Flag Day: A Story Involving a Vibrating Phone and a Prostate

Last week the latest A-100 group enjoyed a snow packed Flag Day. I spent some time chatting with spouses about their fantasy posts, dreaded posts, and realistically-this-is-what-we-will-get-posts. They shared their strategies on how they ranked their listed countries, many of which were identical to how Mark and I did it three years ago: preference based on job availability, departure date, and whether there would be required use of wearing leotards, fishnet stockings, and pasties.

It got me thinking about my experience with Mark's Flag Day and it occurred to me I never wrote my story. At the time, I was Nurse Manager running busy urology clinic in DC. While it was a rewarding job, it was very demanding and it left me unable to take time off for the big announcement. Not really a big deal in the whole scheme of things, but as we all know, bidding takes an inordinate amount of obsession and strategizing. Even if it makes a difference or not...

The patient obediently laid on the exam table, clothed only in a giant hospital gown and a pair of socks. In the urology office, they always wore socks; as if to retain any shred of dignity during examinations. I can't really blame them considering what little else we had on offer: a crappy paper pillow, a cold uncomfortable exam table that held the bodies of countless half naked men, and an impending anal probing.  Rolling onto his left side with his knees tucked, the doctor snapped on his latex gloves and lubed up the ultrasound wand. I stood there assisting when I felt my scrub pants buzzing. This was the moment of truth: a prostate exam and biopsy would determine the patient's path and the vibrating cell phone would determine mine. I'd been nervous all day, worried about missing the important phone call and stress sweating through my scrubs while I hustled patients in and out of the clinic. Of course my destiny would have to wait a few more minutes.

The doctor did his thing, checking out the patient's prostate and firing off several rounds of the biopsy gun. In less than 10 minutes he was finished, murmuring something about next week's follow up and was out the door onto the next patient. I stayed with my patient helping him get cleaned up and dressed. Bending over to put his pants on, the man sheepishly asked if this was just another typical day for me, manhandling scared men and their prostates? I jokingly told him absolutely, except that I was more gentle. Only after I bagged up the specimens, saw him off safely and sanitized the room did I dare to look at my phone. At first I thought I'd have a terrible time getting ahold of Mark since he was likely in the throes of celebration and congratulatory backslaps. But then I realized he never called me in the first place. I got a text message. A text message, that would reveal our first two year posting in the Foreign Service. I mean, really?! A text?! Jerk.

And so the anticlimactic realization read: "Bucharest, Nov 2011" and nothing else. This meant ten more months of pee soaked stories and erectile dysfunction teaching moments, ten more months of living in DC, ten more months of language and additional training for Mark. Well okay then. It wasn't a bad thing. My job challenged me everyday, our son enjoyed day care and Mark's career was just beginning. It was simply not what we expected since his "people" hinted at our "very likely overseas move to happen in a month or two" and it was "very likely we'd be heading to Algiers." 

It wasn't the first time we'd hear disappointing news and not the last either. All in all, we knew it would be an incredible adventure. What was your Flag Day story?

Bike Commuting in VA

After two weeks of spousal deliberation, Mark and I decided that I will forgo potential nursing employment for sake of a full time Portuguese language course. It wasn't an easy decision to make considering future car purchases/registration/shipping fees. And preschool. And student loans. And phone bills. And food. Just good ol' life getting in the way of my dream of slathering sunscreen on a meat-and-rum-slinging Brazilian beach boy. It's okay though, I always have enjoyed public transportation and bicycling out here. In fact, I sometimes feel hard core. When other parents get out of their warm toasty cars, wearing fancy pea coats and fur trimmed gloves, I pedal into the school parking lot with my windbreaker pants, butt-frilled neon jacket, and lobster gloves. Oh, and my giant bank robbery balaclava, wool beanie and helmet. I AM fashion. And fashion is danger. People literally turn their heads to see this lithe babe trucking down Arlington Boulevard at 15 MPH:

Wanna tap that? I thought so.

I am as graceful as they say...

As if my commuting attire wasn't bad enough, I managed to take embarrassing to a whole new level the other day. Parents watched on as I walked out of school with Margo and Deets by my side. While lecturing Deets to not eat the Magic Wizard Rock Salt off the ground, Margo took this opportunity to gleefully sprint into the parking lot.  Though she was in no immediate danger, I had a childhood flashback of running into traffic at the King Soopers parking lot. It resulted in considerable amounts of well deserved guilt-ridden reprimanding. I grabbed her and turned my attention back to Deets who had picked up a 7 foot PVC pole. He was pretending to fish for octopi (that's right he uses the proper plural) but lost control and smacked the pole into a classroom window, startling everyone inside. I waved an apology and got the heck out of there with a now loudly protesting daughter strapped into the trailer.

One of the many amusing toys at school.
Deets also enjoys gravel clod ice cubes and broken tree branches.

Loudly protesting daughter

The good news about riding bike with a trailer is I generally can listen to the babble of my children, or totally ignore them especially if they are whining about being confined. I almost made it home when the most horrific noise begin to follow me. The kids began to match the noise, screaming at me to make it stop and the faster I pedaled, the louder it got. I thought maybe I was dragging discarded antlers or picked up someone's broken muffler! Looking over my shoulder I realized the flag holder on the back of the trailer wore through and my safety flag was dragging along the road.

"Only 500 feet to our apartment," I yelled to the kids, determined to get us home. An SUV pulled up beside me, rubbernecking something fierce. He slowed down just enough to stack up honking cars behind him before he decided I wasn't worth the time and stepped on the gas sending exhaust into my face. Rounding the corner to turn left into our parking lot, another car made a wide turn around me with the driver shouting over the scraping, screaming and honking: "You broke your flag pole! Your flag stick is dragging! Hey! IT'S THE STICK!"

She even threw her arm out the window pointing to my rear end situation as if I was totally unaware...then she tried to drive around me in the turn lane, the crazy blow bag. What nerve. I had the right of way dagnabit and was already in front of her. I tried to yell this at her, but I doubt she heard me behind my scuba suit. So instead she was forced to hit the brakes and merge back into the proper lane to avoid hitting the curb. Or me and the kids. <insert deep sigh>. But we made it home without incident.

Note to self: buy duck tape to fix safety-flag-pole-holder. And possibly consider getting a bull horn.

Mindful on Metro

Earlier this month, Kate Pickert wrote Time Magazine's feature article "The Mindful Revolution" on  calming our overstressed, overstimulated minds with relaxation exercises that hone in on meditation and  focusing on tasks at hand. She describes her experience with eating a single raisin but not before scrutinizing the texture, weight and color; the whole point being to really be present with her small snack. With our obsession of multitasking, practicing mindfulness can simultaneously be frustrating and useful to help us figure out what's really important. Be present, because you never know what you could miss.

I read the article while listening to Liza Minelli on my headphones and sitting on Metro. The irony didn't escape me but there was no way I could peacefully read that article at home with my children. I decided there was no time like the present to be well, present. Noting my mild motion sickness from reading, I stuffed the article in my bag and turned off my music: a young teen behind me was killing his ear drums listening to lavish death metal; a man in front of me was uncontrollably coughing up lung particles (mouth wide open with his tongue hanging out).  For some reason it reminded me of the time I got stuck between two stops and a woman took her shoes and socks off to clip her toe nails; like the man spreading his airborne disease, I felt trapped, unable to escape. So I closed my eyes to listen to the cars roll over the tracks. Then I missed my stop.

Today's attempt to be mindful on Metro was especially enjoyable because I got to overhear a puzzling conversation between a young woman and her gentleman coworker. Miss Redcoat, (whose name I later learned was Katie) told her buddy that she had zero interest in anything related to the Olympics. Unless, of course it involved ice skating. As a young girl, "like all girls do" she fantasized about wearing a sparkly leotard and winning the gold. But no- she didn't waste her time watching them, and oh by the way- "the Olympics are on now?" Where does she live? Under a rock?

Somehow the conversation steered to Katie's future childbearing years:  "Sure I want kids, but I don't want girls. They are too bitchy and expensive. I will name my boys Asa and Beauregard because having a common name is the worst. I just hated being called Katie B. in class." Yeah, kids can be so cruel Katie BEEEE. Then the conversation petered to an end with her sigh in resignation that she would not be going out tonight since she had her Pilates class. Remember when we were single and had to make those horrible choices too? Damn.

I think being mindful on Metro is going to be a valuable practice.

Care for a Car?

I don't suppose anyone might be interested in purchasing a fresh-out-of-Europe-scented 2011 VW Jetta diesel? Mark received an unfortunate email from GSO in Recife that our vehicle will not be allowed into the country. At the moment Brazil only accepts diesel fueled trucks or SUVs, not cars. When we were planning the big move months ago, we agonized over vehicular scenarios: take it, sell it, store it? (Eager to return to the land of cycling, we decided to stick with bikes and public transportation in favor of the exercise and saving money- guess that ain't happening) Based on what we thought was timely information, indeed was not. 

Think we are the only ones to make a fateful discovery? Ha! One of Mark's classmates headed to Brazil sold their beloved diesel SUV based on the information that they couldn't ship it there. And I KNOW there's more stories out there! I guess the responses we get all depend on the color of the shirt one is wearing these days. Sadly, all my fantasies of cruising the coast in our dope station wagon with my head hanging out the twelve foot sunroof and sun bathing on the hood have been squashed. But at least it's opened the door to explore my skillz in car sales? Watch out, the car is a dreamer's dream and it's coming our way!

Schlink Update: VA Burb Living

Earlier this morning I read an email my sweet sister Nettie sent. She was inquiring about our general well being seeing as how DC-NOVA-MD shut down yesterday due to Winter Storm Janice (how long have the weather-folk been naming storms, by the way?) It was reassuring to know my family back in CO continue to think of us, let alone think well of us after 3 weeks of intense, toddler and Beasty filled visitations. Perhaps we are a pretty cool family then.

At any rate Nettie, we are coming along just fine, though at a quicker pace than I anticipated. The children started school less than two weeks ago and despite initial days of tears and clinginess, I am doing much better now. I still throw fits every now and then, but Margo and Deets handle my outbursts with grace and understanding. I'm told Margo eats the most food out of anyone in the toddler group, and particularly loves Nilla wafers. Deets sings all the time and loves to build pretend guns, which is a huge surprise considering he used go to great lengths to keep anyone from carrying a tune, and Montessori school doesn't exactly support that sort of play. Overall I think he is very happy with his surroundings.

My time at home has been a menagerie of writing, studying, doing yoga and reacquainting myself with DC. It's not exciting but Portuguese for me starts next month and I suspect I will yearn for more down time very soon. Mark goes to school, rules the grill and has kept our social calendar packed with friends and beer drinking. With hopes of zoning the kids out yesterday, we invited our friends over for popcorn and a movie. Instead, it was the dads who were enchanted by the Disney movie Tangled.  The men were swept away by Flynn Rider and his rowdy bar crew while the children raged around the apartment, rockin' out to their own world of imagination. At the end of the day, Falls Church collected about 6" of snow and witch's tit cold temperatures.

Coming back to a two hour delayed reality this morning, I was faced with getting my children to school without freezing off any major body parts. This is where I have a newfound appreciation for my mom who took us skiing growing up: long underwear, snow pants, boots, jackets, hats, gloves... UGH. How she managed to get us dressed, geared up and ready for the day in any timely manner is beyond me. It took me a full thirty minutes to get everyone into place and squashed into the stroller with extra blankets for the 1 mile walk to school. By the time I finished, my tomato face glistened with sweat and snot which immediately froze once I stepped outside. The only one happy about any of this was Jim.

Our morning pile of wears. Mark is lucky.
He only had to dress himself. But what a good job he did!

Undeterred, I shoved our stroller through inches of untouched, un-shoveled snow. Deets laughed with each jarring bounce; the Beast merely silent because she no longer had a voice nor will to protest her outing. I slid along with Jim dragging us both up and down the hills. Thirty minutes later, we arrived at school and I began to reverse the process. Making an effort to undress them quickly, I instead clogged up the school's hallway. Annoyed parents tried to step around my dog crowding the entrance, the snow-chunked stroller, and my messenger bag that spewed out lunch boxes, shoes, pants, boots, you name it. It humored no one. Except maybe myself, but that was because the harder I tried to undress them efficiently, the more I floundered in my already sweaty, now itchy long johns.

Of course as all fun things come to an end, I walked back out into the bright blue skies and lung searing cold. In an instant could feel the wind seep under the layers and chill my nether regions. Jim and I dashed for home. My normally snow-loving dog only made it halfway home when he flat out refused to walk any further. Civil disobedience at its best, Jim laid down on the snow unable to lift another paw. Not sure of what else to do, I bent over to pick up my 60 pound dog and stuck him in the stroller. As if I ordered the weather forecast, he just stared at me with his "Are you joking?! Thanks for nothing" look. Jim realized though that he had two options as I began to move: 1. get jacked around in a stroller, or 2. walk home as intended. I'm not sure if he gave me the finger on the way but he did jump down and kept his end of the deal.

After coughing up what feels like a black lung and warming up my now hive riddled body (cold weather hives are the weirdest thing I tell you! I'm emailing you a pic shortly) I thought I might take the time to tell you Dear Nettie, that while we are all doing well, we all love and miss the snot out of both of you.

Whosagoodboy?
Jim, unimpressed.

Espresso Machine and Schlinks Reunited

Bidding the movers adieu, I glanced around the apartment and wondered what I was smoking when I organized our air shipment back in November, bound from Romania to Virginia. Aside from cherished kitchen gadgets, car seats and bicycle parts, I realized the rest of what I packed was total overkill: once loved t-shirts full of holes, 25 pairs of socks and a mess of maxi pads. Why I got them in the first place is beyond me, I don’t even use them! But there they were, scattered among giant Tom & Jerry bandaids and a five pound bag of lavender scented epsom salts. And four different colors of cosmetic blush. Seriously, that was what I packed! Huh.

I resolved to unpack my children’s boxes, only to find they had enough clothes and shoes to outfit the Duggar family. I didn’t even bother to take the lids off for fear of a little girl shoe and bathing suit explosion. Mark didn’t pack any clothes at all. He was trying to be considerate of going over the weight allowance and limited his stash to packing his bicycle, trailer and tools, soon to be our only form of transportation. I am starting to worry I will regret our decision to leave the car in storage, especially as I watch the rain pour down in cozy VA. Ah well. You win some and lose some.

SPD->ATL->DCA

The countdown began during the Missouri vs. Oklahoma State Cotton Bowl Championships when my mother-in-law thrusted the pending forecast in my face: the Polar Vortex would likely change our travel plans. With home leave coming to an end in Springfield, we still needed to conquer 2 flights before landing in Virginia for language training. United Airlines, true to their low-level standards, they cancelled our flight and kept Mark on hold for several hours before getting disconnected due to phone-line overload. They stopped taking phone calls altogether. In the end it was Delta that took us under their wing and tentatively booked us for the following afternoon.

Waiting. And waiting some more.

Mark sure knows how to play his cards right. After getting our family on the standby list for an already four hour delayed flight, Mark predictably started chatting up fellow travelers. He spoke openly about our last two months of transit, his job, and his obvious adoration of his children. It just so happened that the couple he spoke with were Platinum Elite members with Delta who promptly walked up to the desk and requested we take their place in the standby list. It if weren’t for their generosity, we’d have missed the flight, but the best part was everyone ended up getting on the plane when Mark geniously suggested we give up Margo’s seat and put her in my lap. She howled like a banshee for most of the trip, but it was worth it. I think.

Landing in Atlanta, all other flights were delayed so it seemed we might actually make our connecting flight! Until we sat on the runway for 2 hours. The airlines were reinforcing an 8 hour work limit for all employees which meant no one could move. Seeing the terminal from our tiny windows was a little bit cruel, especially when we lurched forward, only to circle back and wait. I felt the blood slowly stagnate in my ass, feeling the loss of circulation creep down my legs as I stared at Margo who finally passed out in my lap. I didn’t dare move.

Thanks to record cold temperatures, the world’s largest airport could not function properly: the madness continued in the terminal with massive cancellations, leaving people confused, cold and stranded. Luckily we re booked the last leg of our journey for the following day but were left to our own devices to procure a hotel. Delta apparently gave away all their vouchers. 250 bucks and 8 hours later, all four of us rallied from downtown Atlanta back to the airport.

Deets literally begging for a nap.

Finally boarding onto the DC bound plane, we thought for sure people would be champing at the bit get going. Like slugs in molasses on a cold Tuesday morning, the passengers painstakingly took their seats but I particularly enjoyed the 82 year old woman in my row. She made cat noises at a gentleman who blatantly ignored the already stressed out flight crew as he repeatedly shoved his over sized carry-on into the overhead compartment. “Amatueur,” she said. When commenting about the cold she quipped: “These people think they know what cold is?! Ha! In Wichita, these temperatures are downright balmy. They need to buck up and deal with it.” Since my own best friend lives in Williston, ND with routine temperatures of -20 F, I’m inclined to agree with her. But I couldn’t stop my own teeth from chattering as I longed for warmer days.

Margo NOT screaming!

I don’t know how Mark did it, but the children slept the whole way. Finally, we landed in DC and proceeded to baggage claim to pick up most of our suitcases. In the end, Mark’s clothes didn’t make it out of Atlanta which is half funny since our Romania-Virginia air shipment did not contain but a single pair of pants of Mark’s. It might be my fault since I panicked about going overweight when we moved out of our house in Romania, he packed the majority of his clothes in the boxes that would arrive in Brazil (Nov 2014). Subsequently, he’s been wearing the same clothes for the past three days. Good thing he has a wife who’s already experienced that and could offer up fashion tips.