tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-352518472024-03-13T03:28:07.091+01:00Slightly CrackedLucy Filethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06101962728153916202noreply@blogger.comBlogger389125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35251847.post-15001420204384507802009-09-29T11:47:00.003+02:002009-09-29T12:28:38.533+02:00Public TransportRecently (um, yesterday) the young ones and I started taking public transport to school.<br /><br />At the beginning of the school year, I (read: my husband) switched them to a different school. A school that is about 3 times the amount of driving time as the old school. Of course, Thrifty doesn't have to drive them. It's quite difficult to fit two small children on the back of a motorcycle.<br /><br />So, after a bout of road rage where I attempted to run down a woman in a mini van who cut me off and then turned left from the right lane (where the children learned more words for their Chris Rock routine the next time they are around English speakers), I decided that for the sake of my sanity and our lives, I should quit driving.<br /><br />It also <del>makes drinking in the morning much more acceptable</del> alleviates my hippie guilt.<br /><br />However, there is only one bus line that leaves from where I live. And unfortunately, the route that it should take is under construction, so it's a long, jerky, bumpy ride that way.<br /><br />So I do what anyone would do. I drive to a nice large <del>grocery store</del> parking lot that's in a better position than I am, park, and walk across the lot with my shopping bag to a better transport line.<br /><br />And feel only slightly guilty about it.<br /><br />I'm not sure if the lack of hippie guilt makes up for the "parking lot" guilt.<br /><br />But it's working at keeping me somewhat sane. I have not yet tried to run over anyone who cut me off on the tram. <br /><br />Although, it would be awesome to be a tram driver. Maybe I should look into that. Then I could run people down at will.<br /><br />On second thought, they probably require good Polish skills. And they probably frown upon morning drinking.Lucy Filethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06101962728153916202noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35251847.post-80209585472692881472009-09-23T12:20:00.004+02:002009-09-23T16:27:54.601+02:00Wild Pigs in ClothesIn the past two weeks, I've had an odd experience.<br /><br />Turns out people don't know I have a daughter.<br /><br />Yesterday, at my kids' school, I was chatting with a woman I've known for all of two weeks. I complimented her daughter's outfit.<br /><br />She said, "Oh, you know how you go into a store and go a little crazy and buy everything that matches?"<br /><br />I said, "Yes, I used to do that with my daughter. That doesn't happen anymore. Now it's 'Mom, buy me skinny jeans.' and 'Isn't this shirt CUTE?' while she throws it over my arm and goes looking for more."<br /><br />"I'm sorry, did you say 'daughter'?" She says this as though I have just mentioned that I have a wild pig that I used to dress in matching clothes, but now insists that I buy it skinny jeans.<br /><br />"Yes."<br /><br />"Daugh - ter?"<br /><br />"Yes."<br /><br />"How did I not know you have a daughter?"<br /><br />"Well, um. She's not usually with me. She's usually in school when I see you." Except for that time when we met at the Hard Rock and I had Tigger and her friend as well as all my boys. But I'm sure you didn't notice her then. She didn't look at all like a wild pig.<br /><br />"How did I not know you have a daughter?"<br /><br />"Um, I don't know." But it's not as though we've been married for two years. I met you TWO WEEKS ago.<br /><br />"Does she go to school here?"<br /><br />"Yes. Down that hall right there."<br /><br />"How did I not know you had a daughter?"<br /><br />I shrugged.<br /><br />(This was WAY funnier in my head.)Lucy Filethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06101962728153916202noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35251847.post-19224647168820603292009-09-12T12:03:00.003+02:002009-09-12T12:14:58.945+02:00I'm back! (Sort of)I promised some of my lovely Facebook blogging friends that I would have a post up this week. "Write, Monkey! Write!"<br /><br />I'm still at a loss for words - not because anything bad has happened, but mostly because I think I just ran out of funny. Of course, practice actually helps to keep the words rolling and I'm well out of practice now.<br /><br />So, for now, I leave you with this:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_R8qW_fiDuvI/SqtzRS_JZYI/AAAAAAAABHw/nvJbKjKDAt4/s1600-h/IMG_0352.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_R8qW_fiDuvI/SqtzRS_JZYI/AAAAAAAABHw/nvJbKjKDAt4/s320/IMG_0352.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5380520920815854978" border="0" /></a><br />Tigger saw this on the shelf at our local grocery store (which remains <del>anonymous</del> - HAHA!)<br /><br />She said, "What in the heck is this? Carrots and corn in a jar? Who thought this was a good idea?"<br /><br />Then she turned it around.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_R8qW_fiDuvI/SqtzRqbSSDI/AAAAAAAABH4/ljgHR7Ho9pE/s1600-h/IMG_0353.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_R8qW_fiDuvI/SqtzRqbSSDI/AAAAAAAABH4/ljgHR7Ho9pE/s320/IMG_0353.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5380520927107893298" border="0" /></a>"OOh! It's a little surprise! When you turn it around it's not JUST carrots and corn. It's PEAS, carrots and corn! How exciting!"<br /><br />See, I told you I was all out of funny.Lucy Filethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06101962728153916202noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35251847.post-42084292317487494952009-07-11T08:50:00.002+02:002009-07-11T08:52:52.643+02:00HmmmI only realized this week that it had been 2 weeks since I last posted. Time kind of spun out of control for me.<br /><br />Pooh was in the hospital last week. It's nothing serious and he's fine now, but that ate my week and I didn't even realize that the week had passed.<br /><br />So I owe some new posts. Or something. But I'm just not feeling up to it right now. So I may be back. Or I may not. But I just wanted to let you all know that I am still alive.Lucy Filethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06101962728153916202noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35251847.post-66256782921923324932009-06-24T19:40:00.007+02:002009-06-24T22:17:10.668+02:00Passive-Aggressive Much?In honor of wordless Wednesday (and because I have little to say but I want my last post to fall off...) here are some fabulous <a href="http://www.passiveaggressivenotes.com/">PANs</a> (and their translations) from Warsaw.<br /><br />This one hangs on the wall of our favorite pizza place:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_R8qW_fiDuvI/SkJmFwFlIvI/AAAAAAAABHY/6hv6D65DWV4/s1600-h/IMG_0199.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_R8qW_fiDuvI/SkJmFwFlIvI/AAAAAAAABHY/6hv6D65DWV4/s320/IMG_0199.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350951556263256818" border="0" /></a><br /><br />It reads "True Italian pizza is eaten without added sauce." Meaning, "Hell no! We <span style="font-weight: bold;">will not</span> give you ketchup for your pizza!"<br /><br />This one takes a little more backstory. This car:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_R8qW_fiDuvI/SkJpb-29EJI/AAAAAAAABHo/187-8yOsf4c/s1600-h/IMG_0564.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 142px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_R8qW_fiDuvI/SkJpb-29EJI/AAAAAAAABHo/187-8yOsf4c/s320/IMG_0564.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350955236720447634" border="0" /></a><br />has been sitting at the end of my street for several years now. We use it as a landmark to tell people where to turn. Several complaints have been lodged with the homeowner's association, yet they always claim that the person who has parked this car here has a legal right to park it here and refuses to move it.<br /><br />Someone (not us, I swear!) left this note taped to the window:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_R8qW_fiDuvI/SkJmoG5EPgI/AAAAAAAABHg/P8-hHkQWFsk/s1600-h/IMG_0003.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_R8qW_fiDuvI/SkJmoG5EPgI/AAAAAAAABHg/P8-hHkQWFsk/s320/IMG_0003.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350952146500337154" border="0" /></a><br />It reads <blockquote>"THIS IS NOT A LANDFILL!<br />PLEASE MOVE THIS PIECE OF TRASH!<br />-THE PEOPLE THAT LIVE HERE"<br /></blockquote><br />The sign was removed the next day. And then someone busted out the window.Lucy Filethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06101962728153916202noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35251847.post-37775594047115464932009-06-22T07:32:00.002+02:002009-06-22T07:32:02.032+02:00The Road (Rage) Goes on ForeverMany expats who live in or have visited Poland will tell you that Poles are some of the most obnoxious drivers ever. I hesitate to say 'bad' because in reality they are some of the best drivers I have seen. They are always expecting someone to do something stupid.<br /><br />Yesterday, I was leaving my neighborhood to go collect my children from school. At the intersection of the exit from my neighborhood and the main road, there is a traffic light and 3 traffic lanes. One is for the people coming into the neighborhood, one is for turning right, and the one in the middle is for turning left. All clearly marked.<br /><br />I was turning right, so I pulled way up and waited for the traffic to clear enough for me to go when, just at the point where I was clear, another car came up behind me, whipped around me in the left lane and turned right. I almost hit him.<br /><br />I honked my horn, sped up, pulled up beside him, honked again, and flipped him off.<br /><br />He swung in behind me and tailed me all the way to the next "town".<br /><br />In hindsight, I may have overreacted.<br /><br />I should have hit him.Lucy Filethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06101962728153916202noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35251847.post-6521927325154779312009-06-17T17:38:00.000+02:002009-06-17T17:38:00.458+02:00Yeah. They Did.Like many schools, my kids' school publishes a yearbook.<br /><br />And, like many schools, my kids' school has the word 'school' in its name.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_R8qW_fiDuvI/SjUZ55fjSDI/AAAAAAAABFc/xknvi5NOrS0/s1600-h/Yearbook1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 254px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_R8qW_fiDuvI/SjUZ55fjSDI/AAAAAAAABFc/xknvi5NOrS0/s320/Yearbook1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5347208615048726578" border="0" /></a><br />Unfortunately, the publisher never went to school.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_R8qW_fiDuvI/SjUaFmZTC2I/AAAAAAAABFk/JEoo_uBGdYk/s1600-h/Yearbook2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 45px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_R8qW_fiDuvI/SjUaFmZTC2I/AAAAAAAABFk/JEoo_uBGdYk/s320/Yearbook2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5347208816080653154" border="0" /></a>Lucy Filethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06101962728153916202noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35251847.post-33500671810762403012009-06-15T07:16:00.000+02:002009-06-15T07:16:25.193+02:00If Hell Has Chinese FoodHubby and I usually go out for date night on Friday night. This Friday night our babysitter (Tigger) was out for her own date night and we were unable to go. She was home on Saturday, so we went out to this new Chinese restaurant that opened just down the road from our house.<br /><br />My husband's alter ego is a <a href="http://www.savecashinwarsaw.blogspot.com/">reviewer of all things expa</a><a href="http://www.savecashinwarsaw.blogspot.com/">t (at least all things expat related to Warsaw)</a>. Last week's review was in regard to the rudeness <a href="http://savecashinwarsaw.blogspot.com/2009/06/possibly-rudest-chinese-restaurant-in.html">we experienced at this restaurant</a>. We gave them another chance, and this time the staff was much more pleasant. The management most likely told them not to be rude to the customers.<br /><br />Instead we should poison them.<br /><br />We started by ordering a large beer (for him) and a glass of red wine (for me). Our waitress said, "We don't have red wine."<br /><br />I stared at her. "I understand all of those words individually, but together they do not make sense."<br /><br />Then, Dylan impaled himself with a chopstick.<br /><br />After we pulled the splinters out and stopped the bleeding, the first dish arrived. Spring rolls. They were quite small. Dylan and I tried to be very professional (we're reviewing the food after all). "It's a little too salty. There's more than a hint of garlic."<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_R8qW_fiDuvI/SjXYzAH_M9I/AAAAAAAABFw/mSPG626oXlM/s1600-h/IMG_0195.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_R8qW_fiDuvI/SjXYzAH_M9I/AAAAAAAABFw/mSPG626oXlM/s320/IMG_0195.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5347418503290762194" border="0" /></a><br />The next dish was Kung Pao chicken. This one was pretty oily and just not incredibly tasty. Again, far too much salt was used.<br /><br />The third dish was not the one we ordered, so we sent it back. In order to punish us, they returned with a dish that after two bites made my tongue go completely numb.<br /><br />The waitress returned and asked if we would like dessert. I said, "The food you have brought us has gotten progressively worse. What will you bring next, a steaming pile of dog shit?"<br /><br />To which my husband replied, "Is that an option? I'd like to trade this dish in for that!"<br /><br />We tipped the waitress well (she'll need it for when the health department shuts them down) and left the building like it was a nuclear disaster waiting to happen.Lucy Filethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06101962728153916202noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35251847.post-48633643055024799492009-06-12T16:17:00.002+02:002009-06-12T17:08:51.517+02:00The Meaning of Life, It Could Very Well Be Monty Python'sI've been having a difficult time coming up with material lately. Not only have I been busy with the end of the school year and all that encompasses, but I've not been feeling the funny. Instead, unlike me, I've been feeling really contemplative.<br /><br />The end of the school year often strikes me this way. In our lifestyle, the end of the school year signals an influx of new people trickling in throughout the summer as well as the loss of old friends who go on to <del>better</del> other places. It's the loss of the old friends that causes more contemplation than the discovery of new friends, but they are all on the same continuum.<br /><br />What makes people want to leave their home country and live in a foreign place? What makes them begin to treat friends as though they are family and to rely on strangers in ways sometimes more than they would relatives? What makes a familiar accent the most beautiful in the world?<br /><br />In addition to all of these gains and losses, I'm also completing my bachelor's degree after 16 years. This has left me more than a little contemplative in and of itself. Because of the above lifestyle, a bachelor's degree does me very little good. Here, in my very last class (which fittingly is called "Cyberpsychology: An Introduction to Human-Computer Interaction"), I don't know why it was such a big deal to me to get this degree. It does me absolutely no good. And finally, I completely understand all of those "trailing spouses" (the term used by the U.S. Department of State) who left their careers to follow their spouses to new and exotic locations that many of them absolutely hate. Now, I know that I earned the degree for me. For my peace of mind and for my own personal satisfaction. But as far as being able to gain employment with it...nada. The jobs that are available to me are of the administrative assistant type and ones that I could hold whether or not I had spent half my life and much of my money getting a useless degree in psychology.<br /><br />Don't get me wrong. I'm proud of myself. It took me a very long time to get that degree and I had a lot of setbacks during that time (I'll have to reserve the complete story of college education for another post. I can shorten it to this: I was one of the ones in high school who was put into the "she's a very smart cookie, but unfortunately her parents can't or won't pay for her education, so she'll be flipping burgers for the rest of her life. No need to invest any time in helping this one." category).<br /><br />I'm just questioning. Contemplating. Wondering what it's all about.<br /><br />And where to go from here.Lucy Filethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06101962728153916202noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35251847.post-78734644840146830792009-06-09T09:36:00.000+02:002009-06-09T09:37:11.665+02:00No Stinkin' BadgesI've spent the last few days wallowing in self pity. I finally got the call about <a href="http://hrncirsinghana.blogspot.com/2009/04/job-hunting.html">that job</a> that I applied (and interviewed for) OH SO LONG AGO, and *huge surprise this*, I didn't get it.<br /><br />Instead, they let me know that they hoped they could keep me on the list for temporary help.<br /><br />I said, "F*ck you." Well, at least I did in my head. I do actually have to see these people on a daily basis, even though I didn't get the job.<br /><br />Really I said, "No. I have children. I can't drop everything at a moment's notice for <span style="font-style: italic;">temporary</span> employment. But thanks."<br /><br />But all this wallowing has got me thinking. Why do I really want a paying job? What is the point really?<br /><br />It's all about badges. Because despite the Mexican bandits of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Treasure_of_the_Sierra_Madre_%28film%29">The Treasure of the Sierra Madre</a> insistence that they don't need "no badges", most people in my life have them.<br /><br />Don't get me wrong; I <span style="font-style: italic;">have</span> badges. Mine are just the color coded lowest of the low - meaning that I am of no importance whatsoever. Which might be worse than having no badges at all.<br /><br />Perhaps I should become a Mexican bandit.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">I am so far behind in so many things. I owe my two children, whose birthday fall within two days of one another, their birthday posts. So, birthday posts forthcoming.</span>Lucy Filethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06101962728153916202noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35251847.post-69059598274005335732009-06-03T11:11:00.002+02:002009-06-03T11:21:50.990+02:00The Saddest ThingI am currently taking a class called Writing for Publication. I'm taking it as an elective part of my degree completion because I love to write.<br /><br />I know, you never had any idea.<br /><br />Last week, we were assigned to teams. Aside from the fact that my teammate never actually posted the paper I was supposed to edit, everything went well.<br /><br />Then yesterday, our instructor sent me his paper. Something ridiculous about how she couldn't really give me a grade if I didn't actually do any work.<br /><br />Here's an excerpt from his paper (I would have posted the whole thing, but I think you would have wanted to shoot yourself in the head after reading it. At least that's what I wanted to do.):<br /><br /><blockquote>30,000 children needlessly died today! Annually speaking 11,000,000 children needlessly and pointlessly die each year from the most minor of symptoms. The worst part about this fact is that these “children” are aged 5 and under, so the number is much, much higher. Children in “developing nation”, as if they are just becoming civilized, are getting the short straw from the medical companies. It’s amazing how medicine that is used to help and even save lives, are being greatly misused to created so much misery. It’s incredibly ironic. Children in third world nations are dying from not the diseases but of the world apathetic feelings towards them. Ask the average western or westernized citizen how many people die a year from a common cold. A common cold! And they’d probably look at you with a perplexed look as if they were thinking, “who in the world dies from a common cold.” What a person in a “first world nation” or “advanced nation” considers a minor cold is a disease to children in a “developing nations”. But why is this? </blockquote><br /><br />You want to know the saddest part about all of this? He's a student in the degree program for professional writing.<br /><br />And I am not.Lucy Filethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06101962728153916202noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35251847.post-20167344623716357512009-06-02T09:58:00.002+02:002009-06-02T10:07:46.537+02:00Allergies, AllergiesI'll apologize for my lack of posts, but many of you are subscribers and probably don't notice too much when I'm missing. I just haven't popped up in a few days.<br /><br />Anyway, this is day 8 of the worst cold ever. I woke up and told Dylan that my neck is stiff and I'm pretty sure I have meningitis. Because I'm a little bit of a hypochondriac.<br /><br />It's also been raining for, oh, about 8 days.<br /><br />Today, on my way home from dropping off the boys at school, I thought "You know, I feel an awful lot like I always did in Houston when I was a kid."<br /><br />And then, in one big "DUH!" moment, I realized I have allergies.<br /><br />Yeah. My 8 day long cold, is just allergies. From the rain, of all things.<br /><br />So, amusingly, my two children who suffer from horrible hay fever feel fabulous right now.<br /><br />And I feel like there's a cloud inside my brain.<br /><br />Which explains this post entirely.<br /><br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/kHb556_qoV4&hl=en&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/kHb556_qoV4&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">I'm not as entertaining as these guys. Which is kind of sad.</span>Lucy Filethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06101962728153916202noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35251847.post-14357288871498435302009-05-26T11:37:00.005+02:002009-05-26T22:34:44.063+02:00Too Much InformationPooh goes to a Montessori preschool. The director, who is also his teacher, is a very interesting character.<br /><br />I've never really talked about her here, but she's hilariously funny without trying to be. I'm always pretty paranoid that people I know are going to find my blog, so I often try not to talk about people I know in real life. Of course, sometimes I get a little sideways and tell such people that I write this blog.<br /><br />Anyway, because I'm <span style="font-style: italic;">usually</span> not drunk at the preschool, I've never told the director about my blog.<br /><br />So now she's fair game.<br /><br />Last week, she told me that Pooh's favorite book was this one:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_R8qW_fiDuvI/Shu7Km-4heI/AAAAAAAABFE/y759JNWkiTk/s1600-h/image0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 310px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_R8qW_fiDuvI/Shu7Km-4heI/AAAAAAAABFE/y759JNWkiTk/s320/image0.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340067574115239394" border="0" /></a><br />And Pooh's favorite part of the book is this one:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_R8qW_fiDuvI/Shu7KzQzdsI/AAAAAAAABFM/SFCkv9uVw3c/s1600-h/image0-1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 318px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_R8qW_fiDuvI/Shu7KzQzdsI/AAAAAAAABFM/SFCkv9uVw3c/s320/image0-1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340067577411630786" border="0" /></a><br />So Pooh showed me the book and I said, "Yes, that's the way you were born, but sometimes the doctor has to cut the mom's belly and take the baby out that way."<br /><br />And the director said "Now, that's too much information."<br /><br />THAT'S too much information? When exactly does it become too much information? I suppose it's when we start talking about surgery.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Update: This is the page about how babies get there in the first place:<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_R8qW_fiDuvI/ShxR61tzKxI/AAAAAAAABFU/u09C9eoKiEs/s1600-h/image0-2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 234px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_R8qW_fiDuvI/ShxR61tzKxI/AAAAAAAABFU/u09C9eoKiEs/s320/image0-2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340233329448004370" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">My particular favorite is the man and woman lying in bed </span><span style="font-style: italic;">apparently </span><span style="font-style: italic;">thinking love thoughts.<br /><br /></span>Lucy Filethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06101962728153916202noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35251847.post-33083789588580366172009-05-21T20:57:00.003+02:002009-05-21T21:38:18.192+02:00Rhymes With Duck Race<span style="font-style: italic;">I had totally intended to have this post up on Wednesday, but my internet went out on Tuesday. Two days without internet - I nearly died. Today, when I reached rock bottom, I could be found at my children's school trying desperately to hack into their WiFi network; which, despite my mad skillz, I was unable to achieve.</span><br /><br />I often read stories, or in the case of my sister in law, HEAR stories about children who say inappropriate things in inappropriate situations. They do this because they are children. It's what they do. They haven't yet learned tact. They will learn, although some unfortunate souls never do (is it unfortunate for them or for those of us who have to deal with them? Like the lady at a party the other day who turned to me and loudly announced that another woman at the party had "no tits").<br /><br />Me? I am blessed by living in a country where 99% of the people speak a language different than the one my family speaks. Therefore, I am usually spared most of those mortifingly embarrassing moments. However, my Polish is horrifically embarrassing, so there's no need to feel like I'm missing out on embarrassment.<br /><br />Anyway, a few days ago, I was walking through one of the largest malls in Warsaw, while Piglet and Pooh Bear were entertaining each other with the rhyming game. For those of you who are unfamiliar with the rhyming game it's a maddening game where a word or phrase is repeated incessantly and then, because their mother/father/nanny/sister has not been driven to the brink of insanity yet, they think of words or phrases that rhyme with it.<br /><br />That particular day's phrase was "duck race". I think they came up with it because they are 4 and 6.<br /><br />So, there are many, many interesting things that rhyme with duck race, but I think you know which one caught my attention.<br /><br />So I stepped in.<br /><br />"Please don't say that word. It's not a nice word in English." And yes, I really do specifiy which language when speaking to my children.<br /><br />Pooh: "What's not a nice word? F*ck face?"<br /><br />Me: "Yes. That word is not nice."<br /><br />Pooh: "So I shouldn't say f*ck face?"<br /><br />Me: "No."<br /><br />Pooh: "Why is f*ck face not a nice word?"<br /><br />At that point I was fairly convinced that he was just screwing with me. And he's 4!<br /><br />Me: "I don't know exactly. Someone a long time ago decided it was a bad word. It's culturally accepted to be a bad word and therefore we shouldn't say it."<br /><br />Pooh: "Okay. I'll stop saying f*ck face."<br /><br />Yes. I am truly, truly grateful that most people did not understand a gosh darned word that kid said.Lucy Filethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06101962728153916202noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35251847.post-32369508975136658882009-05-19T12:30:00.003+02:002009-05-19T12:41:07.043+02:00Some DaysYou know how some days start out like normal?<br /><br />You're running late, like normal.<br /><br />Your four year old erupts into a hysterical crying fit because you "let his snail go live outside" - when in reality it was dead and you tossed it into the backyard. You wonder why you bothered to spare him the truth.<br /><br />You get the kids in the car, give the remaining kids the list of things they have to do before and after school and go off to the preschool drop off.<br /><br />You get to preschool and the director says, "Here's our information. Build us a website. By tomorrow. Go!"<br /><br />And then you're like, "How in the name of all things that are good and pure, did I manage to get myself into this mess? Today was so normal!"<br /><br />Then you turn up 4 hours later with a pretty awesome looking website and she says, "Well, that's good."<br /><br />And you're like, "Seriously? That's it? Do you know how amazing I am? Especially since I haven't worked in this field in 10 years! And everything I've learned has been through hobbies!"<br /><br />So here it is:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_R8qW_fiDuvI/ShKMZLyePlI/AAAAAAAABE8/V5YPEFK2VZM/s1600-h/HMH.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 312px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_R8qW_fiDuvI/ShKMZLyePlI/AAAAAAAABE8/V5YPEFK2VZM/s320/HMH.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5337482872676564562" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I expect more praise from y'all.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">And it's not online yet because we're having server issues.</span>Lucy Filethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06101962728153916202noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35251847.post-3860656471148978302009-05-17T07:39:00.002+02:002009-05-17T07:45:20.598+02:00A Bad, Bad ThingI've been a bad blogger. Trying to make the rounds, but back when I took <a href="http://hrncirsinghana.blogspot.com/2009/04/job-hunting.html">my break</a> I told myself that I would only read blogs from my iPhone. That way, it was when I was waiting to get my hair cut, or waiting in the doctor's office, or waiting at the car service center (where I like to hang out every Tuesday) and would not be taking up my whole day.<br /><br />Then my iPhone decided that it hates me. Which is so sad, because I really loved it.<br /><br />I read your blogs, click the link to original post, TYPE MY COMMENT USING ONLY MY THUMBS, and then the darn phone freezes up on me and LOSES my comment AND Google Reader then resets so I lose the original post too!<br /><br />It's a conspiracy!<br /><br />But yesterday, I typed up a whole post using only my thumbs. And guess what.<br /><br />RESET!<br /><br />Lost the post.<br /><br />iPhone hates me.Lucy Filethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06101962728153916202noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35251847.post-79377509189811699302009-05-12T07:44:00.000+02:002009-05-12T07:44:00.436+02:00Pimp My Ride - Polish Style<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_R8qW_fiDuvI/Sge7Xjz8ujI/AAAAAAAABDg/Gvem57e5Jdg/s1600-h/IMG_0060.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 287px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_R8qW_fiDuvI/Sge7Xjz8ujI/AAAAAAAABDg/Gvem57e5Jdg/s320/IMG_0060.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334438297068157490" border="0" /></a><br />"Why Yes, city bus WAS the look I was going for."Lucy Filethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06101962728153916202noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35251847.post-75195551080097694632009-05-10T21:50:00.002+02:002009-05-10T21:53:02.429+02:00What Happens When You Give a 4 Year Old Rum Cake<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_R8qW_fiDuvI/SgcwYMD7GyI/AAAAAAAABDY/pCJT72qikZc/s1600-h/IMG_0051.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_R8qW_fiDuvI/SgcwYMD7GyI/AAAAAAAABDY/pCJT72qikZc/s320/IMG_0051.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334285475756317474" border="0" /></a> Yes, he's licking the plate.<br /><br />And I didn't find out it was rum cake until after he asked for his third slice.<br /><br />He slept REALLY well that night.Lucy Filethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06101962728153916202noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35251847.post-27880437736480362492009-05-07T07:32:00.001+02:002009-05-07T08:24:13.088+02:00Whatever You LikeToday is hubby's and my 15th wedding anniversary. We were married on his birthday. Today, he says that if he were to do it again, he would absolutely NOT get married on his birthday. <br /><br />But we did, so he can suck it.<br /><br />Anyway, our first several years of marriage were exactly like this:<br /><br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/yRVi0paZlfI&hl=en&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/yRVi0paZlfI&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br />I laugh every time I hear this song. Yep, totally my life. Except that my husband was assistant manager at Blockbuster, and manager of Radio Shack.<br /><br />And now we're diplomats.<br /><br />And we order sushi.<br /><br />But we'll always have that time. When it was "all about the Washingtons". <br /><br />And I think that's what sticks us together.<br /><br />Well, that and we love each other passionately.<br /><br />Yeah, that could be it too.Lucy Filethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06101962728153916202noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35251847.post-77785305863348210462009-05-06T09:44:00.000+02:002009-05-06T09:44:38.140+02:00And Another Thing...Anyone who lives in Poland has had the experience of getting to the cash register in a store and having the item not ring up. At that point the cashier becomes Obi Won Kenobi. "This is not the item you're looking for". And she puts it into the pile on the side of her register, where all good items go to die.<br /><br />Usually I take it as a sign that I wasn't supposed to get whatever it was anyway. I've been known to buy things without any idea what they were used for. For instance, I've bought cream that makes me look...um...WAY darker than my natural skin tone (here in Poland of all places) thinking it was a type of moisturizer (I don't actually intend to write about moisturizer obsessively. If you're as interested in moisturizer as I apparently am, you can read more <a href="http://hrncirsinghana.blogspot.com/2009/02/days-52-73-365.html">here</a> and <a href="http://hrncirsinghana.blogspot.com/2009/05/probably-shouldn-confuse-this-with-your.html">here</a>).<br /><br />This time though, the store had caught on that the item wasn't ringing up and had written the price on the side of the box. The item didn't scan. The cashier looked at me and waved her fingers. I pointed to the price "Tam. (There)." She sighed heavily and tried scanning it again.<br /><br />"Sześć dziesiąt dziewięć dziewięćdziesiąt dziewięć (69.99)" and I again pointed at where the price was written. She sighed again and called for assistance.<br /><br />Assistance never showed up. She rang my whole order and nothing. She waved her fingers at me and I went on my way.<br /><br />It was not the item I was looking for.Lucy Filethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06101962728153916202noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35251847.post-9526498618756383612009-05-04T13:22:00.003+02:002009-05-04T13:33:22.714+02:00A Typical Long WeekendThis weekend was a long weekend. See, 1 May is Labor day in much of Europe. And then the Poles celebrate Constitution Day on 3 May (I'm still pretty sure that Constitution Day was an elaborate plot. Independence Day is 11 November, which is a really sucky time to have BBQs and sit outside drinking beer, so they waited to sign their Constitution until Spring/Summer so that they could have a nice day to have those BBQs and beer drinking. Brilliant plan if you ask me.)<br /><br />So we tried to go to a Renaissance festival, had a birthday party to attend, went to the pool and abducted some children*.<br /><br />Perfectly normal weekend.<br /><br />*I can't tell the abduction story as it involved my husband and this week is his birthday. This is my birthday present to him. <br /><br />But next week, it's on. ;)Lucy Filethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06101962728153916202noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35251847.post-1448544225662117322009-05-01T21:13:00.001+02:002009-05-01T21:13:12.129+02:00Probably Shouldn't Confuse This With Your Moisturizer<div style="text-align: center"><a href="http://media.shozu.com/cache/portal/media/5ee80ad/16777232"><img src="http://media.shozu.com/cache/portal/media/5ee80ad/16777232_blog" /></a></div><br/>Especially not just before a job interview.<p align="right" ><a href="http://www.shozu.com/portal/?utm_source=upload&utm_medium=graphic&utm_campaign=upload_graphic/" target="_blank" ><img src="http://www.shozu.com/resources/messages/logo_blog.gif" alt="Posted by ShoZu" border="0" /></a></p>Lucy Filethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06101962728153916202noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35251847.post-69451408296475061232009-04-29T15:40:00.001+02:002009-04-29T15:47:38.167+02:00Gym? This Is a Gym?About 4 months ago I posted about my gym, and <a href="http://hrncirsinghana.blogspot.com/2009/01/something-about-gym.html">how I loved it so</a>.<br /><br />And as with many love affairs, things have started to grow...annoying.<br /><br />I'm happy. Mostly. There are getting to be far too many people there. They have only 4 ellipticals and apparently every mom out there loves the things. Which means I spend a lot of time waiting.<br /><br />But I can deal with waiting.<br /><br />Today, one of the "trainers" came up to me, while I was on the treadmill, and asked me if I would like to try the new Garmin takes-your-pulse-rate-tells-you-how-long-you've-been-running-lets-you-know-if-you're ovulating-makes-your-appointments-for-you watch. I told her, "No, thanks, I've got an iPhone. It's what I was listening to when you interrupted me. And, um, last I looked this was a gym, not a sports store."<br /><br />When I went to the weight room, the president of the PTO from my kids' school was there. She used to be a world famous violinist, speaks fluent Italian, was an English teacher, got her PhD and was a lawyer. She can do everything. Except (deleted because my <del>husband</del> editor thought it was too harsh - but it was good, SO good)...change her own ink cartridges.<br /><br />Anyway, I sat down at the lat pulldown machine and she came over and said, "As a former bodybuilding teacher, I just wanted to let you know that you're doing this wrong. You need to just almost touch your chest. And use more weight. You want to be able to do a pull up, right?"<br /><br />Yeah, whatever.<br /><br />Just after she interrupted me a "trainer" came to me and motioned for me to take off my headphones. As I was in the middle of the reps, I was reluctant, but did so because I'm a slave to authority. She said, "Can I help you?"<br /><br />I stared at her and said, "No." I mean, did I ask for your help? Did I in anyway indicate that I wanted your help?<br /><br />She then said, "I just wanted to let you know that you're doing this wrong. This exercise is designed for men who want to build their muscle in their back. You, as a woman, should be pulling the bar behind your head. You don't want to build muscle because you're a woman."<br /><br />WTF? Um, isn't this a<span style="font-style: italic;"> gym</span>? Don't people come here to build muscle? If I didn't want to build muscle would I be in the weight room? And on top of that your advice, AS A TRAINER, is that people should strain their necks?<br /><br />I've always been a bigger muscled girl. I work hard at it. I've probably been "building muscle" since my "trainer" was in diapers. But never, ever even on my absolute best day would anyone have mistaken me for a man because of my "big" muscles.<br /><br />Yeah, the love affair may be coming to an end.Lucy Filethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06101962728153916202noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35251847.post-47488839360938019542009-04-27T10:48:00.006+02:002009-04-27T13:07:46.473+02:00Right and Wrong<span style="font-style: italic;">I took the photos with my iPhone, so they are not the best. And for some reason when I upload them to blogger, they will not turn the correct way. No matter what I do. Just to let you know that I'm not just trying to mess your vision. My iPhone is.</span><br /><br />I often tell my Confirmation class that there are few right and wrong answers when it comes to religion. You pretty much have to work things out between yourself and God.<br /><br />Yesterday, their assignment was to create a poster that displayed what they believed the Reign of God to look like. These are what they came up with:<br /><br />Dana and Chris*, Good.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_R8qW_fiDuvI/SfV1H6n1bvI/AAAAAAAABCk/byXBD9lXglc/s1600-h/IMG_0029.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_R8qW_fiDuvI/SfV1H6n1bvI/AAAAAAAABCk/byXBD9lXglc/s320/IMG_0029.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329294512918720242" border="0" /></a><br />Laurie and Nathan, Good.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_R8qW_fiDuvI/SfV1Hutem3I/AAAAAAAABCc/vFwyj2sc5rQ/s1600-h/IMG_0027.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_R8qW_fiDuvI/SfV1Hutem3I/AAAAAAAABCc/vFwyj2sc5rQ/s320/IMG_0027.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329294509721164658" border="0" /></a><br />Daniel and Rebecca, "Okay, you remember how I told you there were no right and wrong answers. Yeah. I was wrong. There are some wrong answers. This is a great example."<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_R8qW_fiDuvI/SfV1HWtQF8I/AAAAAAAABCU/gX_-yiE_-Gk/s1600-h/IMG_0026.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_R8qW_fiDuvI/SfV1HWtQF8I/AAAAAAAABCU/gX_-yiE_-Gk/s320/IMG_0026.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329294503277762498" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Click to enlarge</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Can you see the people swearing at each other? The knife fight? The bombs? But note how the houses and streets are perfect.<br /><br />Apparently, Daniel's view of the Reign of God is an episode of Weeds.<br /></div></div><br />*As always, all names have been changed to protect the not so innocent.Lucy Filethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06101962728153916202noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35251847.post-38025767110612783102009-04-24T07:00:00.001+02:002009-04-24T07:00:00.851+02:00Job HuntingSo I had been seriously considering giving up blogging altogether. I felt as though I was spending way too much time attached to the web and not enough time doing "normal" things.<br /><br />And then my husband bought me this:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_R8qW_fiDuvI/SfBZ8Gt1jsI/AAAAAAAABBc/RXrgqKIfP88/s1600-h/IMG_1917.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_R8qW_fiDuvI/SfBZ8Gt1jsI/AAAAAAAABBc/RXrgqKIfP88/s320/IMG_1917.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327857248309186242" border="0" /></a><br /><br />For my birthday. And yeah, hell yeah, It's AWESOME!<br /><br />And then <a href="http://hrncirsinghana.blogspot.com/2009/04/my-uncle-owned-dairy.html">Catsmilk</a> falls into my lap. And I have this. And I can just send it to y'all while I'm standing in the store. And what kind of person would I be if I didn't entertain y'all with it?<br /><br />So, I took it as a sign. And I'm back.<br /><br />And...I've applied for a job.<br /><br />*gasp*<br /><br />And because I've applied for the job of webmaster, a job I haven't done since 2000 (of course, I haven't had many jobs since then anyway), I've listed my blog as evidence that I actually do know something about the internet and design.<br /><br />So I prettied up around here. 'Cause new guests are coming. Ones who hold my future.<br /><br />So don't put your shoes on the sidebar. And make sure you don't type with your mouth full.<br /><br />Or go ahead. Make yourself comfortable. That's okay too.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">And I'll be making the blog rounds, but it's going to take me some time.</span>Lucy Filethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06101962728153916202noreply@blogger.com11