Jim's World

Many people were interested in Jim's whereabouts while I was back in the U.S. for three months, so I asked him to write a special, one time only guest post detailing his dog-centric ventures in Bucharest. All I can say is I am glad he didn't decide to trade me in for a newer model...

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Boy did I get around while you were out having that baby. Not only did I live it up taking two sometimes three leisurely walks, eat my weight in treats and sleep the day away, I had my own personal attendant named Deborah to make it all happen. She was awesome, staying at our giant apartment taking care of me; all the while you were sleeping four Schlinks in a teeny hotel room. Suckers.

That's not to say I didn't have my own share of roommates. I had my lady pal Bea when I took a few weekend trips to the Chordi rez. She likes to hump her stuffed horse and manipulate her owners into eating homemade dog food. Made from REAL meat! I loved having her over for Christmas, Chordi #1 kept sneaking us scraps when Mark wasn't looking.

Did I tell you I roomed with Buddy the ambassador's 900 year old yellow lab? Not THAT dog lives the lap of luxury: multiple servants, a huge house and an equally huge yard, big enough to host over two thousand guests. I ran, sniffed, and marked as many trees as I could like a kid in a candy store. It's tough being a diplomat's dog sometimes.

But the roommate who took the cake was this homeless fellow who was rescued by some of Deborah's friends. A couple of ladies walking around the lake spotted a dog that seemed intent on committing suicide. He kept frantically running into the icy lake over and over again before getting stuck in the muddy rocks exhausted with effort.  Coming to the rescue, one of the ladies whipped out the tie-string of her Costco sweatpants to create a makeshift leash. After bumping into her stroller a few times,  she realized the dog was blind in addition to injured, traumatized and abandoned.

Getting him to the local vet for assessment, the half crazed chap arrived just in time for a bone shaking seizure at the door necessitating an MRI order at the vet's insistence. 600 RON worth of MRI brain scans later, the vet determined the pooch wouldn't need euthanasia, just daily medications to treat his epileptic fits. "Oh, and by the way, the blind dog also needs a new home," he said with simplicity.

Finding homes for healthy, stray dogs in Bucharest is a daunting task let alone a special needs dog. Too many of them run a amok in the streets multiplying like crazy since Ceaușescu's day. With few rescue shelters,  most dogs take to the streets. They even blend in with the bi-pedals, crossing the streets at cross walks and blocking the bike lanes at the park. For a species that routinely licks itself, their learned behaviors are quite impressive.

Wait for the walk

Fat homeless dog. Not many are this lucky.

Despite our pal's shortcomings, Deborah was undeterred with his rehab and found him a home after a few weeks. While he was an alright roommate, I was elated to reunite with you and Deets. The littlest one is pretty okay too even though she can't scratch my belly yet. But I can wait.

Shameless begging

Hai Romania!

Since coming down the mountain from my parent's house en route to Bucharest, my ears remain clogged, inhibiting my ability to pretty much hear anything other than the sound of gnashing as I eat my pasta and my own internal dialogue that sounds nothing like Daniel Stern. Can you imagine my disappointment? On top of that, Joe Cocker isn't helping me out either. Instead, it's Thomas the Train theme song stuck on repeat.

Aside from this congested deafness, the trip home went so well, I might even dare do it again. Mom-in-Law (aka Mil) arrived at the airport with great timing, just as I stood in line to check bags. After getting away 100 bucks richer, when Lufthansa didn't charge me with extra baggage fees, we clomped on down to security. All of us ladies verklempt, a cascade of tears as I said my goodbyes to my own sweet beautiful mom. I underestimated how much I'd instantly miss her.

At least I had plenty of distraction: busting out the electronics and 3 oz. containers of k-rap, dismantling the two car seats, slipping off shoes and herding Deets, Margo, and Mil through the metal detector was enough activity to cause a back-up in security. TSA was quite patient with us, they even acted kindly which I appreciated. 

Hauling approx 105 pounds worth
of equipment/goods/people. No sweat.

We timed ourselves well, providing 45 minutes of pre-plane prep time before boarded onto the vintage 747. No back-seat TV screens or self-serve galleys, but the hospitality was great. I enjoyed one attendant who looked like Amelia Pond, another who was perplexed by Deet's love of ice. But in particular I enjoyed an interesting gent who claimed to be one of Mitt's best friends and another man in emo skinny jeans and leather who watched copious amounts of Daria on his '98 MAC.  He also routinely rifled through his Tory Burch handbag, pulling out oddities like this mask:

Oh, he also had several
Where's Waldo books.

Nine hours of flying went by quickly with the tag-team help of Nancy, and I couldn't have asked for better behaved children. With one flight down another to go, I was prepared for the vastness of Frankfurt's airport and requested (twice confirmed too) for golf-cart assistance since we had only one hour between connections. Of course, no one knew nothin' so Mil and I were left to hustle our asses (and car seats, and carry ons, and children) from terminal Z to terminal B which included security screening. I had to privilege of getting felt up not once, but twice. Deets too! Poor kid didn't know what to think.  Glad the Germans are so thorough with their screening, but next time dinner and a drink would be nice.

From FRA to OTP we arrived to a happy Mark. We gathered our bags, smashed into our car for an exhilarating ride home, as is the usual for Bucharest traffic. Back at the apartment Deets promptly exploded his toys all over the living room, reacquainted himself with Jim and aside from jet lag, seems quite happy to have his whole family again. I feel the same too. Now if I can just get a hold of one of these, I'd be set...

Eh?

A Breath of Fresh Air

After eight trips to load up my mom's car with used grocery sacks and duffel bags stuffed with laundry, food, toys and books, I finally checked the family out of our cozy tiny hotel room after I dropped my adoring husband off at the airport. While the hotel was convenient in many ways, I was excited to go from this view (cue banjo music):

to this view (cue the choir):

View from my parent's house.
Is it even possible to bottle the scent of fresh mtn air?

At 8,200 feet, my parent's house perches on the south side of a mountain. What seemed like a pipe dream thirty years ago when my dad purchased this land, became a reality back in 2004 as the house came together piece by piece. They ditched the suburbs, ran for the hills and haven't looked back.

Happy as clams, larks or whatever you want to call them, life up in the mountains consists of hiking to the top at 8,400 feet, sightseeing the wildlife (or at least their carcasses), wood chopping, chipping, tossing and stacking, and the making sure the patio furniture doesn't blow off the mountain. So maybe the wind gusts can get up to 60-80mph but when all is calm, this is what you hear:_______________. Nothing. Pretty unbelievable I say.                                                                              

Elk delight for some lucky animal 

Nice kitties.

Earning my keep.

Hiking off turkey dinner.

These past three months I have redeveloped a closeness with my parents and I am afraid to leave that comfort zone. I can't believe how easy it was to fall in love all over again with my brother and sister-in-law and I cringe at the thought of saying goodbye. But I am also excited to resume the life in Bucharest I was hesitant to leave in the first place. Good thing Mark's gorgeous self will be the perfect welcome home gift for all three of us. Especially if he has managed to grow back his beard after a freak shaving incident while prepping for obligatory family picture time. Poor guy.

I love this man. Mostly for his
power of forgiveness. 

B is for Beer

I wish it were winter so we could freeze it into ice blocks
and skate on it and melt it in the spring time and drink it! 

Whisper in my ear, "brettanomyces" and I will get weak in the knees. Because of that hazard, I made Mark drive the family in horrid pre-winter snow storm to get to the Crooked Stave, a brewery in Denver with a wildly growing reputation for creating grade-A sour beers. I mean, the owner wrote his Master's thesis on brett, a non-spore forming yeast, so he clearly did his homework in prepping his business. For some light reading, read his thesis titled: The Brettanomyces Project. What a dude!

Loves of my life: seestor-in-law, big bro, hubby.

Some say it looks like rice, others may say it seems more sausage-y under the microscope. But however you describe it, the little bugger makes a damn fine pairing when making beer. First up, the Saison and Surrette were great starter beers, but the real fun began with their award winning L'Brett D'Or. Was it sour? Oh yes. Was it smooth? Definitely. Did it meet the Schlink Gold Standard of Cantillon's Gueze? Oh Myyyy. Wow. Gosh. Yum. And that would be my professional opinion. 

Deets practicing his retro-nasal.
Just kidding.

Oak barrels lent from various
breweries all over the U.S. and France.
Such a beautiful sight.

Una MAS!

A old friend of mine recently asked me when my next blog post would arrive, to which I replied, "as soon as I have something exciting to blab about." Snorting, she retorted "What? Isn't the arrival of baby Margo exciting enough for you?" Okay, so maybe she has a point. Indeed the hours leading up to her big day were full of interesting and maybe even comical events, but I didn't want to bore or gross anyone out. But I will say that the nurses (yes: nurses, NOT doctor) who delivered Margo in under ten minutes were an incredible team; like a well oiled machine they manhandled the situation with such ease, I hardly noticed the bleary eyed deck doc who slumped in to tell me "all looked good down there" before heading back to bed. So when I say she came fast, she really came FAST. Mark and I were the new owners of a seven pound, eight ounce baby girl! Thank you to Ashley, Kim, and Jolene. Those ladies didn't mess around.

The following three days of hospital living were pretty much a dream: between great baby-feeding support and doting sets of grandparents made my entire experience. I wish all nurses could be as attentive and informed as the gals I had, they really made Margo's start of life a pleasurable one. So many thanks to Ruby, Courtney, Karen, and Vicki. I'd bring them home if I could. Between nurse visits, we watched James Bond, drank celebratory beer and spent all around quality time together as a big family. I almost didn't want to leave. 

Fast forward two weeks. Knock on wood, all four of us are fairing well. Competition for mom's attention is a daily exchange of compromises, bribery and tears, but it's not as bad as I'd feared. And that's just with Mark. My darling boy Deets seems to like his sister but quickly monopolizes lap-time for marathon readings of his favorite book, Cars and Trucks and Things That Go. I dream of Goldbug on a regular basis now. Margo takes my late night feeding fouls with remarkable patience. With sloppy technique resulting in milk in the eye, splashing on the iPad screen even hitting my sleeping husband from three feet away, I am lucky she hasn't washed her hands of me. Just last night I even lost my ever attractive mouth guard in the bed and found it this morning snugly tucked in her swaddling blanket. My motherhood skillz are smooth. And sexy, yah? 

So maybe this post is not quite as interesting as a Romanian travel post, or even the Colorado kiddy-field trip post, but I will take the tranquility (and mundaneness) of family time any day. I have no doubt I will get myself into more trouble soon enough.

Deetsie.

Hiking with the family.

Margo 2 weeks.

Denver Giraffes Through the Years

Unsure as to whether even-toed ungulates at the Denver Zoo would hold enough blog-worthy interest, I decided to go for it for sake of enjoying the picture of my brother sporting a Miller beer hat as a plucky nine year old. And Lord knows what possessed me to wear head-to-toe turquoise, thank you 1989.

At any rate, the pictures range from about 1984 to 2012, taken near the giraffe exhibit, and I thought it was too cute to pass up.

1984: King of Pop gets severely
burned while filming a Pepsi commercial.

1986: Hands Across America attempted.
So close!

1989: The Simpsons debut and
Chicago tops the Billboard 100

2012: Last known Pinta Island Tortoise
Lonesome George goes extinct.

2nd Verse, Same as the First

Old Lady Schlink: back in action! Today I conveniently (or not-so-conveniently) informed the hotel manager our temperature regulating unit died in my room. With utmost courtesy they sent the handyman to inspect the damage who found the compressor totally croaked. Repairing this would take weeks, and thus they promptly gave the cue to move myself next door. The same suite that housed my favorite door slamming, bitter teenagers and parental units. Hope karma doesn't come back to bite me in the ass.

So with that said, should I find it weird that the good folks at Town Park Suites already moved a new tenant into our former hotbox of a room? Hmm.

Deets and I make daily escapes from our temporary home, doing the predictable mommy-tot routine of hitting the museum, hiking trails, and  frequenting the bike shops. It's been lonely without Mark, but we are managing.

Hiking up Flagstaff

GrammaK and I took him to Tiny Town, a quaint historic site of miniatures complete with a hand operated diesel train run by overall-clad grandfatherly trainspotters. While he loved the train, I loved the people watching: a Polish family of 6 who smashed themselves into a miniature church, the professional photographer who followed a mom and her lil' Augustus Gloop sized child, and the manic and clearly fastidious gift shop employee who all but alphabetized the souvenirs were my favorites.

Just like Dad, he knows a good
stoop when he sees one.

Yes. That IS Wilford Brimley and Richard Riehle.
Well, at least they should be.

Today's escape was to a wonderful place called Once Upon A Child, a store full of second hand awesomeness. It was absolute mom-crack: child friendly, well-organized, and loaded with cheap finds. Deets sampled the toys for an hour while I scoured their huge collection of books and shoes.

 Those are just the 0-3 months clothes!

What $15 worth of Duplo looks like. SCORE!

Tomorrow's plans? The ZOO! I figured it was time to prove to Deets that elephants do exist...