Well, I seem to be entering the third quadmester of my pregnancy. I have four different 'seasons' when I am pregnant; the first quadmester is extreme airsickness although I am standing on the ground; the second quadmester is superhuman weight gain, the third is using my body as a personal floatation device (major water retention) and the fourth is the feeling like one of the those chickens you cook in a crockpot. You know the one; nice and tender and when you go to take it out to put on the table the leg you grab with the tongs falls off. That's me; major flexible ligaments. I have some sort of wacky ability to pop all sorts of joints; I consider myself my own chiropractor. I can even pop a bone on top of my foot. So when I'm pregnant parts of my hips and pelvis I thought were one solid mass start to shift around in uncanny ways.
Anyway, I realized that I am in the third quadmester this morning as I was attempting to remove my rings to slather myself in tanning lotion. Nothing worse than a bloated, fat, close-to -40-white pregnant woman I say. And I've heard that tanned skin hides cellulite. And I've got a bridge I'd like to sell you.
Well, really should go. Tough day ahead; funeral for family friend who died of lung cancer. Although I didn't know the man well, I did know his mother a little and I know my husband who is traipsing around the island of Nias (hit by 9.0 earthquake after the Indian Ocean tsunami) looking at the devistation and making a recommendation to CRS for future work there, would want to be there. And it's good for these boys' I am raising, to wear pants for one day in their lives and go be considerate to others.
Then over to bro-in-laws house to be a commercial break in everyday post cancer operation life for a couple of hours. I have to say that all the post op patients I've seen on Grey's Anatomy and House didn't prepare me for this. I'm so mad that with cancer, it seems that sometimes the cure is as bad as the disease. I joke with him that he is still the good looking Richardson brother, no matter what.
Have a good day. If you need a great break and a laugh, check out the book 'Momzillas' - kind of a 'Devil Wears Prada' for us brood hens of the human race set.
Saturday, August 11, 2007
Thursday, August 09, 2007
Words of Wisdom
Some of my favorite little words of wisdome come from Mass. It is absolutely great to get to listen to a priest who has been creating homilies for decades. These speeches have been fine tuned many times and come from the heart, and can weave together those old and new testament passages with the psalm and the Gospel in ways that I can't imagine.
It reminds me of going to an art museum in Vancouver, B.C. when I was in college. I am a very black and white, take-it-as-it-is person. To visit this museum was so insightful because I was with a friend who could look at those sculptures and really figure out what the artist was saying. What an eye opener for someone like me who looks at a collage and says 'what a nice collage.'
So this past Sunday, it was awfully comforting to hear the readings and the talk discuss how much it doesn't matter how financially stable you are in this world, prepare for the next. This in light of my very sick brother-in-law who is in the hospital for the second week fighting colon cancer. The family is so worried about his wife and four boys. But I can't think of a better family to have worry about you; we are all so generous and giving (yes, even me, if you catch me on the right day!) and I know we can all handle this. I wouldn't exactly call this experience a 'gift', but I think it is a gift to have the grace to see the positive side of something like this. Hopefully we will all be able to do that in our own ways. We are only human, after all.
I'm really sick of the whole cancer thing, actually. A very nice man my husband grew up with just died of lung cancer on Friday. Robby, you will be missed. A great woman who mentored me in my spiritual family at St. Francis in Yucaipa lost her two year battle with cancer a week ago. Pat, you will be missed. An incredible man who worked for my very best friend at my great company lost his valiant battle with pancreatic cancer this past week as well. The one dude I could always depend on for a smile and always have the time for me. The one cool dude who always remembered who I was no matter what neck of the world I had flown in from for a meeting or whatever, who would walk across a crowded hallway and hug me and tell me how nice it was to see me. Ben, you will be missed.
So, as I sit hear trying to offer support, meals, baby sitting service and an ear to my husband's family, I feel so helpless. I want to fix things! I am worried because my husband's maternal grandmother and grandfather both died from cancer, his mom had recurrent breast cancer and his dad had colon cancer. Now, his brother has cancer. I've already scolded his other siblings for not getting breast exams and am finding a way to get colonoscopies covered through health insurance when they aren't 'old enough' yet. Thanks Mr. Beaureaucrat,.. So, as my friend and colleague said to me when I explained my angst, "I guess when you tell your husband to check his butt, you really mean it." Exactly.
So, again, talking about stability and 'having enough', the priest on Sunday told this great joke:
A professor asked his students which man was more satisfied; the man with 10 children, or the man with 10 million dollars. A student raised his hand and answered, "The man with 10 children."
The professor asked why this was his answer.
The student explained, "The man with the 10 children doesn't want any more."
Ha! Tell that to the Duggar family, who I think is kicking our collective parenting asses in the old 'my kids are well-groomed, smart and articulate' categories. Holy cow. Unfortunately I happened to read an article on how important chores are to a child's life the very same day Mrs. Dugger popped out her 16th or 17th child (I've lost count as I'm sure she may have) and that resulted in my oldest sitting on the bathroom floor with a pink sponge scrubbing the linoleum whining about being Cinderella. (Sorry Jared)
Which leads me to another random joke told by another good friend and excellent orator, which is good because he too is a priest:
A boy was getting ready for his first communion and first reconciliation (first confession for you non Catholics out there). His little brother walked into the room and said, "Well, good. Now I can really tell you you can go to hell."
Email me if you don't get it. I'm cracking up!
On a happy note, I am blissfully healthy in my pregnancy finally and gaining all sorts of weight because of this human tape worm and the stress of this cancer crap. Hate all those 'sticks with bellies.' Can't wait to drink a beer.
It reminds me of going to an art museum in Vancouver, B.C. when I was in college. I am a very black and white, take-it-as-it-is person. To visit this museum was so insightful because I was with a friend who could look at those sculptures and really figure out what the artist was saying. What an eye opener for someone like me who looks at a collage and says 'what a nice collage.'
So this past Sunday, it was awfully comforting to hear the readings and the talk discuss how much it doesn't matter how financially stable you are in this world, prepare for the next. This in light of my very sick brother-in-law who is in the hospital for the second week fighting colon cancer. The family is so worried about his wife and four boys. But I can't think of a better family to have worry about you; we are all so generous and giving (yes, even me, if you catch me on the right day!) and I know we can all handle this. I wouldn't exactly call this experience a 'gift', but I think it is a gift to have the grace to see the positive side of something like this. Hopefully we will all be able to do that in our own ways. We are only human, after all.
I'm really sick of the whole cancer thing, actually. A very nice man my husband grew up with just died of lung cancer on Friday. Robby, you will be missed. A great woman who mentored me in my spiritual family at St. Francis in Yucaipa lost her two year battle with cancer a week ago. Pat, you will be missed. An incredible man who worked for my very best friend at my great company lost his valiant battle with pancreatic cancer this past week as well. The one dude I could always depend on for a smile and always have the time for me. The one cool dude who always remembered who I was no matter what neck of the world I had flown in from for a meeting or whatever, who would walk across a crowded hallway and hug me and tell me how nice it was to see me. Ben, you will be missed.
So, as I sit hear trying to offer support, meals, baby sitting service and an ear to my husband's family, I feel so helpless. I want to fix things! I am worried because my husband's maternal grandmother and grandfather both died from cancer, his mom had recurrent breast cancer and his dad had colon cancer. Now, his brother has cancer. I've already scolded his other siblings for not getting breast exams and am finding a way to get colonoscopies covered through health insurance when they aren't 'old enough' yet. Thanks Mr. Beaureaucrat,.. So, as my friend and colleague said to me when I explained my angst, "I guess when you tell your husband to check his butt, you really mean it." Exactly.
So, again, talking about stability and 'having enough', the priest on Sunday told this great joke:
A professor asked his students which man was more satisfied; the man with 10 children, or the man with 10 million dollars. A student raised his hand and answered, "The man with 10 children."
The professor asked why this was his answer.
The student explained, "The man with the 10 children doesn't want any more."
Ha! Tell that to the Duggar family, who I think is kicking our collective parenting asses in the old 'my kids are well-groomed, smart and articulate' categories. Holy cow. Unfortunately I happened to read an article on how important chores are to a child's life the very same day Mrs. Dugger popped out her 16th or 17th child (I've lost count as I'm sure she may have) and that resulted in my oldest sitting on the bathroom floor with a pink sponge scrubbing the linoleum whining about being Cinderella. (Sorry Jared)
Which leads me to another random joke told by another good friend and excellent orator, which is good because he too is a priest:
A boy was getting ready for his first communion and first reconciliation (first confession for you non Catholics out there). His little brother walked into the room and said, "Well, good. Now I can really tell you you can go to hell."
Email me if you don't get it. I'm cracking up!
On a happy note, I am blissfully healthy in my pregnancy finally and gaining all sorts of weight because of this human tape worm and the stress of this cancer crap. Hate all those 'sticks with bellies.' Can't wait to drink a beer.
Saturday, August 04, 2007
Golf Tournament for Thad
Graham Fire & Local 2175
Present
The 2nd Annual
“Golf Tournament”
Spanaway Lake Golf Course
The “Golf Tournament” is being presented to raise money for a fellow firefighter who has been diagnosed with colon cancer.
The event will be on Friday, August 31st with registration beginning at 0830am and start time at approx. 10am. Raffles and silent auction will follow the tournament.
The tournament will consist of a 4 person scramble – with at least 3 drives from each person. Prizes will be given to 1st to 5th place teams and the last place team. Single prizes will be given to the people with longest drives, and closest to the pin on par threes.
The cost is $120.00 per team ($30.00each person) with registration forms in by the 15th of August. Cost does not include cart. Registration forms should be dropped off at Graham Fire Station 21-1(10012 187th St E) – Attn. John Corak or mailed to: 9802 346th St So. Roy, Wash. 98580 Attn. John Corak
Registration
Team Name: ____________________
Player # 1:_______________________ Player #3: _____________________
Player #2: _______________________ Player #4: _____________________
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Half Way There With The Fifth Wheel!
I'm celebrating my week 20 milestone with this fifth pregnancy. I've gotten the doctor's OKAY that I have a clear bill of health and we had the 'you are an old woman so we need to do all sorts of ridiculous tests' ultrasound that showed this baby is healthy and it's a GIRL!
So here's a little rendition I wrote a while back.....
My water broke at Nordstrom. Those who know me understand what perfect justice this is. I love shopping. In fact, I am shallow enough to give up shopping each year for Lent. That, and I always pledge for the whole Lenten season that I will put a quarter in a jar every time I swear. But this is an impossible thing to explain to very little children without sounding like the worst mother on earth, and for those a little older, it leads to a forty day discussion on whether the word ‘frickin’ is in fact a swear word or not. But I digress.
Being a Washington state native, and in fact, having drunk a few beers in college with a couple of Nordstrom boys at the neighboring fraternity, I love the store. It has the coolest clothes, the nicest people waiting on you, and a to-die for coffee bar. As my engineer husband tugged me around the country, and then the world, forever fixing both natural and man made disasters on various continents, it became a joke as to how far away the nearest Nordstrom was. But then God intervened and created Nordstrom.com. Now, I can live anywhere, including Fresno, and know my shopping needs will be met.
Every woman who has ever had a baby has a story to tell. It is absolutely the most amazing thing you as a human being will ever accomplish. You will finally forgive your body for that bit of cheese on your bum, or not having perky boobs like your friend. You will love it and admire it for the strength it has and the miracle it created. I happen to be able to fondly remember both the birth of my first son and shopping at the same time. How excited we all are for the arrival of that human being we have created! How incredible it is that as mere imperfect creatures, we can accomplish something as amazing as making a little person.
My husband and I have never been as excited as when that fertility stick magically appeared with two blue lines instead of one. In fact, I was so excited and wanted it so badly that I also saw two blue lines on the first three sticks I peed on. Then, being the savvy marketing executive I was at the time, convinced my husband that he also saw two blue lines. Then I traveled from our home in California to Washington state to visit clients and family. My mother and mother in law who also live in Washington decided they wanted to take me out to breakfast. We had to celebrate the first grandchild on both sides of the family, the first of several Richardson/Zientek concoctions. The eve before the breakfast event, as I was wining and dining my Microsoft cohort, my period came. The next morning I tearfully told my mother that I was indeed not pregnant, and asked if she could bear eating breakfast with her barren daughter. Hormones can do such crazy things to a person.
Jared took six months of ‘practice’ until God decided we had him right. You never feel quite ready to bring a child into the world, but we felt we had waited a respectable amount of time. We realized marriage was indeed until death do we part, and thought we could perhaps make it that far without bringing arsenic into the mix. We felt stable enough that this simple act of creating another mouth to feed wouldn’t put us out on the streets.
I was so excited that the “What To Expect When You Are Expecting” book which details each month of pregnancy wasn’t enough. I found a book that explained it week by week. If there had been a book on the market explaining the microscopic growth that the fetus experienced each day, I would have bought that too.
My pregnancy was fantastic. My skin glowed, I had awesome hair. I could eat whatever I wanted with only one lecture from my OB/GYN on the difference between a bowl of broccoli and a bowl of ice cream. My feet swelled only once. I never had morning sickness. I craved pears and avocadoes.
The only remote problem was my soon to be son decided he was coming out feet first. Anyone who knows the kid now understands this would be the only logical way he could enter the world – on his feet and ready to roll. He’s an amazing athlete, as are my other two sons. If I hadn’t been present at their births, I would not have believed that I, the woman who can not walk and chew gum at the same time, the woman who has actually tripped on her own shoelaces while jogging in place, could create natural born athletes like my sons.
Now, in order to cut down on cesarean sections, doctors perform something called a version when the baby is breach. They relax the uterus so they can turn the baby the way he or she should be, face first to great the world. The doctors get you all excited by telling you to pack your bags just in case the uterus decides to give up and get rid of the thing altogether. We could only hope that something would go wrong and we could hold our baby that much sooner.
When we got to the hospital, it was completely packed. Every room was taken with screaming, writhing mothers-to-be. Even the operating room was being prepped for some poor woman who had been pushing for years, and was finally consenting to getting the baby taken out, alien style. I was stripped, and my swollen body was covered with a couple of surgical gowns, then wheeled on a gurney to a hallway where a sheet was draped on a make shift shower curtain rod for a semblance of privacy. They injected me with what I can only say must be what a quadruple shot Americano would feel like if you mainlined it like crack. Then they strapped me to a monitor to register the baby’s heart beat. The surgical gowns kept slipping, and my belly would crest like Mt. Whitney between cloud breaks. My loving husband kept trying valiantly to keep his naked wife covered. I, however, had lost all feelings of possessiveness of my body, after nine months of being poked and prodded by a rotating number of doctors and nurses, and really felt like nothing more than an overly fleshy container. I was nothing more than a pod for my first pea.
Fortunately for my first born’s sake, the version was successful, and we were allowed to go home, still only the two of us. I went back to reading and waiting, napping and eating for the next month, barely able to contain my anticipation.
Even though I am one of the most impatient people on earth, it was still heaven. I worked for my company from home, a lone telecommuting pioneer at the time. I think the statute of limitations has been exceeded so now I can safely confess I napped whenever the whim took me, soaked in a tub whenever I felt like a beached whale. I wrote marketing documents propped up in bed and talked with clients on the phone while reclining on the couch. It was a real fantasy. My husband, on the other hand, was working nights. When he wasn’t working nights, he was working days. He was working a lot and not fond of the fact that his wife had scored this unbelievable life of luxury. His only request was that I not go into labor on a Friday night.
Well I can’t even get that right. After the poor man had worked Thursday day, Thursday night, and then Friday day, he came home at 5:30pm, only to find me smiling meekly and admitting I was having contractions somewhat regularly. He sighed and asked what we should do. I responded that I should probably move around to see if the contractions would come a little more consistently. That is when he suggested going to Nordstrom to pick up a suit he was having altered. Now, I love Nordstrom, as I have said before. I have since learned, however, that I do not love going to Nordstrom with all the perfectly coifed, svelte bodied petite sales girls in the men’s section when I am nine months pregnant. Not just nine months pregnant, but six-feet-tall-and-weighing-45- pounds-more-than-normal pregnant. Not when I weigh-more-than-my-husband’s-best-friend pregnant. It was here that my psychological discomfort morphed into physical discomfort when I felt that perhaps there was a little more wetness than normal down under and I high tailed it to the women’s lounge.
My water didn’t break in the ‘I wish I’d had a jar of pickles to dash on the floor’ kind of profundity. It was more than the normal little trickle that might escape an otherwise healthy woman who hasn’t been doing her kiegels.. It also looked like maybe someone left a small piece of toilet paper in the bowl for a while and it started to dissolve into little flakes in the water. It wasn’t yellow. Looking down into the bowl, I knew I had a situation on my hands. The doctors say that the baby’s head acts like a plug in some situations to keep the fluid from leaking everywhere in a big gush. Jared must have had a big head, because I made it back to my husband without incident.
Now, in anticipation of the blessed event, we had traded up from the two door Toyota 4 Runner to something a little roomier to accommodate our next generation. We were proud owners of a spanking new Chevrolet Suburban, with enough crisp leather seats to seat eight. We’re Catholic; we were looking ahead. After I told my husband that my water broke and we should go get my overnight bag for the hospital, he looked at me with incredulity and asked, “Can you wait here while I run home and get some towels for the seat?” I won’t repeat what I responded, because I can assure you it wasn’t nice. Well, he allowed me to enter the vehicle and we made it home. I think I was even allowed to sit on the seat, instead of crouching on the floor, which I’m sure was an option running through his head at the time.
My contractions still weren’t coming at a very regular or painful pace, so we stayed at home trying to decide what to do. We looked in the toilet a lot to see if perhaps we could discern amniotic fluid like the last dregs of tea in a cup. I wasn’t too thrilled to go to the hospital that evening anyway. My normal doctor wasn’t on rotation that weekend. Instead, of course, was the one doctor I didn’t like out of the six doctors in the practice. We finally called and were asked to come in to get checked out. The first thing they inflicted upon me when we got there and claimed water breakage was to stick a pH paper into my nether regions, like some great big science project. In what looked like a tsunami of fluid, the nurse waved a small strip of purple paper in the air and proclaimed I was indeed leaking and not peeing and we were summarily admitted to the labor and delivery ward.
My poor husband, after no sleep for more than 36 hours, passed out on the chair in the delivery room while they hooked me up to my Siamese twin for the next day, an IV unit. I was ordered to pace the hallways to get my contractions going. At about 3:00 A.M., one of the floor nurses took one look at me and said, “If you think these are bad, just wait until your labor really starts.” Not the words of encouragement I was looking for in the middle of night, with a husband passed out and my body trying to figure out how to dispel this baby.
By 6:00AM, the doctor decided nature needed some assistance and pumped me up with pitocin. By 7:00AM, I decided I’d had enough of that action and woke my husband out of his sound sleep. By 8:00AM he decided he’d had enough of me and consented to my whines for drugs and went in search of the anesthesiologist. After proclaiming what a cool needle the epidural was as he watched in fascination when they pierced my spine, we went back to hanging out, waiting for me to dilate enough to push. The anesthesiologist explained the most ridiculous concept, that by the time you are ready to push, the epidural will wear off so you can feel the contractions. That is one of the stupidest things I’ve ever heard. By about 9 ¾ centimeters, I was ready to push and feeling every fiber in my body again. I sent Rob out three times into the hallway to find that damned anesthesiologist so I could have just one more fix. He tried to explain the anesthesiologist was busy. A nurse finally came in and tried to explain the anesthesiologist was with an unwed first time teenage mother, and couldn’t I just be patient and breathe. I would have nothing of it. When the anesthesiologist finally entered the room I audibly sighed and exclaimed that he must be the most popular man on the floor. I think I would have married him at that point, would he have consented.
The unfortunate thing with more drugs is that you can’t feel the contractions, except for a little tightening in your belly. This means the pushing goes a little more slowly than without. It took Jared about 2 ½ hours, the doctor threatening me with a cesarean section after all this hard work, and a baby vacuum for me to finally expel him. 2 ½ hours is a long time, and the doctor, along with the nurse and my husband each holding one of my legs, would pass the time between contractions discussing everything from movies to camping while I watched the monitor to see when to get everyone back in the ready position. After the birth, my husband happily followed nurse and baby out to have a first bath, while the doctor donned a headlamp like some cave dweller and proceeded to sew me up.
I think I’ve now proven that brain damage does occur during the delivery process. How else could I happily be on my fifth child?
So here's a little rendition I wrote a while back.....
My water broke at Nordstrom. Those who know me understand what perfect justice this is. I love shopping. In fact, I am shallow enough to give up shopping each year for Lent. That, and I always pledge for the whole Lenten season that I will put a quarter in a jar every time I swear. But this is an impossible thing to explain to very little children without sounding like the worst mother on earth, and for those a little older, it leads to a forty day discussion on whether the word ‘frickin’ is in fact a swear word or not. But I digress.
Being a Washington state native, and in fact, having drunk a few beers in college with a couple of Nordstrom boys at the neighboring fraternity, I love the store. It has the coolest clothes, the nicest people waiting on you, and a to-die for coffee bar. As my engineer husband tugged me around the country, and then the world, forever fixing both natural and man made disasters on various continents, it became a joke as to how far away the nearest Nordstrom was. But then God intervened and created Nordstrom.com. Now, I can live anywhere, including Fresno, and know my shopping needs will be met.
Every woman who has ever had a baby has a story to tell. It is absolutely the most amazing thing you as a human being will ever accomplish. You will finally forgive your body for that bit of cheese on your bum, or not having perky boobs like your friend. You will love it and admire it for the strength it has and the miracle it created. I happen to be able to fondly remember both the birth of my first son and shopping at the same time. How excited we all are for the arrival of that human being we have created! How incredible it is that as mere imperfect creatures, we can accomplish something as amazing as making a little person.
My husband and I have never been as excited as when that fertility stick magically appeared with two blue lines instead of one. In fact, I was so excited and wanted it so badly that I also saw two blue lines on the first three sticks I peed on. Then, being the savvy marketing executive I was at the time, convinced my husband that he also saw two blue lines. Then I traveled from our home in California to Washington state to visit clients and family. My mother and mother in law who also live in Washington decided they wanted to take me out to breakfast. We had to celebrate the first grandchild on both sides of the family, the first of several Richardson/Zientek concoctions. The eve before the breakfast event, as I was wining and dining my Microsoft cohort, my period came. The next morning I tearfully told my mother that I was indeed not pregnant, and asked if she could bear eating breakfast with her barren daughter. Hormones can do such crazy things to a person.
Jared took six months of ‘practice’ until God decided we had him right. You never feel quite ready to bring a child into the world, but we felt we had waited a respectable amount of time. We realized marriage was indeed until death do we part, and thought we could perhaps make it that far without bringing arsenic into the mix. We felt stable enough that this simple act of creating another mouth to feed wouldn’t put us out on the streets.
I was so excited that the “What To Expect When You Are Expecting” book which details each month of pregnancy wasn’t enough. I found a book that explained it week by week. If there had been a book on the market explaining the microscopic growth that the fetus experienced each day, I would have bought that too.
My pregnancy was fantastic. My skin glowed, I had awesome hair. I could eat whatever I wanted with only one lecture from my OB/GYN on the difference between a bowl of broccoli and a bowl of ice cream. My feet swelled only once. I never had morning sickness. I craved pears and avocadoes.
The only remote problem was my soon to be son decided he was coming out feet first. Anyone who knows the kid now understands this would be the only logical way he could enter the world – on his feet and ready to roll. He’s an amazing athlete, as are my other two sons. If I hadn’t been present at their births, I would not have believed that I, the woman who can not walk and chew gum at the same time, the woman who has actually tripped on her own shoelaces while jogging in place, could create natural born athletes like my sons.
Now, in order to cut down on cesarean sections, doctors perform something called a version when the baby is breach. They relax the uterus so they can turn the baby the way he or she should be, face first to great the world. The doctors get you all excited by telling you to pack your bags just in case the uterus decides to give up and get rid of the thing altogether. We could only hope that something would go wrong and we could hold our baby that much sooner.
When we got to the hospital, it was completely packed. Every room was taken with screaming, writhing mothers-to-be. Even the operating room was being prepped for some poor woman who had been pushing for years, and was finally consenting to getting the baby taken out, alien style. I was stripped, and my swollen body was covered with a couple of surgical gowns, then wheeled on a gurney to a hallway where a sheet was draped on a make shift shower curtain rod for a semblance of privacy. They injected me with what I can only say must be what a quadruple shot Americano would feel like if you mainlined it like crack. Then they strapped me to a monitor to register the baby’s heart beat. The surgical gowns kept slipping, and my belly would crest like Mt. Whitney between cloud breaks. My loving husband kept trying valiantly to keep his naked wife covered. I, however, had lost all feelings of possessiveness of my body, after nine months of being poked and prodded by a rotating number of doctors and nurses, and really felt like nothing more than an overly fleshy container. I was nothing more than a pod for my first pea.
Fortunately for my first born’s sake, the version was successful, and we were allowed to go home, still only the two of us. I went back to reading and waiting, napping and eating for the next month, barely able to contain my anticipation.
Even though I am one of the most impatient people on earth, it was still heaven. I worked for my company from home, a lone telecommuting pioneer at the time. I think the statute of limitations has been exceeded so now I can safely confess I napped whenever the whim took me, soaked in a tub whenever I felt like a beached whale. I wrote marketing documents propped up in bed and talked with clients on the phone while reclining on the couch. It was a real fantasy. My husband, on the other hand, was working nights. When he wasn’t working nights, he was working days. He was working a lot and not fond of the fact that his wife had scored this unbelievable life of luxury. His only request was that I not go into labor on a Friday night.
Well I can’t even get that right. After the poor man had worked Thursday day, Thursday night, and then Friday day, he came home at 5:30pm, only to find me smiling meekly and admitting I was having contractions somewhat regularly. He sighed and asked what we should do. I responded that I should probably move around to see if the contractions would come a little more consistently. That is when he suggested going to Nordstrom to pick up a suit he was having altered. Now, I love Nordstrom, as I have said before. I have since learned, however, that I do not love going to Nordstrom with all the perfectly coifed, svelte bodied petite sales girls in the men’s section when I am nine months pregnant. Not just nine months pregnant, but six-feet-tall-and-weighing-45- pounds-more-than-normal pregnant. Not when I weigh-more-than-my-husband’s-best-friend pregnant. It was here that my psychological discomfort morphed into physical discomfort when I felt that perhaps there was a little more wetness than normal down under and I high tailed it to the women’s lounge.
My water didn’t break in the ‘I wish I’d had a jar of pickles to dash on the floor’ kind of profundity. It was more than the normal little trickle that might escape an otherwise healthy woman who hasn’t been doing her kiegels.. It also looked like maybe someone left a small piece of toilet paper in the bowl for a while and it started to dissolve into little flakes in the water. It wasn’t yellow. Looking down into the bowl, I knew I had a situation on my hands. The doctors say that the baby’s head acts like a plug in some situations to keep the fluid from leaking everywhere in a big gush. Jared must have had a big head, because I made it back to my husband without incident.
Now, in anticipation of the blessed event, we had traded up from the two door Toyota 4 Runner to something a little roomier to accommodate our next generation. We were proud owners of a spanking new Chevrolet Suburban, with enough crisp leather seats to seat eight. We’re Catholic; we were looking ahead. After I told my husband that my water broke and we should go get my overnight bag for the hospital, he looked at me with incredulity and asked, “Can you wait here while I run home and get some towels for the seat?” I won’t repeat what I responded, because I can assure you it wasn’t nice. Well, he allowed me to enter the vehicle and we made it home. I think I was even allowed to sit on the seat, instead of crouching on the floor, which I’m sure was an option running through his head at the time.
My contractions still weren’t coming at a very regular or painful pace, so we stayed at home trying to decide what to do. We looked in the toilet a lot to see if perhaps we could discern amniotic fluid like the last dregs of tea in a cup. I wasn’t too thrilled to go to the hospital that evening anyway. My normal doctor wasn’t on rotation that weekend. Instead, of course, was the one doctor I didn’t like out of the six doctors in the practice. We finally called and were asked to come in to get checked out. The first thing they inflicted upon me when we got there and claimed water breakage was to stick a pH paper into my nether regions, like some great big science project. In what looked like a tsunami of fluid, the nurse waved a small strip of purple paper in the air and proclaimed I was indeed leaking and not peeing and we were summarily admitted to the labor and delivery ward.
My poor husband, after no sleep for more than 36 hours, passed out on the chair in the delivery room while they hooked me up to my Siamese twin for the next day, an IV unit. I was ordered to pace the hallways to get my contractions going. At about 3:00 A.M., one of the floor nurses took one look at me and said, “If you think these are bad, just wait until your labor really starts.” Not the words of encouragement I was looking for in the middle of night, with a husband passed out and my body trying to figure out how to dispel this baby.
By 6:00AM, the doctor decided nature needed some assistance and pumped me up with pitocin. By 7:00AM, I decided I’d had enough of that action and woke my husband out of his sound sleep. By 8:00AM he decided he’d had enough of me and consented to my whines for drugs and went in search of the anesthesiologist. After proclaiming what a cool needle the epidural was as he watched in fascination when they pierced my spine, we went back to hanging out, waiting for me to dilate enough to push. The anesthesiologist explained the most ridiculous concept, that by the time you are ready to push, the epidural will wear off so you can feel the contractions. That is one of the stupidest things I’ve ever heard. By about 9 ¾ centimeters, I was ready to push and feeling every fiber in my body again. I sent Rob out three times into the hallway to find that damned anesthesiologist so I could have just one more fix. He tried to explain the anesthesiologist was busy. A nurse finally came in and tried to explain the anesthesiologist was with an unwed first time teenage mother, and couldn’t I just be patient and breathe. I would have nothing of it. When the anesthesiologist finally entered the room I audibly sighed and exclaimed that he must be the most popular man on the floor. I think I would have married him at that point, would he have consented.
The unfortunate thing with more drugs is that you can’t feel the contractions, except for a little tightening in your belly. This means the pushing goes a little more slowly than without. It took Jared about 2 ½ hours, the doctor threatening me with a cesarean section after all this hard work, and a baby vacuum for me to finally expel him. 2 ½ hours is a long time, and the doctor, along with the nurse and my husband each holding one of my legs, would pass the time between contractions discussing everything from movies to camping while I watched the monitor to see when to get everyone back in the ready position. After the birth, my husband happily followed nurse and baby out to have a first bath, while the doctor donned a headlamp like some cave dweller and proceeded to sew me up.
I think I’ve now proven that brain damage does occur during the delivery process. How else could I happily be on my fifth child?
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Being An Adult Isn't Fun Anymore
Well, apologies to the 2 1/2 readers that I have out there. It's been a tough year, and an even tougher summer.
Rob is back in the U.S., but not before contracting malaria. He's taken medication and seems to have beaten it. All in all, a mild case of that nasty illness.
On a more tragic front, my brother-in-law, who is only 36 and has four kids was diagnosed yesterday with stage 4 colon cancer that has matastized to his liver. Needless to say we are very busy supporting our families who are absolutely devistated.
Keep us in your thoughts.
Rob is back in the U.S., but not before contracting malaria. He's taken medication and seems to have beaten it. All in all, a mild case of that nasty illness.
On a more tragic front, my brother-in-law, who is only 36 and has four kids was diagnosed yesterday with stage 4 colon cancer that has matastized to his liver. Needless to say we are very busy supporting our families who are absolutely devistated.
Keep us in your thoughts.
Monday, July 09, 2007
Supermodels
Grandma Z bought a ton of models at the store and the boys have had a great time putting them together, especially since Grandma helps with the gluing and understands the importance of sandpaper. (Something mommy missed in school.)
More Brain Expansion
The water wheel:
Even B had a great time. Maybe especially B.
Bernouli's Ball. Also replicated with a scuba tank and a golf ball if you remember,...
Yay! Goal achieved! A ride in silence. No: "Knock it off!" "No, I am not listening to Ozzy Osborne again." "Or Smashmouth." "I know Smashmouth sang all the Shrek songs and I like them too, but I don't want to listen to them again." "Sabrina, stop screaming at your brothers." "Zach, just give her a goldfish cracker so she's quiet." "Kyle, is your seatbelt on?"
Even B had a great time. Maybe especially B.
Bernouli's Ball. Also replicated with a scuba tank and a golf ball if you remember,...
Yay! Goal achieved! A ride in silence. No: "Knock it off!" "No, I am not listening to Ozzy Osborne again." "Or Smashmouth." "I know Smashmouth sang all the Shrek songs and I like them too, but I don't want to listen to them again." "Sabrina, stop screaming at your brothers." "Zach, just give her a goldfish cracker so she's quiet." "Kyle, is your seatbelt on?"
Non Brain Rotting Activities
We went to the Pacific Science Center in Seattle for a day of playing (while learning, little did they know,.. hee hee hee). We had to leave only because mommy was pooped out. I'm such a downer they think, since the missing of the fireworks and now this.
The dino exhibit was awesome, they loved the IMAX, and all the regular exhibits are right up Jared's alley - lots of the same science things we did in homeschooling last year.
There was even a toddler area where Sabrina climbed up and down the slide about 50 times. Worth the trip just for that (and a good excuse to go to Nordstrom,..)
They can't wait to take daddy here!
Water cannons!
No, I did not make them wear matching purple shirts - they did this on their own.
Maybe something sunk into those hard heads?
Digging for bones - Kyle and Sabrina's favorite activities.
Good family fun, huh? (No children were actually strangled in the taking of this photo.)
The dino exhibit was awesome, they loved the IMAX, and all the regular exhibits are right up Jared's alley - lots of the same science things we did in homeschooling last year.
There was even a toddler area where Sabrina climbed up and down the slide about 50 times. Worth the trip just for that (and a good excuse to go to Nordstrom,..)
They can't wait to take daddy here!
Water cannons!
No, I did not make them wear matching purple shirts - they did this on their own.
Maybe something sunk into those hard heads?
Digging for bones - Kyle and Sabrina's favorite activities.
Good family fun, huh? (No children were actually strangled in the taking of this photo.)
Friday, July 06, 2007
Happy Fourth!
Since daddy couldn't be with us at 4th of July, we celebrated it for him - for 12 and 1/2 hours straight. Way more than mommy would care to celebrate. The kids had a great time, although they will completely forget about the parade with their 6 cousins, lunching and being wild with half of them, and then having dinner and playing water balloon, super soaker, slip n' slide and other wild kid games with the other half, drinking all the soda they could get their lips on and all the cookies they could sneak out of the kitchen and will only remember that mean mommy made them leave the festivities before the rockets red glare was lit because their little brother had a temperature and no baby should be up that long without it being considered abusive. Go figure.
Look what the Richardson legacy hath wrought!
Good thing Michelle had a pogo stick so the kids could take turns working off all that sugar.
Watermelon baby.
The Richardson/Zientek/Walker clan. We took up a city block.
Happy Fourth of July!
Look what the Richardson legacy hath wrought!
Good thing Michelle had a pogo stick so the kids could take turns working off all that sugar.
Watermelon baby.
The Richardson/Zientek/Walker clan. We took up a city block.
Happy Fourth of July!
Untuk Bapa Lagi
Err, pretty balerina?
Fashionista in training,...
Nothing like grilling s'mores on the barbie,..
I will NOT fall asleep in the car seat,..
Woops.
Fashionista in training,...
Nothing like grilling s'mores on the barbie,..
I will NOT fall asleep in the car seat,..
Woops.
Untuk Bapa
We miss you daddy! While Karen and the kids have been living the high life in civilization, daddy has been slaving away in Indonesia. He's coming home for a three week home leave next Friday and we are very excited.
Here are some pictures for him to tide him over,...
The Gangstas:
Strawberry Fields Forever:
We did offer to weigh her on the way out of the patch.
Gettin' down with nature.
I've had thiiiis many strawberries!
Look! They did work! Their hands are dirty!
Here are some pictures for him to tide him over,...
The Gangstas:
Strawberry Fields Forever:
We did offer to weigh her on the way out of the patch.
Gettin' down with nature.
I've had thiiiis many strawberries!
Look! They did work! Their hands are dirty!
Saturday, June 30, 2007
Glad to Be Home
So happy to be back in the United States and grounded for a while,.. at least until another interesting opportunity comes along,.. did I say that out loud?From Wednesday 27 June 2007 Jakarta Post
Indonesia revokes licenses of unsafe airlines
JAKARTA(AP): Indonesia has revoked the licenses of four small airlines and suspended five others as part of efforts to improve safety following a string of crashes, the Transport Ministry said Monday.
In March, the government released the results of an audit examining the safety standards of local airlines that found none of them fully complied with Civil Aviation safety regulations.
It gave those found least compliant three months to improve or have their licenses removed.
State airlines Garuda Indonesia had improved its safety record over the last three months and was now ranked in the top tier of compliance, said Budhi Suyitno, director general of air transportation at the Transport Ministry.
Four other airlines had moved up to the second tier of compliance, he said.
Suyitno said licenses for the small airlines Jatayu, Prodexim, Alfa Trans Dirgantara and Aviasi Upataraksa had been revoked.
Five other airlines had their licenses suspended, including SMAC and Kura-Kura Aviation, and have three months to improve their safety, he said.
In January this year, a plane operated by a low-cost jetliner plunged into the sea, killing all 102 people on board. Weeks later,another plane's fuselage split in half after a hard landing. And in March, a Boeing 737 careered off a runway and burst into flames, leaving 21 dead.(***)
European Commission bans all Indonesian airlines from flying to EU
BRUSSELS (AP): All Indonesian airlines and several from Russia, Ukraine and Angola will be banned from flying to the European Union due to safety concerns, the European Commission said Thursday.
The existing ban on Pakistan International Airlines will also be relaxed to allow specific Boeing 747 and Airbus 310 aircraft to fly to Europe, in addition to its already authorized Boeing 777 fleet, the statement said.
"Once more, the EU black list will prove to be an essential tool not only to prevent unsafe airlines from flying to Europe and to inform passengers traveling worldwide but also to make sure that airlines and civil aviation authorities takeappropriate actions to improve safety," said Jacques Barrot, commission vice president in charge of transport.
The statement said that all 51 airlines certified in Indonesia would be blocked from flying to the European Union. Currently, no airline from that country has scheduled flights to any Europeandestination. The national flag-carrier Garuda ceased serving Amsterdam and Rome in 2005.
The statement also said that Angolan carrier TAAG Angola Airlines, and Volare Aviation from Ukraine would be added to the revised international blacklist.
Before the latest announcement, the EU banned 91 airlines - including 74 from Africa - from entering its air space. (**)
Monday, June 11, 2007
And the Verdict,...
Okay, Magan, my person 'Dr. House' this one is for you - I think I have a chorionic hemotoma. And to top it off we suspect our 7 year old has Staph! How exciting! Don't you wish you could live next to us and study us? Your days would always be adventurous!
Saturday, June 09, 2007
Stuck in Singapore
I can think of a lot worse places to be stuck in than Singapore, which on closer inspection (now that it's been a week) I have come to realize is really a big floating mall where all the Asian women are cuter, skinnier, dressed nicer and have bigger bags than me.
Had a bit of a medical emergency on my way back to the good ol' US of A last Wednesday which landed me in the hospital in Singapore for five days and now I am shacking up with hubby, three overactive boys, one monkey toddler in one room with 12 peices of luggage. I'd almost check back into the hospital if it weren't for the black fungus soup they serve at lunch.
All is well with me and the fifth wheel and I'll write more later (when Simon has forgotten my blog address again.) I'll be back in Washington by Tuesday June 12.
Had a bit of a medical emergency on my way back to the good ol' US of A last Wednesday which landed me in the hospital in Singapore for five days and now I am shacking up with hubby, three overactive boys, one monkey toddler in one room with 12 peices of luggage. I'd almost check back into the hospital if it weren't for the black fungus soup they serve at lunch.
All is well with me and the fifth wheel and I'll write more later (when Simon has forgotten my blog address again.) I'll be back in Washington by Tuesday June 12.
Monday, May 28, 2007
The Fifth Wheel
Well,the cat’s out of the bag. We are expecting our fifth child. I felt pretty comfortable with a family of three and even four kids. A family with five makes me feel like we are hanging ourselves out on a limb. It’s not something you see very often any longer. I’m aware of the whispers in the hallway at work, people wondering if I’m some sort of religious zealot or simply off my rocker.
The why doesn’t really matter (and we already know the how!). For us, having a large family is something we embrace, but it doesn’t matter whether your family is one kid, or even none. Finding happiness in whatever form it may be for each of us is the big struggle. And we aren’t the same and we shouldn’t be. What a boring world that would be.
Life, spirituality, even marriage and family is a journey. If there is one thing that I’ve learned from my friends and religious mentors, it’s just that. We didn’t always feel confident that we should be open to the idea of lots of kids. As we’ve grown in our marriage, we’ve realized that being a family is something that we enjoy. And we want to enjoy it for as long as we can.
Do I think kids keep me young? Maybe. Yesterday I was flipping through some pictures from a workshop I’d attended and stopped at one. ‘What’s my mom doing at a seminar on GIS and auditing?’ I thought. It was me.
My mom is a beautiful woman. As a chubby adolescent, I had to deal with the irritation of my mother being a svelte, energetic aerobics instructor. It’s just weird morphing into someone else. Zach tells me I have wrinkles. (They are just some little crow’s feet!) And Kyle commented on the ‘scars’ all over my face. I had to explain they are freckles and there is nothing wrong with freckles. He just left the room rolling his eyes.
Having a big family isn’t something that I’m accustomed to; my mom struggled for eight years to have another child after me. She volunteered at an orphanage in Washington when I was around five. I remember begging her to bring home another kid. Now I realize how irritating and depressing it must have been for me to whine to her about something she couldn’t control.
Lo and behold she did finally get pregnant with my brother,.. months before my dad found out he was to be stationed in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. I can’t believe the strength and faith she had to travel to that foreign country in the days before Internet and speedy worldwide shipping. No phone in the house. No TV.
I remember her story about a friend who was also pregnant living at the same compound in the middle of the desert going into labor. My mom and her friend trying to call their husbands on walkie-talkies to come and drive her to the hospital, pronto! (Women still can’t drive in Saudi. I don’t think the police would care that you were in labor, you’d still get caned or a limb taken off.) Nine month pregnant women about to burst climbing on the hood of a GMC truck to get a clear channel in the middle of the flat desert. What a picture of the human spirit.
Then my mom being admitted to the Royal Hospital and her British doctor inducing her because he was going on holiday to Europe the next day. Gads! I remember seeing my very large baby brother; a bald, sparkling white nine-pounder in a sea of petite, dark hairy Arab babies. I almost didn’t see him; we had to pass a very stringent check-in process and even though my dad had our passports at the ready and my name is of course the same as his and the rest of my family, the armed guard took one look at my black haired father and my blond hair, refusing entrance at first because I must be adopted. Only ‘real’ children of the family were allowed to visit. (This just fueled my teenage angst when I was mad as a hatter about whatever it happened to be that week. “I KNOW I’m adopted. I don’t belong to this family!”)
This eight year span between children seems to run on my mom’s side of the family so when it took more than I expected for the first two kids, I vaguely thought that might be my fate too. Got a little relaxed about the whole deal. Now that I am on my fifth, I’m realizing that infertility in any form isn’t my problem.
Now I know why the book I was consulting is named ‘The Art of Natural Family Planning’ and not the science of it.
Having all these kids doesn’t make me some sort of super-duper mother, either. I think I’m okay and I try every day to do the best I can. It’s easy to be flippant about having all these kids and for some reason I feel like I have to apologize to everyone for my beliefs as un-mainstream as they be nowadays. Like I’m embarrassed to be some sort of super consumer of energy in the world, or I’m blowing raspberries in the faces of zero population believers.
Nothing has made me more self conscious than meeting a very nice Chinese lady who lives here in Banda. She has one six year old son. When I announced my impending fifth child at a gathering we were both at, she took me aside and told me congratulations. I told her thank you, it meant a lot that she would be happy for me. She then reiterated what I already know, “In China, we are only allowed one child. If we have more, they will arrest you.” I’m not feeling so flippant any more.
Just this past week, again I was reminded how precious life is. We attended a ‘commemoration’ for a two year old boy who had a congenital birth defect with his colon. He went into surgery a week ago and didn’t make it. The father is a security guard at CRS. In the Muslim culture, you celebrate the passing of someone at 7 days, 50 days, 100 days and at 1000 days.
While it is meant to be a celebration of someone’s life; a memorial so to speak, we can’t help but be saddened when someone leaves this world; especially a child. The spirit of the gathering was light; people were laughing and kids were running around. But the father was very quiet, trying to keep his composure. And the mother’s face was stricken with pain as she sat on the floor on a colorful straw mat and accepted handshakes and encouraging words.
While we sat cross-legged on the floor sharing a meal with the family and friends, one of Rob’s engineers told us congratulations on the news of our impending addition. He went on to tell us how much they love their son who is school age and are sad they have not been able to have another child. “You should feel very lucky,” he said.
And so we do.
The why doesn’t really matter (and we already know the how!). For us, having a large family is something we embrace, but it doesn’t matter whether your family is one kid, or even none. Finding happiness in whatever form it may be for each of us is the big struggle. And we aren’t the same and we shouldn’t be. What a boring world that would be.
Life, spirituality, even marriage and family is a journey. If there is one thing that I’ve learned from my friends and religious mentors, it’s just that. We didn’t always feel confident that we should be open to the idea of lots of kids. As we’ve grown in our marriage, we’ve realized that being a family is something that we enjoy. And we want to enjoy it for as long as we can.
Do I think kids keep me young? Maybe. Yesterday I was flipping through some pictures from a workshop I’d attended and stopped at one. ‘What’s my mom doing at a seminar on GIS and auditing?’ I thought. It was me.
My mom is a beautiful woman. As a chubby adolescent, I had to deal with the irritation of my mother being a svelte, energetic aerobics instructor. It’s just weird morphing into someone else. Zach tells me I have wrinkles. (They are just some little crow’s feet!) And Kyle commented on the ‘scars’ all over my face. I had to explain they are freckles and there is nothing wrong with freckles. He just left the room rolling his eyes.
Having a big family isn’t something that I’m accustomed to; my mom struggled for eight years to have another child after me. She volunteered at an orphanage in Washington when I was around five. I remember begging her to bring home another kid. Now I realize how irritating and depressing it must have been for me to whine to her about something she couldn’t control.
Lo and behold she did finally get pregnant with my brother,.. months before my dad found out he was to be stationed in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. I can’t believe the strength and faith she had to travel to that foreign country in the days before Internet and speedy worldwide shipping. No phone in the house. No TV.
I remember her story about a friend who was also pregnant living at the same compound in the middle of the desert going into labor. My mom and her friend trying to call their husbands on walkie-talkies to come and drive her to the hospital, pronto! (Women still can’t drive in Saudi. I don’t think the police would care that you were in labor, you’d still get caned or a limb taken off.) Nine month pregnant women about to burst climbing on the hood of a GMC truck to get a clear channel in the middle of the flat desert. What a picture of the human spirit.
Then my mom being admitted to the Royal Hospital and her British doctor inducing her because he was going on holiday to Europe the next day. Gads! I remember seeing my very large baby brother; a bald, sparkling white nine-pounder in a sea of petite, dark hairy Arab babies. I almost didn’t see him; we had to pass a very stringent check-in process and even though my dad had our passports at the ready and my name is of course the same as his and the rest of my family, the armed guard took one look at my black haired father and my blond hair, refusing entrance at first because I must be adopted. Only ‘real’ children of the family were allowed to visit. (This just fueled my teenage angst when I was mad as a hatter about whatever it happened to be that week. “I KNOW I’m adopted. I don’t belong to this family!”)
This eight year span between children seems to run on my mom’s side of the family so when it took more than I expected for the first two kids, I vaguely thought that might be my fate too. Got a little relaxed about the whole deal. Now that I am on my fifth, I’m realizing that infertility in any form isn’t my problem.
Now I know why the book I was consulting is named ‘The Art of Natural Family Planning’ and not the science of it.
Having all these kids doesn’t make me some sort of super-duper mother, either. I think I’m okay and I try every day to do the best I can. It’s easy to be flippant about having all these kids and for some reason I feel like I have to apologize to everyone for my beliefs as un-mainstream as they be nowadays. Like I’m embarrassed to be some sort of super consumer of energy in the world, or I’m blowing raspberries in the faces of zero population believers.
Nothing has made me more self conscious than meeting a very nice Chinese lady who lives here in Banda. She has one six year old son. When I announced my impending fifth child at a gathering we were both at, she took me aside and told me congratulations. I told her thank you, it meant a lot that she would be happy for me. She then reiterated what I already know, “In China, we are only allowed one child. If we have more, they will arrest you.” I’m not feeling so flippant any more.
Just this past week, again I was reminded how precious life is. We attended a ‘commemoration’ for a two year old boy who had a congenital birth defect with his colon. He went into surgery a week ago and didn’t make it. The father is a security guard at CRS. In the Muslim culture, you celebrate the passing of someone at 7 days, 50 days, 100 days and at 1000 days.
While it is meant to be a celebration of someone’s life; a memorial so to speak, we can’t help but be saddened when someone leaves this world; especially a child. The spirit of the gathering was light; people were laughing and kids were running around. But the father was very quiet, trying to keep his composure. And the mother’s face was stricken with pain as she sat on the floor on a colorful straw mat and accepted handshakes and encouraging words.
While we sat cross-legged on the floor sharing a meal with the family and friends, one of Rob’s engineers told us congratulations on the news of our impending addition. He went on to tell us how much they love their son who is school age and are sad they have not been able to have another child. “You should feel very lucky,” he said.
And so we do.
Saturday, May 26, 2007
We Didn't Expect It, But We're Expecting!
Top ten reasons why I am looking forward to another kid,… for the 5th time. (Yes, that’s right gentle readers. I am preggo with number 5. Causes one to pause, does it not?)
10. Because There’s a Wocket In My Pocket balances out “The Economist” nicely
9. I really enjoy having a small department store in my closet with boutiques such as ‘Spring,’ ‘Summer,’ ‘Fall,’ ‘Winter,’ ‘Normal sized,’ ‘Just a little preggers,’ ‘Really preggers,’ ‘The baby’s out but my body doesn’t realize it yet,’ and ‘It’s just a little baby fat (when the baby is six months, 2 years, 5 years, and yes, soon to be 11 years old.)
8. Boobs
7. Because I am a highly competitive person and my friend Nora has seven.
6. Just to freak out Joel, John and Julio. And Gab and Nancy. And all my fellow college sorority bimbos.
5. Because living in a third world country with four kids, homeschooling three of them and working part time just doesn’t seem to be enough for this particular form of adult onset ADD I seem to be nursing.
4. Because I enjoy juggling football, basketball, baseball and guitar lessons and think what’s ballet and soccer when you’re already doing all that?
3. I’ve almost figured out how to use the baby sling – a couple more and I should be a real expert!
2. I haven’t had the pleasure of morning sickness in Asia until now. Let’s all just keep our fingers cross Rob doesn’t have to build anything in Antarctica, South America or Australia any time soon.
1. I can't imagine being by myself when sitting on a toilet, taking a shower, shaving my legs or any other time when I am naked or otherwise not expecting company like when the kids burst open the bedroom door while I'm getting dressed to see if their friends (who are accompanying them) can have a coke. Ever.
And of course, because kids totally rock!
Thursday, May 24, 2007
Apa Kabar de Banda Aceh? What's happenin' in Banda Aceh?
First, news near and dear to my heart – more restless natives storming CRS because their houses are not yet finished. CRS agreed in February of last year to build 286 houses. Rob came in during July and now 165 houses have been built. What is so upsetting is that the problem isn’t with the NGOs, as many villagers feel it is. It is with these local contractors who are doing substandard work and running off with funding. Certainly, not all contractors here are bad, but there sure seem to be a bunch of bad apples spoiling the bushel. So, this story was reported in the local Bahasa Indonesia newspaper:
Banda Aceh - Dozenz of tsunami victims from Rukoh village, Syiah Kuala Sub-district, Banda Aceh, Mon (14/5), rallied at Catholic Relief Service (CRS) office demanding to finish the reconstruction of their houses based on the agreement made between both parties. According to them, based on an MoU signed on 23 Feb 2006, CRS is going to build 286 houses, but until yesterday, only 165 houses that have been done and have been occupied by beneficiaries. "They promised to build 286 houses, but they had only built 165 and we never been told by them when the rest of those houses are going to be built so that we could not receive the offers to build houses from other NGOs," said Zulbahar while showing a photocopy of MoU signed by Field Officer Director of CRS, Scoot Campbell. Meanwhile, as response, CRS's Communication Development Advisor, Davod Shield confirmed that MoU and adding that after been verified, only 165 houses that are in accordance with CRS criteria. Regarding the CRS's criteria, David explained that CRS only build houses that were destroyed by tsunami and those houses were the main houses. "We only build main houses and CRS will not build houses which were not the main houses, but we will help to find another donor," said David.
CRS is already retrofitting more than 200 houses that were of poor quality and built before Rob got to the country. CARE, a well known NGO also working here is going to have to rebuild or retrofit more than 700 houses. The extremely painful thing about this is that these houses are already inhabited. A good friend of ours has accepted the position as infrastructure manager since that position has been vacant for a while (Because of this? One can only speculate) and I fear for his personal safety when he starts moving people out of their new homes.
Muslim Aid and Asian Development Bank are facing this same situation with more than 1500 houses. Around 20,000 houses have been built in this area since the tsunami and that leaves a bit more than 10% of houses are of substandard quality.
A Fable of the Country Elephant and the City Water Buffalo
Banda Aceh - Residents of Banda Aceh, yesterday afternoon (15/5), were surprised by the presence of a buffalo in downtown and created panic among traffic users due to it suddenly running amok. Personnel of Public Order Police (Satpol PP) assisted by traffic police tried to catch that buffalo but it was very difficult as it keep on running and seized everybody this buffalo saw. A police officer who tried to catch it was also attacked by it and a man, Muzakir (40) was hospitalized due to his backbone was broken by it. The traffic at Jalan Tgk daud Beureueh was jammed for about an hour because of it. Finally that running amok buffalo succed to be caught after a Satpol PP car collide their car to it and then police tied it up.
Bad Tides
Indonesia in general has had horrible high tides and strong winds this past month. Everyone is cautioned against swimming – the last time we were at the beach they looked like 3 meter waves on average with really strong current.
Tragically, a local teenager was taking a photograph of the sea and got swept away by a 7 meter wave, drowning.
In Meulaboh, about a 10 hour drive down the coast (if the one road is not washed out or ridden with baksheesh bandits or angry villagers detaining NGO vehicles to get their demands met), the situation seems to be worse than here in Banda Aceh. Newly built houses and refugee camps are flooded (only 750 out of 4000 people were able to stay in one refugee camp.)
Beef. It's What's for Dinner.
There I am! Backlit in front of the window making an ominous, Darth Vader like presence. This is from the Bird Flu seminar. Which, if you read the newsfeeds to the right of this post any time soon, you will see in the past WEEK we have had one death from H5N1 down in Melaboh (on Sumatra) of a 26 year old pregnant lady (ate bad chickens) and a five year old on Java. Vietnam is reporting it's first case since 2005 and 10,000 chickens had to be culled in Pakistan because of infection.
Banda Aceh - Dozenz of tsunami victims from Rukoh village, Syiah Kuala Sub-district, Banda Aceh, Mon (14/5), rallied at Catholic Relief Service (CRS) office demanding to finish the reconstruction of their houses based on the agreement made between both parties. According to them, based on an MoU signed on 23 Feb 2006, CRS is going to build 286 houses, but until yesterday, only 165 houses that have been done and have been occupied by beneficiaries. "They promised to build 286 houses, but they had only built 165 and we never been told by them when the rest of those houses are going to be built so that we could not receive the offers to build houses from other NGOs," said Zulbahar while showing a photocopy of MoU signed by Field Officer Director of CRS, Scoot Campbell. Meanwhile, as response, CRS's Communication Development Advisor, Davod Shield confirmed that MoU and adding that after been verified, only 165 houses that are in accordance with CRS criteria. Regarding the CRS's criteria, David explained that CRS only build houses that were destroyed by tsunami and those houses were the main houses. "We only build main houses and CRS will not build houses which were not the main houses, but we will help to find another donor," said David.
CRS is already retrofitting more than 200 houses that were of poor quality and built before Rob got to the country. CARE, a well known NGO also working here is going to have to rebuild or retrofit more than 700 houses. The extremely painful thing about this is that these houses are already inhabited. A good friend of ours has accepted the position as infrastructure manager since that position has been vacant for a while (Because of this? One can only speculate) and I fear for his personal safety when he starts moving people out of their new homes.
Muslim Aid and Asian Development Bank are facing this same situation with more than 1500 houses. Around 20,000 houses have been built in this area since the tsunami and that leaves a bit more than 10% of houses are of substandard quality.
A Fable of the Country Elephant and the City Water Buffalo
Banda Aceh - Residents of Banda Aceh, yesterday afternoon (15/5), were surprised by the presence of a buffalo in downtown and created panic among traffic users due to it suddenly running amok. Personnel of Public Order Police (Satpol PP) assisted by traffic police tried to catch that buffalo but it was very difficult as it keep on running and seized everybody this buffalo saw. A police officer who tried to catch it was also attacked by it and a man, Muzakir (40) was hospitalized due to his backbone was broken by it. The traffic at Jalan Tgk daud Beureueh was jammed for about an hour because of it. Finally that running amok buffalo succed to be caught after a Satpol PP car collide their car to it and then police tied it up.
Bad Tides
Indonesia in general has had horrible high tides and strong winds this past month. Everyone is cautioned against swimming – the last time we were at the beach they looked like 3 meter waves on average with really strong current.
Tragically, a local teenager was taking a photograph of the sea and got swept away by a 7 meter wave, drowning.
In Meulaboh, about a 10 hour drive down the coast (if the one road is not washed out or ridden with baksheesh bandits or angry villagers detaining NGO vehicles to get their demands met), the situation seems to be worse than here in Banda Aceh. Newly built houses and refugee camps are flooded (only 750 out of 4000 people were able to stay in one refugee camp.)
Beef. It's What's for Dinner.
There I am! Backlit in front of the window making an ominous, Darth Vader like presence. This is from the Bird Flu seminar. Which, if you read the newsfeeds to the right of this post any time soon, you will see in the past WEEK we have had one death from H5N1 down in Melaboh (on Sumatra) of a 26 year old pregnant lady (ate bad chickens) and a five year old on Java. Vietnam is reporting it's first case since 2005 and 10,000 chickens had to be culled in Pakistan because of infection.
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Bird Flu,.. For Me Not You
Wow! What an exciting day I had this past Tuesday! I played hooky from my real life of sitting at home with my hair in a pony tail and no makeup, wearing work out gear in the hopes it will motivate me (usually nada) going slightly bonkers trying to teach three wily little boys readin’, writin’ and ‘rithmetic and wedging some actual work for a real, glorified company in the mix. (I’ll be fired now after that run on sentence.)
I got to attend a security briefing on Avian Bird Flu and then another internal meeting at CRS to identify security risks. Okay, so it wasn’t mani/pedis with the girls followed by a nice salad lunch, but this is Banda Aceh and I’ll take whatever I can get.
So, the Avian Bird Flu seminar came at just the right time because I’ve kind of run out of things to be freaked out about. And I was starting to feel kind of wistful that I’ll be leaving this delightful little swamp for vacation in two weeks.
The way I look at it, with my recent luck in the infectious tropical diseases department (one kid with malaria and two with dengue fever in the span of one month for those of you not keeping track of my bad parenting record), I figure not only will one of us be come down with H5N1 (the current Avian Flu virus), but we’ll be the darned vector that infects all of the Eastern Hemisphere. (But wait, we are boarding a plane soon! Hmmm,…)
Why worry about Bird Flu, you ask? Well, out of the 306 cases and 185 deaths spanning 12 countries, 93 of these were here in Indonesia with 76 deaths. 200 million birds around the world have either died or been culled because of the virus. And H5N1 is located all over Indonesia, with some cases and many of those dead birds coming from MY CITY.
No, we don’t cuddle ducks or hang out with any chickens, and although the powers that be do know that the virus can be transferred by undercooked eggs and meat, the only traceable instance of ingesting the virus came from someone who consumed raw duck’s blood. (Now, I come from hunting stock, so this isn’t so alien to me! The men on my father’s side usually did the old-drink-the-deer’s-blood when they killed their first.) And let’s not forget that they believe H5N1 traveled to Africa from a bunch of illegally transported Vietnamese eggs.
Here’s the part that has me agitated; our street is pretty densely populated with a nice mix of expat NGO workers, well –to-do Acehnese, middle class Achenese and then people like our next door neighbor who live in a corrugated wooden shack and have a swamp filled with a flock of ducks. Walking home you pass countless gaggles of chickens and ducks eating garbage in vacant lots (along with tied up cows and many goats romping around). Forget about the fact that this virus can live on porous surfaces for up to 12 hours, or hard surfaces for 48; it can live up to four days in warm water and,.. THREE MONTHS in bird poop!
So, I’m thinking all it takes is a boy to step in some infected bird poop, touch the bottom of his shoe when he’s removing it, not wash his hands (these are boys here, after all) and get infected! Or the big, stupid dog we have will run through bird poop and then come inside and spread it everywhere. Or roll in it even. Or actually catch a chicken and eat part of it. Then lick someone. Yuck.
Okay, it’s a long shot, I know. But with all these big organizations gearing up for that pandemic that we are supposedly due for, I wanna be ready. I’ve got my year’s supply of tamiflu. I know now not to crack the egg on the side that has the dried chicken poop with a feather stuck in it. (Fresh! Talk about eating locally!) I have the FAQ from SOS International on how to make my own cloth face mask (forget making homemade yogurt, Martha, we’re into homemade embroidered personal protection equipment!) I’ve installed sinks. Two of them. I’m ready for any epidemic!
I got to attend a security briefing on Avian Bird Flu and then another internal meeting at CRS to identify security risks. Okay, so it wasn’t mani/pedis with the girls followed by a nice salad lunch, but this is Banda Aceh and I’ll take whatever I can get.
So, the Avian Bird Flu seminar came at just the right time because I’ve kind of run out of things to be freaked out about. And I was starting to feel kind of wistful that I’ll be leaving this delightful little swamp for vacation in two weeks.
The way I look at it, with my recent luck in the infectious tropical diseases department (one kid with malaria and two with dengue fever in the span of one month for those of you not keeping track of my bad parenting record), I figure not only will one of us be come down with H5N1 (the current Avian Flu virus), but we’ll be the darned vector that infects all of the Eastern Hemisphere. (But wait, we are boarding a plane soon! Hmmm,…)
Why worry about Bird Flu, you ask? Well, out of the 306 cases and 185 deaths spanning 12 countries, 93 of these were here in Indonesia with 76 deaths. 200 million birds around the world have either died or been culled because of the virus. And H5N1 is located all over Indonesia, with some cases and many of those dead birds coming from MY CITY.
No, we don’t cuddle ducks or hang out with any chickens, and although the powers that be do know that the virus can be transferred by undercooked eggs and meat, the only traceable instance of ingesting the virus came from someone who consumed raw duck’s blood. (Now, I come from hunting stock, so this isn’t so alien to me! The men on my father’s side usually did the old-drink-the-deer’s-blood when they killed their first.) And let’s not forget that they believe H5N1 traveled to Africa from a bunch of illegally transported Vietnamese eggs.
Here’s the part that has me agitated; our street is pretty densely populated with a nice mix of expat NGO workers, well –to-do Acehnese, middle class Achenese and then people like our next door neighbor who live in a corrugated wooden shack and have a swamp filled with a flock of ducks. Walking home you pass countless gaggles of chickens and ducks eating garbage in vacant lots (along with tied up cows and many goats romping around). Forget about the fact that this virus can live on porous surfaces for up to 12 hours, or hard surfaces for 48; it can live up to four days in warm water and,.. THREE MONTHS in bird poop!
So, I’m thinking all it takes is a boy to step in some infected bird poop, touch the bottom of his shoe when he’s removing it, not wash his hands (these are boys here, after all) and get infected! Or the big, stupid dog we have will run through bird poop and then come inside and spread it everywhere. Or roll in it even. Or actually catch a chicken and eat part of it. Then lick someone. Yuck.
Okay, it’s a long shot, I know. But with all these big organizations gearing up for that pandemic that we are supposedly due for, I wanna be ready. I’ve got my year’s supply of tamiflu. I know now not to crack the egg on the side that has the dried chicken poop with a feather stuck in it. (Fresh! Talk about eating locally!) I have the FAQ from SOS International on how to make my own cloth face mask (forget making homemade yogurt, Martha, we’re into homemade embroidered personal protection equipment!) I’ve installed sinks. Two of them. I’m ready for any epidemic!
Sunday, May 13, 2007
A White Chick in a Suntanned Country
I’m a white chick. I don’t mean I’m Caucasian, although I am, I mean I am a blazing white, can’t tan to save my life, freckled person. I am the teenager who lived half a block from the beach in Africa only to come back to the States to a school photographer exclaiming I had ‘beautiful fair skin.’ Ugh! A teenager’s worst nightmare.
I was also the young adult who lived half a block from the beach in California while driving inland to work an hour or more every day for more than a year. One of my colleagues asked where I lived and I told him Balboa Peninsula. He shrugged and said, “Funny, you don’t look like you live at the beach.”
FUNNY, I DON’T LOOK LIKE I LIVE AT THE BEACH?
So began my long love and hate relationship with self tanning lotion. It started in college because I knew deep down inside that tanning booths were bad for you. But I always feared I would return from some frat party after a few beers, consider myself in need of a tanning fix, and wake up in the morning with orange streaks that couldn’t be hidden by a sweatshirt and jeans.
My husband is forever telling me he loves my fair skin and God bless him, that’s why I married him (not necessarily because he loves my white skin, but because he loves me just the way I am supposed to be). But, the grass is always greener you know. I’d love to stand for fifteen minutes in the hot sun and have sandal marks on my feet too, honey.
So it is interesting living in Asia, where the less tan you are, the more beautiful you are considered (and so are big butts, at least in Bali, lest we forget J Lo. I have indeed found my homeland.)
You can find whitening lotion, soap and powder everywhere. No tanning lotion anywhere in the Eastern hemisphere, so I am forced to pack a year’s supply when we move overseas. Have you ever bought 15 bottles of self tanning lotion at once? Makes you feel a little self conscious. And you wondered what the check out girl thought of you the last time you brought your basket of cat food, easy cheez and toilet paper to the register.
It is interesting to pass my live-in nanny in the kitchen at night; she has on her whitening cream and I am fresh from applying my magic ‘promises-not-to-be-orange’ tanning juice.
Funny how people are the same in many ways, even if we are remarkably different in others. This dissatisfaction women have with our bodies seems to cross cultural borders.
So it was with great delight that one of my favorite authors, Marian Keyes, dedicated a whole chapter to self tanning lotion in her book Further Under the Duvet. Named appropriately enough, “Faking It” it is too funny not to share parts of it with you even if it means I’ll be dragged into prison for plagiarism when I come back to the good ol’ US of A this summer.
So here is one excerpt:
… I decided to (apply self tanning lotion) properly. I’d do wafer-thin layers and leave plenty of time to dry between applications. The only thing is, I got a little bit obsessive about it and it kind of took over my life. I’d apply a layer, then do some free-style dancing in my pelt waiting for it to dry, then I’d apply another layer and do some more dancing around my room, and when the colour still hadn’t come yet, I’d apply another layer. At some point, the end product of tan no longer seemed to matter so much, it was simply the doing that became important,…
So there I was, having a lovely time dancing and humming and thinking lovely thoughts, I’d even enlisted a floaty red scarf to waft about over my head, when Himself walked into the room and yelped, ‘Jesus Christ!’ I thought it was the free-style dancing and stopped abruptly, a little mortified by the scarf. ‘Look at yourself, he urged. ‘Look!’
So I looked and instead of the radiant golden hue I’d been expecting, I was a nasty Eurotrash mahogany, which I was prepared to bet went all the way down to my internal organs. Again I couldn’t leave the house for a week. I mean, no one wants to be humiliated in the street by strangers shouting, ‘Who’s been drinking the fake tan, then?’
Okay, I can’t help myself this woman is so damn funny so here is another one on the ‘ol fake not bake:
Elementary mistake number four: The mud and how it works. In the deliriously happy days of doing my make-up column, I was invited to have the mud done. So I showed up at a hotel room, stripped off and hopped up onto the table, where a lovely girl smeared me with smelly mud, then got a big loofah and rubbed some of the mud off, then told me to get up and get dressed.
When I pointed out that I was still covered in smelly mud, she said, yes of course I was, that was how it worked, everyone knew that, but I’d be able to wash it off in the morning.
‘Obviously you’re going to look manky for the evening,’ she said. ‘But tomorrow morning, after your shower, you’ll have a fabulous tan.’
‘Grand, grand,’ I said.
She seemed to pick up on a little anxiety from me. ‘You hadn’t planned to go out tonight, had you?’
‘No, not really,’ Just for my mother’s birthday.
‘Probably best if you leave off your boots and tights. They’ll only interfere with the tan. You can drive in your bare feet.’
I looked out into the March night, it was pelting rain and freezing cold. ‘Okay.’
So off I went. And as luck would have it, the police were doing random checks on the Boomerstown road. I rolled down my window and watched the copper’s face recoil as the smell hit him.
‘License please.’
I handed it over, but the smell was clearly alarming him, so he had a low muttered consultation with his colleague, and the net result was that they asked me to get out of the car. In my bare feet, I tried to explain about the fake tan, but they just ordered me to open my boot – presumably to show them that I had no smelly dead bodies in there.
They kept me for ages, searching in their rule book to see if they could bring me in on anything. I wasn’t obviously breaking any laws, but they were very suspicious.
In the end they let me go and when I arrived at the restaurant to celebrate my mammy’s birthday, I caused a bit of a stir. As if the smell wasn’t making me unpopular enough, bits of the mud were going black and green and falling off my face into my dinner. I looked like a burns victim.
Mind you, it’s important to say that the following morning, when I’d washed off the muck, I had a rich, deep, smooth beautiful tan. And isn’t that what it’s all about?’
Indeed!
I was also the young adult who lived half a block from the beach in California while driving inland to work an hour or more every day for more than a year. One of my colleagues asked where I lived and I told him Balboa Peninsula. He shrugged and said, “Funny, you don’t look like you live at the beach.”
FUNNY, I DON’T LOOK LIKE I LIVE AT THE BEACH?
So began my long love and hate relationship with self tanning lotion. It started in college because I knew deep down inside that tanning booths were bad for you. But I always feared I would return from some frat party after a few beers, consider myself in need of a tanning fix, and wake up in the morning with orange streaks that couldn’t be hidden by a sweatshirt and jeans.
My husband is forever telling me he loves my fair skin and God bless him, that’s why I married him (not necessarily because he loves my white skin, but because he loves me just the way I am supposed to be). But, the grass is always greener you know. I’d love to stand for fifteen minutes in the hot sun and have sandal marks on my feet too, honey.
So it is interesting living in Asia, where the less tan you are, the more beautiful you are considered (and so are big butts, at least in Bali, lest we forget J Lo. I have indeed found my homeland.)
You can find whitening lotion, soap and powder everywhere. No tanning lotion anywhere in the Eastern hemisphere, so I am forced to pack a year’s supply when we move overseas. Have you ever bought 15 bottles of self tanning lotion at once? Makes you feel a little self conscious. And you wondered what the check out girl thought of you the last time you brought your basket of cat food, easy cheez and toilet paper to the register.
It is interesting to pass my live-in nanny in the kitchen at night; she has on her whitening cream and I am fresh from applying my magic ‘promises-not-to-be-orange’ tanning juice.
Funny how people are the same in many ways, even if we are remarkably different in others. This dissatisfaction women have with our bodies seems to cross cultural borders.
So it was with great delight that one of my favorite authors, Marian Keyes, dedicated a whole chapter to self tanning lotion in her book Further Under the Duvet. Named appropriately enough, “Faking It” it is too funny not to share parts of it with you even if it means I’ll be dragged into prison for plagiarism when I come back to the good ol’ US of A this summer.
So here is one excerpt:
… I decided to (apply self tanning lotion) properly. I’d do wafer-thin layers and leave plenty of time to dry between applications. The only thing is, I got a little bit obsessive about it and it kind of took over my life. I’d apply a layer, then do some free-style dancing in my pelt waiting for it to dry, then I’d apply another layer and do some more dancing around my room, and when the colour still hadn’t come yet, I’d apply another layer. At some point, the end product of tan no longer seemed to matter so much, it was simply the doing that became important,…
So there I was, having a lovely time dancing and humming and thinking lovely thoughts, I’d even enlisted a floaty red scarf to waft about over my head, when Himself walked into the room and yelped, ‘Jesus Christ!’ I thought it was the free-style dancing and stopped abruptly, a little mortified by the scarf. ‘Look at yourself, he urged. ‘Look!’
So I looked and instead of the radiant golden hue I’d been expecting, I was a nasty Eurotrash mahogany, which I was prepared to bet went all the way down to my internal organs. Again I couldn’t leave the house for a week. I mean, no one wants to be humiliated in the street by strangers shouting, ‘Who’s been drinking the fake tan, then?’
Okay, I can’t help myself this woman is so damn funny so here is another one on the ‘ol fake not bake:
Elementary mistake number four: The mud and how it works. In the deliriously happy days of doing my make-up column, I was invited to have the mud done. So I showed up at a hotel room, stripped off and hopped up onto the table, where a lovely girl smeared me with smelly mud, then got a big loofah and rubbed some of the mud off, then told me to get up and get dressed.
When I pointed out that I was still covered in smelly mud, she said, yes of course I was, that was how it worked, everyone knew that, but I’d be able to wash it off in the morning.
‘Obviously you’re going to look manky for the evening,’ she said. ‘But tomorrow morning, after your shower, you’ll have a fabulous tan.’
‘Grand, grand,’ I said.
She seemed to pick up on a little anxiety from me. ‘You hadn’t planned to go out tonight, had you?’
‘No, not really,’ Just for my mother’s birthday.
‘Probably best if you leave off your boots and tights. They’ll only interfere with the tan. You can drive in your bare feet.’
I looked out into the March night, it was pelting rain and freezing cold. ‘Okay.’
So off I went. And as luck would have it, the police were doing random checks on the Boomerstown road. I rolled down my window and watched the copper’s face recoil as the smell hit him.
‘License please.’
I handed it over, but the smell was clearly alarming him, so he had a low muttered consultation with his colleague, and the net result was that they asked me to get out of the car. In my bare feet, I tried to explain about the fake tan, but they just ordered me to open my boot – presumably to show them that I had no smelly dead bodies in there.
They kept me for ages, searching in their rule book to see if they could bring me in on anything. I wasn’t obviously breaking any laws, but they were very suspicious.
In the end they let me go and when I arrived at the restaurant to celebrate my mammy’s birthday, I caused a bit of a stir. As if the smell wasn’t making me unpopular enough, bits of the mud were going black and green and falling off my face into my dinner. I looked like a burns victim.
Mind you, it’s important to say that the following morning, when I’d washed off the muck, I had a rich, deep, smooth beautiful tan. And isn’t that what it’s all about?’
Indeed!
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