Four Globetrotters

The Ugliest Christmas Tree Ever

2011-12-17T20:41:00.000+01:00

I didn't grow up with Christmas so I'm still figuring out how to celebrate it. The Things are big fans of the "tree" and despite saying for multiple years that I would buy one of those pre-lit plastic things, I keep forgetting to do it. Last year, our first in Tunisia, we purchased a live tree suffering from what what appeared to be a bad case of anorexia combined with alopecia. Since we didn't have a tree stand we went down to the beach and gathered a bunch of sand to keep the tree vertical. It was a pretty ugly tree.

Christmas totally snuck up on me this year so earlier this week I contacted a tree farmer and asked him to send me a live tree (with roots) in a pot. Beyond trying to be environmentally friendly, my hope was to use the same tree again next year. That and I didn't want to have to lug sand bags from the beach again.

The tree was delivered on Friday while I was at work and my first indication that something was not right with this tree came when Thing 2 called to ask me to send the tree back.

me: "What's wrong with it?"
Thing 2: "It's lopsided."
me: "Oh honey, it can't be that bad."

Thing 2 sees the beauty in everything so hearing her complain about our Christmas tree definitely made me wonder.

Let's just say Thing 2 was wrong. Lopsided is an understatement. I've seen massively drunk college students more vertical than this tree. It looks like it's slowly dying of depression. Despite its ugliness we decided to go ahead and decorate it. Here it is below. And before you say it has personality, as one of my friends did, let me remind you that that's what we say about ugly people to be polite. In the words of Thing 1: Epic fail.

Thing 3: vertical. Christmas tree: not so much.

Silver Linings

2011-10-10T21:33:00.000+01:00

My second tour I was asked to deliver a speech on the Ambassador's behalf at a women's empowerment convention way, way in the north of the country. It was a pretty big deal, with various ministers in attendance, and the governors of four of the northernmost provinces. I would be giving the keynote speech.

After bouncing on unpaved roads for upwards of eleven hours, and showering in a bucket the following morning, I arrived at the venue speech in hand. Everyone called me "Your Excellency", which is kinda cool yo, and I literally received a red carpet greeting. After chatting with the Minister of Women's and Social Affairs and the various governors, we took our seats on the dais while the audience of more than 400 took their seats in the auditorium.

The seats on the dais sat low and were super cushiony and looked sort of like thrones. It was nearly impossible for me to sit in a lady-like fashion (if you know me this is hard to do under normal circumstances), and also made it excruciatingly difficult for someone of my size to get up. I squirmed to position myself in such a way as not to show my underwear (yes, I was wearing a skirt...I swear I'll never learn), while I listened to the Minister of Social Affairs give profuse thanks to "Her Excellency the Representative of the United States Ambassador" for sponsoring the event. I squirmed and readjusted as the Governor of some province also gave thanks to "Her Excellency", while I continued to feel as if the entire audience was staring at my unmentionables -- which, let's be real, they'd have to see past my thighs first so really this was all in my head. I sat and squirmed, while I tried to figure out how I was going to get out of that chair a few minutes later to deliver my speech.

And then I heard the crack. Of my chair. Collapsing.

In front of 400 people.

The governors rushed to my aid, while the audience tried hard to muffle their laughter -- I was the Excellency after all -- and one of the governors' aides brought me a chair from the audience.

Needless to say, I was mortified. Every single person who spoke from that point on (and it felt like a million of them) began their speech by offering their most sincere apologies for the "unfortunate chair incident." Finally it was my turn and I read through the entire speech as quickly as I could, desperate to get off the stage and back into the car.

They say that every cloud has a silver lining. After that incident I became very aware of the food I ate and made an effort to get more exercise. And who knew? Eat less, move more = weight loss. Over the next year I got to the weight I wanted to be and looked fabulous and felt great.

Unfortunately I've let myself slip as of late, and I'm not at all happy with how I look. So last week I added in gym time to my Outlook calendar and made myself leave my desk to go exercise.

Because I don't want to worry about starting a fire from my thighs rubbing against each other as I walk.

Because I want to wear a thong and not have it look like the string wrapped around a Christmas ham.

Because I want to feel good about me.

Not Dead, Not Yet

2011-10-04T20:08:00.000+01:00

Wow, it's already October! Many thanks to those of you who checked in with me to make sure I was still alive. I'm alive and well but have been exceptionally busy. Language training ended in June, then we went on R&R, then back to post to start my new assignment and straight into the busiest time of the year for those of us who get to spend the government's money. It's been thoroughly exhausting.

Life is good in the Globetrotter household. Thing 1 is now officially a teenager, and seems to have fully embraced that role. Thing 2 is doing very well at school. Thing 3 is finally out of kindergarten and can participate in after school activities so he's taking soccer and karate, the latter mostly to fend off Things 1 and 2, I think.

So there's a quick update on us! More to come shortly...I've missed you all!

Hypochondria

2011-07-23T07:59:00.002+01:00

I think I have an irrational fear of dying. I mean, I know no one is excited at the prospect, but my fear is kinda really out there. And the Internet and media have done much to exacerbate my fears. WebMD, for instance, seriously messes with my head. It doesn't matter what your symptoms are, cancer is one of the possible diagnoses. Headache? Cancer. Sore throat? Cancer. Splinter? Cancer.

With that as background, I offer the following story.

The Things were in bed, and I decided to take a hot shower. It had been a long day and pretty much every muscle in my body was sore (Cancer?), so I turned the water on as hot as I could tolerate it. I got into the shower, closed my eyes and inhaled deeply. Then I opened my eyes. And everything was blurry. I braced myself against the side of the shower and began hyperventilating. Millions of thoughts ran through my mind in a second.

"I'M HAVING A STROKE! I AM GOING TO DIE! I'M GOING TO DIE IN THE SHOWER! MY KIDS ARE GOING TO FIND MY BODY!! OMG, WHAT IF I COLLAPSE ONTO THE DRAIN AND THEN I FLOOD THE HOUSE?! BUT WHY DOESN'T MY HEAD HURT?! MAYBE I'M IN SO MUCH PAIN THAT I DON'T FEEL ANYTHING ANYMORE!!"

In a panic I reached up to touch my face. And knocked off my glasses.

WebMD needs to add "Stupid" as a possible diagnosis.

Porn in Arabic

2011-06-03T17:47:00.001+01:00

Seven days of Arabic class left until my final exam where the powers that be expect me to get a 3/3. The Arabic test, like all FSI language tests, consists of two parts: speaking and reading. (A little known secret: you can ask to start with either one of them; the language testers usually start with the speaking though. Not relevant to this story at all, just wanted to share something useful since the rest of this post won't be useful.)

Anyhow, the speaking test is broken down into three parts: the first part is a warm up where you chit chat with the tester. The second part is a formal presentation, where you are given a topic and five minutes to prepare a presentation and then you give that presentation. The third part is an interview, where you are given a topic and you have to interview the tester about that topic and then report in English to the examiner.

The formal presentation is a real pain for me. It feels completely unnatural. The topics are sort of all over the place and you have to think on your feet, and as far as I'm concerned they basically test your oratory skills more than your actual speaking skills and mastery of the target language. But it's a part of the process and I'm working on it. I've done so by attempting to master certain phrases, like "I would like to thank you for the honor of discussing with you an extremely important matter that is of course of immense importance to the Middle East and to the United States..." or "Allow me to give you an example to illustrate my point based on my own personal experience as well as years of research..." or "In conclusion, I would like to share my opinion with you on X matter. I'm sure we can agree that we have only skimmed the surface of the issue, however it is highly likely that in the future...." What I try to do is use these memorized phrases as the outline of my presentation and then fill in the gaps. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn't. It fails. Epically.

My topic today was the the role of satellite channels and the internet in the Arab world in comparison to the United States. I decided to talk about TV viewership in the Arab world in comparison to the United States and the increase in use of the internet in both, and the impacts both have on society, blah, blah. Honestly, I was pulling most of this out of you-know-where.

I would like to share with you my presentation today, translated from Arabic to English. I will highlight in red the memorized phrases:

"I would like to thank you for the honor of discussing with you an extremely important matter that is of course of immense importance to the Middle East and to the United States and that is television and internet. People use both for entertainment. Watching too much TV is bad. In Algeria, studies have shown that Algerians spend five billion hours per year watching TV. In the United States, we watch maybe 3 hours of TV per day. I am not sure. What I do know is that too much TV is bad. It is bad for your eyes. In America people like the internet a lot. Tunisia used to block the internet. The internet is good. But it can also be bad. It is good like when it helps people in revolutions. It is bad when people are exposed to pornography. Tunisia wants to block sites with pornography."

At this point my teacher stopped me because I used the wrong word, and she asked me what I was talking about. So I tried to explain:

"Pornography. Is is when people take off their clothes and make the sex without their clothes. Allow me to give you an example to illustrate my point based on my own personal experience as well as years of research [at this point teacher busts out laughing] as a parent I am not able to protect my children from pornography on the internet. It is easier to block them on the television. Also people use the internet too much. And they do not talk to each other. TV can be something we do as a group. The internet is not a group. It can be a group. Like for instance, thanks to the internet you can talk to all my friends. It is like we are together. In a group. On facebook. In conclusion, I would like to share my opinion with you on this matter. I'm sure we can agree that we have only skimmed the surface of the issue, however it is highly likely that in the future people will keep watching TV. And using the internet. And there are benefits to both. And there are also negatives. Thank you for your attention. I am ready to answer any questions you may have at this time."

Two years and this is the best I can do! I'm so screwed.

Losing My Religion

2011-05-09T21:17:00.001+01:00

I'm not a religious person. At all. I was raised super religious (Jehovah's Witness) but it didn't take and once I turned 18 I simply stopped trying and have not regretted my decision. My conflicted views towards religion and all of that has meant that my three Things have not had much exposure to religion of any sort. And based on some of the questions I was asked today, I'm starting to think that might have been mistake.

It all started quite innocently. Thing 1 was laying on the couch reading a book of Bible stories my mother sent him. The following was from when he was reading about the Apostle Peter:

Thing 1: "Is Peter dead?"
me: "Everyone in that book is dead."
Thing 1: "How was Peter killed?"
me: "He was stoned to death or something. I don't know. Try Wikipedia."
Thing 1: "Well did God redirect him?"
me: "Redirect?"
Thing 1: "Like bring him back to life."
me: "Sigh...it's resurrect. And no."
Thing 1: "Why not?"
me: "I don't know. Try Wikipedia."

Thing 1 continued to read...

Thing 1: "Mom, was I bathtized?"
me: "What? Did you say bathtized?"
Thing 1: "Yeah, bathtized. When you take me to church and give me a bath."
me: "It's baptized and no. Your dad and I figured you could make your own decisions about religion when you got older."
Thing 1: "Well if I wasn't bathtized, why did you have me circumferenced?"

There were more questions and I used my standard "I don't know, check Wikipedia," response when appropriate, but perhaps I need to do more to broaden his understanding of religions and the Bible. Or perhaps -- and more likely -- what my kid needs is a good dictionary.

The Enemy of My Enemy is My Friend?

2011-04-26T23:45:00.004+01:00

Recently a member of the Arabic Field School family-- a stray cat we've named Alex -- became very ill. I really don't like cats in general, and Alex is a real pain in the rear. He jumps on our table during lunch, he insists on rubbing his mangy fur all over us, and I suspect he might be a serial rapist. But as I saw him yesterday, emaciated and barely responsive, I couldn't help myself and took him to a vet, figuring at the very least they could put him out of his misery humanely since he was obviously starving to death. Turns out Alex had a terrible infection in his mouth and now that he's on antibiotics will likely rebound and I am seriously considering adopting him.

But why would I adopt a cat when I don't like cats, you ask?  To quote a famous Arabic proverb, because the enemy of my enemy is my friend, and I hate rats even more than I hate cats.

I have a major phobia of rats; a phobia that was greatly exacerbated my third tour and which was re-exacerbated (is that a word?) this past weekend when a friend mentioned having seen an enormous rat near a restaurant where we had just eaten.

I'm not quite sure how I developed this fear of rats but it's there and it's only getting worse. And please don't write me and tell me how rats are more scared of me than I am of them. Logic just won't work on me in this case, and anyhow, I'm almost 100% certain I have never spread the bubonic plague to anyone. My fear is real and is powerful enough to override my maternal protective instincts. Seriously.

One Friday evening my third tour I was sitting in the living room reading a book to Thing 2, then about 2 years old, when she pointed at the air conditioner and exclaimed, "Look, Mommy!" I glanced up briefly, expecting to see one of the ubiquitous geckos crawling along the wall, only to see an eight inch tail fall out of the air conditioner. In seconds it dawned on me what it was, and I am ashamed to admit that I dumped Thing 2 off my lap in a flash and ran out of the house, screaming across the compound like a mad woman. I calmed down long enough to call the nanny, who had heard me scream and had promptly armed herself with a knife. "I grabbed his tail and pulled, madam, but he is too fat to come out so I sliced off his tail," she informed me.

I quickly called my Facilities Manager to inform him that an obese tail-less rat was residing in my living room air conditioning unit.  Barely concealing a chuckle, the grizzled, retired Sea Bee agreed to send out one of his workers to figure out where the rat was. As I sat outside my house the worker went in, identified where the rat had likely entered and cemented it up.   The Facilities Manager called me to give me the all clear, and shared a number of lovely rat facts, like for instance that rats have a three foot vertical leap, can squeeze through a hole the size of a dime, and can chew through concrete, though he reassured me that the worker had mixed crushed glass into the cement so if a rat did try to chew through it would die from ingesting the glass and would probably stink up my house.  It was safe for me to go back in, though I spent most of the weekend holed up in my bedroom.

I woke up Monday morning to the sound of crashing and screaming.

Me: "What is going on?"
Nanny: "A rat!"
Me:  "Does it have a tail?"
Nanny: "Yes, and now I see two more!"

There were three rats with tails in my kitchen, and potentially an obese, tail-less rat meandering about my house. She managed to kill two and I dressed and ran out of the house to the safety of the Embassy and straight into the Facilities Manager's office. His crew went out and set all sorts of traps and glue traps around the house and I continued over the next several days to sequester myself in my bedroom.

Wednesday morning ex-Mr. Globetrotter informed me that a rat had gotten caught in one of the glue traps but had somehow managed to free himself, in the process knocking down all of my kitchen appliances. He had also left a large patch of fur on the trap and his fur was almost two inches long.

By the end of the week we were certain we had caught all the rats -- Fatso McNoTail had been caught in a regular old trap. Patches had succumbed to a second glue trap, and I started to venture out of my bedroom a few minutes at a time. Several weeks passed and I began to relax a bit.

And then one morning, as I was driving into work, smoke started pouring out of my engine. I quickly checked all my engine indicators and everything was normal, so I stuck my head out the window and drove as quickly as I could to the Embassy, where my Facilities Manager friend met me in the parking lot. He propped open my hood and poked around for a few minutes and produced one flambéed rat carcass while I ran hysterically back into the Chancery.

Is it a coincidence that I accidentally saved the life of a cat within two days of (indirectly) sighting my first rat in Tunisia? Most likely. But I can't stop thinking that perhaps this is a sign that it might be time to get some rat protection.  And I might know just the cat for the job...

Mind Over Bladder

2011-03-22T18:10:00.000+01:00

I cherish the few quiet moments of my day – the thirty minutes between when the school bus picks up my children and I leave for work, the 15 minutes between when I get home from Arabic class and the children get home from school, and the hour or so after they go to bed. Today was no different.

I arrived home slightly earlier than normal and decided to enjoy my extra time by taking a few minutes to lie in bed. The housekeeper, who comes over two afternoons a week to tidy up, was working in the hallway and out of the kindness of her heart shut my door and then proceeded to clean it vigorously.

About 30 minutes later, nature called and I got up to answer and found the bedroom door wouldn't budge. I jiggled the handle. It fell off.

Crap. I was stuck.

Since it was only about five minutes until the kids got home, I decided to wait it out. They were coming with their tutor and she would be able to help. A few minutes passed…Things 1, 2, came home.

Things 1, 2, 3: “Hey Mom! We’re home!”

Me: “Hi guys! I need Ms. Parker.”

Thing 2, trying to open my door: “Mom, I can’t come in!”

Me: “I know, get Ms. Parker!”

Ms Parker: “Are you ok?!”

Me: “April, I’m stuck and I really have to pee! Try and open the door from your side!”

Ms. P, jiggles the door: “It’s not moving!”

Me: “Okay, find something skinny and try to turn the locking mechanism.”

This went on for some time, while my situation became more and more desperate.

Me: "April, get me a Ziploc bag, ok?"

April: "Oh no, is it that bad?!"

April returned with a Ziploc baggie and passed it under the door.

April: "Here! Have are some paper towels!"

We tried for about 20 minutes to get the door unstuck while Things 1, 2 and 3 became more and more anxious. Thing 3 threw his little body against the door to no avail. It soon became obvious we wouldn’t be able to get me out. The lock wasn’t budging and the hinges, though on my side of the door, had been painted over. I decided I needed to call the Facilities Manager but didn’t have the number, so I called his wife, known on this blog as Eminem. She also works as a nurse in our health unit.

Me: "I’m stuck in my room and I really have to pee!"

Eminem: "Seriously? (barely suppressed laughter) Okay, I’ll let him know."

Two minutes later the Facilities Manager calls:

Facilities Manager: “You’re stuck in your bedroom? WTF?”

Me: “Please don’t make me pee in a Ziploc bag! “

Facilities Manager: “I’m sending guys now, hang tight.”

Having nothing better to do, and needing to distract myself from my ever growing problem, I got on Facebook and posted my dilemma. I discovered quickly that some of my friends are really not very sympathetic. Within minutes I started receiving phone calls.

The Health Unit called to serenade me with their version of “Rain Drops Keep Falling On My Head” and “It’s Raining, It’s Pouring.”

A classmate called to remind me that Niagara Falls are particularly lovely this time of year. This went on for a bit while I continued squirming. It would soon be do-or-die time. Oh the indignity of peeing in a Ziploc bag in my own bedroom! Just when I thought I would have to do the deed, Facilities Maintenance showed up.

FM: “Madam, where is the key?”

Me, in Arabic: “The door is not locked in the lock. It is not open, it is closed. It is necessary to use the tools!”

I started to pace in my bedroom. Sweat was forming on my brow and I kept glancing at the Ziploc bag. Do I do it? What are the chances that I decide to do it just as the guys get the door unlocked? I called a friend back to distract myself.

Me: “I’m still stuck! Do I go in the bag?”

Friend: “No! With your luck they’ll get the door open just as you’re starting!”

Me, laughing: “Yeah, you’re right.”

Apparently my laughter when I’m holding about five gallons of pee sounds a lot like crying, and the Facilities Maintenance guys decided to start reassuring me.

FM: “No, Madam! Don’t cry! We will get you out!”

Me, trying desperately to remember how to say it in Arabic, shouted out: “I’m not making the water in the face! I have a stomach full of water and have to go to the bath house!”

Finally the guys determined that the lock was not salvageable and decided to break the door down. As soon as the door opened, I scampered out doing the grown up version of the pee-pee dance while trying desperately not to hold my crotch in front of these guys and made it to the bathroom just in time.

Phew! No Ziploc for me. Dignity=Intact. Sort of.

Let's Talk About Sex

2011-02-28T20:32:00.002+01:00

So I realize this blog has become a bit schizophrenic, alternating between the heavy and the absurd and silly, which is actually a pretty good representation of who I am. Today I've decided to go back to my roots a bit...so let's talk about sex.  Specifically talking about sex to children.

The ex and I decided early on that if the kids ever asked us about sex, we would answer them honestly. Actually, in all fairness, the ex decided we would do that. I was quite happy with my plan, which can be summarized in three words: vaginas have teeth.  That should have scared them for a least a few years. But seriously, we felt that if the child was old enough to ask the question, the child was old enough to have an age-appropriate answer. I just hoped it would be many years before the day I'd have to answer those questions arrived.

Thing 1 was almost four years-old when Thing 2 was born, and mercifully for me, Thing 1 assumed that GSO had brought his sister. After all, GSO brought everything else, right? And I was okay with that. But eventually Thing 1 realized that my stomach had gotten really big, and then Thing 2 had shown up, and then my stomach had gotten smaller again. So he asked, and I told him that his sister had been in my stomach. Next logical question? "How did she get out, Mommy?" Take note, ladies, there are multiple advantages to having C-sections. This was one of them. "The doctors made a cut in my tummy and took your sister out," I said. And Thing 1 was satisfied for a few months.

But time stops for no person, and eventually Thing 1 started asking more questions.

Thing 1: "But how did she get in there?"
me: "Um, well when two people love each other very much they decide to have a baby. There are many ways to have a baby. Dad and I planted a seed in my tummy and that's how we got Thing 2."

Those answers sufficed for some time, and saw us through the birth of Thing 3. Thing 2 was satisfied with the whole "doctors-cut-your-baby-brother-out-of-mommy's-tummy" explanation since that is how Thing 3 was born as well, and a few years passed without any more awkward questions. By then Thing 1 was about 10 years old, and one day the questions started coming fast and furious.

Thing 1: "But how did the seed get in your stomach, Mom?"
me: "Uh...your dad and I put it there."
Thing 1: "But how?"

It was the question I had dreaded, and now I had to answer it. I decided to be as clinical and matter-of-fact as I could be.

me: "Well, the man puts his penis inside the woman's vagina and that is how the baby gets there."
Thing 1: Silence.

More silence.

Thing 1:  "EWWWWW!!!!! WHY DID YOU LET DADDY DO THAT?!"
me: "um, wel-"
Thing 1: "AND YOU LET HIM DO THAT THREE TIMES?!"
me: "Yes. Exactly and only three times. And I was drunk and I think I was actually asleep."

Okay, I didn't say that last part. I froze and kind of stammered something, I don't remember what, and he ran to his room.

A couple hours later his father showed up to take him for the weekend, and as soon as he walked in the door, Thing 1 confronted him:

Thing 1: "WHY DID YOU PUT YOUR PENIS INSIDE MY MOTHER?"
Ex-Globetrotter: "Uh." Mr. Ex-Globetrotter glanced over at me, confused.

I shot him a look that said, "Hey, I wanted to go with the whole "vaginas have teeth" explanation followed by "babies come from China via Walmart" explanation. This was YOUR brilliant idea."

I forget how that they worked it out, but Thing 1 never asked me again, and for a couple weeks wouldn't look at me.

Thing 2 is now 8 years old, and she's started to ask questions since we have a couple friends who are pregnant.

Two nights ago:

Thing 2: "Mom, how do babies come out of the mom's stomach?"

I decided to go with my old stand-by and said, "Well, the doctor cut you out of my tummy."

Thing 2: "So is that how all babies come out?"

I was suddenly faced with a crisis. Do I just say yes and have it over with, or do I tell her the other way babies are born? I decided to be honest and said, "Well some babies come out of the mom's tummy when a doctor cuts them out by an operation called a C-section. And other babies come out from their mom's vagina."

Thing 2: "What?!"

Thing 3, who was diligently playing with his legos the entire time in another part of the room had, unbeknownst to me, been paying attention the entire time and chimed in.

Thing 3: "She said the babies come out of the BAD-gina."
Thing 2: "Oh, cool."

I decided not to correct it. As far as I'm concerned, if they want to consider it a "bad-gina" that's just fine with me. I mean, after all, they have teeth.

My Letter to Congress Regarding Overseas Comparability Pay

2011-02-26T13:03:00.002+01:00

Below is the letter I sent to Senators Jim Webb and Mark Warner, and Congressman Gerry Connelly. I used a template provided by AFSA here, via Life After Jerusalem and modified it to make it more personal.   I urge all of you to take the time and write in. It's long, I know, but I hope that some staffer will take the time to read it. This isn't ill-will on the part of our leaders in Congress. I honestly believe there's no desire to "stick it to the Foreign Service." This is ignorance. This is a product of our own modesty, as Donna at E-Mails From The Embassy stated so eloquently. DOD and other government agencies don't hesitate to toot their own horns and share their life stories. It's time we do the same.

Dear Rep./Senator:

My name is [Four Globetrotters] and I am a State Department Foreign Service Officer in the United States Foreign Service. I joined the Foreign Service in 2001 and have served in Uganda, Togo, Nigeria and Washington, D.C, and am currently posted in Tunisia.  I am also your constituent, and it is in that capacity that I reach out to you now to ask for your help.

I, like all of my colleagues, support efforts to eliminate wasteful and unnecessary spending across all our federal agencies as part of the effort to reduce our national deficit. I understand why we will not be receiving cost of living adjustments over the next two fiscal years. However, I am concerned by current legislative proposals that call for reversing a carefully considered bi-partisan plan to modernize the pay system of the Foreign Service that is in the process of being implemented. I have to assume that it is because our mission and our sacrifices are not sufficiently known to Americans, and even to our own representatives in Congress. To that end, I would like to share part of my story.

I swore in to the Foreign Service two days after graduating from college summa cum laude with a degree in Political Science. I passed on a number of other opportunities because I knew, and have always known, that I wanted to be in the Foreign Service. It was an easy decision for me, after all I was raised in the Foreign Service and followed my parents around the world from the age of three.

I was supposed to fly out to my first post -- Kampala, Uganda -- the afternoon of September 11, 2001. On that day, the world changed, and I changed too. I lost my youthful idealism as I sat on a hill at the National Foreign Affairs Training Center in Arlington, Virginia. I watched the smoke billow from the Pentagon just a few miles away while my suitcases sat next to me -- I had checked out of my hotel early that morning.   I knew then, more than ever, that I had to be overseas. It was only through changing the hearts and minds of the world that something like this could be prevented from ever happening again. My colleagues and I embraced this newly defined mission.

Over the course of the past ten years I, like many of my colleagues, have sacrificed, and it is those sacrifices that I would like to share with you. I missed countless school recitals and parent teacher meetings while doing things like accompanying then-Secretary of Treasury Paul O'Neill to an AIDS orphanage or serving as control officer for a CODEL. I feared for my daughter's life as I tried desperately to reach our medical personnel located in another country when she, then one, developed amoebic dysentery and had diapers full of blood. I held my son when he was three years old and had raging nightmares brought about by the mefloquine that we were required to give him to prevent cerebral malaria. I spent months separated from my children when I was dispatched to Sudan to assist the mission there. I celebrated my 30th birthday in Darfur.

I spent my first Christmas in the Foreign Service at the morgue identifying the body of an American citizen who had been killed in a home invasion. I spent another Christmas in the putrid morgues of a small sub-Saharan African country searching frantically for the wife and two children (ages 4 and 7) of an American citizen who had been aboard an aircraft that crashed upon take off. I loaded my children onto a plane bound for Sierra Leone --where my parents were stationed -- when the situation in Togo, my second post, devolved rapidly after the death of President Eyadema. We may actually be the only people ever to evacuate family to Sierra Leone.

When a member of Congress and her staff were abandoned during this unrest at a downtown hotel by their Government of Togo hosts, I was the only American besides my then-husband, the Regional Security Officer, who could drive an armored vehicle. The Ambassador dispatched me, and I drove through barricades and crowds to reach her and her staff and transport them safely to the Embassy. My husband couldn't go because he was off responding to a distress call from one of our Embassy families. Their house was being invaded.

The mother and two children were holed up in the safehaven while a frenzied group of thugs destroyed their home and personal belongings and worked to break into the safehaven where they were hiding. All of us at the Embassy listened as the frantic calls for help came in over the radio, the children crying in the background. My colleague wept as he heard his wife and children, helpless.  My husband knew he had to try and help, even though it would come at great personal danger. He arrived at the house, unarmed due to a policy that did not permit him to carry his service weapon, and engaged at least two dozen thugs. Relying on his training as a former marine, he quickly disarmed one person and used that weapon to disperse the remaining looters. There is no doubt in my mind that had it not been for his intervention, the wife would have been raped or worse, and there is no telling what would have happened to the two children. I waited, bordering on hysteria, by the radio to hear that my husband was okay and that our three children would not be left without a father. He rightfully received the State Department's Heroism Award for his actions on that day.

I, like countless of my colleagues, have defended the United States and had close encounters with those who wanted to do us harm. I remember vividly the day I, a second-tour junior officer, gazed across the bullet proof consular window at a young Nigerian man who simply wanted to go the United States to "visit". I determined he did not meet the standards to qualify for a visa to the United States, and denied him. His name was Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab, a.k.a the underwear bomber.

Most recently, my children and I returned from Morocco where we were safehavened following the uprising in Tunisia. During that uprising three of my colleagues -- a married couple and a single woman -- had their houses looted and both residences are uninhabitable. They lost thousands of dollars of personal property. Those losses are not covered by their insurance.   At the height of the revolution, the streets were packed with rioters, soldiers and tanks.  Every night for a week my children cowered in a corner listening to the shooting going on around us. There is no 911 over here. If people had chosen to attack our home we -- a single mom with three children -- would have been helpless. Our own armored security vehicles were unable to respond to distress calls. When I was finally able to drive to the Embassy for our evacuation flight, I was stopped at a military check point and had a rifle pointed at my head by an overly eager young soldier.

The Federal Employees Pay Comparability Act of 1990 was adopted as a way to reduce the government-wide disparity between the public and private sectors and is a basic component of salary for all civilian Federal employees, based on annual survey data collected by the Department of Labor. As a result of this law, every federal government employee working in the United States received “locality pay” as part of their salary. Until 2009, the only United States government civilian employees who did not receive this part of their salary were entry-level and mid-level Foreign Service personnel serving their country overseas. All others, including senior level State Department officers, and other agencies represented overseas, such as CIA officers under State Department cover, DOJ and DHS, have locality pay factored into their base salary.

Locality pay for Foreign Service personnel and other federal employees serving in Washington, D.C. is now approximately 25%. Under the law prior to 2009, Foreign Service personnel serving abroad sacrificed this part of their salaries and took large pay cuts to their base salaries. Those posted in Washington earned more money than colleagues posted in Pakistan, Yemen, and Beirut to name a few. As a result, because retirement packages are based upon base pay (including “locality pay”), Foreign Service officers representing their country abroad received smaller retirement packages than their colleagues who stayed in Washington. This was not sustainable and in 2009 a bi-partisan solution was found to correct this policy problem. Closing the pay gap is not a pay raise -- it is a correction of a 17- year-old unintended inequity in the worldwide Foreign Service pay schedule—an inequity that grew every year.

Today thousands of Foreign Service employees serve in hardship assignments around the globe, which now constitute nearly 60% of all posts. As I write this letter, my colleagues in neighboring Libya, including one colleague who is eight and a half months pregnant, have just evacuated and our Embassy there has been closed. The number of unaccompanied posts has increased more than fivefold in the decade since I took the Foreign Service Officer's oath and received my commission.   Our oath is pretty similar to another oath I know you are familiar with:

"I do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic, that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same, that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion, and I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter. So help me God."

Assignments overseas are increasingly challenging, difficult and in many instances, dangerous. There has been strong bipartisan recognition that it is time to invest in diplomacy and development.  Penalizing Foreign Service employees -- specifically those of us at the junior and mid-level -- whose mission is to serve overseas to advance and protect our national interests by cutting our base pay undervalues the importance of our work, widens the gap between those of us serving in the United States and those of us facing hardships and sacrifices overseas and creates real disincentives to serving on the front lines of American diplomacy and development.

I am proud to be a public servant and honored to be a member of our State Department Foreign Service. I hope that you will support the Foreign Service and help ensure that we are not penalized for our service overseas.

Sincerely,

Chillin' in Morocco, Or What It's Like to Evacuate

2011-02-21T08:58:00.002+01:00

First off, thank you to everyone who has written to check in on me and my things. We're well and have been back in Tunisia for a few weeks but have been overwhelmed with getting caught up, thus the lack of posting. But now we're caught up, so bring on the blog post!

I've never been evacuated before so this was a really great opportunity for me to experience what it's like for family members when they leave on Authorized Departure. It was a fantastic learning experience, and Embassy Rabat, our hosts, were absolutely awesome. In fact it was so nice that I'm half-tempted to go out and start some sort of unrest so we can be evacuated back there again.

We were met at the Rabat airport by the Management Counselor and her fantastic team, and immediately made to feel at ease. They loaded us onto a bus and on the ride over to the Embassy recreation center handed out fruits and cookies. When we arrived at the Rec Center, the children immediately took off to play. They had all been cooped up indoors for almost a week and were simply overjoyed to be able to run around and play outdoors.

We were met at the Rec Center by the Ambassador, DCM, RSO, Health Practitioner and a host of other Embassy Rabat people. I can't say enough of how impressed I was by Embassy Rabat and how well organized and proactive they were. The outstanding FMO was at the Rec Center with envelopes of money in local currency she had prepared as travel advances. The CLOs set up each family with a "sponsor" at the mission, giving us somewhere to go for a home cooked meal or just to do laundry. The DCM came out to the hotel after we'd been there for several days just to see how we were doing. The Management Officer, who I am fortunate to call a friend after having served with her at a previous assignment, thought of absolutely everything.  Commissary priviledges? Check. SIM cards for our phones? Check. Motorpool shuttles? Check. She even arranged to have the RMO/P for our post come to Rabat to provide support to anyone who needed it. And she arranged for a control room staffed by Embassy personnel filled with goodies and other essentials -- a computer, printer, office supplies -- so that we could have whatever we needed. And because I was still on official duty status -- meaning I had to work -- the HRO helped me get in contact with a fantastic Arabic teacher so that I could continue to study.

And now about my sponsors. I lack the words to describe how wonderful this family is. So kind, so generous, so concerned, so proactive. They have four absolutely amazing children all of whom were around the same ages as my own things, so that crew hit it off immediately. And the adults got along famously as well, I must say.   I don't want to name them without their permission, but Sponsor Family, you rock! Both husband and wife are the type of people that I would want to be friends with. The Embassy couldn't have put us with a better matched family, and I think this may result in a life-long friendship. As they say in my hood, inshallah!

Now the hotel...the hotel was NICE! The staff at this hotel was top notch as well. They put all of us on the same floor on the same wing of the hotel. This made it easier for all of us grown ups to keep tabs on our children and allowed for all of us to get a little break. The hotel also set up a play room for the children, and the Embassy filled it with toys and books and snacks.

Now for a little shout out to my girls -- Bubbles, Double Deuce, Eminem, Ra-less, Ay No, CLO-Ho and Ms. Ing -- these ladies will always be special to me. I was under a lot of pressure to stay in Tunis because the evacuation was only supposed to be for family members but eventually common sense prevailed and I was able to leave the country with my incredibly stressed out children. The one condition that was given to me was that I had to continue working. Fortunately my work at the moment is to study. These ladies went above and beyond for me. They watched my things so I could have classes with my Arabic teacher. They took them out for walks and to the Rec Center so that I could concentrate on flash cards. And Eminem became my personal flash card tester.

In the evenings after we'd colluded to put all of our children to bed at the same time ("Yes you have to go to bed. Everyone else is going to bed now.") we would sit around and have wine and cheese -- purchased from the commissary -- and talk and laugh and unwind.  I am ashamed to say that sometimes I don't make as much of an effort as I should to get to know the spouses within the mission. It's not about the whole officer thing for me but more a lack of time, perhaps. This experience allowed me to get to know a group of wonderful people who I probably would have missed out on knowing simply because we run in different circles.

These ladies (in our case we were all women) are smart, educated, funny, talented and almost criminally underappreciated. They know the city way better than I can ever hope to, and are plugged in to the happenings at the school and around town in a way that I am not. In a lot of ways they are better diplomats than I will ever be because they are actually out there, living as Americans in the foreign country and interacting with the locals at the most personal level, while I sit at a desk inside of a fortress and pretend to have expertise on the country that I pretty much only see from my car window as I drive back and forth to work. I will forever be grateful for this experience because from now on, I WILL make the effort to get to know the spouses. I just wonder how many wonderful people I missed out on getting to know over my career.

We were in Morocco for two weeks while things calmed down in Tunis, and eventually were given the go-ahead to head back. I think that at that point we were all ready to head out. Many of us were out of clean laundry and all of us were tired of eating out. The Embassy drove us to Casablanca and we boarded our flight back to a very different Tunisia...but one that I look forward to getting to know more intimately with my new friends.

Things 1, 2 and 3 at the Casablanca airport, ready to go home.

It Hit The Fan

2011-01-30T00:08:00.000+01:00

If you've been wondering where I went off to, let me reassure you that I did not die a violent
P90X death or anything like that. In fact, I haven't even been able to start that program. Why? Oh, cause I've been sitting in a hotel in another country for almost two weeks with my three things. Yep, it finally happened. No, I didn't get PNG'd. I got evacuated.

I have always been the person sitting on the airport tarmac waving goodbye at the people going on Authorized Departure. This was my first time being on the plane. I'll try my best to recap the events leading up to this in this post, and my next post will cover life at the safehaven...

Before going to Tunis (you guys have probably all figured out that's where I live, right?), I was supposed to be going to neighboring Algeria. Midway through language training I swapped assignments for Tunisia because Tunisia is sleepy and boring, and it has a good school. Turns out I was wrong on all of those counts.

Earlier this month the Tunisian people decided they had had enough of being under the rule of former President Ben Ali (he has a really long name and I FINALLY figured out how to pronounce all of it the week he leaves...go figure, that jerk) and they started the "Jasmine Revolution." The whole thing went something like this:

Mid-December -- Poor guy in a tiny city in the middle of nowhere Tunisia: "You people suck, I'm setting myself on fire."

People of Tunisia: "Holy Cow, we should totally protest or something. Anybody remember how to do that?"

Two-three weeks of unrest, of which most of us were largely unaware, ensued. Point in case, I received an e-mail from a friend of mine in D.C. asking about the "revolution" in Tunisia sometime late December, and I was like, "whaaaaaa? No revolution here!"

Then on a Monday we heard that people were continuing to protest.

On Tuesday the protests were getting larger and closer to Tunis.

On Wednesday they were even larger and closer still.

On Thursday they were IN Tunis and we were begging our boss to let us go home to our families since no one seemed to know what was going on.

Thursday night Ben Ali came on TV was like, "Okay, chill out. I'm sorry I was a dictator and all that for 23 years and robbed the country blind. My bad. But hey, guess what! You guys can have Youtube back. We even now? No? Okay, how about Al-Jazeera? And I'll fire the whole government too. And I promise never to run for president again. Can I pretty please just be president for like three more years? Pleeeease?"

Friday rolled around and Ben Ali was like, "These people aren't playing. Imma head out to the airport for a little bit, see what's up? Oh look! A plane! Maybe I'll get on it. Masalaama Tunisia." And he took off for a flight around the Mediterranean Sea looking for a new place to call home. Then an hour later this other guy came on TV and was like, "Hey, guys! I'm your new president! Wassup?"

Friday night one of our Embassy houses got looted and one of my friends lost everything she owned, and another one (adjoining it) was smoke damaged to the point where it is no longer habitable.

Saturday the military was out in full force, there were tanks down the street from my house, people were looting at will, small neighborhood gangs had popped up to erect makeshift roadblocks and protect property, and my children were huddled in the corner listening to gun fire. Oh, and Tunisia got it's third president in 24 hours.

Sunday night the Embassy gave us the option to go a temporary safehaven location to see how things shaped up before deciding if we should go back to D.C. Our flight out was on Tuesday.

Monday I went through my home taking pictures of everything I owned in case my house was looted and I would lose everything, and I packed up three suitcases with clothes and all of our irreplaceable items and important personal papers.

Tuesday the kids and I drove ourselves to the Embassy by way of six military checkpoints, one particularly eager young soldier decided I was a threat and pointed his rifle at my head as I stopped the car, and the kids and I got on the plane with a few other families for our flight to the safehaven.

Next post...Chillin' in Morocco...Coming Soon!

Undisclosed Side Effects of P90X

2011-01-04T23:10:00.001+01:00

I've spent the last few days mulling over my goals for 2011, in particular my fitness goals. In the process of doing so I've been reading up on this P90X program. Apparently this program can make you "ripped" in 90 days, and there are a gazillion message boards of people who swear by this thing.

In my extensive research I've noted that there appear to be side effects that are not fully disclosed. For instance, P90X apparently causes hair loss, particularly in the chest area, gives the skin an unnatural orange glow, and causes maniacal levels of happiness. Unfortunately I cannot post any pictures of people I don't know so here is a drawing to illustrate this phenomenon:

All that in 90 days! I just have to try it. So I went ahead and ordered P90X and that will be my resolution for the year -- complete the program. 90 days in 365. I think it's safe to say that I'm stubborn enough to see this through. If I can do a triathlon on a child's bike while recovering from pneumonia, I can do this. And I have two friends who have said they will do this with me. I'm also putting this on my blog so that I can't slack off.

So in the great tradition of P90X I am going to post a before picture of myself in a bikini!! Enjoy!

(Note to my S.O.: I'm sorry I lied about buying this and told you that only a moron thinks they can make such a dramatic change in that short amount of time, and that all of these people are douchebags. I think you will find that I look good in orange. And the loss of chest hair might be a plus. I am, after all, of Italian origin. End note.)

PS: P90X might also cause you to lose your hands.

Run, Fat Girl, Run!!

2010-12-29T17:57:00.004+01:00

This post is about the time I thought I could complete a triathlon. Without training. On a child's mountain bike. And one month after spending a week at the hospital with pneumonia, followed by another week at home with the flu.

Perhaps I need to back up a bit.

I haven't always been a big girl. I played soccer in college and used to be somewhat athletic. I've never been lithe or anything like that. I am definitely short and stocky. But once upon a time I could do things like hike 10 miles in a day.

And then I had babies. Babies do bad things to your body. Like for instance, they make you lose control of your bladder when you try to do jumping jacks or sneeze. They also make your tummy pooch over your underwear. It's not pretty.

Shortly after the ex and I separated I decided I was going to take the bull by the horns and get back in shape. It also happened to be right around New Year's so I needed a resolution anyway. Somehow I thought it would be a good idea to sign up for a triathlon in March. It was my way of motivating myself to work out -- after all, if I paid to participate in this organized torture I would be more likely to follow through. So I spent $45 to sign up for the triathlon, another $29.99 to download a training program, and $39.99 for a gym membership. I worked out exactly two times between January 1 and January 31 and then spent February in the hospital with pneumonia and at home with the flu.

March came around and I was determined to go through with this triathlon, despite the fact that I had done absolutely no training and could barely breathe. So the night before the triathlon I googled "triathlon" to see what exactly I needed to do, and realized that I had to bring my own bike. I didn't own a bike.

But guess who did? Thing Number 1, who at the time was 9 and had a mountain bike. So early the next morning I loaded up my 9-year-old's mountain bike into my car and showed up for the triathlon. I was the only person there with a mountain bike. Everyone else had fancy-schmancy road bikes and tri bikes. It was like they took this stuff seriously or something!

Because this triathlon was in March it was being done in reverse order, i.e. run, bike, swim. So on a cold, damp March morning, I lined up with my age group and took off. Here is a picture of me running:

I'm number 145. This was approximately 15 seconds after we left the start line. Every single one of those people (including one you can't see on crutches) passed me. Just to give you an idea of how bad I was, as I was getting back to the staging area to get on my bike, people were already finishing the ENTIRE triathlon.

But I wasn't going to let that stop me. I was determined to finish. I went to get on my bike and in the process accidentally knocked over the entire rack, sending 10 other bikes hurtling to the ground.

My bad.

I got on the bike and started pedaling. Small children on tricycles passed me. I looked like a bear riding a tiny bicycle. My knees kept hitting me in the stomach. People kept passing me and pointing out that I was riding a mountain bike. They weren't exactly polite about it either.

By the time I got done with the bike ride the organizers had already started packing up to go home. I begged/wheezed at them to let me do the swim. They acquiesced. At this point there were only three people still racing: me, an 85-year-old woman with a major limp, and someone who was probably a Biggest Loser contestant. I'm proud to say that I totally smoked their asses on the swim. It was the only time all day I passed anyone. I was dead last in my age group, and third from the bottom overall, but I finished!

I was really excited when I received the pictures from the photographer a couple weeks later. I didn't look too bad running, and the bike was a bit of a farce, but that was ok. What I didn't understand was why the photographer had sent me a picture of a fat girl with Down's Syndrome coming out of the swimming pool instead of a picture of me.

And then I looked closer.

Yep, that was me.

So two days from now is New Year's again and I'm trying to figure out what I should pick as my resolution. I'm still not sure what it will be but I can guarantee I'm not "running" a triathlon again.

Divorce, Foreign Service style

2010-12-15T16:46:00.001+01:00

Divorce is never easy, and it's particularly hard when one or both members of the couple are in the Foreign Service. In my case, both of us are in the Foreign Service. He's in Washington for now, and I'm over here with our three things. Next year things will be easier because he'll be posted in the neighboring country -- a quick one hour flight. The sucky thing about our current situation, of course, is that at any given time one of us has to go for a prolonged period of time without seeing the kids.

Fortunately, we've both worked very hard at moving past our own issues so that we could focus our attention where it needed to be: our kids. We try to make sure that we're both as engaged as possible in the lives of our children, regardless of distance. Co-parenting, especially long distance, isn't easy, but we do our best to make it work. And I have to give him props for being a really good dad.

Anyhow, he arrived here today, much to the great delight of the children (and frankly, to my relief. They were driving me nuts.) and he's currently downstairs, sound asleep on the couch, all three children staring at him intently and taking turns poking him.

Nice to see some things don't change.

I pulled them out of school, since he arrived mid-morning, and we went to the airport to pick him up. Thing 2 made him an awesome poster. Right smack dab in the middle of it she put a Star of David.

Have I mentioned we live in a Muslim country?

And we're not Jewish?

She brandished it proudly at the airport and, as you can imagine, we got a bunch of looks. I was half expecting a diplomatic incident, and in an odd way, I felt proud that she would be following in my footsteps, but in the end no one said anything. And she got to welcome her dad in her own special way, so no harm, no foul.

Single Parenting, Or How to Lose Your Mind Before Noon.

2010-12-11T15:08:00.003+01:00

The hardest thing about being a single parent is figuring out how to get everything done at once without losing your mind. Most days I'm pretty good at it. Today was not one of those days.

The Ambassador hosted a lovely Christmas Party for all of the families with children this morning. (BTW, the Ambassador's house is awesome. The picture above? That's the view from his living room.)  Everyone was supposed to bring a plate of their favorite treats to share. I had volunteered to bring chocolate chip cookies. I got up this morning and went about my day, and remembered, about an hour and a half before we were supposed to be at the Ambassador's house, that TODAY was the day of the party, so I quickly ran into the kitchen and made cookies. This left me with only 20 minutes to get everyone dressed and ready to go.

Twenty minutes is not enough for my kids. My children each have a very distinct sense of style. Thing 1 wears athletic clothes all the time. I swear he's going to get married in track pants and an Under Armor t-shirt and probably have the ceremony in a gym or something. Thing 2 is as girly as they get, and would spend each and every day in an evening gown and a feather boa if I let her. She also, when left unsupervised, concocts outfits fit only for Lady Gaga or a drag queen. Thing 3 is preppy but lacks color coordination. He also ALWAYS puts his shoes on the wrong feet.  Getting them ready and dressed appropriately in 20 minutes meant I was going to have to go into drill sergeant mode.

me: "C'mon everybody, hustle! 1 and 3, go put on a nice pair of slacks and a dress shirt, 2, find a dress. We need to be at the Ambassador's house in 20 minutes! Let's move, move move!"

Everyone scattered to their respective rooms. I went to my room to start getting myself ready. Thing 3 walked in.

Thing 3: "Is the Ambassador a genital?"
me: "What?! No, he's a nice man! Where did you hear that?"
Thing 3: "One told me that the Ambassador is a genital."
me: "THING NUMBER ONE (I called him by his full name), COME HERE THIS INSTANT!"

Thing 1 came upstairs.

me: "Did you tell your brother that the Ambassador is a genital?"
Thing 1: "No, I said he's like a general."
me: "Ohhhh!! Sorry, bud.  What are you wearing?! Go change. When I said nice slacks, I didn't mean blue jeans. I know that's nice for you, but I actually meant real pants. And a button down shirt. You do remember how buttons work, right?"
me (to Thing 3): "Yes, he's like a general."
Thing 3 (running to his room): "Cool! Where are my fancy pants?"
me: "What?"
Thing 3: My fancy pants! I have to wear fancy pants to the Ambassador's house!
me: "They're in the closet."

Thing 2 comes out of her room.

me: "What on earth are you wearing?!"
Thing 2: "It's a dress mom, duh."
me: "It's a summer dress! It's December! Go find something else. And put tights on."

Thing 3 (shouting from his room): "MOM!!! I need a neck chokey thing."
me: "What?!"
Thing 3: "A neck chokey thing like dad has."
me: "A tie? You don't have one."

We were down to about 10 minutes and I hadn't even started getting ready. I continued barking out orders:

me: "1! Get a belt! Where are your socks? Tuck your shirt in! Did you brush your hair? 2! Your tights are on backwards! When I said brush your hair I didn't mean put it up in a pony tail! Comb it Why are you jumping on your bed!! 3! Did you brush your teeth? C'mon guys! Santa's going to be there!"
Thing 1: "There's no such thing as..."
me: "THING NUMBER ONE!"

Finally we were all dressed and ready, and I handed Thing 1 the tray of cookies so that I could lock up the house. As he was going up the stairs he tripped, but heroically sacrificed his body and saved the cookies. I couldn't help but laugh, and he got angry and refused to speak to me. We got to the Ambassador's house and Thing 2 got out of the car and closed the door on Thing 3, and when he opened the door he accidentally hit her with it. So she started crying.

me, at this point exasperated and exhausted: "Do you want to go home?!"
Thing 2 (crying): "I HATE Thing 3! There's something wrong with his DNA!"
me: "He can't help his Y chromosome, darling!"
Thing 3: "What's a Y chromosome?"
me: "It's something you got from your dad. C'mon you two, let's get it together!"

And then I broke out the big guns.

me: "Santa's in there. Maybe I'll just tell him about how you guys are behaving. Save him from having to stop at our house on Christmas."
Things 2 and 3: "NOOOOOOooooOOOOO!!!!"

They immediately calmed down.

Seriously, why didn't I think of that sooner? We made it in to the Ambassador's house, had a fantastic time hanging out with colleagues while enjoying the view and eating lots of holiday goodies. Things 2 and 3 took a picture with Santa, and all three of them ran around for two hours having an absolute blast. Life was good again.

Sometimes my friends ask me how I do it and I tell them the truth:

Lots of love, tons of patience, a good sense of humor, and medication.

No Toys, No Games, No Problem

2010-12-09T07:50:00.000+01:00

Foreign Service brats are a special breed. They are usually pretty resilient and savvy, and seem to have an almost innate ability to entertain themselves. It's kind of like never progressing past the early childhood years, where the most fascinating toy you could have wasn't the toy Mom and Dad spent tons of money on but rather the box it came in.

I know that as a kid, my sisters and I found countless ways to amuse ourselves while sitting in airports on extremely long layovers, or for the months between when we sent our toys from our last post to our next post.

I'm proud to say that my children seem to have developed this ability as well, as evidenced by what I witnessed this morning. Breakfast was over, the kids were dressed, everything was packed up, so they were just hanging out by the front door waiting for the bus to show up. I was in my room getting ready for work when I heard squeals of laughter. I stuck my head out my door and found Thing 1 and Thing 2 taking turns picking up Thing 3 and spinning him around, then sticking a ski cap on his head past his eyes and setting him free to walk around and bump into things.

Which was fine until he took out our Christmas tree.

Sigh. Gotta love em, right?

I am actually looking forward to the ex getting here next week for the holidays so I can let him deal with them for a little bit!

Thank You

2010-12-09T07:38:00.000+01:00

A quick thank you to everyone for the extremely supportive e-mails sent following my last post. It dredged up a lot of old memories so it's been a rough couple days. I know that I speak for both myself and for Lisa (the other consular officer, who was pregnant at the time, and who reads this blog) when I say thank you for the support. While I was dealing with my part of this, she was running passenger manifests through PIERS trying to find other Americans, and going out and doing identifications as well. She's an amazing officer and a true credit to our profession.

Overpaid?

2010-12-06T08:24:00.001+01:00

Digger over at Life After Jerusalem posted an interesting article on federal pay, which addressed the common misconception that federal workers are overpaid. A fringe benefit of the Wikileaks scandal is that Americans are getting to see first hand what we in the Foreign Service do.

I'm actually ok with this pay freeze. This is a tough time for all Americans, and I'm happy to do my part. And of course, I recognize that in this economy I'm extremely lucky to have a job I love, and one for which I am compensated adequately. But overpaid? Not by a long shot.

As a warning, the rest of this post might be troubling to some. It's not funny. It's tragic. It's heartbreaking, and when I think of it, I cry. But I want to share anyway, because those of you who are in the process of joining the Foreign Service deserve to have as complete a picture as possible about the job you are about to enter. You need to know what might one day be asked of you.

Christmas Day, 2003. I was sitting at home with my family, having just enjoyed watching my son and daughter open their gifts. It was a beautiful day, the weather was warm and we were going to go spend some time on the beach later that afternoon.

Around 2:00 p.m. the phone rang. It was Washington, D.C. Ops Center was on the line and I found myself speaking to the Assistant Secretary for Consular Affairs.

A/S: "There's been a plane crash in the neighboring country. We received a call from an American citizen who says he is one of the wardens in your post. His wife and two children are on the plane. We need you to go into the Embassy to pull up copies of their passports and then call us back."

I called up one of my FSNs and made it into the Embassy within 20 minutes of the phone call. We pulled up the warden records and retrieved the passport information. The woman, almost my age, like me slightly chubby. The little girl, seven years old, long hair, crooked smile plastered across her face, missing both her front teeth. The little boy, four years old, picture taken after what looked like a self-inflicted hair cut, grinning broadly into the camera.

I called Washington back to confirm.

A/S: "The consular officer in the neighboring post is on leave. The back-up consular officer is there, but we need you to go help out. I spoke to your Ambassador and he said that it is up to you. This will be very difficult and if this is something you don't think you can do, we can contact another post to see if they can help out."

I wanted to go. These were MY people. They deserved to have their consular officer take care of them.

It was too late to start the journey to the neighboring post, so I left the following morning as soon as the sun came up. By 9:00 a.m. I had arrived. I had made contact with the warden whose family was on the plane, so after checking in with the Embassy and coordinating with my colleague, I went out to meet him.

I found him sitting in the back corner of a smoky coffee bar, sobbing, holding a cigarette precariously in his right hand, an ashtray full of cigarette butts in front of him. I knew that the plane had crashed on take off. The plane had clipped a building at the end of the runway and crashed into the beach, the main part of the fuselage had gone into the ocean. There were 143 people on board and there had been about 25 survivors. He begged me to find his family. "Go to the hospital", he told me. "They might be there. Please," he sobbed, "find them." He couldn't do it.

He handed me a wad of pictures of his family and put his head down on the table.

I first went to the hospital to see if I could find out any information on the survivors. The director of the hospital confirmed that there had indeed been survivors, but that he had not seen any young children or women.

"Is there another hospital I can check?", I asked.
"No, this is it. You can check our morgue and you can check these other places. That's where they've taken all of the bodies that have been recovered," he replied.

I walked slowly down a hallway that seemed never ending. I was surrounded by people screaming and jostling. Smells I can't even begin to describe. Everything felt like it was in slow motion. I walked into the morgue and saw bodies stacked on top of each other, a large pile of clothes in the corner, people sorted by gender, males on one side, females on another, children in the middle.

I found the morgue attendant, identified myself as a consular officer from the U.S. Embassy, and handed him pictures of the three people I was searching for. "You can go look. Women are over there, kids are there. Let me know if you identify any of your people so we can make arrangements," he said.

It wasn't my first time seeing a dead body. Unfortunately, I had done that my first tour when I had to identify an American citizen murder victim in a morgue. But this was unlike anything I'd ever imagined.

Most of the bodies were intact and it was fairly easy to ascertain quickly if any of the bodies matched my three people.

They didn't. I was relieved and then immediately sick to my stomach. This meant I had to keep looking. I walked outside into the warm air and gasped for air before I started violently vomiting. I could taste death in my mouth and actually welcomed the taste of the vomit.

With a shaky hand I handed the driver the names of the other places we had to go to. We had just left the best morgue in town. There was no telling what these other places would bring. I'll spare you the descriptions.

I found the little girl first. I went back to the cafe to let her father know. "I'm so sorry," I said, as he started wailing, a primal angst that cannot be described.

I found the little boy that afternoon.

The wife I didn't find until the following day, but at that point could only make a tentative identification. It had been two days in a sub-Saharan African morgue. I requested that he ask for her dental records, and passed those on. The identification was confirmed.

The French government sent down a team of morgue experts with all of their equipment and they made arrangements to repatriate all of the bodies. I went to the airport to make sure caskets number 54, 77 and 96 were on the flight. I bid my consular colleague, who herself had been through hell looking for other Americans, farewell.

And then I went home. I hugged my children so tightly, my husband was afraid I'd hurt them. I hadn't showered in four days, I hadn't slept because every time I closed my eyes I saw corpses and I couldn't eat. A psychiatrist from Washington called to speak to me, make sure I was ok. He gave me his home phone number. "Call, doesn't matter what time it is." He prescribed some medication so that I could sleep and gave me some medicine for anxiety.

This was seven years ago this month, and time has made it easier to deal with what was ultimately diagnosed as PTSD. I still have nightmares sometimes. But I would do it all over again.

One of the things I took from ConGen training was the following: "There is no substitute for personal appearance." This means that when at all possible, we need to be physically present to help our American citizens in their time of need. Whether that's going down to do a jail visit, or helping an Amcit file a police report for a stolen passport, or identifying their remains and notifying their families, when at all possible, do it in person.

My story is only one of many. My colleagues around the world have many similar stories to share. I couldn't even imagine what it must have been like in Haiti earlier this year. But we do it, because we love our country and we take our responsibilities seriously. The vast majority of us are highly educated, intelligent, dedicated professionals. Sure there are things that can be improved. That's the case with any organization. But overpaid? I think not.

Up-Chuck, Part Deux

2010-12-03T23:49:00.001+01:00

First off, can I just say WOW??? I logged on today and noticed that this little blog has received over 2500 hits. When I started it I thought maybe a couple of my friends would read it and humor me by telling me that I was funny. As my thanks to all of you, I offer the conclusion to this post.

Before I start, some quick background...On my first tour I:

--fell out of the Ambassador's car;
--ripped my skirt suit to about mid-thigh and broke my heel in the process;
--fell backwards in a chair while delivering a demarche with the Ambassador;
--sulked around the Embassy for two months before the Ambassador let me get near him again;
--promptly proceeded to puke in his car.

All of this within the first four months of arriving at post.

A couple weeks after the world's most patient Ambassador had presented me with a KLM air sickness baggie and instructed me to carry it with me at all times, I was asked to accompany the Ambassador to deliver another demarche.

(BTW, for my non-FS friends, a demarche is an official communication delivered from one government to another. It is usually done formally and, depending on the issue, is done by the Ambassador to a high-ranking host country government official, often a Minister or at times even the President of the host country. Typically one of the officers at the Embassy will accompany the Ambassador to serve as note taker during the meeting, and will often draft up the read-out cable, which is then sent to Washington and Wikileaks --a new practice instituted recently for efficiency).

Needless to say, I was nervous about going out with the Ambassador again, so early that day I stopped by the Medical Unit to get some anti-nausea medication, just in case. I'd been feeling kind of crummy in general, so the Medical Unit also took some blood and sent me on my way.

We made it to the Ministry of Finance with no difficulty, and again I was able to successfully navigate getting into and out of the vehicle (this time a van), and with the help of the anti-nausea medication, I was feeling pretty ok. We delivered the demarche and got into the van to return to the Embassy.

No more than 5 minutes after leaving the Ministry of Finance we hit traffic. Everytime there was an opening, the driver would gun it and then screech to a halt a few meters later. A couple minutes of this and I began to feel the tell-tale signs.

And that's when I started silently praying.

me: "Dear God, I know really haven't done much of anything lately to deserve any favors from you, but please, please, please do not let me throw up in front of this man again..."

I tried as hard as I could to fight it, but it became overwhelming and I turned quickly to the Ambassador and said:

me: "Sir, I'm so sorry, but I'm going to throw up."
Ambassador to me: "Where's your bag?!"
Ambassador to driver: "Quick! Pull over!"

I jumped out of the car and immediately began puking. A flash mob of little African children surrounded me, laughing at the sight of a muzungu tossing her cookies, while the Ambassador leaned out of the car and handed me tissues and water.

When I was done, the Ambassador looked at me and asked ,"Are you ok?", and the driver, whose English was marginal at best, heard "ok" and started driving off, leaving me on the side of the road with my new flash mob buddies.

At this point the Ambassador was hanging half-way out of the vehicle, screaming at the driver to stop, while the flash mob of young children laughed uproariously.

I ran after the car and got back in, and a few minutes later we were at the Embassy. I went straight from the car to the Medical Unit to complain about the medication they gave me, and from there went to my DCM's office.

DCM: "Up-Chuck strikes again, huh?"
me: "Yeah, sorry about that. By the way, I stopped by the Med Unit. Turns out, I'm pregnant."

And seven months later my beautiful daughter (known on this blog as Thing 2) entered my life.

Subliminal Messages From My iPod

2010-12-01T21:54:00.002+01:00

I love music.

My parents exposed me at a very young age to all genres of music, and I've tried to do the same with my children. My youngest son in particular seems to have the same fondness for music as I do, and has found ways to interject musical references into every day conversation. Example.

Thing 2 (my daughter, age 8): "Oh my God!"
Thing 3 (my son, age 6): "...Becky, look at that butt!"

Or from a couple weeks ago, which the two of them were playing a video game that requires them to rapidly launch stick figures over a wall:

Thing 2: "Look, it's raining men!"
Thing 3: (singing and dancing) "Hallelujah!"

And then there was Thing 1 when he was about 2 years old, delighting all of my friends with his rendition of Shania Twain's "Man, I Feel Like a Woman."

So music is an important part of our lives, and as such I have an extremely diverse collection of songs from many genres on my iPod. Everything from Beethoven to Queen to Rage Against the Machine to Madonna to Ella Fitzgerald to Eminem to Gene Autry to Ben Harper etc, etc. You get the picture, I hope. If you didn't, the point is that I have a ton of music on my iPod.

So today I decided to go spend some quality time at the gym. I got on the treadmill and put my iPod on shuffle and just let it go.

I kid you not, in immediate succession (to the best of my recollection) my iPod played the following songs:

"Tempted to Touch" -- Rupee
"Sexual Healing" -- Marvin Gaye
"Teenage Dream" -- Katy Perry
"For My Lover" -- Tracy Chapman
"Kiss" -- Prince
"Lollipop" -- Lil Wayne
"The Bad Touch" -- The Bloodhound Gang
"Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy" -- Big and Rich
"Closer" -- Nine Inch Nails
"Temperature" -- Sean Paul

Finally I got off the treadmill and as I went to the recumbent bike I thought to myself, "Well this is really weird. I mean, I get it iPod. It's been a while. But there's no need to rub it in my face, ok? You don't see me mocking you because you haven't been synched in weeks."

So I reset my iPod to shuffle and picked one of my favorite workout songs, "Call On Me" by Eric Prydz, to start off my time on the bike.

The next song my iPod selected for me?

Marvin Gaye's "Let's Get It On".

I hate you, iPod.

It's Never A Good Idea to Drink and Cable

2010-11-30T08:17:00.000+01:00

Anyone who doesn't live under a rock has certainly heard about the unauthorized release of 250,000 State Department cables, some of which are classified, and the major uproar this is causing across the world.

Lest anyone think, after reading this post, that I am unaware of the seriousness of this situation, please rest assured I am. Like many of my colleagues around the world, I'm sure, I didn't sleep well the last couple nights as I racked my brain to think of any cables I may have written that could cause either myself or my government embarassment (if not worse).  As I did, I remembered the following story that, for reasons that will soon be obvious, I had somehow forgotten.

It was (when else?) my first tour and the super nice Ambassador had moved on and was replaced by a more...traditional...Ambassador. The kind that would probably toss you from post for puking in his car or accidentally flashing your lady bits. He was the kind that would call you in on New Year's Eve to send a completely pointless cable that no one was going to read anyway because it was New Year's Eve and everyone knows Washington shuts down from around Thanksgiving to Valentine's Day. Roughly.

So it was New Year's Eve and I left the office around 4 p.m. to head out to a party with my British counterpart. It was my first time partying with the Brits. The Brits can drink. We cannot keep up. Several gin and tonics later (Don't judge. I was drinking for purely medical reasons. G&T wards off malaria. Everyone knows that.)  my phone rang. It was the Ambassador.

Ambassador: "Did you send out the demarche delivered cable?"
me (slurring only slightly): "The "Leggo My Eggo" demarche or the "Support the Bra" one, sir?"
Ambassador: The Eggo one.
me: "Oh...no, sir. I faxed it over to the MFA, like, yesterday. I got a call today for the FM's secretary who said the FM wanted to know what a "egg-ho" was.  (giggle)"
Ambassador: "Well, I want you to send in that cable tonight. EB is looking for our response."
me: "But, sir. Eggo waffles don't even exist in (this country). There really isn't anything for them to Leggo, ya know? All I'm going to be able to say is "demarche delivered, will report any substantive responses septel.""
Ambassador: "Well I want it sent tonight."
me: "Ok, sir."

So I called motorpool for a ride, since I was in no condition to drive, and got into the office around 10 p.m. and started drafting. A demarche delivered cable is a no-brainer, but as I was under the influence of alcohol I was having a really difficult time typing.  My first attempt at this cable looked something like this:

"1. Econoff delvred copy of Eggo waafle demarch to MFA 12/302/2001. MFA reqested clafiraction on "egg-ho)s and Econoff esplained thaat wafles are awsone and suggeted host contry consder getting some, or perhaps an IHOP franchise. Post will rport sustantive responses septel."

I clouted the thing and waited for the IMS (who had also been called in) to let me know that it had gone out. A few minutes later my phone rang.

IMS: "Hey, that cable you just sent over? Um, you sure?"
me: "Yeah, man! Woooooooooo!!!!"
IMS: "Uh listen, I'm going to come over to your office and help you rewrite this thing, ok?"

So the IMS came over and retyped it for me and saved my behind from certain catastrophe. The cable went out and we (took the IMS with me) returned to the party.

A couple days later I found a hardcopy of the original cable I had drafted on my desk, accompanied by a note that said, "It's never a good idea to drink and cable. :)"

IMers...also smart to stay on their good side.

Revenge of the OMS

2010-11-25T09:20:00.000+01:00

It's Thanksgiving morning over here and as I am getting up, I'm thinking of all of the things for which I am thankful. If you've read some of my blog posts, you've probably figured out that I had a very eventful first tour. The best thing about my first tour (besides having the most patient Ambassador EVER) was that I had the best boss I've ever had in my entire life. I'm still thankful for him. When I grow up I want to be just like him.

Seriously, my DCM was unbelievable. He was funny, smart, kind, warm, patient and wise. He was a mentor and a friend, and I'm not at all surprised by how quickly he rose through the ranks. In fact, he's currently serving as an Ambassador somewhere. Lucky post.

He was the kind of guy who took his responsibility for mentoring JOs seriously, and would meet with us often, both formally and informally. This post is about a story he told us at one of our JO meetings from when he was a JO on his first tour.

"A couple of my JO colleagues had gotten into the bad habit of treating the OMSes at our post as their own personal secretaries. One guy [we'll call him Mark, no idea if that's his real name] even had the balls to give the Ambassador's OMS a cable and ask her to type it up for him. Let's just say the guy didn't get it. He was rude, and didn't show the OMSes the respect they deserved and they couldn't stand him.

One day Mark decided to play tennis on the Embassy tennis court during lunch. He was sweaty and hot and wanted to take a shower, but the only shower in the Embassy was in the Ambassador's office. So he asked the Ambassador's OMS if the Ambassador was around. She said no. So Mark waltzed into the Ambassador's office, got naked, and hopped into the Ambassador's shower.

What she didn't tell Mark was that the Ambassador was in the car on his way back to the Embassy.

So Mark was in the shower, completely naked with a headful of shampoo, when the Ambassador walked into his office and noticed that the water was running. He walked into the bathroom and yanked the curtain aside, and was so completely flabbergasted at the sight of the naked JO in the shower that the only words he could get out were "YOU??????? YOUUUUUUUUU!!!!!!!" He quickly followed that with "GET OUT!!!

The words reverberated throughout the building, and many of us stuck our heads out of our offices to see what was going on.

Mark hopped out of the shower, completely naked and covered in soap and shampoo, grabbed his clothes and raced out of the Ambassador's office, down the hall, streaking past several of his colleagues, me included.

"How's it hanging, Mark?", I said.
"Uh, can't talk now, on my way to political!", Mark replied.

Mark continued running down the hall, but by now the shampoo had gotten into his eyes and he couldn't see very well, so he kept bumping into things and dropping articles of clothing in the process.

Mark got thrown out of post the following week because of this incident and eventually left the Foreign Service.

And that, kids, is why we are always nice to the OMS. If you aren't, they WILL get you. Also, never piss off the GSO."

But that's a story for another day.

I Dub Thee "Up-Chuck"

2010-11-21T22:18:00.001+01:00

In this post I described at length my first experience accompanying an Ambassador as a note taker. I'm sure it comes as no surprise to anyone that's read it that it was several months before my Ambassador considered having me accompany him to anything else. So for several months I slouched about the Embassy, walking around with my head hung low, doing a modified version of the walk of shame I had nearly perfected in college.

But the day came when the Ambassador could no longer avoid me, nor I him. We were going out of town to visit a factory, which meant one hour in the car together. I had in the interim purchased pant suits (that fit!), and had also purchased flats, since it was obvious that heels and I were never going to work. And I had spent countless hours perfecting the art of getting in and out of an armored suburban.

I was ready to redeem myself.

We traveled at dawn from the capital city to a nearby city traveling down a road that was considered by the RSO to be dangerous due to numerous armed carjackings. This meant no stopping, and driving at break neck speeds while weaving in and out of traffic. We made it to the factory without incident. I got into and out of the car without exposing my body inappropriately in any way. I had advanced the factory the previous week, and was completely on-point throughout the entire visit. After lunch, hosted by a local NGO, we got into the vehicle and began our trip back to the capital. I breathed a sign of relief. All had gone well.

About 15 minutes into the return trip, I began to feel queasy. The Ambassador sat next to me reading through a pile of newspapers, seemingly oblivious to my growing unease.

I closed my eyes and started taking deep breaths. It didn't help.

I pressed my cheek against the window. Still nothing.

I began fiddling with the air conditioning, trying to point the cold air at my face. The queasiness just grew.

I couldn't open a window because we were in an armored car, and I couldn't ask to stop because we were on a dangerous road. No stopping. RSO orders.

The Ambassador had begun sneaking glances at me, and finally addressed me when I threw my head back and started taking rapid, shallow breaths.

Ambassador: "Are you ok?"
me: Shake head no.
Ambassador: "Are you going to throw up?"
me: Nod head yes.

The Ambassador rummaged through his briefcase and produced a plastic grocery store bag.

Ambasador: "Here, use this!"
me: Puke.

The Ambassador returned to his reading while I leaned away from him and lost my lunch. Literally. It was an additional thirty minutes before we arrived at the Embassy. As had become our custom, we traveled in silence.

I exited the vehicle with my little plastic baggie in tow and slinked away to my office to hide for a couple hours, until my boss, the DCM, decided to poke his head in.

DCM: "So, how was your visit?"
me: "Um, it was good. You know, nothing special."
DCM: "Really? Cause the Ambo said you puked in his car."
me: "Does he tell you everything?!"
DCM: "Kinda. So listen, up-chuck, can you write up that cable for me?"
me: "Yes, boss. Am I getting tossed?"
DCM: "There's been enough tossing for today, kid."

The Ambassador flew out that night for the Chief of Mission conference in D.C. so the next time I saw him was about two weeks later at Country Team. At the end of Country Team he stood up and asked me to join him. I had no idea what was about to happen. Was there some sort of weird Foreign Service ritual I wasn't aware of where the Ambassador announces in front of everyone that you are being kicked out of post?

Ambassador: "I brought you something special from Washington and I wanted to give it to you in front of everyone. I want you to carry it with you whenever you and I are together."

Hands me a KLM air sickness bag.

"Oh, and by the way, nice pant suit."

Foreign Service Brats -- That Was Then, This Is Now

2010-11-18T23:16:00.001+01:00

I'm an old school Foreign Service brat.

In some of the places where I grew up we only got mail every couple months. We didn't have a telephone. We didn't have cable. We didn't have internet.

Our social lives consisted of other families at post and our classmates at school. If we wanted to talk to each other we'd use our radio and everyone and their mother would listen in ("Gunsmoke Alpha, this is Cherry Bravo. Would you like to come over for a Sierra Lima Echo Echo Papa Oscar Victor Echo Romeo, over?").

In a lot of ways we were isolated. No communication with family back home for weeks at a time and little to no exposure to popular culture. First time someone asked me "Where's the beef?" I thought they'd gone crazy. When a flood grounded our pouch for more than six months, for instance, my friends and I fell about a year behind on the whole Milli Vanilli scandal. Blame it on the rain, indeed.

Must have been terrible for us, right? On par with walking uphill both ways barefoot in the snow, some would say. But you know what? If I had to pick between being a Foreign Service brat then, and being one now, I'd pick back then hands down.

When I was a kid, you left post and you knew that was it. You said your goodbyes, you grieved, and you moved on and focused on your next post, your next school, your next set of friends.  Now with the Internet, Skype, Vonage, Facebook, Twitter, APO/DPO, etc making it much easier to stay connected, you can maintain a virtual presence pretty much anywhere in the world.

But this should be a positive, most would say! And while I don't dispute that for some it certainly is, I'm concerned by a trend that I'm noticing and I thought I'd bring it up and see what others think.

What I'm seeing around me, both with my own children and the children of some of my colleagues, are much longer "transition periods". Thanks to Facebook and Skype primarily, the FS Brat 2.0 clings to his or her past and refuses to see the possibilities in front of them. They're bogged down in an information overload, emotions pulled between the past and the present -- loyalties are questioned.  Are you betraying your friends at post X by going out and building a life in post Y?

It's like pulling a bandaid off s-l-o-w-l-y and suffering the pain over a longer period of time. Or to be even more dramatic, it's like dating again after your spouse has died. Are you betraying your spouses' memory by going out and continuing to live your life? Except in the case of the poor FS Brat 2.0 their "spouse" never dies; he or she just lingers on life support forever.

My apologies for the melodramatic flair of this post. I'm tired and it's late. But I've been thinking about this for several weeks and I just wanted to put it out there. One of my colleagues has a very bright, articulate, sensitive 13 year old daughter who is having a very difficult time dealing with certain parts of the Foreign Service lifestyle.  We had a long conversation about what it means to be a Foreign Service brat now, and contrasted it with my own experience. Suffice it to say that my perceptions of what it's like now couldn't have been more wrong.

My heart really goes out to this new generation. At least when I was a kid the bandaid was yanked off as soon as the plane went wheels up.

If You Touch My Junk, I'll Make You Buy Me Dinner

2010-11-16T23:18:00.003+01:00

Everyone seems to be in a tizzy about this whole airport scanner thing. I don't get it. We want to be safe when we fly, right? So it's get scanned or the alternative: the pat down.

Have you ever had a real pat down? I don't mean the sort of first-base-touching-over-the-clothes-like-you're-a-sixth-grader pat down. I mean the I-am-going-to-pretty-much-do-everything-but-give-you-a-pap-smear pat down.

I have.

It was 2005 and I was on my way back from Amsterdam to my post. I waited in the security line for about 45 minutes, and I was finally ready to go through the metal detector thingie when Helga (not her actual name, but it fits) beckoned me aside.

Before I go on to describe the conversation we had, you need to know that: 1. When I am nervous, I become an idiot. 2. I use humor to deal with awkward situations. 3. Not everyone gets my sense of humor.

Helga: "Miss, I need you to follow me."
me: "Is there a problem?"
Helga: "I need to perform a manual inspection of your person."
me: "EXCUSE ME? Why?"
Helga: "It is done at random."
me: "Oh, ok."
Helga: "Step behind this curtain. Put your arms out at your side."

(groping commences)

me: "Whoa, whoa! You need to buy me dinner before you touch me there!"
Helga: "Are you wearing an underwire brassiere?"
me: "Yes."
Helga: "I need you to remove it."
me: "Fine, but if you're going to poke around in there will you please check for lumps? I haven't done my exam this month."
Helga: Silence.

Helga was one of those people I mentioned above that doesn't get my sense of humor. Perhaps it was a language barrier thing. At any rate, the groping continued for about a minute and I basically just shut it and let her have her way with me.

When she was done, and because I couldn't help myself, I made one last ditch effort to make her laugh.

me: "Will you hold me?"
Helga: "Have a good flight, miss."

As thrilling as it was to get to third base with Helga, I have to say I'd rather walk through a scanner. So they'll see me naked? Pffffttt...I don't care. Join the crowd. Bottom line is if I have to walk through a scanner, subject myself to gropings from Helga, or hop on one foot and recite the alphabet backwards, I'll do it. If that's what it takes to be safe, then I say, "Go ahead, frisk me." And if you want, you can also buy me dinner.

Life: Lessons in Same-Sex Marriage

2010-11-14T10:37:00.003+01:00

Last night was the Marine Corps Ball. I debated at length whether I would attend. After about 2.5 seconds, I decided that this year the Ball wasn't for me. Don't get me wrong. I love our Marines. My nephew is a Marine. Marines have been a part of my life since I was a little kid -- they hosted parties for us when we were living in third-world African countries and didn't have anything else to do. Like nothing. We didn't have a TV. We didn't even have a phone. We had nothing. Parties at the Marine House were it and we loved it. And as I got older, Marines provided other forms of entertainment, but seeing as this is intended to be a family-oriented blog, I'll skip that part of my life.

Anyhoo, so this year I decided that squeezing into a dress that would do nothing for my physique and wearing hells (typo, but it stays), and watching a bunch of other people get drunk and engage in what I like to call "white people dancing" -- a cross between a seizure and a Jane Fonda aerobics class -- just wasn't for me. So I stayed home with the kids and played board games.

My kids like playing board games. Or as Thing 2 calls it, "bored games, cause it's what we do when we're bored." Last night we decided to play Life. It had been a long time since we played Life. The last time ended in a mass murder when, after several frustrating rounds, Thing 1 grabbed two of our stick-people filled cars and flung them across the room in frustration. "I killed your families! HA HA!!".

I need to get the kid some therapy.

So last night during Life, when it was my turn to get married, I grabbed another pink person. That prompted the following exchange between me and Thing 3 (age 6):

Thing 3: "You can't marry a girl!"
me: "Sure I can. Families come in many different shapes and sizes. Girls can marry girls and boys can marry boys. There's nothing wrong with that. You love who you love."

Thing 3 seemed satisfied with the answer and said nothing further. About an hour into our game, I noticed Thing 3 fiddling with his car and found that he had replaced his pink "wife" with a blue "husband".

me: "What happened to your wife?"
Thing 3: "I divorced her. She wouldn't stop talking. I got a husband instead. This way we can go out and do cool stuff together and none of that girly stuff."

Thing 1 and Thing 2 thought this was hilarious. If you know Thing 3, you know that the kid is just uproariously funny. Thing 3 usually is a great sport -- he loves making people laugh. But this time he got irritated and grabbed their cars. Thanks to my quick intervention we narrowly averted another mass murder. Things 1 and 2 assured Thing 3 that they were not laughing at him for getting a "husband", but were rather amused by his excuse for divorcing his "wife". All was settled and the game continued with just a few minor bumps.

I guess that's Life.

A Compelling Case For Converting To Islam?

2010-11-04T22:25:00.004+01:00

This morning the kids and I just couldn't get our act together so they missed their bus. That meant some quality time in the car playing what I like to call Human Frogger, i.e. driving, in this case across town to their school. Seriously though, if you don't drive like you're playing a game of Frogger over here, you won't make it. As I'm weaving my way through the chaos that is this town, my daughter (Thing 2) leans over and says to me with great sincerity in her voice:

Thing 2: "Mom, did you know that some Muslim women wear a different kind of hijab? It covers their entire face!"
Me: "Yep. (#*!!%#@# at someone on the road)."
Thing 2: "I was thinking, maybe you should wear one of those. It'll cover your double chin."
Me: Silence.

I will make no further comment, other than to post the video below.

Note that it contains foul language, so should you be offended by such please don't click on the link. Also, just to cover my (apparently ample) derriere from DS, I do not endorse the following weight loss method.

Oh okay, maybe just a *little*.

Excuse Me, Sir? Would You Perchance Have Some Canned Pimp?

2010-10-29T17:16:00.002+01:00

I'm studying Arabic. Arabic is a hard, hard language. It's like trying-to-eat-soup-with-a-fork hard. This is year two for me, and despite studying many hours a day, I still have difficulty getting the most basic things done. Take for example my encounter this week at a local grocery store. I wanted to buy tahini. You know, that ground up sesame paste stuff that is used in hummus and baba ganoush and other Middle Eastern dishes.

Except I didn't say tahini.

Here is the conversation I *thought* I was having:

me: "Excuse me, do you have any tahini?"
grocery store man: "I'm sorry, I don't understand you."
me: "Tahini. Ta-hi-ni. It's delicious, you use it to make hummus."
grocery store man: "I'm terribly sorry, ma'am, but I don't think we carry that in this store."
me: "How could you not have tahini?! This is an Arab country, no? Don't you guys brush your teeth with this stuff? I need tahini. I don't want sweet tahini. You know what I mean by sweet tahini? I want salty tahini."
grocery store man: "I think you should probably try someplace else."

Conversation I *actually* had (as translated for me by one of my teachers when I told her of my encounter):

me: "Excuse me sir, would you perchance happen to have any canned pimp?"
grocery store man: "I'm sorry, I don't understand you."
me: "Pimp. Pi-mp. He is very delicious and sometimes makes you hummus."
grocery store man: "I'm terribly sorry, ma'am, but I don't think we carry that in this store."
me: "Aren't you an Arab man?! I need pimp. You put pimp in your mouth. I need pimp. Not a sweet pimp, but one with much salt. A salty pimp. I want a salty pimp."
grocery store man: "I think you should probably try someplace else."

Now this is one of many examples of stupid things I've said and done in my attempts to use this language. It's probably worse than the one time I was in French class and the teacher asked me what I did over the weekend and I told her that I had "sinned" all weekend, when I had meant to say "I went fishing all weekend."

But one of my classmates told a story today that might have me beat. He was staying in a hotel in Egypt and after using the gym decided to go into the sauna for a bit. As he tells it, he was sitting in there, naked, when another man came in and they started chatting. The man asked him if he was married, and my friend attempted to say, "Yes, I'm married, but I'm on this trip alone", and instead said, "I am married and I am lonely." The man then offered him a massage, and when my friend declined, followed him into the shower area.

On second thought, my attempt to pick up a pimp at the grocery store may have been worse seeing as no one offered me a massage.

Pant Suits Are Where It's At, Yo!

2010-10-23T19:58:00.002+01:00

The most important lesson I learned on my first tour can be summarized in two words: Pant Suits.

I joined the Foreign Service in 2001, and was supposed to fly out of Washington, D.C. the evening of September 11th. I heard about the attacks while (irony of ironies) I was sitting in the Security Overseas Seminar at FSI. After sitting in limbo for a few days, I flew out on one of the first flights to assume my position as the head of the Economic and Commercial section.  It was a section of one.

About a week after arriving at post I was sitting in my office trying to figure out how the hell I had gotten this job, seeing as how about three months prior I couldn't even spell "economic" correctly, when the Ambassador's OMS stopped by to inform me that the Ambassador wanted me to accompany him as a notetaker to deliver a demarche on terrorist financing. I was being called up to the big leagues! This was the moment I had literally trained hours for, and I was excited! I squeezed into my most officorial-looking suit -- a dark navy blue skirt suit that was unfortunately about 4 sizes too small-- and penguin-walked/shuffled downstairs to the Ambassador's limo, my Skilcraft spiral notebook in tow.

I found, to my dismay, that we would be taking the armored SUV instead of the sedan. Ever tried to get into an SUV while wearing a too-small mid-calf skirt suit? After trying in vain to lift my leg more than three inches off the ground, I looked around and, assured that I wasn't being observed, hiked up my skirt as far as I could and made it into the SUV. I was met by the amused gaze of the Ambassador who had, unbeknownst to me, entered the vehicle while I was trying to figure out how to get in. I stammered some sort of greeting at him and tried not to make further eye contact. A couple deep breaths and I regained my composure.

We pulled up to the Ministry of Finance, and the body guard opened the door for me. I swung my legs over and went to step out of the vehicle and time stopped...as I stepped my heel caught on the rubber part of the door, and I.Went.Down. I mean flat on my face. The body guard's eyes widened as he quickly stepped out of my way. I can't say I blame him as I was rather hefty back then. I scrambled to pick myself up off the ground as the body guard kept swiping at me to get the dust off my very dark navy blue suit, concentrating perhaps too excessively on my backside. I don't know. What I did know was that the suit no longer had a mid-calf slit, but rather a mid-thigh slit, and I was rubbing gravel out of my forehead.

My Ambassador, ever the gentleman, pretended not to notice that I now looked like a hobo. My skirt was torn, I was covered in dust, and my heel was broken.  On the plus side, I no longer had to shuffle as I walked, though the broken heel did make it look like I was pimp walking. The demarche was delivered and we returned to the car, which of course I could now get in rather easily. As we drove to the Central Bank to deliver part two of the demarche, I quickly formulated a plan to avoid a repeat of my prior exit. Rather than attempt to step out of the vehicle, I thought, I would gracefully slide down from the car seat onto the ground. The car came to a stop, and the bodyguard opened the door.  I smiled at him confidently as I put my plan into action. I slid down onto the ground successfully, like a graceful gazelle.

My skirt, however, did not.

It was caught on the seat belt, and I was now full-on mooning the Ambassador of the United States of America.  Millions of thoughts flashed through my mind as the bodyguard struggled to untangle me, but the one that I recall distinctly was "Thank God I'm not wearing period underwear!" Don't know what that is? Ask a woman about the life cycle of underwear. It's fascinating.

After what seemed like an eternity I was untangled and limping sheepishly alongside the Ambassador. The Ambassador said nothing to me, which I interpreted more as anger than gallantry, and I was certain that my career was over. I was an emotionally exhausted, thoroughly humiliated, fashion disaster. Nothing, I mean nothing, could make this day worse.

Or so I thought.

We made our way into the ultra-modern Central Bank Governor's office, and I, a broken shell of my former self, collapsed into the chair with such force that the chair flew backwards and I found myself laying flat on my back, legs up in the air. The Ambassador and the Central Bank Governor ran to my assistance and successfully managed not to snicker as they heave-hoed me off the ground.

Somehow I made it through the meeting and back to the Embassy. The Ambassador said nothing the entire car ride back. I went to my office to change and started packing up my things. I mean, how could he NOT throw me out of post? The man saw my goody-bits 3-4 times in a two hour time span! If he didn't think I was a complete klutz, then he probably thought I was coming on to him.

I drafted the demarche-delivered cable and walked to the DCM's office to drop it off and say my goodbyes. As I walked in, he looked up at me with a twinkle in his eyes, smiled, and gave me the best advice I've gotten up until this point in my career:  "Lucia," he said, "Invest in some pant suits."

EFM, Tandem, Single Parent, Foreign Service Brat, Class 2 Bidder, etc.

2010-10-21T19:22:00.000+01:00

Last night I thought about what motivated me to start blogging. I know that my atrocious memory was a main factor since this blog will basically serve as my journal. But beyond that, I'd love to be able to give something back to the FS community (current and prospective) by sharing bits of my life and experiences. But what would be my "schtick"? After all, there are a ton of excellent blogs out there already. As I was drifting off to sleep I suddenly realized I seem to have held almost every single "label" in the Foreign Service. Maybe I can talk a bit about that!

Some of you know that I was raised in the Foreign Service, making me a Foreign Service brat. I married a Marine Security Guard (Foreign Service brat cliche alert!!), who then joined DS, making me an EFM. Once I finished college I joined the FS, becoming part of a tandem couple. When things didn't work out I became a single parent, and when one of my children was diagnosed with a significant learning disability I became a Class 2 bidder.

I'll hopefully, over time, expound a bit more on what these labels have meant for me. For now I will say that there are advantages and disadvantages associated with each of those labels but I wouldn't change my life for all the tea in China. I might, however, consider doing so for some delicious peanut butter. Did I mention yet that the pouch considers peanut butter a liquid?! WTF?

The Pouch Makes the Pony Express Seem Modern, Or Creative Ideas for Trunk or Treating

2010-10-20T18:29:00.001+01:00

One of the challenges of living overseas is getting mail from the U.S. I suspect that most of my blog audience will be other Foreign Service folks, so pardon the basic primer on the pouch. The pouch is a way for us to get personal mail from the U.S.  Mail is sent to a U.S. address, where it is then consolidated and shipped to us overseas. So if Mom wants to send you a really awesome sweater, she only has to pay postage to the U.S. address.

Pouch day is a BFD at most posts. Usually we get 1-2 shipments a week, and there are a whole bunch of rules related to what you can and can't send via pouch. For instance, liquids can't be shipped (well, technically some liquids can, but only in tiny quantities). The powers that be have decided that peanut butter is a liquid. So is frosting.

When I first joined the State Department, our mail went through a facility in Washington, D.C. After the anthrax scare of 2001 none of us got mail for about six months since everything had to be irradiated and decontaminated. Irradiation turns your credit cards into a glob of plastic, FYI. It also makes your papers smell weird. Not sure why I sniffed the papers. I was probably bored. I had a lot of free time my first tour. At some point, I'll post about that.  Anyway, after the whole anthrax thing, we got a different mailing address.

A few weeks ago, being the awesome mom that I am (not really. I overheard a colleague talking about buying her kid a costume and was like, oh yeah, I should probaby do that), I told my kids to pick out Halloween costumes online. Yes, we have Halloween here except instead of trick or treating, we go trunk or treating, i.e. we all decorate our cars, gather in the parking lot, and the kids walk from car to car.   Anyway, kid number one is a pre-teen.  He didn't want to order a costume until he determined if his "friends" would be wearing costumes.   Kids number two and three picked out their costumes and kid number one never got back to me.   For ease of reference, and in homage to one of my favorite authors, Dr. Suess, I shall now refer to my children as Thing 1, Thing 2, and Thing 3. So yesterday was pouch day, and one gigantic box filled with Halloween goodies for Thing 2 and Thing 3 arrived. Thing 1 was like, where's my costume? To which I reminded him that he had never selected a costume and therefore I had not ordered one for him. Thing 1 decided that he now (like 10 days before Halloween) wanted to order a costume. I had to remind Thing 1 that the pouch could take anywhere between 5 days and the next millenia to arrive, and that therefore we would not be able to order him a costume from the U.S. as it was unlikely to arrive in time.

If you own a pre-teen, you can easily imagine the chaos that ensued.  Choice quotes include, "I hate (place where we are)", "the State Department sucks", "Why can't we go back to the U.S.?", "You said (place where we are) would be awesome, but IT WAS LIES, ALL LIES!!" blah, blah, it's the end of the world.

After some time, Thing 2 and Thing 3, clearly perturbed by Thing 1's distress, offered up the following suggestions for Thing 1's Halloween costume:

Suggestion #1: Paint face green. Paint one eye black. Go as a black-eyed pea.
Suggestion #2: Tie a stick to the top of your head. Attach a string to said stick so that it dangles in front of your face. Attach a leaf to that string. Blow. Go as a "Leaf-Blower".

Thing 1 was not amused, and we are still determining what costume he will wear, but as for me, I'm going as a leaf blower.

Keeping up with the Joneses

2010-10-20T16:36:00.001+01:00

These days it seems like everyone has a blog, and frankly, I feel left out. I mean, I have interesting stuff to say. Sometimes. And it seemed like a good way for me to remember little things that I would otherwise forget, given that I have the memory of Dory from Finding Nemo. Granted, I probably could have picked a more interesting day to start blogging, seeing as absolutely nothing interesting happened today. Perhaps I'll just introduce myself and start from there:

I work for the State Department, and have for almost 10 years. I currently live overseas in a country which for now shall remain unnamed, and my full-time job is to learn an insanely difficult language. For the most part, I like living overseas and working as a Foreign Service Officer. It's a cool job. And the money's good. I'll have to decide what I want to do with this blog, i.e. do I want to talk about work, or focus on the challenges of living overseas, or talk about stuff going on in my life, or talk about the goofy things my kids do. Probably a combination of all, depending on my mood.

So I guess that's it for now! A bien tot!