oh crap

The movers came on Monday. So of course I stayed up Sunday night til 6 AM. I purged, cleaned stuff off (don't want dust in your shipment---nothing worse than hordes of dust mites feeding on your dusty household goods), packed some items myself, sorted and organized. Now you may be wondering why I was doing all this the night before the movers arrive, instead of weeks in advance, which would certainly be easier and make more sense. Well, it just happens that I am a master procrastinator. I am so skilled at putting things off that I am now working on New Years resolutions from 1975. At work I often find that by the time I get to the things in my "to do" pile, they no longer need to be done. (look at all the time I save NOT doing meaningless tasks!) See---procrastination is actually a time saver. Anyway, I digress. This is not about my perfected art form of doing everything at the last possible moment. It's about something far less interesting----cat crap.

So..back to the story---I stayed up til 6 AM preparing for the big move. I crawled into bed. When I say I crawled in bed, I mean that literally. My cat has diabetes and kidney failure so he can no longer jump up onto the bed. Therefore, the mattress is now on the floor in order to accommodate him. The litter box and his food are also in the room to accommodate him. After crawling onto my bed-on-the-floor for my one hour of sleep, I then had to fight that giddy high that you develop when you are completely exhausted. The one where you have adrenaline pumping through you, keeping you from relaxing and falling asleep.

Then...just as I arrived at the brink of sleep, just before falling over the edge into my subconscious, I suddenly felt myself being dragged back to alertness. No! No! No! my mind began pleading. But it was no use. It was the wicked, nose-burning, make-me-want-to-gag smell of cat crap, just feet away from my head (remember...litter box is in the bedroom for his majesty. And his majesty is usually above kicking the litter over onto his own crap in order to bury the smelly crap). So I found myself desperately fighting that feeling of drifting back to wakefulness. I had mere minutes left to sleep! I did not want to wake up! Yet ---that smell! So, you see, this is what I am reduced to these days---a mental self-debate at 6AM....precious minutes of sleep on the one hand (tinged with stomach wrenching cat crap smell) or wasting precious sleep time getting up to bury the crap, ensuring that I would be jolted back to a state of wakefulness and would probably not get back to sleep at all. It was a big dilemma. And not one I took lightly.

I am sure by now you are on the edge of your seat wondering...Did she fall back asleep, all the while inhaling that foul odor? Or did she drag herself back from the depths of restfulness to get up and flick litter onto that large (and let me tell you it was huge) cat turd? Well, I won't keep you in suspense any longer. I decided that sleep was more important and meaningful and I simply endured the stench as I drifted back down to have a few REM moments.

Now this story would seem to have a happy ending. And it would have... except for the fact that I went on to dream that I was lost in a sewer and that I was sinking in a cesspool of stinking fecal matter. I can't imagine a more disturbing reality seeping into my dreams. Maybe tomorrow night I will spray the room with cinnamon air freshener and I can dream that I am swimming in a large pumpkin pie. The scent of Thanksgiving would be a nice change.

just a thought….

No matter how sweet and delicious, an unrealized dream becomes quite simply just a wish.... fading at daybreak.

translation really is not translation

Things I will not miss about Belgium....

me: Hi, I am here for my appointment.

lady: stares silently

me: Um...my doctor's appointment.

lady: That is not possible.

me: Well... it must be possible. I have an appointment today. I wrote it down very carefully in my calendar, took the day off at work, and drove all the way here.

lady: No.  It is not possible. What is your name? (I tell her)

lady: No.  Your appointment is on August 13.

me: Yes, I know. And that is today---August 13th.

lady: No--the appointment is for August 13, THREE-ZERO.

me: blinking rapidly with a stupid expression on my face, trying to understand what just happened...then suddenly I know.  What? Nooooo....that's THIRTY, not THIRTEEN. (AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH---the scream now occurring in my head).

lady: Today is not possible. You can come on the thirteen (by now it is clear she means thirty)

me: No, THAT is not possible ...since I will no longer be in Belgium…..and will be living in a far off land where thirteen is clearly thirteen and thirty is definitely thirty.

The land down under

If you are easily offended, would prefer not to know my very personal business, or lean toward being even a bit prudish----Please stop reading here!
OK...did I lose anyone? Well, just remember, I did warn you.
I paid a visit to my Belgian Gynecologist the other day. (now perhaps I lost a few readers at this point). You may consider what I am about to tell you to be a bit vulgar and way too explicit OR you can consider it a scientific experiment in cultural diversity. Take your pick.
So...back to the story....I paid a visit to my Belgian Gynecologist. Visiting a doctor here is very different from the American experience. The office is part of her house. She has no receptionist or secretary or billing clerk--you just walk in and sit in a very small waiting room--with enough space for exactly 3 people to wait and furnished with a small soft sofa and a comfy chair. When someone leaves, the doctor steps out and indicates for the next person to come on in......into her very small exam room (with of course no assistant)--just a desk, a sort-of reclining chair with stirrups, and a see-through screen (why bother with a screen when it is virtually transparent?) to stand behind when you are told to strip down and then come out mostly naked (no curtain or sheet to cover you, or paper gown of any sort). You don't lie back on an examining bed----you sit up, slightly leaned back, able to observe the entire goings-on. So now fast forward a bit....there I am sitting in this chair, mostly naked, knees wide, feet in the pedal-things (why do we call them stirrups? no one is riding anywhere) thanking the lord that I had the foresight to choose a female doctor. She has this microscope-looking-instrument between my legs and close to me, obviously zeroed in on my nether regions. Oh----and there is a large light shining on me down there....VERY bright----lighting me up like a mini football stadium. And she is in the middle of the exam, instrument plunged deeply. Suddenly her cell phone rings. "Oh" she says..."excuse me...I am going to get that". Out comes the speculum. ---- What!!!? Are you kidding me? So now, here I sit in the most exposed, unnatural position of my entire life... and she is answering her cell phone? And it wasn't a quick call either. No---it was at least several minutes long (which feels like 10 hours when your feet are in stirrups). And it didn't seem to be an emergency either. In fact, it sounded rather chatty. I don't speak much French---but I did hear the word couleur (color). Now perhaps it was a business call (like maybe she was discussing the color of someone's labia).....but I don't think so. The tone was very informal. In fact, at the time I was thinking maybe she was ordering wall paper. So I sat there spread eagle, spot light blazing as if my vagina were about to be interrogated (vee have vays to make you talk) ....and she is taking a phone call!! At that point it all seemed so ludicrous that I started to laugh (she didn't notice...she was engrossed in the call---most likely discussing curtain fabrics at this point). This story does have a happy ending...after all, I didn't have to get any further exams. I shudder to think of having an appointment with a Belgian proctologist.