Two's Company

ISO: a cocktail sipping slamming, shoe-shopping, binge-eating, female companion. If found, please deliver to my Swiss doorstep. Pronto.

My three-year-old wants a pet.  I've tried the whole battery-operated dog that walks (shuffles) and barks, and I once painted  a rather believable rabbit face on a decent-sized rock, but my toddler is smarter than your average preschooler.  She wants the real thing. 

This whole pet idea was weighing heavily on my mind.  I don't know how to put this gently, but I dislike animals. Strongly. And the whole notion of having one under my roof was causing me to lose sleep at night.  I made a pie chart (along with an actual pie), of the statistical life expectancy of numerous pets.  If one was shown to live longer than four months, then I removed it from my list.

The only logical choice was a goldfish.  Perfect.  Easy peasy, thought I.

Turns out, I can't buy a solo goldfish in the country of Switzerland.  Or a rabbit.  Or even a filthy, snaggletooth guinea pig.  The only way for me to be a proud owner of one of these varmints is to be a proud owner of TWO of these varmints.  Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the Swiss Companionship Laws.

Apparently it's considered cruel to own a "companion" animal without providing it with a, you guessed it: companion.  There is scientific evidence showing irreparable damage to the psyche of a goldfish if you force him to swim laps alone in his bowl. A rabbit may slip into a deep state of depression if he has no one with whom to share his carrot. 

Here's my problem, guys. Doesn't the animal get any say in this? What if the hamster doesn't want a companion? Or prefers to chew his cardboard toilet paper roll all by his lonesome? What if the koi fish is, indeed, coy?

And to top it all off, what about ME?  I would've given my last bottle of Ranch dressing for a companion when I first moved to Switzerland---all those lonely evenings sipping French wine and watching trashy television without the support of a gossipy girlfriend.  Why is my psychological well-being inferior to that of a hamster?

I will tell you what happened when we gave my childhood hamster a companion.  He ate him.  Yes, Hammy the hamster dined on his associate, Whitey, and left only a bloody head to show for him.  I wouldn't do that to my companion.  I would refill her margarita. I would share my secrets and braid her hair.

I have yet to break the news to Amelia that she will not be getting a pet while we reside in Switzerland.  One goldfish I could possibly handle, but two would certainly send me over the edge. And it's the principle of it all.  Until you show me concrete evidence that Peter Cottontail resorted to Prozac after hopping down his desolate bunny trail, then I am reluctant to believe any mythical studies stating it's so.

ISO: a cocktail-slamming, shoe-shopping, binge-eating, female companion with a pet.  If found, please invite us over for a play date. Pronto. 

The Nudge

I'm sitting here researching new diets. And eating nachos. It's 2:55 in the morning and Amelia's having a dance party in the living room. I polish off the nachos and raid the pantry, but it's barren from my last new diet.  Damn.

Since I'm sitting out this Mickey tango, I'm binge-reading mommy blogs and trying to understand the mindset of these women:

These first few years go so fast...Blink your eyes and they're grown (I can't blink my eyes right now because they are too swollen from lack of sleep)....Put down your cell phone and read your child 327 books...Remove all television sets from your home and replace them with craft tables... 

Blah, blah, blah, blah. 

I get it ladies. The years fly by. But those twelve hours on a plane with a toddler? They don't.

You'll miss these days, their Dawn baby-soft hands gently type on the keyboard while their organically fed babies nap away the afternoon.

It's been less than 24 hours since we landed back in Switzerland, and already I'm forced to readjust to not only the time zone, but the culture.  Amelia went from eating a two-dollar hot dog at O'Hare Airport in Chicago to chanting, "salmon, salmon, salmon" at an overpriced Swiss restaurant all in the same day.  Forty-five dollars and a "hold the bearnaise sauce" later, my three-year-old was ready for two hours of sleep.

Correct.  You read that correctly.  She slept for two hours. Total.  And now here we are at three in the morning and I keep on reading that I should be savoring every minute of this.  Yeah, okay.  The only thing I'm savoring is this nacho.

I had every intention of sleeping through the night.  My feet swollen from the cramped airplane and a bruised forehead from where I walked into a wall, I hit my pillow and call it a night.  Until the dreaded nudge.

Now most of you moms know this nudge---it's the middle of the night, semi-gentle elbow to the ribs from your husband.  It's the "honey, I expect you to not only bear, incubate, deliver, and feed our child, but also to participate in her three a.m. circus. Oh, and could you please shut the door behind you?"

Ironically, it's also this same nudge that got me into this predicament in the first place.

So I'm stuffing my face and trying to figure out how this tiny human can manage on absolutely no sleep.  She's singing, she's dancing, she's talking a mile a minute about what she wants for next Christmas, and I'm watching the clock since you blogging mommies tell me that time flies.  I'm pretty sure it's in slow motion right now.

I finally get her back to sleep at five a.m., and just as I'm drifting off, I'm awakened to what sounds like a Clydesdale horse trotting around the house.  Turns out it's not a heavy footed stallion, but actually my well-rested husband, and he whistles his way out the door.

Amelia sleeps another three hours, and I get by on two pots of coffee and a whole lot of unconditional love for my husband's mini-me.  I love my life, my husband, my child, but I also feel no guilt in saying that I don't necessarily love these days.  In fact, I hope some of them do fly by.  My eyes can't handle the exhaustion, my brain can't handle the monotony, and my thighs sure as hell can't handle the nachos. 

 

Lions and Tigers and Balls, Oh My!

Nudity in Europe is like Taco Bell in America: it's cheap, it's everywhere, and it's somehow a combination of awesome and gross at the very same time. The spas, the pools, the art museums.  Switzerland even has "drive-in" prostitution sex boxes (pretty ironic for a country who can't seem to master the McDonald's drive thru).  I kid you not.  Google it. 

People and their nakedness are just accepted here. France gave Fifty Shades of Grey a PG12 rating, meaning thirteen-year-olds can see it! Nothing says bondage and whips like a giggling eighth-grader sitting next to you. 

Coming from a more clothed US, I cannot quite understand the acceptance of the birthday suit but the outright rejection of the frosted birthday cake. See, I'm the girl at the spa who wraps the XL beach towel over her one-piece bathing suit. I will never feel quite right about jiggling my lady bits in public places.

Once, when I was a young sixteen, very self-conscious yet in awe of myself and my new female curves, a very unfortunate occurrence happened to me that perhaps paved the way to my current state of mind. Alone in the locker room at the local YMCA one evening, I found myself solo in the showers.  I wrapped a towel tightly around my naked body and ventured into the changing area, slowing down a bit when I saw my reflection on the tinted glass door of the sauna room. I liked the way the shaded glass portrayed me---sort of like a filter in the pre-Instagram days. I glanced at my darkened reflection and decided to see if my hard work on the treadmill was paying off.  I opened the towel with a little shimmy and I posed for myself.  I then turned around to get a good view of my rear.  I may or may not have even done a little jiggle/sexy pout combo. When I turned back around to admire my front side once again, I stopped dead in my tracks as the sauna door opened.  As it would turn out, I was not alone in that locker room.  A shell-shocked, elderly woman stepped out of the sauna and glared at me. I had given her a private show through that glass door, and she not likey it.  She not likey it one bit.

I think that old bitty forever turned me off from nude beaches.  To this day, I can't walk around a locker room in anything other than a spacesuit. 

And yet I find myself here in Europe, where the boobs and the balls come buffet style.  Life has a funny sense of humor, does it not?

I walked past the undergarment section at the Manor the other day.  To you non-Swissies, the Manor is a respectable, upscale department store, comparable to a Neiman Marcus or Nordstroms.  There, hanging from the ceilings, were plastic chains connected to French copies of Fifty Shades of Grey, baskets of silk blindfolds, beaded whips, and fancy sex toys.  I blushed, then chuckled, then stared in horror as my three-year-old daughter grabbed onto a pearl G-string and said "this one's pretty, mama." 

I need to get back to the USA.  I need some Taco Bell. 

In-Between

I stood outside and smoked a forbidden cigarette tonight. I found an old, smashed pack from some outdoor barbecue we had months ago, and I knelt by the side of the house and inhaled.

It's this whole exhale thing I'm struggling with.

I'm failing at this mom gig.  My laundry basket is taunting me; it's piled higher than most monuments I've visited in Europe. I kicked some crumbs under the couch today, and I'm using dry shampoo way more often than is socially acceptable.

I live on coffee and unfulfilled dreams. One day, I keep telling myself. One day I will write a novel. One day I will edit a magazine. One day I will pen a column.

One day I will do this laundry.

My husband's a rock star. He works twelve hour days and travels the world.  He speaks business better than most speak English. And he's happy. He's fulfilled. He's an astronomical success; a shining star. I'm just dark matter in yoga pants.

I'm not sure where I thought I'd be at 29. I'm certain if I went back to the halls of grade school and glanced upon my "what I'll be doing in twenty years" poster, I definitely wouldn't have drawn myself crouched down with a cigarette in a tiny Swiss village, hiding from the world's chattiest toddler.  

I am fully aware that Amelia is the greatest thing I have ever done and will ever do. Children are miraculous and wondrous beings. And while I'm proud that my ovaries did their job, and while I value my role as a mother and nurturer, I also wonder who I am in all of this. Being an expatriate has complicated my identity. It's hard enough to find yourself in the places you've always been. I'm in a culture foreign to everything I've ever known, and here, I'm just someone's wife. I'm just someone's mother.

I'm whining; I know this. Amelia's been out of preschool all week for "ski break" (yes, that's a real thing), and I haven't had a break of my own in a while. I'm answering questions like "do piggies eat hot dogs?" and "why don't I have magical powers like Elsa?"

I want to talk politics with someone. I want to engage in a conversation without being called a doody head. I want to get drunk on cheap beer and dance to the Backstreet Boys on the Wharf's jukebox. I just want to be interesting again.

Please don't send me 1-800 numbers for mental health hotlines or lung cancer brochures. I've pitched the pack of cigs and moved on to the chocolate bunnies. Don't gossip to your friends about my deep, dark, depression, or assume I'm holed up by myself on some mountainside. The thing is, parts of my life are so damn incredible that i can't even quite comprehend what I'm experiencing. It's like I am taking it all in through one of those dirty strainer buckets we use in Amelia's sandbox; I'm only getting granules.

I've kissed the sacred ground of Jerusalem. I've traced my name on a bridge in Lyon. I've maneuvered though traffic in Paris and Milan, and I've eaten fondue atop the Swiss Alps. I'm living in such vibrant colors, yet I'm still waiting on something black and white---like a career, or an accomplishment all my own. I'm waiting on me.

I take great pride in my husband's success, but I also know that it doesn't mirror my own. I'm not looking to change the world (hell, I'd be happy to change a load of laundry right now), but I'm looking for something to prove myself to MYSELF.  It's not that I'm lost; I'm just somewhere in-between.

 ...between countries, between careers. Between the inhale and the exhale.

Irate

I usually wake up groggy---there's no amount of sleep that seems to shake the exhaustion of motherhood.  Other days I wake up hungry, heading straight from my unmade bed to the chocolate drawer.  But today, I was neither tired nor hungry.  I didn't linger under the sheets for a few extra moments or raid the refrigerator for last night's leftovers.  You see, today I was irate. 

I sometimes feel like I'm on the outside looking in.  I'm an American outside of America, and I can't help but see how the others see us.  So, yes, today I am irate.

I'm irate that the United States of America is so damn blessed and untroubled that we are rioting in the streets over a singular case we know next to nothing about.  I'm irate our media exploits racism in the name of equality and righteousness, yet perpetuates stereotypes and violence by encouraging disorderly demonstrations and looting stores.

I'm irate we have contrasting principles---that our American society is one brimming with contradictions.  We blame the police for not doing enough on our gang-riddled streets, yet we accuse them of brutality and murder when we don't like the outcome of their presence. 

I'm irate that our entitled, over-indulged citizens are chanting "kill the police" while there is a mountainside of children awaiting their own slaughter in Iraq. Really, America? Get your shit together.  Rather than criticize our police officers and military and law enforcement, let's be *gasp* grateful for a damn nanosecond that we have them protecting us in the first place.  Let's acknowledge we know nothing of true oppression or the unthinkable atrocities happening daily in other countries.  We are spoiled, overfed, and beyond fortunate, and I'm irate at how often we fail to remember this.

I'm irate our President has re-evaluated the Yazidi rescue mission and decided it's not as necessary as it once seemed; that the sanctity of human life upon that mountaintop is no longer worth our resources. 

I'm irate our government advised Israel to use "restraint" when rockets were raining down on them.  I'm irate we discouraged Israel from defending themselves from terror, and irate our country didn't reserve the "practice restraint" line for those rioting in the streets of Missouri. 

I'm irate; I'm ashamed; I'm disgusted; but above all, I'm American---and not for the briefest moment will I forget what that means:

I'm also incredibly blessed.

Sad Cow Disease



I counted 147 cows and one roadside donkey on my way to the grocery store this morning. It's my Swiss version of 'I Spy'.  Amelia shouts "Cows, mooooo" with a glee I could never muster for such large, filthy animals while I use my imagination to turn them all into filet mignon. 

Everyone comments that I only wear black these days. It's the French in me, I tell them, though I subconsciously wonder if I'm mourning fast food.  Black dresses, black shoes---I even don the black fingernails. Why am I not adorned in yellow in the land of paradise with my 147 cattle?

I miss noise---the rumbling of the gas guzzling SUV; the high decibel American conversations; the Stephanie Peck's of the world.

I miss the unrefined.

Everyone is so damn proper here. I can't even drink out of a Coke can without receiving bewildered stares. Silly me! Where are my manners? I must have left them behind with my fine crystal glasses.

Back in the states, where anything goes, where nobody gives a damn, I used to grocery shop in my flannels and rain boots.  Here, I feel underdressed picking out spaghetti sauces in an evening gown.

 

 

I took Amelia to the local "preschool" today to sign her up for the fall semester.  I had to quadruple-check the information packet to assure I was reading the tuition correctly.  I've always known Switzerland to be insanely expensive, but I could afford to send Amelia to Harvard for the same price as this glorified daycare and still have money left over to fuel her Goldfish addiction. Sheesh, Switzerland, I know you are trying to educate the youthful minds of our future, but my toddler still claps when she poo's.

I felt this same nostalgia around the very same time last year.  I think there's something about the summer months and the red, white, and blue that make me long for cookouts and baseball games. The annual Marching of the Cows parade just isn't cutting it for me anymore. I want to go home, but as Amelia reminds me daily, "This is our home, mama."  I forget that while I've been adjusting to European life and constantly feeling like an outsider and obnoxious (yet awesome) American, this is all Amelia knows.  She sees this incredible side of Switzerland that I have so much trouble acknowledging. 

 

Even though I knew we would be here for at least a few years, a part of my subconscious always thought they would deport me for my disrespectful attitude towards aged cheeses. I just recently realized we've been here for an entire two years.  I can't believe I've survived this long without a Taco Bell Gordita Crunch, let alone thrived.  We're doing well here, and as much as I'm missing Kyle Wiese karaoke nights and wine dates with the girls, I can say I'm okay.  This is a segment of my life I will one day look back upon and see quite differently.  I think Switzerland will have a certain invaluable charm when it's well in my past; when I one day accept the wonder outside of my American close-mindedness; when I finally see it with Amelia's eyes. 

 

 

 

Let Them Eat Cake

Since it's all the rage right now, I think I will show you a before and after picture...of the chocolate Easter bunny I just annihilated.

 

Or perhaps a before and after picture of my food baby belly? I swear to you I can go from flat stomach to six months pregnant in three minutes flat.  It's quite impressive.

Readers mustn't worry; I have no intentions of displaying bikini-clad side by sides on the internet anytime soon. No need for the social networking realm to see the outline of my afternoon pizza party. 

I thought New Year's resolutions were only supposed to last until the end of January? It's like everyone's drinking the Kool Aid (or in this case, the powdered diet shakes).

Now I don't mean to be a hypocrite; I quite regularly imbibe on these diet regimens as well. How else could I possibly stay at a reasonable weight and still be a VIP at Pizza Hut? My monthly diet is as follows: one week of hunger and famine followed by a week of over-indulgence and pure happiness. Repeat.

I don't need your tweets or your public fitness diary to inform me how unhealthy I am. I am an educated adult.  I know that 24 inch chocolate statues are not good for the body (though I will argue they are amazing for the soul). I know the proper steps to a bikini-ready body include exercise and calorie control, just as I know that too many cheese fries give me a stomach ache. I know that vegetables are nutrient and vitamin rich, yet I also know that milkshakes bring all the boys to the yard.

This is a public plea to stop body-shaming the rest of us. We are so very proud of your flab to fab tummy, and we think it's great your cholesterol is finally in check, but to put this frankly: we don't give a rat's derrière if your pants fit better. Flaunt it on the streets, but please stop congesting my newsfeed.  I'd much rather get back to the ugly babies and sloth memes.

If you lost ten pounds, then be proud of yourself.  If you shook your toned booty to three hours of workout videos, give yourself a pat on the back.  And if you ate a life-size chocolate bunny, then let's be friends.