Gypsy Girls + Guy


IMG_9045Nut 3 told me she wants to go home to El Salvador a few nights ago. And this was after she told me she is a Qatari. I think we might have an identity crisis brewing in this wee child. And as much as I love our lifestyle, I often feel torn that we aren’t closer to dear family. And just occasionally on those wistful days, I want the bartender/husband to have a desk job in DC that he’s been doing for 15 years and he knows well so that we can stay PUT. And frankly, even myself, I occasionally have to think twice about where we live. Do we still live in Africa? Nope. Where am I? Seriously, I occasionally lose my train of thoughts and have that split-second ponder-where the HELL am I??

So, about eight weeks into our summer holidays and in the midst of our cross-country adventure, Nut 3 burst into tears from the backseat of our car. I think we were somewhere around the Trans-Continental Divide. It was at that moment that she finally understood that we had really left San Salvador. Oh, was that an awful moment for all of us. The poor little soul had always kind of-sort of-maybe figured that even though we had talked about moving for months before our actual departure, that maybe, just MAYBE we were all just making it up. Or she forgot. And right while our car was winding up, down and around the beautiful Colorado mountains, she realized that she wouldn’t ever be returning to El Sal. And through sniffles and snot and little wails, she was so, SO sad. The poor peanut was devastated. Completely panicked. And we were all heartbroken for her. I think we all cried at that moment, feeling her sorrow.

See this life that we lead? Folks on the outside think it’s glamorous and fancy. But it’s not all that fancy, we meet REAL people and we develop lifelong relationships and it royally stinks to leave them. And most of the time, I’m in my flip flops and I could use a pedicure and an eyebrow waxing just like any other frenzied mother out there.

We have lived on three different continents in five countries in the past ten years. And that doesn’t count all the hotels and temporary housing quarters/apartments where we have called “home”. That’s a LOT of boxes, a many plane flights, tons of airports. And about a million Goldfish snacks and weird/nasty bathroom runs.

But my girls LOVE the countries where we have lived. They are American/Belgian/British at heart but they always take a piece of that country with them. From Mia thinking that the camels at the pyramids in Cairo were HERS, to Z tending to our banana tree in the back garden of our home in Dakar, Senegal, to Remita loving to make homemade “chiri-mol” (salsa) in San Salvador. They have loved hard.

So, maybe home is where you find the people you love. They could be people you have known your whole life or pals whom you have just met but with whom you find that strong bond. So true for us overseas. And of course, family. Family whom I love more than anything. My parents are getting older and I want more time with them. I want more time with them ALL THE TIME. It is SO, so hard to live far from close friends and family. I liken it to not having grandparents and cousins near us-so that in this sense, our new friends abroad become like family, very quickly. Although nothing can replace immediate family. My Mum, my Dad, and my sis are my best pals. So are my sister’s kids. I need more time with them.

Z was only six weeks when we flew back to Egypt from Washington, so the first three years of her life, she only knew Cairo as her home. Although her little body sometimes rejected Egypt (she has lots of respiratory issues due to the pollution), she also thrived in the country-she loved the colors, the vibrancy, the chaos. Nuts 1 and 2 and I would stand on the balcony of our apartment and gaze onto the madness that was this amazing city of twenty million people. Even in the suburbs, Cairo was teaming with life and crazy energy. Leaving Cairo was harder for me as M and Z were so little-they didn’t understand our departure. I did for them, though, and I was so very sad. I was also grateful, though. Grateful for the incredible experience we had had in this amazing country. Also, grateful to get out of Egypt right before the start of the Arab Spring. We have had many trials and tribulations but we are so fortunate never to have had to go through a frantic evacuation. Not yet. Knock on wood.

Our arrival in Senegal was mad chaos as usual. I was quite pregnant (=fat and pissed off) with Nut 3 and we touched down in the middle of July, the hottest and rainiest month in the country. No car, two cranky and whiny little peanuts, a very-stressed out bartender and one hot (and not in the sexy sense), pregnant Mama with frizzy hair and swollen ankles.  And I was always either ravenously hungry or queasy as hell.  Every time I took a taxi, I remember feeling like I had to vomit from the exhaust fumes and nastiness of those vehicles. I could just look at a taxi and feel that intense wave of nausea. And I also had two fidgety, still-adjusting-and-often-whiny-nuts with me whenever I had to go out. I also remember vividly having a mini-breakdown in the airport in Dakar when we flew in around 2 am and some of our bags were missing. I sat my fat rump down on the middle of the airport floor and I cried. As one nut ran circles around me and the other one wailed hysterically right along with me. And if anyone knows African airports, you know that you would NOT want to be sitting on an African airport floor. Just NOPE. But there were no seats and I was desperate, exhausted and angry. Furious and frustrated. And my bartender/husband and his brand-new colleague stared at me in amazement and then they carefully treated me like a dangerous crime suspect. Very gingerly.

We ended up loving Dakar. We reveled in its colorful chaos. The horse-drawn carts and goats competing with traffic. The pungent-smelling, slightly (very) muddy open markets, the passionate, animated people, the chaos and the constant buzz of noise and music.

And my wee Nut 3 in Senegal. Learning to walk (and stumble) on the pot-holed filled streets in front of our house, furiously grasping the hand of our beloved house-guard, Boris. Boris was about 6’4 and they were a sight to see-a little peanut strawberry-blond baby being lovingly guided down the street by this huge presence of a young African man. She adored him. He was her best pal and she would squeal with joy when she saw him. And he protected her little she was his little sister.

Leaving Senegal was as frantic and heart-breaking as usual. We don’t ever easily leave our adopted home countries. Lots of tears and awful pits in our tummies. And we needed to leave quickly due to a change in the bartender’s job so it was even more stressful than normal. So hard to tell a child to say goodbye when they don’t understand the finality of it all. Or they don’t understand why we are leaving. It’s so difficult when they don’t understand but I am starting to see now that it’s even more gut-wrenching as they grow up and DO understand.

Our touch-down in El Salvador was, as usual, not text-book smooth. In fact, I wasn’t even there. Now, normally I would say that I am a pretty confident traveler. But not so much this time. I had never been to El Sal and had heard the buzz about the violence and gangs. Of course I was terrified for the nuts and my bartender. But I was still in DC finishing up post-breast cancer surgeries. And that was tough. We have done hard situations but this was REALLY hard. Never having been to El Sal myself and knowing that the nuts didn’t speak Spanish? I was a bit of a wreck, to be honest. But, yes. They adapted. And they flourished. And they loved. They loved the people and the country and their pals. And we met one of the BEST people in the world there-our nanny, Ana. Ana became like a stand-in grandparent to my girls. In the end, El Sal was home once again and my girls flourished and grew happily. We loved the country, we adored the people, we reveled in the regional travel. And we were saddened by the violence that unfortunately does mar this gorgeous country and region.

And here we are in Qatar. True to us, we didn’t arrive all together. Six weeks without the bartender OR our car wasn’t easy, but it certainly wasn’t the toughest separation we have ever done. So in this sense, it was kind of easy-peasy, right?

So what do I do here in Qatar, you might ask? (Particularly those who are not on Facebook to see my regular musings.) Well, let’s see….. I battle mad traffic and crazy barbarian drivers just to get to the store (that I just found) to buy bananas. I get lost regularly in my car and occasionally feel that I am driving off into the desert, I can’t ever get off these flipping highways. I meet new friends from all over the globe who become part of our expat “family”. I listen to the mesmerizing call to prayer from my kitchen window and know that it’s 2:30 pm and time to go get the nuts. I wonder what it’s like to wear a full abaya all the time. I wonder about camel racing. I miss my family. I call my parents and every day, I wish I were closer to them. I want to be sitting outside in the sunny Belgian weather (!!!) at my sister’s house having a BBQ. I help the nuts with their homework in English, French, Spanish, and now Arabic. I giggle and feel proud when I hear Z calling her Daddy “Baba” (that’s “Daddy” in Arabic). I hope for the very best for my girls. I wonder and hope that they will be the ones to change this world. I miss my girlfriends. I am grateful for new ones here, though. I do chores around the house like any other mother/wife/human being. I play tennis and wish I played more tennis. I revel in the lovely weather that is Qatar in February and then wonder how it’s going to be in the summer when it’s 50 degrees C/122 degrees F. I cheer on the nuts at the pool for their swim practice and have to pinch myself that it’s snowing in DC and my girls are swimming outside in a pool. I wear sandals or flip flops every day. I occasionally eat chocolate. Okay, more than occasionally. I wish I ate less chocolate. I sometimes (a lot) think about bacon. And I wonder about ice cream sundaes with homemade hot fudge (thanks, Mum). I ponder about the DC Chophouse, my fav restaurant in the DC area. I gaze at the blue sky here and see Mexican tortillas in the white clouds. I reflect on the awesome taco trucks in Modesto.  And I daydream about the biggest salad on the planet with bleu cheese.  And bacon again, I mull over how much I love a crisp Hoegaarden with a fresh slice of orange. And my Mum’s food. I contemplate her delicious cooking waaaaay more than I should: Strawberry rhubarb pies, buttermilk biscuits, Italian sausage and pasta with red peppers and fennel, ice cream cake, cheese cake, her UNBELIEVABLE pie crust, sausage stuffing, pumpkin chiffon pie (thanks, Diane Ludlow) buttermilk pancakes, sourdough pancakes made from a 150+ year sourdough starter courtesy of the pioneers of Alaska from when I was 13 and we took a family trip to this incredible state. And I write what are the beginnings of my book about the crazy life that I am lucky enough to call mine. That might be finished in the year 2020. Hopefully before then because I REALLY need a job and an income. And I wonder where we are going to be in three years. Because I really have no idea. Mongolia? Oh, and I might just look at Facebook every once in a while. All right, maybe more. Keeps me connected and feeling sane. As you might guess, I have a lot to say. And it keeps me laughing.

Speaking of feeling connected, I think that when I no longer feel giddy about the particular country in which we live, it’s time for me to hang up my traveling kit and go home. To where, though….? I have had the most TERRIFYING thought recently-the nuts are growing up and where will THEY end up? I need them next to me! The little row of houses, right? What if they end up on the other side of the planet? Or what if they end up never wanting to leave the US? Okay, that’s IT. I am buying a beach house in remote El Salvador and I am going to live there with the nuts and the bartender. Forever. I say house but realistically, on our budget, it would be a hut. Our own cozy hut to call home. Now I just need all the other people I love in my life to come and join us. Perhaps a hut commune?



With only 8 weeks to go left in-country, I am in the midst of a pre-packout panic period.  Say that 10 times as fast as you can.  With a cocktail in hand.  Don’t forget the chocolate.

 As a good foreign service friend of mine (Lea Baker!) recently said, “I realize now that my life has been a series of piles.”  Aaaaaand, that about sums it up.   You arrive at a new post, you have piles suitcases to unload.   Plus mounds and mounds of hand luggage.  And about 20 different carry-on’s for your kids. They give you a temporary housing kit with essentials, and that’s more heaps of stuff.  Sigh.  Then your shipments start to arrive and although you have waited for them anxiously for 6 weeks to 3 months and possibly more, you are filled with a sense of dread when those dirty, dusty, possibly water-logged boxes finally do arrive.  Just a few boxes.  Like 98 of them or so.  With an occasional extra critter thrown in from Africa. And often something you DIDN’T want packed-like fossilized fruit or a gargantuan bag filled with cd cases that you had intended to recycle before you left your last post….but then you forgot in all of the chaos.

 Packing out and moving across the globe is a delicate process.  It’s delicate and brutal all at the same time.  Kind of living in a live puzzle-Where do I put the stuff to be shipped by boat?  Where do I put the stuff to be flown by air? Wait, where is our car?   And where do I put the passports and important documents so that I don’t accidentally throw them out or pack them? I have done that, by the way. Yeah, that was a good day in our house, let me tell you when I realized that I had packed the passports.   My house is a pandemonium-filled war-zone of post-it notes and reminders.  And by post-it notes, I mean the teeny-tiny little, terribly annoying ones.  But at least they are in rainbow colors and my girls like them.  I keep finding my ones replaced by ones with stick figures and wobbly hearts.  And smudges of jam. Signed in big bubble letters.  Must be the work of nut #3.  Now I need to keep those, too.

 I also have a hard time controlling my daughters and their endless need to pack crap, crap, and more crap in our suitcases.  I don’t mean their favorite toys and stuffed animals. I understand that we need those.  I mean things like a bag of stale popcorn or the wobbly wall of a Lego farm complete with all of its teeny-weeny animals.  Or fake flowers.  Hideously plastic ones.  Possibly some squished grapes.  And about 8 little coin purses filled with every possible currency you can imagine.  Even Central African Francs.  Which much to Mia’s chagrin are worth about as much as some clean toilet paper.  As well a few stacks of toy money for good measure.

 It’s almost like a secret code between my bartender and myself when we start to think about packing for a trip or a pack-out.  Wait, who am I kidding?  It’s just me.  And my packing, sorting, and organizing. The lone valiant packer. Going off to packing war.  And my tiptoeing around with suitcases and bags, trying desperately not to let my kids see that we are embarking on the packing period.  Because if they know…..then it opens up the flood gate.  And my sweet, docile children madly turn in a wolf-pack-esque group of busy ants (the ferocious kind), running around, grabbing things to “pack”, wanting to “help”, tearing apart their drawers and closets, pulling out everything and anything.  Like they have gone completely berserk.  They are desperate packers.  That should be a reality show, right?  Desperate to pack anything.  Like as in they are hysterically asking me about packing 6 months before a trip.  So I try to act nonchalant-“Oh THAT trip.  Well, ummmmm, oh yeah, well, not QUITE yet.”  The night before.  Until they finally drag it out of me and I give in and let them pack.  And hold on!  For those of you who are thinking, “T needs to INVOLVE her kids more.”  I do!  Somewhat reluctantly, though, I do admit.  I finally tell them that they can help by going to get 3 pairs of undies each, 3 socks, etc.  And we end up with 12 pairs of undies and 2 mismatched socks.  And a big poofy princess dress, along with a broken wand just for good measure.  We have actually gone on a trip (thankfully, just an overnight when we were in the DC area) and I let the girls do their packing and we ended up with nut #3 wearing nut #2’s shoes which were waaaaaay too big for her.  And her Dad ended up having to carry her around because she kept tripping over her own poor little feet.  

 And getting rid of stuff before we move across the globe?  It’s like a freaking top-secret mission.  Not only from my kids.  Oh no, I am fighting a valiant, but pitifully losing battle here.  From my husband, aka the bartender.  He wants to keep EVer-y-thing, including that pinny (shirt, for those of you who don’t get kid’s sports practice language, myself included) he used for lacrosse practice.  In 1989. The really cool one, ya know?  And some other much-less desirable practice gear that goes along with the pinny.  You get my drift?  As in, below the waist.  For boys.  Men?  Why do I need to find those in my heavy-duty, color-coordinated plastic Target bins?  UGH.  Then there are the girls.  And as soon as they hear that we are having a yard sale or that we are donating stuff to an NGO, they huddle down with their stuff as if they were holding onto the last freaking Polly Pocket on this earth.  And all of a sudden, the toy that they haven’t touched for 3 flipping years becomes their new best friend, their only friend.  Or that coloring book with one scribble on each and every page.  Or that piece of string.  That really, REALLY special piece of string. As in, I don’t have a best friend, I just have my favorite piece of string. We had a garage sale yesterday and my bartender was shopping at OUR sale. I am seriously not kidding. He bought 2 scarves and 3 pieces of African wax fabric. I almost chucked him out the window.

 I walk into a room in the months before a pack-out and it’s like my Spidy-Sense takes over. I can FEEL the junk staring out at me from the closets. I can sense the pyramids of paperwork mocking me from inside the cupboard. And when I actually DO get through one pitiful little drawer, it’s like I have slain a giant, slobbering beast. I feel intense victory and I am wondering why I am not getting a lifetime achievement award for ridding that itty bitty drawer of battered and tattered Fulbe language flashcards, (the local language of the far north of Cameroon), that my bartender has lovingly kept for over 15 years. Then I realize it’s a losing battle. Gah!!!! And I dejectedly go back to my magazine and chocolate. Which by the way, are also what is taking over my house-MAGAZINES. Oh my. I KNOW that I am supposed to have all my recipes filed on-line by now and that I am NOT supposed to have stacks and stacks of Bon Appétit magazines and recipe clippings collecting dust, right? How is it that one measly piece of paper can be light as a feather but together they can weigh as much as a small herd of elephants? And ever since we have had kids that can read (darn them!), we now have about 300 National Geographic Kids magazines lying around, as well as Peppa Pig, Charlie and Lola, Noddy, in addition to a small stack of Men’s Health mags that could fill up a shed. D’oh!!!!! The magazine universe is ganging up on me. We also have about 3,000 manuals and/or guidebooks in various cupboards and drawers around the house. Just in case we want to see how that Cuisinart mixer works that we bought 15 years ago.   But on that thought (in terms of getting rid of stuff), one can never have too many teabags. That’s my opinion. Just in case there’s a global teabag shortage. Because you never know. No cheeky jokes, please. Same goes for chocolate. Because chocolate is my savior when things start to get chaotic around packing time. As long as I am eating a piece by myself. (Who am I kidding, a piece? I meant a whole chocolate bar.) Otherwise the nuts start to clamor around me. They can smell the chocolate on my breath and then they start to get rowdy.

 But back to getting rid of stuff. Like as I am having 2+ sales and selling it all. Either that or toss it all out the window. But having a garage sale is a taboo subject around my house. I decided the other day that I was going to sell the doll’s house that I had when I was a little girl because-

  1. It’s broken and we have tried unsuccessfully to fix it several times (doors falling off, etc.)
  2. It’s super heavy-extra pounds, everyone!
  3. And finally, no one ever plays with it. Until of course, this morning, when I got it out, dusty and all. Then Remi started playing with it and hasn’t stopped for the past three hours. It’s now apparently here favorite toy. Sigh. *

 I never knew that post-it notes would play such an intricate part of my life as an adult. Our topsy-turvy house and all of its post-its take on a new identity during the midst of a pack-out.  One room is designated to bags that we are taking with us on the plane.  This includes carry-on’s so essentially the room is packed to its gills.  Snacks are everywhere.  Gum, lolly-pops, m & m’s and pretzels are strewn onto every possible open space.  Mini-sized games and cards and anything to keep my kids occupied on the plane are all over the bed.  You have to have a secret badge to gain access to this room essentially. Or a very deep, adult-like voice when you knock (three times) on the door for allowed entry.  No kids allowed.  Then there are the other rooms-one room for air freight, one room for boat freight, and one for unruly children.  Just kidding.  Each room is color-coded by post-it note.  Kidding again. I wish I were that organized.  However, there ARE a ton of post-it notes involved, and just for good measure, we use every kind, every size, and every color.  Because post-it notes are kinda sexy, right?

 So. Have I told you that I think we might need some more slightly crooked princess wands in our house? And some more broken dress-up shoes? How about some sparkly tiaras with big ‘ol glitzy rhinestones? We definitely need more of those because we have just, oh, maybe 36 of each. And that’s not even counting under the beds-aka, the black holes of children’s toys. I also thought I was pretty good about getting rid of out-of-date meds. Boy, was I on crack when I thought that? Because I did NOT just find a tube of Destine (bum cream for babies) in the girls bathroom. Or did I? I think I did. How about some children’s cough and cold syrup, a big old heavy glass bottle, from 2004. I thought it said 2014. Now my eyes must be failing me. We still have a ton of baby wipes but at least I can use the excuse-“Baby wipes are great for cleaning up marks on walls and furniture.” Whew. That was a close one. We also have just a few cd’s and dvd’s lying around. Just a few thousand. Anyone want them? No? How about broken shells? They come with sand?  Soccer jerseys?  No again?  Deep breaths.

 I have been sorting in nut #’s 2 and 3’s rooms this morning and I just caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My hair is a big frizzball (gray!?!) and I didn’t look when I put it in a bun so part of it (the top right side) is sticking up on top, hence I end up looking slightly bonkers. Just slightly. I have yet to change out of my p.j.’s and my face still has a lovely pillow mark streaked across my cheek. I have no makeup on. Wait a second, I don’t wear makeup. Somehow I manage to look pale and sweaty at the same time. How is that possible? Yikes. I think even the girls might have been a bit afraid of me. At least I brushed my teeth, right? Or at least I think I did. Did I? I emerged after a good 2-3 hours of sorting, organizing, folding and cleaning feel wiped out. Like more tired than a full day of finger-printing folks (my job) at the US embassy. Like I need a good drink, some sort of chocolate mousse, and some good therapy. It’s exhausting to sort Polly Pockets and Pet Shops, Squinkies and Zoobles, let me tell you. Putting clothes back on naked Barbie dolls and baby dolls in the nuddy. Figuring out who wears what freaking pink frilly hat. Gluing decapitated Barbie heads back on naked dolls. Looks a bit sinister, but I assure you, it’s the work of a very determined 4-year-old doll destroyer.

 Nut #3 has just started to learn how to write and we are all, of course, very proud of her. However, she now takes endless pieces of paper and carefully cuts them up (leaving tiny bits of paper everywhere) into minuscule pieces and writes her name all over them. And then she repeats with the other words she knows-Dad, Mum, Mia, Zoë, Moo-Moo, Popsi, and so on and so forth. And then she VERY meticulously hides them all over the house. In the sink. Under her bed. In her backpack. In the bartender’s desk. Next to the toilet. On our chairs. In the oven. Wait what? And then she gets very, very angry when I throw just a few of them out. A few hundred. And I fail miserably at not letting her see me do it. She’s kind of like a mini Houdini. All is quiet and I think that I am safe and I am juuuuuuust about to pop them in the trash (having kept a few, maybe 30 or so) and all of a sudden, she appears. And she demands, “What are you doing, Mama? Are you THROWING OUT my homework???” So indignant. And so pissed off. And I suddenly become meek. And I slink back to the drawer and put them all back, with her standing over me like a high security prison guard.

 Holy crumbs, I haven’t been in some of these toy bins since we left Cairo about 5 years ago. We left Senegal too quickly to get through much of the toys. So some of these boxes and bins are a bit like a time machine. We also have a wooden chest that every time the girls make something pretty or come home with something new, we tend to stuff it in the chest. And the chest now weighs about 2,000 pounds. And now I have to go through every scrap of paper in that never-ending abyss.

 So. All kidding aside! Even with all of our crap, I am, deep down, extraordinarily grateful for all that we have. We have many friends, around the globe, who have had to leave their homes on extremely short notice due to an evacuation. Threats of violence, coup d’états, natural disasters, and on. Dear friends who have had to leave their belongings with 30 pounds of luggage per person. And in the end, I have learned that it’s just stuff, right? The nuts and bartender are what really matter to me. I love my house but my home is with them.  

Aaaaaaaand now, back to my packing.  And my chocolate therapy.  

*Update on my toy dollhouse from when I was a little nut. We kept it. Sigh?





Christmas Crack


ImageImageI adore the holidays but as most other mothers out there, I loathe the dreaded, inevitable post-holiday clean-up.  Which is probably why here we are in late January and I am just publishing this blog post.  And my nuts are still marching around singing Christmas carols.  Actually that’s kind of awesome.  But back to my original point…..

Everyone is frantically hands-on putting UP the trees, but as my Mum and I both know, it is the job of the lonely Mama bear who takes everything down:  every little, teensy-tiny, itty-bitty, breakable snowman and adorable little angel.  And then you (d’oh!) inevitably keep finding just ONE more decoration left for the few weeks after New Year’s when everything is put away.  This irritates me greatly-and why, yes, the holidays bring out the very best of my obsessive compulsive disorder.  I either need a cocktail or an episode of Days Of Our Lives (yes, it’s still on) to complete this incredibly dull task.  Or maybe I need both.   And enough bubble wrap to sink the ark.  And no little feet running around to crush the delicate ornaments.  As I get older, I get more and more kitch-y so we tend to have more and more stuff.  Much to my better half’s joy.  Just oooooooone more decoration hanging in the hallway.  Right about about 10 other ones.  And just one more set of lights to put up.  We now even have two Christmas trees-one mini and one normal sized.  I am thinking, though, of ditching them both and finally getting “the big one” that rivals the White House Christmas tree.  Every year, I get my “Christmas itch” where I kind of, sort of, really need to buy just a few more decorations.  And the more sparkle, the better.  Perfect for a gaggle of little girls.

 I also love, love, love Thanksgiving and every year, my better half or as I like to call him, my bartender, shakes his head as I spend an entire week prepping, chopping, mixing, shaking (along with my cocktails, but that’s his official job), a full Thanksgiving meal for our family and abooooooout 20 other close friends.  And I like to make everything from scratch-from the cranberry sauce to the piecrusts.  So it takes about a mere 3,000 hours to complete.  And then there’s the massive industrial clean-up afterwards.  I am usually covered in flour and grease afterwards but it makes me happy.  I love that cosy-house Thanksgiving feeling.  And even though we are usually sweating bullets drinking the hot-mulled wine in the climates where we tend to live, we do it as a love of this tradition.

Thanksgiving is also the only time of year where I open a can of crack, ie Crisco.  Crisco is the one of the secrets of my pie crusts.  And I cringe a little at the thought of all the lard+transfats that we are about to ingest, but just once a year, it’s worth it.  Lard-in-a-tin, it makes the world go around.  And it takes better than a butter crust.  My crusts turn out flakier than a crust that Betty Crocker herself could whip up.  Yes, I am bragging but they are awesome. 

However!  I love doing it.  When I was a kid, my Dad was a foreign student advisor and every Thanksgiving, we would invite a hand-full of foreign students to our house for their first Thanksgiving dinner.  Made of course by my born and bred English Mum.  We would have students from Iran to Iraq to Japan to Dubai to Germany at our dinner table-very informal and always hot-mulled wine made by my Mum to accompany the Thanksgiving traditions.  Our house smelt divine.  And for an English lass, I still have yet to meet the chef who can hold a candle to her homemade sausage stuffing, buttermilk biscuits, sweet potato biscuits and her homemade gravy.  I swear, there is a tiny slice of Southern belle in my Mum.  And also, perhaps, in little ‘ol me.  And on that note-I could live on fried chicken, homemade mac-n-cheese, mashed potatoes, and so on and so forth but that’s another blog entry…..

Back to Turkey Day, I can spend an entire day searching for that perfect turkey centerpiece (is there such a thing!?!) so that my Thanksgiving dinner table is up to my standards.  And I might just have done that this year in Antigua, Guatemala, about a month or so before the start of the holidays.  Much to Sacha’s delight, I wandered all over Antigua looking for my perfect ceramic turkey centerpiece.  And let me tell you, ceramic turkeys are hard to come by in Central America!!  I found one, by the way, as well as about 20 tiny bobble-head turkeys to add just a little extra pizzazz to each table setting.

Okay, so returning to Christmas.  And the over-glued, too-glittered, forlorn-looking, angel-without-the-arm homemade ornaments that my girls have made over the years.  However, these ornaments get a special category all to themselves.  Because I love them.  I love every crooked triangle-shape on the wobbly star that Zoë made (along with her photo from age two when her curly hair looked like it belonged on a 1972 Euro soccer star, the patch-work Christmas tree made out of Senegalese fabric that Mia carefully OVER-glued when she was four, Remi’s slightly-zombie looking snowman (her first decoration), the silver angels that we had made for each girl in Egypt, engraved with “Mia” and “Zoë” (and Remi’s is blank because we didn’t know what she would be as I was pregnant at the time).  And the beautifully hand-made stockings too, with everyone’s names in English and Arabic, and Remi’s too which was blank until Dani sewed on her name last Christmas for us.  My tree is a representation of the very vibrant world in which we live and in which my children are being raised-decorations that my parents had when I was a child, ornaments that Sacha and I have acquired over the years, non-traditional, funky fabric garlands from Central America, brilliantly colored fabric ornaments and handmade decorations made from gourds from Senegal, beautiful blown glass shapes and glittery camels from Cairo, and of course, a few pink princesses and glittery decorations for my girls.


Christmas is also a time for the dreaded elf to make his evil appearance.  And for me NOT to forget to move him around our house, doing mischievous and cheeky tricks with him, moving him to a different, awesome place every evening and remembering to put him away every morning.  Holy crap.  This elf was GIVEN to us or else I would NOT have been caught in this commercial trap!!!  And now I am in waaaaaay too deep.  My girls insist on  wondering when and how the elf will show up, what his name will be, what his cheekiest antics will be.  Toilet paper on the tree?  Check.  Daddy’s underoos wrapped around the elf’s head?  Done it.  Hung-over elf after a night of antics in our liquor cabinet?  Naaaaaaaah.  So I am stuck with him.   The elf, that is, not my husband.  And as much as I try to pawn him off onto my better half, the one and only time Sach successfully remembered to put the elf out for me the night before, he promptly forgot to put the damn thing away the next morning and our sewing teacher (poor thing) touched him and the girls shrieked louder than the witch melting in the famous scene out of the Wizard of Oz.  We all needed to go to therapy for that one.  Even the elf.  Sebastien Lopez is his name, by the way.  Remi named him after a little boy in her class who is apparently in love with her.  Come to think of it, for the three years we have had this dreaded elf, he has taken on the name of a boy in one of my girl’s classes.  First time, it was Ben.  Mia’s “best friend” in her class in Falls Church, VA.  Her Dad was veeeeery suspicious of that kid.  And then there was Thomas, last year’s elf.  Another boy-the son of friends of ours.  I am seeing a pattern here.  And one that their Dad does not like.


Then there’s also the advent calendar that we have to stuff with chocolates every evening.  It’s enough to make anyone start drinking, all the remembering I have to do around the holidays.  I would wake up in a cold sweat at 1 am and think to myself, “I FORGOT THE FREAKING ELF!!!!”  Meanwhile, my better half would be snoozing solidly next to me and doesn’t wake up even when the earth beneath us shakes (we live in earthquake country here in El Salvador).


Our tree always looks a little lop-sided (too many gin-tonics?) because of the weight of the million decorations we have as well as the help of three pairs of teeny-weeny hands who insist on putting them up “just so”.  And who end up covering the side of the tree and the entire bottom section and nothing on the top or the back, because, well, they can’t reach or see back there.  And who wants to put decorations anyway, on the back of a tree?  The tree represents us-loud, colorful, sassy,  whimsical, international, funky, creative, and lovingly imperfect.  Our tree isn’t round and bushy-it’s slowly tilting to the side and a wee bit scraggly.  However, with enough Christmas decorations on it, our bedraggled little tree transforms into a vision of holiday hope.  And as Zoë says, it looks like “a rainbow shooting out of the sides”.  Now who wouldn’t want to see a rainbow pouring out of a Christmas tree?  I just love the way my girls amazing brains work.  And as much as I complain about cleaning up after the holidays, deep down, I know it’s where I belong.  Right in the thick of our wee scrappy Charlie Brown Christmas tree.  With my three little nuts and my bartender.


48 Hours


Recently and very suddenly, I had to say goodbye to two dear friends.  You think I would get used to it living the life that I live, constantly on the move, continually saying goodbye.  But it doesn’t get any easier.  The first friend had to leave within 48 hours for security reasons.  I came out it feeling sad and angry, frustrated that such a rotten situation put my friend and her family in danger and turned her world upside down.  As I sat in her apartment in total chaos with her, she was trying to pull it together enough to know what to pack and what to just let go of.  So many people she never got to say goodbye to, so much connection to this country in which we live and call home.   And then my second dear pal left also rather suddenly for personal reasons.  It never starts to hurt any less, saying goodbye to dear friends.  Saying goodbye to my family hurts even more.  Even at 40 years old, I still cry when I have to leave my parents and my sister.

When I think about my children and their eminent goodbyes in each country we leave, it’s even worse.   As much as I love this global vagabonding lifestyle that we lead, I still question it all the time-Are we doing the right thing for my kids, are they going to resent us for moving them around so much, are they going to meet close friends at our next post, are they going to adapt okay, are they going to BE all right?

And where would I be without humor to get me through all of this?  Well, I am not sure.  Perhaps under the table.  With a cocktail in my hand.  And chocolate smeared all over my face.  In my granny p.j.’s.  Legs not shaved.  Hair frizzy.  No bra.  You get the idea.

 So I decided to write a list of all things positive and negative in regards to living this country-bouncing that we tend to do.  My list (because if you know me, you know that I am a tad bit obsessed with lists) of pro’s and con’s for being a “third world family”, the term used today to describe what we do.  A wee bit tongue-in-cheek, a tad bit nostalgic, occasionally serious, and pure therapy for me.


 1.  Pass The Refried Beans-My kids know what a koshari is, as well as poulet yassa, kofta, kushari, and everything in between.  They don’t get squeamish when their lunch box contains hummus and pita bread or pupusas.

2.  Nanga Def?  My girls can say hello in a handful of languages as well as hold a pretty decent conversation in several idioms.  They are bilingual in French and English and they understand and can hold a conversation in Spanish, too.  And they can always find a “secret” language if they don’t want anyone else to understand.

3.  Who’s That Weird Lady?  If I am talking to myself in English in a parking lot or in a grocery store, most folks won’t understand me.  They will just think I am a crazy foreigner making conversation with myself.  I can happily ponder and lament the lack of cheese selection aloud.

4.  Move Over, M’am-I pretty much have defensive driving skills even though I have never officially taken the official crash course in W. Va.  It’s called driving in Cairo.

5.  Kitchen Goddess-I have found a way to pretty much create a substitute for every cooking need I may have but cannot get.  From tortilla chips to sour cream, you name it, I can make it. 

6.  Pampered Mama-Manis and pedis are usually cheap, cheap, cheap in the countries in which we live.  Massages and facials too.  And they are usually right around the corner from my house.

7.  Fish Folks-Most of our posts, we can swim every day, year-round.  Just wait till the day they send us to Moscow and my girls have to wear closed-toe shoes.

8.  Don’t Step On The Lizard-We don’t need pets.  We have enough lizards in our house and other exotic creatures.  Or at least that’s what I keep telling my kids.

9.  Mumu Mama-Funky, cool fabrics are bountiful and you can always find a tailor to copy a fabulous dress.

10.  It’s Raining Water!  My kids get excited when it rains.  Because we often find ourselves living in the desert.  I often wonder what they will do when they see snow.

11.  Guaca-Mummy-Avocados are usually plentiful wherever we live.  Mangos too.  My kids don’t bat an eye when I serve mango mousse.

12.  Toothy Grins-Smiles are universal, right?  We always find friends in this crazy life called the Foreign Service.  And I love that my girls don’t see skin color in their friends.  They just see them as friends.

13.  Say What?!?  Kids can play in any language.

14.  Queen Of The Court-I can always seem to find a tennis court wherever we go.  And with that comes tennis girlfriends!

15.  American Excess-My girls don’t know that there is an American Girl Doll Store.  Shhhhh!!!!!

16.  Pass The Coco Puffs-They also don’t watch American tv, so they are unaware, for the most part, of American commercials.  Apart from one day a couple months ago when I showed them Saturday morning cartoons in a moment of insanity.  It opened a bit of a floodgate.  I might have scarred myself seeing the ad for the “Princess Goes To College Gear”.

17.  Ex-squeeze Me, But Can You Pass The Perrier?  My daughters think that soda water/sparkling water is a treat.

18.  Fast Food Frenzy.  My kids have been mostly sheltered from fast food restaurants and drive-thru’s.  The one time we went to a McDonalds, I got kind of stuck in the drive-thru.  Peals of laughter ensued from our car as the cars behind me started honking.

19.  If All Else Fails, Make A Pizza-Most countries we live in have access to ingredients to making homemade pizzas.  Sometimes we have to improvise and sometimes we have to hoard mozzarella cheese, but we make do.

20.  OMG, It’s A Dunkin’ Donuts!  Coming home to the US is like arriving in Disneyland for my kiddos.  Even the airports are thrilling.

21.  Please Shade The Nuts-Pool rash guards or swim tee-shirts.  For my super sensitive, pale, freckled skin nuts.

22.  American Girl Adventurer-My girls are learning and discovering the world.  I am so grateful for having the pyramids in our backyard (almost), Mayan ruins and volcanoes at our fingertips, African jungles and beaches within our reach.

23.  Mind The Sand-The beach is often just a hop, skip and a jump away from us.

24.  Hold Onto Your Britches!  Pot holes in the street are our version of a roller coaster ride.

25.  Happy Pupusa Day!  There is always some sort of local holiday we can celebrate.  Throw in American, British, and Belgian holidays and we could pretty much be celebrating every day of the year.

26.  House Calls-Depending on where we live, we often have doctors who make house visits and nurses who go out of their way to help us.

27.  What Should She Name Our Camel?  Although good playgrounds are hard to find, we  can go camping in the African desert or swimming in the Dead Sea.  Ancient history and science lessons on the spot!  Amazing.

28.  Cooking For Kids!  My girls are curious and confident in the kitchen.  Mia can make everything from cookies to salsa.  I love that they living in such an open and interesting world culturally.  That means awesome local food, wherever we are.

29.  Pass The Pen-Good old-fashioned pen pals.  Mia has several and Zoë is working on a few, too.  I love that my kids have friends and family all over the globe.  There is nothing better than getting a letter in the mail.  My kids just love it.  And my Mum is the best pen-pal ever!  She always sends post cards to all of her six grandchildren without fail.  We keep them all.

30.  I Heart Junk-Garage Sales.  I love a good old-fashioned garage sale.  And Americans do it best.  I love having garage sales and I love going to garage sales.  And I find that it’s very theraputic to purge once a year and get rid of the junk.  We often sell to give the profits to a charity and then we donate what’s left over.  And then everyone is happy-I feel more sane because I no longer have 6 garlic presses, we feel like we have done something to contribute to helping folks, and my kids learn a valuable lesson about finance and volunteerism.

31.  Tootsie Mama-Flip-flops.  My toes are not meant for covered shoes.  And thank goodness, we continue to live in warm weather climates.  I am not meant for Uggs!

32.  Call Me Boss-I can work from home.  And continue to eat my bonbons and drink my apperatif from my hammock. 

33.  Sweet Me-Chocolate, chocolate, chocolate.  I can always find chocolate wherever I am.

34.  Can We All Fit In The Shopping Cart?  Grocery stores in the US and in Europe are a serious fascination for my family.  Everyone wants to take a trip to the store when we are on vacation.  Starbucks, food samples, endless isles of yummies.  My kids walk out with the same high as if they had just eaten a pound of sugar.  Don’t even get me started on Target.

35.  Isn’t Chocolate Considered A Food Group?  Have I Mentioned Chocolate?  Seriously, have I?  Most every country we travel to has their own specialty chocolate.  Well, maybe not Egypt.  However, we can still pretty much get good chocolate wherever we end up.  I might have to sell my car to afford it (good chocolate in Senegal is expensive!) but it’s all worth it in the end.

36.  Skype.  We are so lucky!  We can Skype friends in Senegal and then Skype my parents in the UK 5 minutes later.  Seeing everyone’s smiling faces around the world, again, I am grateful.  And we can always find someone to Skype because someone is always awake somewhere in the world.


  1. Home, James-My kids think it’s normal to have their own school bus and driver.  I don’t like them to feel entitled but there are not a lot of options here for transportation.  
  2. Oops, I Ran Into A Cow-It’s not unheard of to hear this conversation in our house-“Ummmm, Honey, I hit a donkey cart today.  Just a little tap on the rear of the cart.  Do you think our insurance will cover that?”
  3. I Love Pork Products-Bacon is often unavailable in our host countries.  And we LOVE bacon.  My Mum brings frozen organic farm sausages when we see her and we go home with a full suitcase of treats.
  4. Pass The Off-Bugs, bugs, and more bugs-African cockroaches can fly, ants are huge and spiders are often gargantuan and hairy.  And there is always a risk of scorpions or frogs in the house.  Check your shoes!
  5. Gimme The Glass Slipper-I never know what size my kids feet truly are.  I just kind of guess and roll with it.
  6. Uhhhh, Where Do I Live?  I never know my billing address.  Let alone my phone number.  Talking to insurance on the phone goes something like this-My address is uhhhhhhh, hmmmmm…….Can you try this one?  How about this one?  Nope?  Okay, let’s see, one more?
  7. Berries In A Crumble-No berries.  Apart from strawberries.  No blueberries or raspberries.  Boo hoo.
  8. Hot House Homies-We are heading to Qatar next.  As in, the desert.  And I have 2 out of 3 VERY pale children.
  9. African Beasts-Mosquitoes.  They get their own number.  They are huge, quick, and vicious.  And if there is one mosquito in the house, it will find Sacha and my girls. 
  10. Where On Earth Am I??  No street signs (and often street lights) make driving a challenge.  Throw in some cows and goats and stray pigs as well as well as lingering pedestrians and voilà, you have driving in many of our posts.  Sacha has always said that he wants to create a third world driving video game complete with crazy livestock and insane traffic circles with no stop signs or stop lights.
  11. Humble Christmas Pie-We always end up with a Charlie Brown Christmas tree.   And usually Sacha ends up getting an electric shock plugging something into the wall.  When we lived in Senegal, he literally was thrown across the room when he announced “Ta DAH!!!”, trying to plug in our lights and tree.
  12. Lightning Strikes-Speaking of electric shocks, our kitchens overseas are often not grounded and we usually find out the bad way.
  13. Always A Family Girl-I miss my family.  It never gets any easier to say goodbye, especially now that my parents are older.  I hate not being close to them.  Some days, I would trade all of my travels and adventures to be close to my Mum and Dad.  My girls and I didn’t see my sister and her kids for almost two and a half years and it just about killed me. 
  14. Wash Your Hands!!  Germs, odd and funky infectious diseases, dengue fever, malaria, the list goes on-we are always on alert when the kids have a fever and we are always washing our hands.  Stomach bugs are more lethal, it seems, overseas, and “I think it’s something I ate” is a daily occurrence for us.
  15. Nasty Funky Junk-Mold.  Rainy seasons here are fast and furious and fuzzy things grow when it rains on and off every day for three months.
  16. Don’t Touch Anything And That’s An Order-African airports, delayed flights, lost bags, 24+hour travel with several layovers, all with little nuts=no fun!!!!
  17. Where’s The Grass?  Being a normal kid can be hard-grass is hard to come by, playgrounds are often old and rusty and hazardous, it’s difficult to learn how to ride a bike, and you typically can’t let your kids run loose around the neighborhood.  I remember Zoë being terrified of grass around the age of two because she had no idea what it was.
  18. What Time Is It?  Time zones stink.  When the girl’s grandparents live in the UK and DC and their adoptive big sister lives in China and their cousins live in Europe and the US and friends live in Africa, it makes talking difficult.  We have to deal with anything from an hour to 14 hours difference in time zones.  Birthdays are interesting, in this respect.
  19. Hand’s Off My Piggy Bank-My kids’ piggy banks have about 10 different random currencies and it’s hard to explain to my six year-old that she can’t buy a teddy bear with Central African Francs.
  20. Word Blips-Raising bilingual kids can be thoroughly amusing, especially when they get their words mixed up.  Z was trying to use the computer the other day and she said that she could not squirrel down the page.  I realized after a few minutes of scratching my head that she was talking about scrolling down the page.
  21. Third World Cans-We have seen our share of gross toilets around the world.  And the worst of it is having to take a toddler (or even an eight-year old, for that matter) to the bathroom in crappy (heh) conditions.  Let’s just say that little bums can get almost lost in those gnarly toilets.  And let’s just say that I have the willies just thinking about those times.
  22. Hold On Tight-Earthquakes.  When everything starts to shake at 10 pm and all three of your kids are in bed, your tummy turns upside down.  There is no time for “Well, let’s all just meander here under the dining room table” like they tell you to do in an earthquake.
  23. “Kith Me”, You Fool-Kisses.  French, Salvadoran, Belgian-one kiss, two kisses, three kisses?  There is always a question of how many kisses to give when greeting or meeting people.  My girls have to keep track of any given country’s greetings and it often gets confusing.  And a little sloppy.
  24. Funky Tummy-We are always thinking about weird and odd diseases in our family.  I mean, who usually has to worry about dingue fever?  And malaria?  Ugh.



This is 40 And A Cocktail


Well, I was supposed to publish this blog entry on my 40th birthday.  Just a few weeks late, right?  In between dressing Polly Pockets in incredibly tiny little tops and skirts and dresses (slightly maddening), I have finally found the time to write another blog entry.  My 30th birthday was much different than the big 4-0.  I was newly married, not-yet-with-rugrats, and I didn’t own any sort of property apart from a beat-up Dodge Shadow that didn’t even have A/C.  Ahhh, those were the days.  On the day of my 30th b-day, I went to a winery with Sach and my best girls and then we headed out that night for a wild-n-crazy evening with pals in the DC area.  The next day, I headed to the spa (hung over) for a full day of pampering.  For my 40th, (4:45 am wake-up to get the kids in the school bus by 6:30 am, already a doozy) I started out the day by going to read to Mia’s class.  I was so excited because it’s not every day that the parents are invited to your kid’s class at the French school.  It was awesome.  Then by mid-day, I finally succumbed to a stomach bug (can you freaking believe it!) but I rallied through a family dinner complete with an Oreo cookie cake that the girls had excitedly chosen for me.  And the next few days were fab.  I had two dinners out with various groups of girl-pals and then the following weekend (because I wanted to drag out my b-day as loooooong as possible), Sacha and I went to the island of Roatan, Honduras, for three days, six hours, 12 minutes and five seconds of alone-time.  Lots of food, lots of beach time, and lots of drinks.  Ummmm, yeah, LOTS of drinks.  But we missed our girls!  We were so excited to get home. 

So, here, I give you my thoughts at the age of 40.  As usual, they are jumbled and disorganized and not in any order in particular.  I might be repeating myself (it’s the age) and I am sure there are typos.  Slightly flawed, just like this Mama.  I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I have enjoyed writing them-     

*  Big Mama, Little Papa-Z says I am a big lady and Daddy is a little boy.  That’s the difference between 40 (moi) and a youthful 39-year-old (her Dad) to a six-year-old.  It’s kind of like dog years when one is that little.  Remi told me this morning when I was in the shower (she was standing at her usual perch just outside the shower) that Daddy is seven years old and I am 64.  That makes me 448 years old.  And she had a twinkle in her eyes when she said it. 

*  Salon Torture-I went to get an eyebrow wax and the lady started to wax my upper lip.  I almost died.  I jumped off of the massage bed and nearly hit the ceiling, I was so surprised.  So how to go about dealing with a quarter-waxed upper lip, you say?  Luckily, a little bit of oil wiped the wax right off without taking my (bountiful?) upper lip hair with it.

*  Excuse Me While I Scream Bloody Murder-Bikini waxes mother-f-ing HURT.  And is it my imagination or have things grown down there in places they haven’t before?  Ummmm, I don’t remember, to be honest, and never checked down there when I was 27.  However, I am pretty sure that there is hair sprouting in places it should NOT be now.  I practically gripped the massage bed like I was being exorcised last week when I was having my bikini wax.

*  Old Man Nose-On that note, there is now the question of white nose hairs.  On my husband.  NOT on me.  Yet.  When we were flying to Roatan for my 40th birthday celebration, Sacha and I discovered that he had a white nose hair.  Sticking right on out there in plain view.  So we decided to get rid of it.  I braced myself and with his blessing, I yanked it out.  Along with about 4 other nose hairs.  And if you’ve ever pulled out a nose hair, you know that it KILLS.  So as I was dying laughing (doubled over, ugly snort-laughing, because, you know, I was being my usual supportive self), my dear better half was crying in pain.  Literally sobbing.  But laughing all the same.  Good times.  And then Sachie told me something that made me bellow with laughter even more-he told me that when men get older, they start to grow hair out of their noses and ears.  And then here’s the kicker-he told me that they start to grow vaginas on their lower backs.  Again, peals of snorting laughter to the point where we were now starting to draw (bad) attention to ourselves on the plane, just the two of old old-timers.  At least we can still laugh with each other, right???

*  What’s That Ugly Lump On Your Leg?  Sacha’s lower leg injury.  My dear hubs (who likes to remind me that he’s about eight months younger than I) got walloped on the soccer field about three months ago and he’s still pretty much limping to this day.  Yet he refuses to admit that he is hurt.  And he’s back on the field.  Because that’s what makes him happy, even if it makes him cry at the same time.  And I am now the proud owner of a custom-made team outfit (it even has my name on the back) so that I can get out there and cheer on my better half.  Happens to be bright yellow and makes me look a bit like Big Bird but I’ll get out there and support my guy.  Now I just need to have one made for each of the girls.

*  My Fingernails Hurt.  Achy-breaky body.  Holy crap, my body seems to ache these days after taking out the trash. 

*  Happy Me-Happy hour takes on a new meaning because I cannot stay awake after 8 pm.  I am not physically capable.  Therefore, cocktails at 5 pm are essential. 

*  It’s Only 7:20 pm?  On that same note, it’s kind of depressing when your 8-year-old regularly stays up later than you do.  Mia is a night owl just like her Daddy.  I am, however, a pigeon.  I am in my jammies at 8 pm and eying my bed like it’s a big old ice cream sandwich.  And anyone who tries to talk or interact with me after 9 pm, they have to do this knowing that I might just fall asleep on them.  And I most certainly won’t remember our conversation the following day.

*  Pampers, Please-No longer carrying a diaper bag makes me want to weep AND high five someone at the same time.  Weep because it does make me sad!  My babies aren’t babies anymore.  (And my eight-year-old really doesn’t for it when I try to rock her in my lap.)  But on the flip side, I don’t have to lug a heavy, overloaded bag anymore.  Or make my husband do it, more likely.  (And my diaper bag was always black patent leather, which Sacha just looooooved, I think I might have mentioned before.)  And I want to high-five someone because it’s just so awesome not to have to change diapers anymore in the most ridiculous places because they don’t have a baby-changing table.  Hello, developing countries.  However, I still carry just as much junk in my regular bag now-I still have the wipes (what mother of a 3/6/8 year old doesn’t?), the snacks, the water, the crayons, the paper, the books, and on and on and on.  I could practically pull a seven-course meal out of my bag.  Made entirely out of snacks.

*  Can I Have Crayons With My Order, Please?  I no longer seek out a restaurant in terms of its coolness or trendiness or its amazing cocktails and bar.  Nope, we now seek out restaurants in terms of their proximity to home, the size of the playground, the appetizers and desserts for my kids.  Actually, the desserts are for me.  Who am I kidding?  Sacha still scopes out the bar and I still check for chocolate.  And even better if they have a great bar AND a yummy dessert list.

*   Homework Harrows-I spend some of my time during my day reviewing long division and fractions and the history of the ancient Nile flooding so that I can be ready to go over homework with my third-grader.  How many millions of years ago did the first pre-historic man appear?

*  Floss Me, Baby-I would never forget to floss my children’s teeth but I often forget to floss my own.  I am militant about flossing their teeth, even my three-year old.  Pink, green, and blue flossers in funky shapes.  If only my floss looked this fun.

*  Tongue Twisters-Dinner conversation consists of a plethora of knock-knock jokes, multiple loud conversations going on at the same time, occasionally an outburst from Dad to calm the troops, at least one little nut whining, peals of laughter from all of us and occasional tears, and ALWAYS a question like this-“Mum, why are penguins naked?”  By the way, try saying “toy boat” three times in a row fast.  We all get a kick out of that one at our table.  Also “flash message”.  Try it.  Three times in a row.  Try it with kids and everyone will be cracking up.

*  You Are Sitting On The Remote-Sacha and I argue over wanting to watch Downton Abby (moi) or Man VS. Food (sigh, Sacha).  Rockin’ Saturday nights, I tell you.

*  Peachblosson and Rosedust-Dad can sing all the words (juuuuuust a little off-key) to “My Little Pony”.  Also in French (yup, it’s “Mon Petit Pony”)

*  Foreign language foibles-our house is a mix of French, English, Spanish, and a spattering of Arabic.  Put them all together and things can get pretty hinky.  It used to be easy for me to keep track of it all.  Nowadays, my brain doesn’t work so well (thanks 40).  My Spanish is back, but I don’t get excited over verb conjugations like I used to.  I know, nerdy, huh.

*  Downton Nighties And Caps.  In my 40’s pajamas are about comfort.  I know I might look like a Granny in my all-in-one, but I am as cozy as a clam.  In my house, we girls are fans of the all-in-one.  Except for Sacha.

*  40 And Feelin’ Funky-You know that butterflies/excitement feeling you get waking up on your birthday when you are a kid?  Naaaaah, I didn’t get that on my 40th.  However, my kids were so giddy that they all pranced into our room at 5 am to wake me up.  I was, however, already downstairs having my 30 minutes of peace.  So all they ended up doing was waking up poor Sach.  Who was not as exited to wake up.  See the night owl/pigeon comment.

*  Massage envy-I play tennis with a great young gal who is single and has no kids.  And she has a massage table that she bought at a Costco-type place and takes around the globe with her.  Like I have space for a massage table.  Nope, I just have room for a massive play-bakery for my three daughters.  But noooooo, no room for a massage table for Mama.  Boo hoo.

*  Barbie Christmas Music Makes Me Want To Beat My Head Against The Wall-Music for the kiddies.  Our IPod these days is filled with Taylor Swift and Miley Cyrus.  Yeah, I want to listen to Liz Phair (can’t because of the language) and Sacha wants to listen to Metallic (can’t because the girls start to complain with all of the guitar and drums and “boy music”) but there is no room for anything in our home that isn’t bubble-gum sweet and pop-y.  We drove to the beach the other day and listened just two times to the Backyardigans and Sacha begged me (going on the third time) to change the music.  And when we drove to Copan, Honduras, around Christmas-time and we got lost (a  five-hour trip turned into over 10 hours, kill me now), we must have listened to Barbie Christmas over 100 times.  And both Sacha and I were wondering why we felt utterly homicidal at the end of that trip.

*  My brain hurts-When I help Mia with her homework, we sometimes have to memorize things and the other day, we happened to be going over a poem that she needed to know by heart.  So I memorized it, too.  And yesterday was the first time I really noticed the difference between her eight-year-old brain and my 40-year-old noggin.  We were quizzing each other and I thought I did a pretty good job-slow and methodical but I got it right.  Apart from one or two little blips.  Then came my eight-year-old.  And she rattled off the poem (in French), not one teeny mistake and voilà.  And she gave me a B.  Huh.

*  Wipe Me-I have an obsession with baby wipes even though I no long have a baby to change.  I mean, I just cannot live without them.  They work better than anything at taking out crayon from a rug.  Or a wall.  And they are ideal post-grocery shopping.  Especially post-grocery shopping in developing countries.  

*  Lady Big Bum-Frizzy hair, big tush, funny boobs-what I would GIVE to have the body and face I had 20 years ago and felt so self-conscious about at the time.  And the boobs.    

*  As I get older, I most certainly am becoming more particular.  Picky, Sacha would say.  Just determined, I would beg to differ.  The other day, I went on the hunt for tonic for vodka-tonics.  I went to four different stores and couldn’t find any.  My perfect plan was almost foiled.  Finally, I found some what appears to be black market, or contraband tonic called Royal Club.  My Granny would always say that tonic is good for a bout of malaria because of the quinine in it.  And that tonic is good for the joints.  She used to say that, too.  That’s not a bad thing, right?  Maybe I should start drinking a glass of sherry like she used to and then I would be happily pickled by 5 pm.

*  Big bums and all, I am one incredibly lucky girl.  This past year was such a whirlwind of bad news and fast changes.  And as much as I had an amazing time in Roatan, I love my crazy, quirky, faulted, beautiful, hilarious, bossy, sassy little family of three little nuts and Sachie.  And that’s all I need at the ripe old age of 40 to be happy and content in life.  That along with a few knock-knock jokes.ImageImage


Sweet Potato Biscuits and Christmas Thanks


I have been itching to write a blog entry for over four months now.  My brain can’t handle all these thoughts if I don’t write them down!  However, life stepped in-a second reconstructive post-breast cancer op in mid-September and an overseas move thereafter made it a little difficult.  I am back on track, though!  I spent 7+ weeks without Sacha and my girlies while I waited for my final op in the DC area and then I pretty much sped out of town on a plane to El Salvador.  And during those 7 + weeks, I slept for all of you Mamas out there who are sleep deprived.  In honor of you all, I took several naps and tried my darndest to sleep in past 6 am.  But years of being dragged out of bed by my early-rising kids took a toll on me and for the most part, I couldn’t freaking do it!  I was so used to dragging my weary, cranky ass out of bed to take care of a scared, vomiting, or yelling child that I just plain old couldn’t sleep in.  On the other hand, though, I laid around a WHOLE lot.  In honor again of the Mums/Moms/Mamans out there who are NOT doing just that.  I was a pretty good couch potato for those weeks.  I watched a whole lot of crap tv and thoroughly enjoyed it.  I didn’t have anyone bugging me to turn on the Backyardigans or a soccer match (kids and Sacha) and I zoned out to Andy Cohen on Bravo, a whole lotta Real Housewives (I know, it’s sick) and quite a bit of Top Chef or Chopped.  Pretty much, I watched Bravo or the Food Channel the whole time.  I was supposed to get this blog entry out after Thanksgiving, but it has now turned into after Christmas.  Oh well, more talk about yummy food, right?

So, in this holiday season, I am just plain old grateful.  Grateful for my three beautiful little nuts, thankful for a husband who puts up with me and thinks I am beautiful, appreciative for my parents and sis and her gorgeous family, and glad for my amazing dear friends and rockin’ extended family.  And here’s a tad bit more about all that makes me stop and think just how lucky I am-

  1. I love my kooky family.  Kids-I am grateful for my three year old, Remi-Roo or the Rooster.  I love her little puckered heart-shape lips and her cheeky grin.  Her cherubic face and that baby-soft strawberry blond hair.  I love the fact that she is bilingual-French and English, and that she knows to switch language effortlessly depending on whatever language the person speaks with whom she is talking.  And that she is now chattering away in Spanish, too.  I love that she adores to dance and she is expressive in everything that she does.   I try to take a deep breath when she throws her (regular/hourly?) tantrum because she does not have her hair perfectly braided or her third wardrobe change for the hour isn’t up to her standards, she can throw ‘em down like no other.  But I have a new tactic.  I just tickle her incessantly until she starts to laugh.  Hysterically.  She has no choice.  Kind of like my sister, Holly, when we were little.  I would use all out down and dirty war tactics with her in the form of tickling.  She was putty in my hands and still to this day, she resents just a wee bit that I am not ticklish.
  2. Mia.  My bunny girl and my biggest sis.   Even when she wants my attention at almost eight years old.  “Mum.  Mummy!  Maman?”  She tries all three names when she can’t get my attention.  She is attentive, artistic, whip-smart, meticulous, hilarious, caring, sassy, and slightly bossy (like her Mum?).  Her lovely brown eyes and her beautiful golden-streaked brown hair with those sun-soaked highlights that most women dream of.  I love the fact that when she gets excited, she still bounces around.  And she cracks me up.  She is one funny little nut.  I am also waiting for the day (soon!) that she will be smarter than her old Mum.  Seriously, this kid doesn’t miss a thing.
  3. Zo-ster/Zote/Zozie/Z-My sunshine girl.  Butterfly fairy gal.  Almost always a smile and a twinkle in her baby blue eyes.  And those freckles.  Those gorgeous curly locks.  Her infectious giggle.  And her endless ability to injure herself.  I don’t love that, of course, but I just adore her.  She pretty much was thrown from a horse and just a tad tramped by that same horse on our recent trip to Honduras, but that girl, oh that girl, she cried a little and then got up and got right back on the darn horse again.  And within 15 minutes, she was laughing and giggling again.  She could teach me a few things about life and letting go, that’s for sure.

I love my girls and their distinctly different strong personalities.  I am the luckiest Mama in the whole world.

  1. My better half-Sacha.  We just had our eleven-year wedding anniversary on December 22nd.  We were in Honduras and our day was filled with chasing little girls, everyone interrupting each other and chaos as usual.  We were all dirty and muddy and occasionally cranky and there was little talk of our anniversary.  However, we were all together and we visited the ancient Mayan ruins of Copán as a family.  I mean, c’mon, how much better can you get than that?  Sacha puts up with my temper and my impatience and my other (little!) foibles.  He is the best Dad around and he will sit for hours with the girls and play princess with them and walk out covered in sequins and frills and pink.   And he doesn’t mind at all.  Plus he makes me laugh.  Always has and always will.  He is the smartest guy around as well.  His love for history and global affairs is impressive and what makes him even more awesome is his humbleness. Even if he irritates me (and we do a pretty good job annoying each other!), I adore my guy.
  2. My parents-I love them and miss them and it never gets any easier to be on the other side of the world as them.
  3. My big sis, Holly.  She has three incredible kids and I am missing seeing her kids grow up.  That stinks.
  4. Bosom buddies-I have met some truly awesome women in this whole process.  We have an immediate boob bond.  I was lucky enough to meet my dear pal, Chantale, in the waiting room of my plastic surgeon post surgery.  I told the story before in an earlier blog entry but in essence, Chantale came into my life when I needed her the most.  I was just a few days out of surgery and she had been in my position a few months prior.  We immediately connected.  She is now a dear friend for life.  We have even compared boobies post-op.  I mean, you just have to, right?  I have met or heard of so many women in my position.  And being in this position plain old sucks.  But having so much support out there has made it so much more manageable.  Boob blogging friends, too.  Love the blogging world.  Hate that cancer has brought us together but I am grateful for the result of new friendships and bonds.  And for the support in the most difficult of times.
  5. Tennis lass.  Or ass?  I am so thankful to be playing tennis again!  I have already met some fabulous women on the courts.  I just started playing again about six weeks ago and it feels good.  I definitely have to work on my chest muscles (they don’t exist) but it’s kind of crazy, I think my backhand is actually better post-op.  Maybe I am just so excited to play again?  I even got some new tennis gear and yes, I am a lady of leisure who wears the cute little tennis skirt and matching top and I am wearing them unabashedly because I CAN.  I am just about to get myself a tennis visor as well.  Oh yeah!!!!  And on the days where I feel like my body has aged 10 years in the last six months, I can feel a little bit better about myself.  And I can pretty much still hustle all over the court and run my ass off like I did before.  With two sports bras on to keep everything in place.  Even in my tennis skirt.  In several different colors.
  6. Girlfriends.  I will never stop saying this.  My girlfriends spread out across the US and on all ends of the globe ROCK.  From my oldest pals to the friends I just made playing tennis, I am so thankful for these connections.  When you are a global nomad like myself and move every couple years to another spot on the world map, you tend to hold your closest friends VERY close to your heart.  My oldest school friends , UK school friends, high school friends, my UMass pals, friends from Grenoble, Peace Corps (rocks!) friends, DC friends and my dear pals from St. Andrew’s, Cairo girls, Senegal pals, and now El Salvador friends.  And moving around so much, once you DO make a great friend overseas, that person is connected forever.  From the time I was a kid traveling back and forth from CA to the UK, to studying in France and going to the east coast for college, to my Peace Corps days in Cameroon, to living in the DC area, to moving to Egypt, then to Senegal, then back to DC and now on to El Salvador, my best friends have been there for me.  Showering me with love and support from all of the places that I have lived and loved.

10. Chocolate and peanut butter.  Whoever put the two together, I love you a little bit too much.  Peanut butter M & M’s have gotten me through a lot of cranky afternoons.  And the joke in our family is that I pretty much share everything with my kids and Sacha.  Apart from desserts.  Then I don’t share.  I will make you your own dessert but don’t try to touch mine.  And I might need some time alone while I am indulging.

11. No cancer, new boobs-I’m still wrapping my brain around the whole cancer thing.  It’s only been six months since my diagnosis and things happened so quickly, my head is spinning.  It still amazes me to think that I am already a cancer survivor at the ripe old age of 39.  I mean, WTF.  12.  On the other hand, I am incredibly grateful to be in this position.  The cancer was found early and I am now moving on with my life, only six months later.  It’s still such a huge idea for me to wrap my brain around.  Just six months ago, I had no clue this all was about to go down.  Now here I am in El Salvador and I am a survivor.  Our move here was only delayed, in the end, by about six weeks for Sacha and the girls and by two months for me.  So crazy.  So freaking lucky.

I didn’t want to have more children.  However, I wanted to have the choice.  Cancer took away that choice.  I realize now that 100%, I won’t be having any more children.  I was actually the one between Sacha and myself who didn’t want any more kids.  I was just too darn exhausted!  But this all seem so final.  And the thought that my breasts, which once nursed my three little babies, are not mine anymore, it’s an emotional thought.  I obviously shouldn’t have any more children.  39 years old, three healthy little girls, I am terribly lucky to have them in the first place.  But now it’s kind of like the cancer made the final decision for me not to have any more babies.  And I hate that.  I shouldn’t mess with fire at this point-if I got pregnant again now, I could be risking the cancer coming back.  So it’s a no brainer. I look at close friends who wanted babies and couldn’t have them.  And I feel guilty for even thinking about wanting more.  But then I can’t because of that darn disease.

I also look at my girls who are so little and I wonder if the cancer was there when I was pregnant with my wee little Remi who is only just three years old now.  And how we wouldn’t have had her if I had found out about my cancer right before we decided to have another baby.  Then I wouldn’t have my sweet pea Roo.  I sat with her this afternoon and she lay down on my chest and she breathed in while I breathed out and we were breathing in sync.  At least I can feel that.  And I have three lovely little girls.  I am so lucky!!!

Something that is not moving?  At all?  My boobs.  These girls are locked and loaded.  They feel pretty normal (uh hum, to the touch), although I am totally numb, which is the weirdest feeling because I spent several years breast feeding my girls in total which anyone who has ever nursed a baby before knows that there is a LOT of feeling going on there, especially when you are getting the shit beaten out of your boobs by an eight pound little cherub.  However, they look totally different.  And awesome.  They are waaaaaaay perkier than they have been in eight years since I starting having babies and my babes sucked the life out of them.  On the down side, it’s still an odd feeling to have something in me that isn’t fully mine.  It feels like I am carrying around some extra dead weight in my chest.  Kind of like that feeling when you are nursing a baby and your boobs are engorged and they feel heavy but at the same time, I can’t really feel them.  It’s the strangest non-feeling sensation.  I also continually have dreams that my boobs have deflated.  Whoa.

 13.  Boob brain-I am grateful for my half-brain.  That I can walk into a room and MOST of the time I remember why I went in there in the first place.

14.  Tea time-I am grateful for cups of tea (sent from my Mum in England) and five minutes of peace.  Even if it’s at 5 am.

15.  Crap reading-I am grateful for US and People magazine overseas.   Yes, I read them.  Should I say that I like the Economist here?  I totally admit that I love to read magazines that have no substance when I need some down time.  I always use the excuse when we live abroad that I need the connection to home and to American/pop culture to Sacha.  But last year when we were in the DC area for a year, I kept up my subscription.  Oopsie.

16.  I am grateful to find most everything here that I need to make a yummy Thanksgiving and then Christmas dinner.  Okay, well, I can’t find Italian sausages for my homemade stuffing and I AM going through Trader Joe’s withdrawls, but I can pretty much find a substitute for everything that I need.  I am grateful for ideas on Facebook for substitutes from my friends and family around the globe as well.  And yes, I need to join Pinterest for recipe ideas.

So, here I am, on Christmas night.  I sit here appreciating the quiet as the girls are snuggled in bed and Sachie is in bed as well, (poor thing), feeling under the weather.  I think back on Christmas days as a child with my parents and sister and I can only hope to give my children the same sort of loving memories.  And looking back on our quiet, cosy, family-oriented Christmas today, it looks like we are on our way.Image

I Can Hear Myself Think



Okay, well, we might as well just jump right into it, shouldn’t we?  These are my jumbled, rambling, kooky, theraputic (for me) thoughts from the past few weeks.  They have given me comfort and I am hoping that by sharing them with you, I can perhaps bring a smile to your face-


  1. Ten HUT!  My boobs can predict the weather.  I feel aches in my chest when it’s about to rain, seriously.  I am rather proud of this new talent!
  2. Pumping tea bags and slicing bagels.  I notice, that even seven weeks post-surgery, that we use our breast muscles (pecks?!?) to do SO much-even squeezing out a tea bag on the side of a mug requires muscles in that area.  And it’s still sensitive.  Same with slicing bagels.  You might be astonished to know how much boob force is used to do this.  This will be my earliest form of exercise, to make myself feel better-I will make a cup of tea and slice a bagel and say I worked out.  Then call it a day.  Boy, that was a tough workout and much harder than zumba.
  3. We are family-We are incredibly lucky that Sachie left only 4 weeks delayed to post.  It could have been 6 months, a year, or even longer.  Only four weeks?  This all has happened so flipping quickly but in the end, Sacha’s professional timeline hasn’t been affected much by it.  And yes, focusing on our family and my healing is most important.  But the reality is that we also have to make sure that Sacha has a job.  And I am so thankful that his work wasn’t affected much by all of this.  
  4. Can you turn up the volume, please?  Every parent, and particularly every mother yearns for peace and quiet, right?  And a clean house?  Haven’t we all had those moments where you just want to stuff the dirty socks that were left on the floor down the garbage disposal?  Or better yet, stuffed into a roast tenderloin?!?!  And haven’t we all begged for five minutes peace while sitting on the toilet as some child (yours, whoopsie) is banging on the bathroom door??  And has anyone had the following thought-Did my children multiply or are they REALLY as loud and raucous as a band of drunk tuba players???  Well, yes, I have, in fact, had all of those pondering reflections.  And now that I am sitting here by myself in a glistening, shiny new “tiny house” as Zoë calls it, I don’t want it.  Yup, I don’t want any little bit of this all-to-quiet, not-at-all-cluttered, no-kids-stuff lying around including Petshops and Polly Pockets to fall over, no tighty-whitey’s of my dear husband’s on the bathroom counter, no empty beer bottles, no sticky juice boxes, no crumbled Goldfish snacks all over the kitchen floor, NOTHING.  And I don’t flipping want it!  I want all of the chaos and craziness back.  I am sure my girls are running circles around Sacha at this very moment and I want to be there, too.
  5. Processing for Peace-I still need to process the past two months and find some peace in all of it.  I had no idea I had cancer even in late May.  June 3rd, I was diagnosed and less than two weeks later, I had my operation.  Then there was the recuperation and in the midst of it all, we were re-arranging our early July move to El Salvador to early August with just the girls.  And I am doing just that right now.  In between watching Olympic synchronized swimming and Million Dollar Listings on Bravo.  Btw, who knew that Judge Judy is STILL on?     
  6. Fast forward, damn it!!!  I cannot WAIT for late September!  I am scheduled for surgery to finish reconstruction on September 18th and my doctor has said that I could leave, if all goes according to plan, even 10 days-two weeks later.  Fingers crossed!  This second operation is much less invasive than the first and recovery is supposed to be pretty quick.  My Mum (Nurse Mo!) arrives on September 13th and will stay till the 24th.  And then I hope to fly soon after to be reunited with Sachie and the girls who left here on August 6th.   Come on, September!
  7. Skype Saves Lives-What the heck would I do without Skype?  I really don’t know.  I Skype the girls at least once a day and if I have my choice, twice a day.  Or even three.  They look amazing.  They are happy and healthy and they love the new (big!) house and thank goodness our lifesaver babysitter, Danielle, also flew with Sacha and the girls!  My girls adore her and she knows them so well and all of their routines, it is such a relief for me.  I am beyond grateful.
  8. Mama Can’t Stop Crying-Thank goodness kids gets easily distracted.  Their sadness is temporary, and I am so thankful for this!  Even if they are feeling blue that I am not there, they quickly focus on something else-their new beds, a flower in the garden, a new room to discover in the house.  I will happily take ALL of their sadness so that it means they are happy and healthy and not thinking about missing me.  Me, on the other hand, well, I’ve been a bit of a hot mess.  I am doing much better every day, but man oh man, this has been the hardest week of my life.  Sending them off to a country of which I am totally unfamiliar, having my whole LIFE fly off on that plane, whoa.  I have never been one to feel too anxious about flying but this time was different.  The girls have never, ever flown without me.  I was terrified that something would happen to that plane!  My Mum actually told me to take a shot of whiskey.  I was that freaked out.  I am still somewhat weepy but luckily, I have recovered a bit in the past couple days. 
  9. It’s not what you think-The cleaning ladies here probably think I am a raging alcoholic.  The girls and Sacha left on Monday and that afternoon, I realized that I had forgotten a bottle of vodka and a bottle of gin in the cabinet of our old apartment.  I couldn’t just leave them, right????  And the door to our old place was still ajar from when we left.  My new place was just down the halls, so I walked down to the old place and when I realized no one was there, I gingerly opened the door and tiptoed into the kitchen to retrieve the bottles.  Now, granted, I was still looking pretty rough-still sniffling and teary-eyed and those bottles were about half-full each.  And as I wandered back to my new place, I happened to come across a cleaning lady in the hall who took one look at me and very boldly, shaking her head as she said to my ever-so slightly-guilty-looking face, “Oh NO, you don’t go and get DRUNK.”   Me-“Ummm, No!  It’s just, well, I lived there and I forgot …oh never mind.”  I realize I looked bad here.  And can you believe I did the same thing the following day, swear to goodness.  I had asked Sacha to put the four remaining bottles of Hoegaarden beer into my new fridge from our old place and in all of the madness of them leaving, I think he forgot.  And on Wednesday evening, two full days after they left, I was going to a happy hour at our grill by the pool and I realized this.  That the Hoegaarden beers were still in our old fridge!  And I knew that the door to our old place was STILL ajar.  So I crept back down the hall and into the old apartment and low and behold, they were still there in the old fridge.  Of course, I had NOT brought a bag with me, I was super sleek and smart and just scooped them all into my arms and then I stopped.  I had heard someone pushing something down the hall (the front door was still ajar) and it stopped right outside the front door.  And of course, I was pretty much standing there in the darkened kitchen because I hadn’t turned the light on.  Feeling awfully culpable and delinquent.  And then the freaking door slowly started to open.  I almost screamed!  And the poor young maintenance guy who had pushed the door open almost jumped out of his skin and so did I.  And here I was, looking like a cat with its’ paw in the fishbowl once again.  Terribly guilty looking!  And being the incredibly put-together and calm person I am, I stuttered and blurted out, “Oh no, it’s NOT what you think-I LIVED here and this is MY beer, and, oh, never mind.”  I looked like a crazy lunatic.   And then I shuffled away with my beer clutched to my chest.  Which I couldn’t feel because my boobs are numb.  I don’t even LIKE beer normally.  Well, unless it’s Hoegaarden.  Then I pretty much love it.  Here we go again….. 
  10. I love you, man-I love, love you all, dear friends and family, and I am so grateful for your love and support.   I couldn’t get through this ordeal without you.  I have heard from folks all over the globe as well as right down the street and I would be a sniveling, sorry mess if it weren’t for you all.  I thank you from the bottom of my weepy little ‘ol heart! Image