book

Things That Don't Suck

Having someone come to your house and give you each an hour-long massage every weekend to the tune of about $25.



Shhh. Don't tell Mitch I snuck this photo.

Jaguar Reserve

Yesterday was a holiday in Brazil, so there was no school or work.  The CLO at our embassy organized a trip to the NEX Jaguar Reserve, which is out in the middle of nowhere, a few hours from Brasilia. The road to get there was little more than a goat trail with bandaids covering the streams. Some would call the bandaids "bridges", but I wouldn't. The embassy chartered three huge tour buses to get us there, but did we reserve 6 spots on the luxury buses? Hell, no. Because we are hardcore, and not afraid of getting scratches on our car. Anyway, there was a mix-up and the buses were overbooked, so we took three extra kids with us. The poor teenagers had to sit in the way back, and every time we hit a hole or bump, their heads would hit the roof of the car. How I laughed, because they were trying to sleep, and also, I'm mean.

The Jaguar Reserve houses jaguars that have no means of living in the wild. They've been raised as pets, abused, declawed, are blind, etc. They're stories are very sad,  but they are lucky to be where they're at, safe and seemingly well-cared for.

This black jaguar was really aggressive. You could tell she was pissed by the way her ears were flattened back. Just as we were about to leave the area, she took one giant leap and jumped at the fence, and added a nice, healthy cat-scream for good measure. All the kids in front of her needed a change of underwear after that. How I laughed, because I am mean.

The pumas were very, very interested in the toddlers of our group. It was almost feeding time.

After we admired all the cats, the guide took us on a hike, and we ended up here:

Did I have towels or swimsuits for my kids? Hell, no. Did that stop Olivia from diving right in? Hell, no.

I had to pull her out because it was c-c-c-c-c-c-cold. But she went right back in after giving me a cold, muddy hug. I don't know where she gets her meanness from.



Grace was all, "Brrrrrrrrrr. It's too cold. I don't think I want to get in any furthur."

And then, she was all,

Jack and his teenaged friends only got their feet wet, but Henry and his friend were all in:

The hike back was steep, but the scenery was gorgeous. We passed a very large chicken yard with hundreds of chickens squawking about.  We were tired and hungry, but the jaguar place provided a big lunch for us, AND caipirinhas when we got back. After our lunch, it was time for the cats' lunch:

Yum. A wheelbarrow full of dripping meat. The cats had the same thing we had for lunch. Chicken! I kept remembering the chicken farm we passed earlier in the day for some reason.  They wrangled the cats into their cages, then rubbed the meat all over the trees in rocks in their enclosures, finally hiding the meat up high, so the cats would have to hunt for it. It was amazing to watch.

After another hour of watching them feed all the cats, we had coffee and fruit, and the adults got to go play with a jaguar. I'm not kidding. Kids weren't allowed anywhere near it, because they are viewed as food. I stayed with all the kids, and Mitch and Jack went and played with this little kitty:

See my firstborn, petting a Jaguar teenager? I'm pretty sure something like this wouldn't be allowed in the States. Brazil, you win at not worrying about lawsuits!

It was getting late, so we said goodbye to the cats, the parrots, and the toucan.

And followed this roadrunner home. Actually, I'm not a 100 percent sure it was a roadrunner, because it wasn't in cartoon, but it WAS running on the road:

See the little fella, just right of center?

All in all, it was a great day, and no one even complained about riding home in damp, muddy clothes.

Dermafenderbender

Just so you know it's not all  pony rides, parties, and meeting famous government officials here at Casa Pullingstakes, I've decided to share with you a few of the less impressive moments we've had around here recently. Also, my friend Jill wants to hear about the chaos in her fellow foreign service bloggers' lives. Which, on any given day, I've got a story for.

This week, Seamus (our long-suffering-but-well-travelled-dog) and I had matching moles removed. Well, mine was a mole. His was a big gross knob of grossness. But they were in the same spot, on both our right shoulders. I'm pretty sure that makes us dermatology soulmates or something. Seamus had his surgery yesterday and let me tell you, does he ever look handsome. But why tell you when I can show you? First, though, a picture of him in his glory days of ultimate cuteness:

Totally adorable, right?

And now:

Wait for it........

Wait for it........

-

Right?

Anyway, the good news is that we're both fine and dandy now even though I wrecked the car in the process and I'm jealous that Seamus got drugged and I didn't. Okay, I didn't totally wreck the car. The other car wasn't even moving, so how much damage could I do, right?  Here's what happened. Every time you park your car in Brasilia, there's usually a parking lot guy, and you make a "contract" with him that he will watch your car and help you get out of the impossibly tiny parking places in exchange for a few reais upon your return. Protection money, as it were. I saw the Godfather, I know how it is. What is a Brazilian contract? He gives you a thumbs up and you give him a thumbs up back, and the deal is made. So, I'm late for my dermatology appointment already because I can't find a freaking parking place that will accommodate our beast of a vehicle. Forty-five minutes of driving around downtown, and I'm near tears and cursing.  Finally, a parking lot guy waves me into his lot. I see that there is a shiny black car double-parked at the end of a row of vehicles. I shake my head no at the parking lot guy, my car is too big.  He is confident! He can make this happen! He has children to feed just like everybody else, so get your big-ass car on in here, lady! I slowly start inching my way past the double-parked car. 

SCRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAATCHHH.

One of my biggest fears while living here has come to pass. I've gotten into an accident with no portuguese skills and no one around who speaks English. I get out (the parking lot guy disappeared the instant the scratch happened), and the shiny black car guy gets out of his car. He is pissed, and tells me so, yelling in portuguese and making wild hand gestures. I do the only thing that comes naturally to me. Burst into tears. This technique has served me well in the past. Brazilians HATE to see women cry. I think because their women would rather slap them across the face than cry. Anyway, the guy immediately stops yelling, has me write down my husband's number (because Gah knows only a man can fix this situation), and waves me back into my offending crazy-lady vehicle.

I finally made it to the doctor and got my stitches out.  The doc sat at his desk, looked up at the ceiling, scratched his beard, thought for a few more minutes, and said to me, "A thousand reais." In cash, to be paid directly to his pocket. And then he handed me the bill, which was in the font of lemonade stands everywhere:

I really hate comic sans, and I will never return to a doctor that uses this ridiculous font. To illustrate how I feel about comic sans, and in keeping with the canine theme of this post:

[source]

After the dermatologist, I had to rush to meet the kids at the embassy health unit after school so we could all go get our rabies shots. I know, what are we, dogs? The nurse highly recommended that we get them, since one of our family members (who for the purpose of this post will go by the Native American name of Raisedbywolves) continually tries to play with monkeys and stray animals. Let's just say my long-suffering-but-well-travelled husband was not impressed with the giant scratch along the car when we got to the embassy. He didn't even care about the font the doctor used on his bill! I mean, seriously. Comic sans. On a bill.