Merry Christmas!

Just to wish you all a very Merry Christmas (you know, if you celebrate that, if not have a very nice Thursday)!

And Happy Chanukkah! Piglet is celebrating too (at least he's telling all of our families that he celebrates both Christmas and Chanukkah, and he's picked out the menorah he wants).

And my favorite Christmas clips:

Bowling Pins, Fish and Nudity

A few days ago Dylan was complaining about his leg hurting. He decided that he needed a massage. And, because he feels guilty running off to get a massage and leaving me with all the children, he invited me to go along.

A few items:

-I have had exactly 2 professional massages in my life (and that includes this one).

-I generally do not pay people to look at me naked. I try to reserve that for people who are taking a baby human out of me.

-I'm not big on the "pampering" thing. Massages hurt. Manicures hurt. Haircuts hurt. Really it's like saying, "Hi Kylie! Would you like to go to Spa Gitmo?"

So, because I had been thinking a day at the spa would be a good gift for my sister (yeah, she doesn't read my blog, so I can say whatever I want about her), I thought I should actually go and TRY to enjoy a massage.

So we went to a multipurpose joint. It's a swimming pool/spa/bowling alley/nightclub. I think they also sell fish.

And the massage rooms are directly below the bowling alley. Because back after the wall fell, apparently someone thought putting a bowling alley on the third floor was a good idea. Actually it seems that several someones thought this, as I have yet to see a bowling alley in this country that is on the ground floor.

So, because I am extremely uncomfortable being naked in front of people, I try to keep my mind occupied. It wanders pretty well because I have the attention span of a gnat. And being directly below the bowling alley helped.

I wondered whether my masseur ever gave his significant other massages. You know, if I had a committed partner who was a masseur (and I was a normal person who didn't think massage was actually a code word for torture), I'd be demanding massages all the time.

Several times I wanted to yell "STRIKE!" Did I mention I was DIRECTLY below the bowling alley? Nothing more relaxing than the sound of a heavy ball rolling across a wooden floor and knocking things down. On second thought, it sounds an awful lot like home.

My masseur worked on my legs, back, and arms and then asked me to roll over. Except, because he spoke only enough English for the commands, and Polish has the whole command thing down it was more like "Turn over!" As though he was commanding that a pancake flip itself.

When I did turn over, I was a caught a bit off guard.

Didn't he have clothes on when I walked in? Had he been naked the whole time? Do they always do this?

I thought, "I'm just gonna close my eyes and PRETEND you're wearing something other than a Speedo." Which is totally the opposite of what my husband was thinking about his masseuse.

When I met back up with my husband I asked him if his girl was naked.

*blink, blink*

Then he said, "NO! You have to pay extra for THAT! This is gonna cost us!"

And I'm out of my country for a couple of weeks. I'll probably not be posting all that regularly, I'll try, but I can't make any promises:).

Merry Christmas from Prison

I went to Piglet's school Christmas party the other day.

Piglet is in Kindergarten so the day consisted of a holiday concert followed by a lovely party in the classroom.

And because they forced family time on us, we all had to submit our family projects to be viewed at the party.

We made a gingerbread house.


Jun Sang made this:


Nothing makes you feel more like a loser than looking at a 5 year old's clay Japanese anime.

Anyway, the kids were also to present their parents with the gifts they had made. It's a lovely decorated framed photo of your child.

Everyone else's kid looked smiley and happy. Or at least fake smiley.

Ours is inmate 728965.


Welcome to Kindergarten.

Fare Thee Well, Good Friend

There's a tradition in the military/foreign service lifestyle of giving/selling your worldly possessions when you leave. It's a little bit creepy, like picking through Aunt Edna's stuff after she's died, except that you're usually accompanied by the deceased.

My real life Warsaw bff, Globetrekking Mom, is leaving sooner than expected. So, being the good friends that we are, we've engaged in the tradition of picking through her things and taking all the good stuff. Because I had just cleared out my kids' toys in anticipation of birthday/Christmas/birthday season, my kids are thrilled with the new stuff. (And I'm totally getting over on these poor deprived children, by only allowing them one "new" toy a day and only after they have done some housekeeping - because goodness knows I don't have time to do the housekeeping - I blog!)

While this is all very cool - you know, getting stuff for free - it's hard to do. I will miss Milena and her kids tremendously. As I look at all the "new" stuff, I am reminded that my dear friend is leaving. That she's leaving unexpectedly, which will be harder than usual on her family. That when I return from Christmas break, I will be working alone on Monday mornings, with no one to have my 2 hour long coffee breaks with and chat about everything in our lives, all while "guarding the złoty".

But, when I look at the stuff, I will be reminded of a wonderful friendship that will hopefully surpass time, distance, and space (through the awesomeness of Facebook, blogs, and email), and that we will someday be reunited back in the home of all displaced diplomats.

I hope you had the time of your life.

Wait, I'm NOT Mexican?

Several people in my real life have heard me bragging that someone in my husband's office paid me to make a dish for him. He said he likes my cooking (and he has a wife that lives here, so it IS a little strange).

I blew this WAY out of proportion, of course, because this was an opportunity for me to stroke my own ego. I've been tormenting my husband with threats now. "You can never leave me because other people think I'm a great cook!" "Other men want me. You know, because I'm such a good cook." "I'm going to leave you because you keep leaving your clothes by the door to the garage. And I'm a great cook."

I've also threatened to start my own catering business (or coworking business if you follow me on Twitter, mainly because I'm a little bit stupid). I went on and on. "People PAY me." "I could do this for a living." "I'll have a little Mexican catering business. Can you imagine the business I will get?"

My husband, totally unimpressed, said "You can't cater Mexican food. You're not Mexican."

To which I said, "LIAR! I am SO Mexican. I grew up in Texas!"

He said, "Yeah, all Australians who grow up in Texas, automatically become MEXICAN. It's in the Constitution."

So see, I was right. I AM Mexican.

Who wants enchiladas?

What's in a Name?

Last night, as I was yelling "NO!" at a cat who was using my furniture as a scratching post, which then sent Stewie into hysterics because he thought I was yelling at him, I was reminded of another amusing incident.

When I was 3 months pregnant with Pooh Bear, I moved to Houston and visited my sister. She had just moved in with her fiance and they got a puppy, because apparently that's what people do when they make a commitment. I wouldn't know. My husband doesn't like animals.

Anyway, when I met the puppy for the first time I asked her its name. She replied "Pooh Bear".

I just stared at her.

"That's the name I've chosen for my baby if it's a boy."

(Yes, I chose Pooh Bear. I really wanted my whole family to be named after A.A. Milne characters and they all fit in quite well in school thankyouverymuch. No one ever teases any of them. Even Piglet.)

So, because I had a boy, I named him Pooh Bear. Honestly, I didn't think that the relationship between my sister and the fiance would last and figured he would wind up with custody of said dog and there would never be a problem.

Yeah. She married him. And then they had a kid. And they kept Pooh, the dog.

So we go to visit my sister, and they yell "POOH! NO!". And MY Pooh Bear cowers in the corner, trying to figure out why everyone in Houston hates him.

And we're going for a visit soon. Pooh is dreading it. Should be fun.

Rockstar! - Updated

Because my husband is on Facebook and some of those Facebook friends also read my blog, sometimes he posts items that I don't necessarily intend to post about, but that apparently people still want to hear my take on.

It's a lot of pressure. "Write, Monkey! WRITE!"

This is one of those.

Because there is not enough to do in the holiday season, my older kids' school decided they needed to put on their version of "America's Got Talent". Friday night, Tigger got up and sang her heart out for the judges and her whole school.

And she was good. Amazingly good. So good that Dylan thought she was lip syncing to Christina Aguilera.

But, unfortunately for my blog, she did not fall off the stage or catch fire, and aside from a minor technical glitch with the microphone, everything went well.

Until it came to the judges.

And unfortunately, that one beyotch judge also did not catch fire.

It's surprisingly hard to start a fire with only stage lights and a camera lens.

And yes, I know the judges were just kids too. But she was a beyotch. Don't judge me. You weren't there.

It was at that point that I realized I could totally become that psychotic cheerleader mom who put out a hit on another teenager.

Not that the judge should take this as a threat. 'Cause it isn't.

But she might want to watch her back. Just sayin'.

Update: As obnoxiously pointed out by Melissa the cheerleader mom I mentioned actually put out a hit on the mother of the other teenager, not the teenager herself. Perhaps I should actually read the links I put up. Or put out a hit on Melissa.