Grumpity grump grumpy

It all started with the cheerful lady.

I'd already noticed her - she was grinning at everyone while we boarded the plane like being a glorified waitress was the best job in the world. (There. Now I've offended all the flight attendants out there.)

She kept calling everyone "doll" and "sweetheart" until I actually wanted to give her the finger.

(Pssst. I've never done that before. But last night I really WANTED to.)

Mr. Squishy was awesome. He grinned and cooed and saluted (he doesn't wave) to everyone in our vicinity and was generally adorable. Then he went right to sleep in my arms and didn't wake up til we landed.

My own personal miracle.

And then there was this lady.

She was laughing and talking all night at the Stewardess Gathering Point - which happened to be directly in front of me.

And she was so CHEERFUL. Ugh.

(There. Now I've offended all the cheerful people out there.)

Whatever. We flew, we drove, we got home.

My darling boys were waiting for me with their faces pressed against the window. I almost had to look away, because the sunshine radiating out of their smiles was too bright to behold.

We hugged.

We rolled around on the ground and laughed and tickled and hugged some more.

I really REALLY missed them.

I was almost over the cheerful lady until I walked inside.

And my house - literally - looked like it puked on itself.

The floor was ... ew. The dishes were ... ew. The bedrooms were ... ew.

Not to mention the fact that there is ZERO food in the house. And I do mean zero. No cereal, no eggs, no meat, no bread, no butter, no fruit, no vegetables. Not even a potato. There is milk and condiments in my fridge. Yum. Oh - and no toilet paper or laundry soap either.

What the - ?

And my friend that baby-sat for me this week also took it upon herself to wash every towel, sheet, and piece of clothing in the house. Including My Man's dry-clean-only suit, which is now too small. (Sorry, hun.) Very nice of her, I'm sure. Except that she hung dry everything (even though we have a dryer - maybe she doesn't know how to use it?) and it smells like she didn't let everything completely dry before she took the laundry down.

So now everything in my house reeks of damp, going-to-be-moldy-soon cloth. Whoop-dee-doo.

And I'm tired and cranky and hungry and I want to play with my kids. NOT clean, grocery shop, and do laundry until sun up tomorrow. C'mon - is it REALLY so hard to keep order for six days?

(There. Now I've offended all the baby-sitters out there.)

I know she did an awesome job watching my kids. They love her. She loves them. I trust her with my life; my very heart is embodied in my children.

So tell me to shut up and be grateful that my kids are great and missed me, and quit whining already. Because she had the best intentions, blah blah blah.

But I refuse to stop complaining about the cheerful lady.

Um, thank you very much. Or not.

Brazilians have no tact. (They would say they're just honest.) They refer to people by their dominating physical characteristic - The Blonde One, The Fat One, The Balding One, The Really Ugly One You Know Who I Mean.

There is no beating around the bush. No politically correct garbage here, thankyouverymuch! You will not find "pleasingly plump," or "slightly chubby," or even "nicely filled out." If you're fat, you're fat. And they tell you. They might even refuse to serve you second helpings at lunch, telling you that a diet is in order. It's been done.

I've kinda gotten used to people calling me gordinha - or 'little fat one' (I still prefer squishy.) It doesn't help that Brazilians are naturally short and thin. I'm simply gartantuan in comparison. I generally go to the plus size department when looking for clothes, and I've given up looking for shoes. (I'm a size 6 and 8 1/2, respectably.)

So I'm actually not posting about the whole fat thing. I'm over it. It's the AGE thing that's really irking me today.

Everyone thinks I'm sixteen.

Of course, I'm constantly walking around with three young'uns ages four and under. So the comments I get are somewhat humorous:

"Oh, honey, don't waste your childhood. You've got your whole life ahead of you."

"Your oldest is four? Have you been menstruating that long?"

"Your husband should be charged with statuatory rape."

Okay, not that last one, but BASICALLY.

I should add that these are always perfect strangers telling me that I'm too young to have three kids. Oh, REALLY! Dang it.

But let's just say, hypothetically, that I really AM sixteen years old. I would feel extremely sorry for myself, being constantly harrassed about being a teenage mom. I mean, give Hypothetical Me a break already. Move on with life. There are plenty of other things to talk about.

Of course, the whole Age Thang has always been a sore point with me. I get it in the States too. One time I was at work when a customer came in, took one look at me, and promptly scolded me for not being in (high) school. I calmly (I think) informed her that I was a college graduate. Another time I got a free prize on an airplane for being "fourteen and under." I was twenty-one at the time. I've also been confused for my younger brother's girlfriend - eight years my junior.

So how 'bout it, bloggers? How old do you think I am?

Is it possible I really do look my age and everyone is just trying to pay me what they think is a compliment? I dunno. I, for one, would LOVE to look ten years older. I love my birthday - I love watching my age creep respectably higher. I cannot wait to look like I should be ABLE to have three young children. (Although I guess they won't be YOUNG by then ....)

And why is it that my birth control plans are open to public criticism, anyway? People constantly telling me that not only am I too young to have children, but that they're too close together and I'm crazy for having three boys. (Cuz I TOTALLY planned that. Duh.)

I love the comments on the age spread, too (4 1/2, 2 1/2 and 1/2, bytheway):

"Wow! You're one brave lady!"

"What, are you suicidal?"

"Don't you know the earth's natural resources are running out?"

"Are you a sucker for pain or something?"

and my personal favorite:

"You guys need a TV or something."

Because yes. My husband and I have only made love three times in our entire marriage.

Anything else ya wanna know, O Rude Honest One?

Technology be expletived

I hate the phone.

I hate that it inevitably rings when I'm in the middle of something - changing a diaper, surviving the dinner rush, watching a movie with My Man, or stealing a little alone time with a book. The phone is interruptive by its very nature.

And the Brazilian "small talk" stuff drives me crazy. I have translated it here for your convenience:
_______________________________________________________________

*ring ring*

Me: (peeling off one child, shushing another, turning down the burner on the rice and taking a deep breath ) Hello?

Caller: Who is this? (I usually want to yell, "YOU called ME, punk, who are YOU?!" But I don't. This is Brazilian procedure.)

Me: This is Rebecca. May I ask who's calling?

Caller: HI, Rebecca! (They always sound surprised and thrilled to death that it's me. Like they don't know whose house they're calling. And the fact that I'm the only adult here during the day. AND the only woman.) How are you?

Me: Just great - how are you? (Not that I particularly care. I almost always have seen this person recently, and I know perfectly well that they're fine.)

Caller: I'm great. How's your family?

Me: Just fine. Yours?

Caller: Fine as well. And the boys?

Me: Fabulous. (Don't they fall under the 'family' category?)

Caller. Great to hear. And your family in the States? All okay? (I'm serious - they almost always ask.)

Me: Yup. (I never ask after extended family. I'm rude like that. And by this time I'm answering in monosyllables and my children are starting up a continuous "mommommommommommommommom." The rice is burning ...)

Caller: Great. Where's Your Man?

Me: At work/at church/ or home-and-there's-no-way-I'm-going-to-let-you-steal-him-away-from-me-so-forget-it.

Caller: Great! Send him a hug for me. Anyway, so why I called .....
_____________________________________________________

You may not skip the opening greeter. The preliminary niceties must be observed - even when you've just seen this person that very morning.

But perhaps my favorite question is, "Are you busy right now?" Of course I'm busy right now. What a dumb question. No, actually I've been staring at the phone all day, putting off everything on my to-do list just waiting for you to call.

I do try very hard to answer the phone - really, I do. But sometimes it just isn't feasible. And if it's an emergency, they should leave a message, right? Besides, my two favorite people to talk to - My Man and my mom - ALWAYS leave a message. (Usually giving me a few minutes to answer it: "Becky? ...... Are you there? ..... Hell-ooooooooooo?")

But Brazilians NEVER do. They just call. And call. And call.....

One time someone called me 17 times in a row. By then I refused to answer it just to spite them - because I'm an extremely mature adult. But honestly - you'd think they'd assume that I'm either not home or I OBVIOUSLY DON'T WANT TO ANSWER THE PHONE.

And then, when I see someone at church - we get over the "how are you" schpeel and then they confront me accusingly: "I called you all day yesterday. Where were you?" Like I have to apologize for not being home. (And most of the time, I'm really NOT home.) I'm sorry that I have a life. I deeply apologize that I had to go grocery shopping.

Then I pleasantly inquire why they didn't leave a message? The answer, inevitably -

"I didn't want to be rude."

Kick me while I'm down, why dontcha

So no one likes the 6:00 dinner rush, right? That sudden glance at the clock, the mad panic as you realize that your man will be home soon, and you haven't a clue what to feed him. Your offspring realize this at the same time, and commence a rousing chorus of "Food! Glorious Food!" - except ten decibels higher and dragging out three syllables for every one. Staring at the fridge for a few minutes provides no flash of inspiration, and you know for a fact that the pantry doesn't have a single chocolate chip left to give your brian a boost.

I know! My friend The Internet. He's always good for times like this.

You wade your way through the toys to the computer room, shut the door in your children's faces and type in "quick meals."

And my face falls.

Every. Single. Recipe. Calls for stuff I can't get.

Cream of mushroom soup
Cream of chicken soup
Cream of anything soup
Sour cream
Kidney beans
Salsa
Cheddar cheese (really - they don't have it.)
Shake n Bake
Bisquick
Lemon juice (they don't even have lemons here!)
Tortillas
Olives
Refried beans
Taco seasoning
Nutmeg
Ginger
Thyme
Worchestchire sauce
A1
Syrup
Peanut butter
Shortening

... and the list goes on ....

Basically, every time you open a box or a can to help make dinner. Think of me. I can't.

Feel sorry for me. Feel very, very sorry for me.

A rant

Why is "play video continuously" an option on children's DVD menus?

Truly, people, I ask you.

This is the ultimate in Television as a Baby-sitter Syndrome. Not only do our children sit in front of a box all day without blinking, but we cannot even be bothered to push the play button again. Ho.Ly. Crap.


In our recent jaunt to the States, I was horrified to see televisions in the shopping carts. Can we not do ANYTHING without electrical stimulation? We also bought a car while we were there. (Random, I know. End-of-the-year sales and all. We practically stole a brand-new Honda Odyssey. Go to the Honda dealer in Murray.) Anyway, I swear the sales guy almost had me put in a straight jacket when I requested a van without a DVD player.

Some of my favorite childhood memories were our family road trips. Notice I said trips - not destinations. (All kids ever remember is the hotel pool, anyway.) Sure we fought. Five kids in a van for twenty hours does not familial bliss make. BUT - we had a ball, too. Endless games, books, conversation and rounds of "I Know an Old Lady."

What will our kids remember? How many times they watched SpongeBob?

All too often I meet kids who just don't know how to play. We recently had a play date with two little boys just my kids' age. They immediately wanted to watch TV. I said no - that they were here to play. My Boyz enthusiastically showed them their swords, bow and arrows, play dough, farm, race tracks, etc. But "you be the bad guy, I'll be the good guy" was just totally lost on them. Little Prince and Ouro Branco tried many different games - from play kitchen to plain ole tag - and the other two just sat there, complaining that "this is boooooring." They truly did not know how to interact creatively with other children.

Disclaimer: my kids do watch movies. Shoot, I love movies. (Especially movie line challenges.) Our video collection is currently overflowing the designated two baskets and drawer, and my favorite place to stop at Wal-mart is the five buck movie bin. Little Prince, especially, will watch pretty much anything that moves on a screen if you let him. He loves Cars, Sesame Street, Robin Hood, Peter Pan, Finding Nemo - good films and shows, all. Some teach morals. Some are educational. Some are just good plain fun.

But we're talking maximum one movie a day, maybe 3-4 times a week. Tops. Sometimes days go by without us even looking at the television. One time the TV was broken for two weeks and I didn't even know it. Instead, my kids play. REALLY play.

And yet the national statistic still remains at 4-5 hours of television per day. And that's during the school year. No wonder these kids don't know how to play - they don't have time to.

I don't think there's anything wrong with relaxing in front of a good show sometimes. To be entertained. As long as our children don't lose the ability to entertain themselves.

A mouth is worth a thousand expressions

I have come to the conclusion that the mouth is essential in demonstrating affection.

And I'm not just talking about smooching and snogging. The mouth truly is an incredible team player  - it indicates an uplifted mood more than any other body part. Try having "happy eyes" without smiling. You can't do it. (I guesstimate that 87% of you actually tried it.) Frustration, sadness, fatigue and anger can all be indicated with merely your eyes; girls can have whole conversations with them. But the MOUTH is the key ingredient to professing contentment and joy in general. 

I know what I'm talking about it. Mine recently became ill. 

Cold sores, people. COLD. SORES. (I was going to post a picture of my hideousness, but decided that wouldn't help my statcounter go up.) 

I have two massive scabby secretions smack dab in the middle of my lower lip. I feel like I might as well have a balloon there. One of those big shiny helium numbers with, "Hi! I'm contaminated!" printed on it. I'm a plague. 

It is hard to look people in the eye. Not because I feel dirty (though that definitely plays a role), but because I can't smile. I walk around looking either stoned or pissed off. When greeting someone these past few days, I immediately apologize for my apparent lack of interest, pointing to my cold sore self-deprecatingly. But I can't giggle about it. I can't give an apologetic grin. I have to sort of purse my lips and convey "happy eyes! happy eyes!" as much as possible. It usually doesn't go over that well. I think they are aptly named 'cold sores' because they transform you into an unsmiling piece of ice.

The very essence of my daily routine has been sapped dry. Playing Good Guys/Bad Guys with the kids today, I was always cast as the bad guy. Who's ever heard of a plucky hero with a permanent scowl on his face? After dinner the fam had a round of the game "Taboo." It was impossible to show the proper amount of enthusiasm when every time the corner of my lips started to turn up, I was awarded a shooting, burning sensation in the labial area.

In addition to becoming a social pariah, the biggest hardship of all is not being able to kiss my kids. I think I must kiss Da Boyz exactly 89756423186 times a day, since that is how many times I've had to stop myself. I can't nuzzle the inside of Mr. Squishy's neck. I can't plant a big wet one on the top of Little Prince's head when I'm tucking him in for the night. I can't bestow a Magical Mommy Kiss on Ouro Branco's most recent bonk on the head. Maybe it's just as well My Man isn't here, because I would not be able to restrain myself from attacking him, and then he would have to suffer as well.

Abreva! Work faster, I implore you!

It's broke-ded.

Something is in the air here besides spring. (A 90 degree spring with a blazing hot sun, swaying palm trees and bright green macaws flying overhead. Be jealous, one and all ....)

But this something in the air. It's not the wind in the palm leaves or the macaws (slightly annoying) squawking. It's the air of BREAKING THINGS.

It all started with my sewing machine last month. Right when I was finishing Little's Prince's quilt it suddenly hacked a couple times and DIED. Quite tragic.

And then let's not forget My Man's tooth. Broken. I'm rather fond of his mouth and I don't like anything that hinders kissing. I mean eating.

Then, a couple weeks ago, my beloved camera decided not to open anymore. My CAMERA, people. It records my life. I mean, what if I FORGET the incredibly darling way Ouro Branco eats yogurt? Or today's PARTICULAR smile on Jellybean's face? Children change by the hour, and I'm usually there to document it. We just found a camera-fixit-guy, but I have yet to drop it off, as I'm secretly hoping My Man will do it for me. To avoid dragging three kids around looking for a tiny hole-in-the-wall shop in I Have No Idea Where.

Thing fourth. Last week, while on yet another service trip, My Man's VW Gol had a heart attack. Arteries clogged. As in, oil pump died. That would be part of the motor. And that would be bad. Our poor Gol (I call it the Black Bludger. My van is the Silver Snitch) works tirelessly - it's always the first in line to offer someone a ride and puts on an average of 70 km EVERY SUNDAY MORNING picking people up for church. It is still in the hospital running tests and we're hoping to visit it soon. Should be released next week. In the meantime, we're doing a ward fast. And I'm driving My Man to work three times a week. With three kids. Did I mention it's a half an hour away? And he starts at 8:00?

And to top it off, my beloved WASHING MACHINE AND DRYER CAUGHT ON FIRE TODAY. Oh yeah. I'm in the middle of a Young Women's pool party (literally - I was in the water playing Marco Polo,) when Little Prince comes running, "FIRE FIRE FIRE FIRE!!!!" I run into the laundry room to see the electrical cords in flames, along with the exhaust pipe. And yes, both machines were full. I had to wash an ENTIRE LOAD BY HAND. I am many things, but I am not THAT WOMAN.

It better end there.

Funky

There are times, living in a foreign country, that I fall into a funk. I miss the States so much that I catalogue her virtues by the hour and bum around the house in a foul mood. You can practically see a gray scribble above my head.

I have not had a funk for a good year and a half. But today I'm having one with a vengeance. This morning I wrote two of my best friends the sappiest, most pathetic emails you can imagine. I could write a half dozen more without breaking a sweat. I. Miss. My. Friends.

And I miss AMERICANS, people. Stand-offish, messy-housed, extravagant spending, stuck-up AMERICANS.

I miss Target.

Convenience foods and drive-thrus.

Wide streets and PARKING LOTS.

Mexican food. Chinese food. Good sandwiches. Asparagus. Cereal. REAL milk. Sour cream. Salsa. Marshmallows. Buying foods in bulk.

Buying ANY food from around the world out of season - and it still tastes good.

Watching television without my finger on the remote ready to switch at the first pornography that pops up.

Not being horrified when my young women tell me about (another) friend who's pregnant at 13. Or the kids who tried to sell drugs to them today. And so on and so forth.

Not feeling guilty that I have a college education and a nice house when all my friends dream of owning a microwave.

I miss American mommies. Not having to explain that my kids take naps and have bedtimes. Not being embarrassed that my kid wasn't potty-trained at ONE. Not rolling my eyes when they tell me my kid must be freezing in a onesie. (It's 100 degrees out, lady.) Not feeling defensive when I don't give in to my kid whenever he asks for candy and for using TIME OUTS. (I don't know how many times I've been told I'm a horrible mother.)

I love Brazil. I really do. It will be, in a word, excruciating to leave. I'm sure I will have Brazilian funks once we move back to the States.

But right now, I just wanna go home.

Have you ever loved two things so fiercely, but can't have them both?

Anyone know a Singer specialist in Sao Paulo?

Meet my son Little Prince.

Notice the quilt that I slaved over - oh, excuse me, lovingly sewed - for five months. It became LP's beloved "boo" for the next two and a half years. Then we lost it. *insert weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth*

LP adopted another "boo" and seemed okay with it ... until I recently made Mr. Squishy one. Then it was,

"Mooooooom, I want a Mommy Boo too."

"You already have a Boo."

"But I want a MOMMY Boo."

"Well, I'm sorry sweetie, but we lost it, remember?"

"Yes, but I cry EVERY DAY because I don't have a MOMMY Boo. Ouro Branco and Mr. Squishy have one. I want a Mommy Boo too!"

Dude, kid, tug at the heartstrings and you can have anything you want. As you darn well know.

So meet Little Prince's new Boo:

Meet my sewing machine:

The poor dear decided to make some hacking noises today, and when it didn't accept cough syrup I had to perform some emergency surgery. Those with weak constitutions look away, as these images are only for those with strong stomachs.

The belly of a sewing machine is quite interesting. It has lots of toe jam in it.

But now, the black bobbin-holder thingy:

Is supposed to go in here:

And it won't.

So now, meet me.

hrumph

That is the sound I'm making right now. Cuz I want to go to the beach. THIS beach:

Where the water is the most beautiful blue you've ever seen and the sand is crystal-clear white and you can go out twenty meters and it's only to your knees and it's like BATH water it's so warm and you can play in the waves and play in the sand and curl up with a book in a lounge chair sippin' coconut water and I wanna go to the BEACH.

But we can't. HRUMPH.

We only went to the beach twice this year ... and we didn't go much last year cuz I was in the States during the Brazilian summer ... I got totally gipped ....

AND I WANNA GO TO THE BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEACH!!!!!

hrumph.

I'm gonna go stare at our pool and wait for it to heat up.