I kinda DO resemble Nicholas Cage.

It really could be soooo much worse. At least we have electricity and a nice house. We have very few ants (so far) and the kids are happy running around the house pretending to be police officers. My injured foot is hanging over my head, though (almost literally after I tripped on my way to the dry cleaner), and I have to get some help in place and the kids in school so that I can go back in January for surgery. I keep telling myself that we need help. Now.

We tried to interview two maids this weekend. One thought our house was too far away to come for an interview. I told MH to forget it because if our house was too far for an interview it was going to be too far to come for work everyday. The other one asked for a ridiculous amount of money when she has little experience. I don't know how she asked it and kept a straight face. MH wanted to hire her based on the fact that she understood us and we understood her Peruvian Spanish.

Someone recommended another housekeeper and said, "Just put in her contract that she has to wear a shirt." What? Seriously? I have to request that? We're not in the middle of the Congo or anything. We're in a large city. Apparently she makes wonderful kebabs, though, so we are definitely considering her (with or without her shirt).

And then I flip flop... do I really need a housekeeper? Uh, yes. Yes, I do. I had 6 phone calls today and 4 of them were about the phone company coming to hook up our phone. The ironic part is that they hooked up our phone last week and were calling me on said phone. I tried a variety of ways to explain that we didn't need that appointment and was about to resort to a singing telegram (reminds me of Grampa Joe's favorite joke, "Your sister Rose is dead!"). I have a friend who would say I probably used my "Doylestown voice" but I am not rude when there is a communication breakdown. I just repeat myself in exaggerated slow Spanish and ask them in exaggerated slow Spanish to repeat their questions and speak slowly. I swear they start speaking faster and louder. I feel like a French patisserie owner and they are the stereotypical ugly Americans, "Why does everyone here speak French?" You know what I say to that, "No croissants for you!" Then this lady from the Embassy called to tell me the phone people were outside and I said, "My Spanish is not that bad!" She said, "Well they didn't understand you." So yes, I need a housekeeper to answer the phone and teach me how to speak Dominican.

So if you are counting, I had two more non-phone-related calls left this morning before 9 am. The last two calls were wrong numbers or they were asking for my godfather. I am actually considering calling him to see if he can help us although as far as I know John doesn't speak any Spanish dialects.

But it could be so much worse, right? MH could have a job identifying heads. Snakes. We could have snakes. Or pirates. I keep telling myself, "Snap outta it!" a la Cher.*

*I wanted to put a longer clip on this post but because of our Internet I can only watch 18 seconds of youtube at a time.

If it ain't broke...let me get my hands on it!

I have learned from the Imagination Movers that all "the situation needs is some imagination." And you have to give me credit for trying. As if this move wasn't complicated enough, I went and broke my foot (simultaneously ruining my brother's birthday). Yes, you read that correctly. I know, I know. I am so graceful and unspaztacular. The Boy (with his poop issues) and MH (with his packing and dog-transporting dilemma) were getting all of the attention, so I needed to do something to remind the gods that I am special, too. Now we're like a scene from Where the Wild Things Are (a shout-out to Charles for the image and for putting a name to my disaster).

Like the Tendon Tearing Episode of '99 and the Foot Breaking of 2000, not to mention the Tailbone Dislocation Effort of '02, this latest injury was inspired by complete stupidity, randomness, and lack of effort on my part. You have to admit that my injuries never occur in a fascinating way, it is what I DO with the injury that is so awe-inspiring. I mean seriously, who else would think to break her foot when she has to move thousands of miles with her (technically) sick kid, her toddler, and blind dog. I don't include MH in this list, because he is probably the only one who doesn't require laxatives or the zone-defense.

Did I digress? Let's blame it on the medicine. Not only does it make me puke, but I have a feeling it is making me a little loopy.

So, Saturday morning I got up nice and early to go to Wings over Wine Country with my Birthday Boy Brother, my Niece, and The Kids. The day started off in the same fashion it ended... sh*tty. My poor Niece had diarrhea even before we left the driveway, but we thought it better to ignore the fact that her brothers had been going for several days and continue on with our adventure. I mean, it was a Birthday Weekend (if you know my family, you know the importance of this)! Off we went.

The kids were sitting three-across in the back seat singing and dancing to Imagination Movers. The Boy was holding The Girl's hand between songs and little cartoon birds were flying around the car. As soon as we passed the last exit with signs of life, The Niece's stomach started acting funny. We exited and followed the GPS to the closest restaurant (1.6 miles away). Only it wasn't 1.6 miles away and now that I look back, there wasn't a restaurant there. We drove over miles of California farm country seeing pastures with happy cows, horses, and a long-horn steer. Fricking cows. Finally, she couldn't hold it any longer so we asked some lady if we could go in her house. My little niece is a trooper although she'll probably only remember the good-smelling soap.

Back on the road, we were off to the air show (which was ridiculously hot and crowded). I wasn't prepared. The kids had a great time. The Girl was silent the entire 2 hours until we headed back to the car and she started shouting "Air paaaaaaaane" over and over again. The ride home was pretty uneventful as well, except that those damn cartoon birds weren't following us and all hell broke loose. The Boy was possessed by a demon and I had to pull over (was it multiple times?) to give him a timeout along the highway. Oh, and The Niece almost pooped her booster seat. She couldn't possibly have been with a better group. We can handle poop. I told her as much and offered her support saying, "It's okay if you go in your seat. It's okay," to which my brother contradicted after an especially rancid fart (hers, not his - but it was his bday so that would have been fine), "Nooooooooooooo. She can make it. We're almost there. She can make it!" Of course she did make it. Little trooper. She apparently takes after someone else in the family.

By now you're asking yourself, "What about the broken foot?" Well, I didn't want to start the excitement too early in the Birthday Weekend. When we got back to my mom's house and were in the midst of wrangling up 6 kids, I went out onto the porch, tripped on the mat, heard a crack, and "down she goes..."

That's it. That's my exciting story about my broken foot. I would like to note that we had birthday cake before going to the emergency room, so the day wasn't a total loss.

There's Nothing Quite Like McDonald's

So, I was going to go to my grave with this story. No particular reason, I just thought that no one needed to know the story. Then the Gods went and played with my funny bone and now I have to share it with you. So much for good deeds.

Since The Boy is on his clear liquid diet for the day, The Babysitter and I have had to try to keep any solid food eating to a minimum or at least out of eyesight of The Boy. True, he loves "Popsicle and Jell-o Day!" and I am probably going to have to do it once a month from now on, but eating a nice turkey sandwich in front of him when he's polishing off his 7th cup of Jell-o would just be cruel. So instead, I took The Girl to McDonald's.

Besides being the first time The Girl has eaten Micky D's, the outing should have been uneventful. I was along for the ride, however, so it promised to be a good one from the start. As I was walking into the restaurant, a gentleman seated by the door with a bunch of dimes and pennies spread in front of him asked if I could spare some change so he could get some food. I told him I didn't have any change on me, and honestly, I didn't.

As waited in line, I thought of my friend Julia in Bolivia. When we went out to breakfast on Fridays, she would buy little pastries as we paid our bill and she would give them to the pre-teens that wait outside to shine shoes or guard the parked cars. I didn't realize what she was doing the first time and I thought it was pretty cool that she was low-key about it. So I decided that I was going to do a good deed, as well, and buy the change guy lunch.

So I ordered the Double-cheeseburger Mini Meal and I must say, even now that sounds delicious. My mouth is watering. Those of you who know me well (or have been present when I have talked about food) know that I am not exaggerating, I had to wipe my mouth and swallow when I typed "Double-cheeseburger Mini Meal." There I go again.

Focus.

DcMM... okay, so The Girl and I went to a table and The Girl thoroughly enjoyed a cheeseburger. It was a pleasure to watch her. She kept stopping mid-chew, smiling, thumping her chest with her ketchup-covered hands (like Tim the Toolman Taylor) and squeezing her eyes shut. No, I don't think she was choking. She was in Heaven. Can you blame her? I haven't really had McDonald's much (once a year, maybe?) since it made me pass out in high school, but I am the first person to admit it is Mmmm Mmmm Good.

As we were enjoying The Girl's burger, I started to worry that my friend might not be outside when we finally finished our meal. What in the world was I going to do with a DcMM? I searched the front of the restaurant and saw a woman outside talking to someone on the ground. Good, he was still there and no one did the (good) deed before me. Then I noticed that there was another man outside of McDonald's sitting in one of those motorized chairs. Reflecting back, he had been there for quite a while. As I watched, a woman opened the door and let him in. He scooted over to me and The Girl and watched the table for a couple of minutes. I smiled and realized that he wasn't looking at us, but he was kind of scoping out the table. I am not sure he even saw us and it looked as if he had some kind of physical impairment. So, I said, "Hungry 18 month old be damned. Let's clean up and get out of here so we can do our good deed and another one by letting this gentleman have our table." No need to hurry, however. The man parked his scooter behind The Girl's high chair and then struggled to climb out of his scooter, around her chair and into the chair next to her. There he sat staring at us.

Under different circumstances I probably would have engaged in some kind of pleasantries, but my good deed was getting away outside. He was... gone! Oh no!... Oh no, he wasn't. He was just moving because... because there were two cops there trying to shoo him away! Wait, I have a Double-cheeseburger with your name on it! So I left our new lunch buddy, grabbed the chewing baby, and headed off to do God's work.

With one foot out the door I realized that this might not be the best time to approach the change guy... you know, as he's being run off by the police. In for a dime, in for a whole damn mini-meal, I guess. The cops looked like they were just about to pounce on him. He apparently was taking his sweet ole time leaving this fine establishment's front stoop. Either that or he saw me walking around with an extra bag of food. Was this the good deed I should be doing? Would the cops rough me up for being an accomplice?

Apparently my confused and dare I say statuesque.... okay statue-like... stance alerted the three to my existence. I didn't know how to slink away, so I thrust the bag at the man who said, "Thanks girlfriend," adding for my benefit (?), "God bless." It made me chuckle. The cops, on the otherhand, did not find this quite so heartwarming. They glared at me. I guess I understand, but don't they know that I was doing a good deed? Shouldn't I be encouraged? Then again, I think encouragement was exactly what they were against...

Bolivian News

Check this out. Are you surprised?

Again, no pictures

I have a really good excuse as to why I haven't uploaded any pictures lately... wait, it'll come to me...

Oh yeah... we've had a hell of a week (month, year...). First of all MH decided in all of his Catholic non-meat-eating-Fridayness to eat squid in Bolivia. Yes, Bolivia. You've heard of the landlocked country? Sure, there's Lake Titicaca, but even if there is squid there, it is still at least a few hour ride to the city in a barrel in a pick-up truck. I'm thinking God would have forgiven him for chosing chicken parmasean instead. Needless to say he got sick... very sick in the middle of the night and remained sick (very sick) all day Saturday. Of course my family thinks he gets sick all the time, but that's not true. He's only thrown up 3 other times in 13 years. Unfortunately, he makes sure that he does it in a memorable way (like driving down the NYS thruway at 65 miles an hour with a Tops bag over his face).

In any event, not to be outdone, I decided to get sick on Sunday. While the kids and MH were sleeping on Saturday afternoon, I went to a book club meeting (my first ever!) and got distracted (or something) and had three (that's 3) Cokes. True, I once consumed 24 Mr. Pibbs in less than three days my junior Spring of college when I was studying for exams, and it didn't seem to have any adverse effects on me, but this time I am convinced the 3 Cokes were the source of my current migraine. I am obviously getting better (if I am able to focus on the computer screen) but for the past 3 days I've been praying that someone would remove the ice pick from my brain.

On top of that, The Girl has been teething. Her gums were as purple as her name. The Boy is pooping (not super regularly, but we're excited all the same). The only one who isn't giving us trouble is The Dog.

My goal is to get some pics up soon - maybe after Easter. Thanks for checking my blog and for yelling at me about not posting to it. I've been wasting time on facebook, but this is much more fun.

Auf wiedersehen

You know how I feel about foul-language, but I also appreciate this blog celebrating one of the greatest events of the twenty-first century... the end of an era...

WHAT was he thinking?

These incidents go under the heading... What was he thinking? Seriously, please tell us because we're afraid to have The Boy live with us any longer because he is just getting too weird.

On Saturday night, a friend of ours came over for dinner and a game of Killer Bunnies. The Boy wasn't nearly punchy enough to go to bed (and he was working on a "package" as they say in Bolivia), so we let him play by himself in the playroom attached to the dining room. All of a sudden, The Boy, normally shy around Eric, struts out of the playroom with his hands behind his back and makes a bee-line for Eric. MH asked him what he was doing and he gets close to Eric and reveals a toy hamburger and a toy knife. What was he thinking?

Then, last night The Boy continued to work on his package (as you know we have problems with this process and we have to give him suppositories every few days - which he often pushes out before they can work). When his papa tucked him in he said that he wanted to wait to poop until I got there (thanks). I tucked him in and went back to my work organizing our medicine closet (it is literally a closet in our bedroom... there are a lot of things you need medicine for here!) when MH whisper-shouts my name. I still don't know if it was because The Girl was sleeping or if because MH was horrified by what he found. I ran to The Boy's room to find that he had dropped trou and there on the floor was a turd the size of a coke can and The Boy was looking terrified. Then he points at the undissolved suppository and says, "I don't like that." What was he thinking?

And my favorite... here is a picture of how I found him during nap time the other day. That's his laundry basket he's in. WWHT?

Palin's Prank Call

The Adventures of NEW Christine?

I was feeling a little blue the third of fourth time I went to a State party and realized that I had once again donned my Invisibility Cloak. A woman I have met (and shared a meal with) introduced herself to me. Nothing like being forgettable. My mom convinced me that it wasn't my problem, it was the forgetter's problem. I bought that for about 10 minutes. The next day another person kissed me in greeting and said, "Even though I don't know who you are..." Seriously, the community isn't that big. And let's be honest, we all know I usually do something to make a dazzling first impression.

Well today takes the cake. I received an email from someone updating me on the situation at home. If we were home, I would currently be working for this woman in my new position at the Embassy. She's supposed to be helping the evacuees with questions and concerns regarding our situation. So, I emailed her a question regarding under what circumstances State would go to an ordered departure. Her first reply greeted me with my full name (that she must of looked up because I only use that name when I visit the doctor!) and forwarded me her own email address and said I should address my concerns to her. Uh-okay. So, I emailed her back and said (in a more polite manner of course) "Uh, did you even read the first email?" Her response: Hi Christine!...

Seriously? I know she's busy and has a lot on her plate and other spouses are probably writing and making similar, annoying requests - but seriously!? My name is in my email address. She has since written me back and apologized for her error (which makes me feel pretty bad about complaining here). But still... I think I preferred it when I had short hair and people thought I was a man. At least I was making an impression!

Death By Chocolate... Literally!

We thought we'd be in danger from anonymous Bolivians. Little did we know that it was our cook trying to kill us. MH headed in to work at the crack of dawn because the Embassy was locking the doors early in anticipation of a large group of pro-Evo protesters. We also heard that there might be protesters down in the suburbs, so school was canceled (The Boy stayed home anyway because he had a fever), and it was strongly recommended that we stay in our homes. There were two protests not far from here. There was a group protesting outside of a restaurant not far from our house, but the group headed toward the Embassy was dispersed a few blocks away. I am confused why Evo would pay them to protest and then have his officers stop them a few blocks away. What does he do that doesn't surprise me? (I thought someone said that he bites the head off a bat everyday, but with my poor Spanish they could have said that he plays a bit of baseball.) By mid-afternoon everything had quieted down and for the first time in a week MH was home on time. Yeah! The kids have missed him a lot. To celebrate our cook made a chocolate cake and I even donated some store-bought frosting from our consumable shipment. This is where the story goes bad. We were supposed to be celebrating the fact that today wasn't a rough day, but instead I think we'll postpone our celebration and see if we make it through the night. For some reason the cake tasted like toilet bowl cleaner. We can't figure out what she could possibly have put in it because there is only so much food and chemicals in our kitchen. The bad news is... we have to keep eating it. Other than that, things are quiet here for now. Tomorrow is rumored to be an interesting day, so we'll keep you posted. After all, that's what this blog is for.

Additional Pictures from MH's Dancing Expedition

Here are some more pictures of MH's trip to Coroico. If you didn't see the video footage yet, check it out below (August 23rd post). It will hurt your eyes and you stomach muscles.

You've heard of the "bastardiaztion of English?" Well, it is MY fault. I am volunteering as an EFL teacher (English as a Foreign Language) to adults in the Embassy community. At first I was supposed to have about 6 students (chauffeurs and mechanics). On my first day I had over 20 students in three different levels. Usually with EFL classes attendance drops over time. After a couple of weeks, I now have 27 students. I am teaching on my own, but in September I should have two other volunteers helping me out. I have three levels and they each have classes twice a week for an hour. Let me tell you a little about my classes.

Conversational English: One student asked me what I thought of this class. I told him that I don't have any problem understanding what they are saying but we'll work on pronunciation, prepositions, and confidence. We talk about everything from how to bargain to why Americans buy so much and why people here don't use seat belts (there aren't any highways??!). Next week we're going to talk about pirates.

Beginners: I was supposed to have 4 students and on my first day 11 showed up. I was so shocked and when I said, "Eleven students!" or actually "Once estudiantes!" 6 of them got up to leave! I assured them that I would teach everyone (even though I wasn't prepared that day). They don't speak a lick of English so in my best (bad) Spanish I asked, "Como se dice 'Hola' en Ingles?" The response? Hola. So we're starting at the beginning. They are so thirsty to learn and I have to work super hard to keep up with them. By the end of class we had made some headway, though. They all learned how to say "See you later!"

Intermediates: I have about 10 of these students who work in offices, drive cars, and fix cars. They speak enough English so that we can joke around, but there are often misunderstandings and confusion. For example, I told them that we won't have class on Sept. 1 because it is a holiday, but we will have class on Sept. 3 despite the fact that it is a holiday for me... my birthday. They said we shouldn't have class on my birthday, and I said that it would be a present for me to have class (because I like teaching so much...). Then there was this rapid exchange in Spanish that I didn't really understand, but I got the gist of it. I explained in English and Spanish that they didn't have to get me any gifts... class was my gift. Can you imagine what they were thinking? Sheesh, she's barely taught us anything and she wants gifts?

My favorite confusing moment occurred when I got very excited about a dry-erase board. I don't have a lot of supplies for my classes, so I lugged in my own dry erase board. When I got to my second class, one of the students showed me that there was a board in the room behind the flip-chart we were whipping through. I was so excited that I exclaimed, "Awesome Possum." There was dead silence in the room and for a moment I thought I used a phrase that sounded insulting in Spanish (like saying "Peach" in Turkey). Then the most advanced student, with pencil in hand, said, "I am sorry. Could you write this. Awesome..." They were so excited. I explained that I didn't think many Americans used this phrase, but I use it when something is really great. They didn't know what an opossum was so we called MH and had him look it up in his Spanish/English dictionary. Later in class when one team won our question game a student shouted out "Awesome Possum."

I am wiped out at the end of each day, but for hours after class I am kind of high. It is so much fun to see them excited about learning and it is kind of cool that I am meeting more people than MH. But I apologize to you, native English speakers, for teaching not only my children but a whole group of unwitting people to speak like me.

Put a Lime in the Coca...

So MH had a tough week at the office. Here he is wearing his new orange and coca necklace. I think this might be the funniest thing I have ever seen.

Spanish 101

Interminable means "endless." We learned that the hard way. The other night we had another family over for dinner and decided to get two family-style (large) pizzas from this place called Eli's. The pizza is pretty good and it doesn't have funky sauce like some of the other pizza places around here. MH ordered the two (large) pizzas and while we waited, another two couples called and decided to come over, bringing a third (large) pizza.

It seemed like the pizzas were taking forever - which didn't surprise me because our experience with Eli's has been that there is a long wait (especially, for some strange reason, if you're eating at the restaurant). At the point when we were so hungry we started enumerating the highpoints of the movie Alive, the doorbell rang and there was our pizza delivery man. He wasn't on the cute little scooter pizza guys usually drive. Instead he had to take a cab to deliver our two large pizzas. And when I say "large" I mean "ginormous" bordering on "ridonculous" pizzas. Somehow, we got the "Interminable" ... endless... pizzas. Take a look. The pizzas are bigger than the kids! We were each determined to eat two pieces and MH and I were still eating leftovers for three days. We didn't even touch the third pizza!

MH with The Boy, our friends' sons, and the ginormous pizzas from Eli's.

There was a place in State College called "Burritos As Big As Your Head" that my brother wanted to boycott because the burritos weren't actually as big as his head... This is more his style, I guess.

Sorry, We're American. It Must Be Our Fault!

So I was laying on my deathbed on Monday afternoon waiting for MH to come home and help me wipe the spittle off my face (seriously, I have never been as sick as I was on Sunday night. I can't go into details because you'll be so grossed out you'll never be able to look me in the eye.) when I heard The Cook speaking loudly and rapidly in Spanish. After the night I had had and the help I required of The Cook so far that day, I was sure she was downstairs telling off MH and resigning due to the terrible working conditions. Turns out it wasn't that at all (Thank Heaven's Julia. We love you!), it was a simple altercation with our neighbor.

Some of the people on our street have these elevated wrought-iron baskets in front of their house for their garbage. We don't have one. When the garbage truck comes by, the guy on the back rings a bell and our staff takes the garbage to the street. Well, the crazy lady next door brought over a bag of garbage that she insisted was ours. She said that if we put our garbage in her basket again, she is going to dump it all out in front of our house. Nevermind the fact that we use those white "We're American and buy in bulk at Costco" garbage bags and this was a little shopping bag full of things we don't use. She didn't believe Julia and Lili when they swore that it wasn't our garbage and then she refused to take the garbage back. They were furious!

When MH got home he called the Roving Patrol (Bolivian police officers assigned to the Embassy) and asked if they could help him talk to the neighbor. MH's Spanish is pretty good, but he wasn't sure he could handle this delicate situation. So the cops came over and talked to the neighbor and told us that she is just an old and crotchety woman (that's my translation) and to give them a call if it happens again. In the meantime, MH wants to see about getting one of those baskets installed. I want to see about dumping the dog-poo bags over the wall, but that probably won't do a lot of good for Bolivian-American relations.

A Clarification

It has come to my attention that perhaps my last post wasn't that clear. When I realized that it was a pain to seed my own grapes, I wasn't implying that I didn't know grapes had seeds. True, we usually get the seedless kind in the States, but I am a woman of the world. What I was implying is that I am a lazy and pathetic woman of the world. It was Sunday when I had that realization. Sunday. No Cook. Normally Julia makes my lunch and then makes me fresh fruit salad with kiwi, pineapple, papaya, banana, apple, mango, and grapes that she has just seeded. I had to do it myself last Sunday. Stop shaking your head.

Excuse Me. I Have A Medical Condition!

Bolivia is the perfect place. Seriously, where else can you pass off a little indigestion as “terminal flatulence?” I kid you not, that is a real condition caused by the altitude. We can’t help it, but we sure as heck are going to use that excuse to our benefit for the next two years (if not longer. There has to be some sort of readjustment period when you hit lower elevation, right?).

Along with TF, as we call it, we have discovered a myriad of other excuses to blame on the altitude or our lack of Spanish – and we’ve only been here a week. Here are a few…

Naps – they are practically a requirement. We’re not complete slobs. We actually do need to nap or go to bed by 9:30pm and then we sleep like dogs… or at least MH and The Dog do. Apparently it is normal to sleep very deeply and breathe like you just ran two marathons (on your tippy-toes). I am at the other end of the spectrum. I sleep for a few hours at a time and wake up alert but physically exhausted (apparently I am a marathon-breather, too). Part of this routine is because The Girl was waking up to eat every two hours – and she was freeeeezing. We have little heaters and humidifiers in each of our rooms and we haven’t been able to get the pajama/heater-setting combination right. We worry about her overheating, but last night I think we hit gold. She slept from 8pm to 8am (almost as long as her big bro) and woke up toasty warm. The Boy used to sleep like a champ (back in the States) and we are assuming he still does because when we put him down by 8pm we don’t hear from him again until at least 8:30am.

Appetite – this is another of those contradictory symptoms. Either you have an appetite or you don’t. The Girl obviously does (or she’s bored) and the rest of us have never been shy of the fork. Tell that to our cook, though.* The first few days she was making us mini-meals. I asked MH the first night if the pasta Bolognese was a first course… It was delicious and the perfect way to start out a larger meal. And it isn’t like we can go make ourselves something else. The Cook is standing there watching us. I think she understands our eating habits a little better after The Boy ate two-and-a-half quesadillas and left a half for MH and I to share. We were shocked that he was eating so much because up until then he wasn’t that hungry. We blamed it on the elevation and his ear infection. He’s in full form now, eating us out of casa and hogar.

Sex-based conventions – if you are reading this blog then you know me and you know that I rarely conform to typical sex-based conventions. I mean, sometimes we use them to our advantage. One conveniently timed roll-of-the-eyes gets MH out of a night in a smoky, noisy bar – “The Little Woman” doesn’t approve. It frustrates me, however, when people here tell me I am the “boss of the house.” Even if that is true to some extent, it is mainly because I am the one home all the time… not because I am TLW. It makes it difficult, though, when dealing with the staff. When MH comes home he as to do “my” work for me and discuss laundry, meals, baby routines. We can tell that they would much rather speak to me about it, but since my Spanish is basically non-existent, they have to deal with MH. The benefit is that I get out of the uncomfortable situations regarding salary, responsibilities, and other things we don’t like (such as taking The Boy in taxi rides). We all know that I pride myself on being the protagonist in awkward moments, I just don’t like putting other people in that position.

*Put aside your hatred of us for having a cook. It is a necessity here because of the cleaning procedure of foods and cooking areas. The Nanny isn’t a necessity, I agree, but they were a package deal AND The Boy and I are learning an awful lot of Spanish from her. For more, see my earlier blog about not hating us.

He's Fat. I'm Dirty

Not only is this move to Bolivia a wonderful learning experience… it is funny as hell. The other day I went to the grocery store with The Cook to do some shopping and familiarize her with our tastes. Apparently she didn’t believe MH when he said we’d eat anything that she put on a plate. Besides the fact that I didn’t recognize some of the fruits and vegetables (or didn’t care what she bought and this disturbed her to no end), the trip was pretty successful – or so I thought. I mean, we even found vanilla yogurt – The Boy’s favorite snack besides applesauce and “cwackers.”

After dinner on the first night we tasted some of The Boy’s “yewwow yogurt” and realized that it was the best thing we have ever eaten. It is so creamy and delicious… almost like custard. The next day after The Nanny and The Cook saw me serve The Boy another small bowl of yogurt they gave me the Spanish equivalent of an ear-full about how unhealthy the yogurt was. Apparently, we had gotten “Light” yogurt which has “no vitamines” and is for “the diet”. They kept holding their waists and sucking in. Now, my Spanish is limited, but I got the idea. I tried to explain that I wasn’t worried because The Boy gets a lot of vitamins from other sources plus they consider skim milk unhealthy because it doesn’t have enough fat. I sort of pointed out that The Cook was with me when we bought the yogurt and they explained that they thought my esposo (MH) was trying to lose weight. Apparenlty they knew it wasn’t for me because I am nursing and I need my extra calories (and I am not a gordo like MH?).

So how do I tell MH about this conversation without revealing that our staff thinks he is a fatty? Well, I didn’t. I thought it was so funny because we have both lost a ton of weight just from being at this high elevation. I brought a few pair of pre-pregnancy pants with me that I hoped to fit into and they are waaay to big for me now. So I highly recommend doing a post-partum stint at 12,000 feet or so. Unfortunately, MH did not think the yogurt incident was as funny as I did even after people explained that it is not a stigma to be a little gordo here. I suggested he try to have a “thick skin” about the whole situation… I know, poor choice of words. I understand that he can’t help but feel insulted especially after what occurred the next day.

The Nanny arrives around 8am and I shower while The Boy is sleeping or eating breakfast. After breakfast he spends the majority of his morning running around in the yard. I have no idea how he does it because simply carrying The Girl up the stairs makes me pant. But then again, he does sleep hard for three to four hours in the afternoon. While he was playing with The Nanny in the garden (and by “in the garden” I mean he was getting nice and dirty) I was rocking The Girl. The Cook came in and from our gestures and my limited understanding of Spanish (based on my less-limited understanding of French) I gathered that she was offering to entertain The Girl while I showered. Why is it that when I don’t shower I get compliments on my hair and appearance and when I do shower people think I need to focus on my hygiene? When we were in the States and MH or The Babysitter would comment on my apparently-showered-state I would think “Result! No one knows I am a slob.” Now, I am starting to get a complex and I refuse to heed my own advice to MH when he was insulted by the fatty comment. The worst part of all this is that we are literally paying for these insults… granted it isn’t much by our standards, but we’re still paying for it!

Don't Call CPS

Several of my actions over the past 12 hours might encourage you to call CPS on us, but please know that I normally give my kids top-notch care. And, by the way, I think The Girl likes sleeping in a drawer. We're recuperating in a hotel in Miami and awaiting our flight to S.A. Just to recap a few of our more stressful moments today...

• We overslept 40 minutes and only a call from the hotel lobby from our dog expediter woke us.
• The Boy has eaten a half sleeve of Ritz crackers, a quarter of a bag of Cheerios, 2 packages of Special K crisps, two bites of peanut butter and rhubarb jelly sandwich (thanks Baci!), and he drank about two and a half gallons of water.
• The Boy peed through his diaper, pjs, and the airline seat. Good thing the seat is equipped with a flotation device. Then he peed his new diaper, shorts, and stroller.
• We dropped the dog kennel on its side... with The Dog inside.
• The Girl is napping in a drawer (Notice that the baby in the picture isn't ours. This baby has probably been bathed and changed in the past 24 hours.)
• The Boy wouldn't sleep in the hotel bed so we strapped him in the stroller (in the room) and waited for him to fall asleep.*
• The airline told us we had to pick up our luggage in Miami because we have a 15-hour lay-over, so we packed all our hot-weather gear (sandals, shorts, swim suits) and our toiletries in our suitcases along with The Boy's tent and The Girl's port-a-crib. When we got to the airport all of our luggage (except The Dog) was checked through to La Paz. Here we sit in Miami, sweating in long pants and shirts. We can shower but don't have anything to make us smell any better. I feel for our sponsors who are picking us up at the airport (at 5:30am tomorrow).
• MH got some free toiletries from the front desk and was warned about the razor: "If you are a brave man, you will shave with that my friend. It is a killer."
  
• We stiffed the Skycap at Dulles because we only had $20s and really should have given him more considering we have 8 bags, 7 carry-ons, two car seats (with one base), a double stroller, two babies, a blind dog, and not a clue what we are getting into.
  

So there is the official beginning of our adventure. Hopefully the rest of the trip will go as smoothly!

*The stroller/crib incident was prior to the peeing incident

Sir, You Are No Gentleman!

I love going to the pediatrician's office. It is usually such an ego booster. I mean, there is the occasional awkward moment - like when I accidentally exposed myself to the doctor (and by exposed, I mean I apparently flashed him when I was nursing). Whaaaaat? He's a man of science. A physician. He sees female parts every day. It isn't my fault his patients aren't as well-endowed as I am!

Anyway, our pediatrician always says I have great-looking kids. When we brought The Girl in for her first check-up and he went on and on about how beautiful she is, we were convinced that he feels that he has to say those things because a) new moms are hormonal and b) you're expected to say a new baby is cute. At her 2-month checkup the doc confided that he doesn't always say that babies are cute - and I quote:

"[You]see a lot of babies so sometimes I say, 'Oh, she
looks like Mom/Dad. But your baby is really pretty.'"

This is where I prematurely began to blush and talk in my head like Scarlett O'Hara:

"Oh why thank you doctor. Do go on.
She is the most precious looking angel."

Then the record player in my head went... zzzzzzzip and I turned into a Jerry-Springer-guest:

"Oh no he di-int. Did he just say that some babies
look like their parents but this baby is pretty?"

It seldom happens, but I was speechless. I didn't know if I should say "thank you" or "well, we're not exactly trolls." Maybe the South is rubbing off on me because I like to think I should have given the Miss Scarlett reply but, "I can't think about that right now. If I do, I'll go crazy. I'll think about that tomorrow."