A Daring Adventure

Because Even My Love for My Husband has its Limits

Okay, so, before I took a turn into blogging about nipples and my husband being solicited for illegal drugs (and who WOULDN'T want to blog about those things?), I was writing about (and showing you pictures from) when my husband, James, and my younger son, Zachary, toured lots of China.


(Not ALL of it, mind you. Since China is super wicked big and all.) 


On their travels, they saw really pretty Chinese-y buildings:





And, seriously you guys, don't you think that the roofs of Chinese-y buildings have a whole lot more character than the roofs of most American buildings?




I just love them.


And then the UFO Flying Water Bottle came back and refused to allow my husband to take any actual pictures of my child:





And then, out of nowhere, whilst trying to avoid bodily harm by the UFO Flying Water Bottle, my husband was presented with THE MAGIC-EST OF ANCIENT CHINESE MAGIC.


For BEHOLD! The Chinese city that they were visiting (named Shaolin) had some sort of magic wormhole or magic Harry-Potter-like flue network or who knows *what* sort of enchantment, but suddenly and quite out of nowhere, James was presented with the option to...


...magically visit our in-real-life friend, Digger, who is posted right now in Tallinn, Estonia!

 
How this Shaolin pharmacy gets people to Tallinn we don't know. 

But James sure did know that at the other end of that wrinkle in time and space, there would be ESTONIA. Amazing ESTONIA with its clear, crisp, clean air and its sushi (which Digger is constantly teasing us about having there in Tallinn (she has TWO sushi places within walking distance of her housing! TWO!), as we don't have any in Chengdu).  


And I'm not sure if the English language has words strong enough to describe just exactly what my husband would do for: 1.) clean air, and 2.) sushi right now.


BUT, ALAS.


Being as that he was a parental chaperone on the school field trip (and was, thus, needed), and being as that he knew intuitively that if he even THOUGHT about going to Tallinn without me, I would be all:





he didn't journey on through regions unknown and travel to Sushi and Clean Air Heaven.


Instead, he journeyed on to that evening's hotel:





(in all its glory)


And enjoyed his hotel room's bathroom, which boasted NOT EVEN A WALL, but instead just a see-through curtain-like thingee:

Meaning that if two people were staying in the two-twin-bed bedroom, then while one was using the toilet, the other could, ostensibly, see them.


(Awkward!)


And while this wasn't a problem for James, since he had a room all to himself (the privilege of being a grownup), the same cannot be said for the school kids, who were bunking two kids to a room. Which meant that if one of them needed to use the toilet or take a shower, etc., the other one would have to leave the room entirely and wait out in the hall for the sake of privacy.


And if you're a parent, you already know how this story ends.


Meaning, of course, that Zachary barged into James' hotel room and announced that NO WAY was he going to use the bathroom in his assigned hotel room with other kids milling in and out randomly, meaning that James actually gave Zachary his bathroom. And waited out in the hall. On more than one occasion.


I'm sure, at that point, James would SO rather have been in Tallinn. BUT I DON'T CARE. HE'S NOT ALLOWED TO GO WITHOUT ME. Thus, this blog post's title. 


The End.

 

You Will Never Believe What Some Idiot Said to My Husband

(The following is a true story. No joke.)

So yesterday, a normal Saturday afternoon here in Chengdu, China, my husband was not working (yay!), the air was not entirely brown (yay!), and he and I had a couple of hours within which we were free to take a cab to a different part of the city (this place is bigger than NYC or Chicago, you guys - it's crazy big with its 14 million people) in search of some Chinese silk material to buy for my sewing-happy, seamstress mother.


Now, here in Chengdu, there are, like, districts. I don't know how to describe them... "streets," maybe. They're like really long streets lined on both sides by small shops, all of which sell one certain thing. There's, like, Sink Street, where a zillion sinks are sold, or Paint Street, where you can find tons of cans of wall paint, or Scooter Street, where you can buy scooters... you get it. You're smart like that.


So yesterday James and I took a cab to Silk Street. And it's really called that - Silk Street. Where you can buy some silk and get clothes tailored with it. And because my mom sews, she has asked me to PLEASE OH PLEASE bring her back some Chinese silk when we get to the U.S. on our R&R soon.


So the cab drops James and me off at the beginning of Silk Street, and we go wandering around from shop to shop. 


At one point, in front of one section of shops, James and I smell this gawdawful smell. It's really strong.


...


me: What IS that awful smell?


James: That's weed. Someone's smoking pot. A lot of it.


me (having never in my life seen or smelled drugs before): Ugh! That stuff reeks! 


...


And then he and I fall into a conversation about his police officer days, etc. Because, don't forget, my husband has been in both federal and local law enforcement for literally decades now. (And this is as good a time as any to remind you that even now, he's still in federal law enforcement. Which becomes pertinent to the story soon.)


So I pop into another silk shop, leaving James standing placidly on the sidewalk by himself, waiting for me. 


He's holding nothing in his hands. He's doing nothing but standing there, waiting for me. Probably looking bored, to tell the truth. I mean, let's just be honest.


Then, out of nowhere, some random white guy rushes up to him and the following exchange takes place:


...


Random White Guy (to James, excitedly):  Dude! Are you smoking pot?

James (who is not above toying with morons when they beg for it, and who, as I said, HAS NOTHING IN HIS HANDS, let alone anything that is wafting smoke anywhere, says *very* sarcastically):  Yes.



Random White Guy (freaking out with happiness): DUDE!  WHERE DID YOU BUY IT?!?!  HERE?  RIGHT HERE SOMEWHERE? 

James (no longer participating in the discussion): **rolls eyes, looks away**


...

Random White Guy, realizing he's going to get no help from James, rushes off, ostensibly in search of pot.


I then come out of the silk store, having seen and heard none of this.


(I ALWAYS MISS EVERYTHING INTERESTING.)


And as James related to me the most interesting exchange he had just had with Random White Guy, I was literally AMAZED at the multiple layers of stupidity. Because, really. Somewhere in Chengdu there's some total moron White Guy (possibly an American?) who basically asked my U.S. federal law enforcement agent husband to help him figure out where to buy illegal drugs. Which, make no mistake about it, are way, WAY more illegal here than in the U.S.

I mean...


...seriously - messing around with pot in China can get a person the death penalty, from what I understand. China don't play with the whole illegal drug thing. 


So - really. What a total tool. 

In Which China is Toured, Part the First

So a few weeks ago it was time for the once-yearly, week-long field trip for the kiddoes in Zachary's age group at school.


Even from the time we knew that there was going to be a field trip, James and I knew that at least one of us would be going as a chaperone. This ISN'T because we're nosey parents who can't stand to be apart from their children for even two seconds, but IS because we literally can't even fathom sending a child's Diplomatic passport with its only Diplomatic stamped visa** out into the wild with countless other passports and visas (presumably in a huge, communal passport bucket?), whilst simultaneously sending one of our plague/sickness/injury prone children out into the big, wide, no-western-medical-care world without one of us being there. 


[**Seriously, can you IMAGINE if that thing got lost? It's not like you can replace it/the visa at a local Consulate or whatever.]

And it's not like James and I had to draw straws to figure out whether he would go or I would go. I mean, please. People with penises (penii?) are WAY, WAY more easily toted around China than people without. Furthermore, *I* have never moaned and whined about how I desperately wanted to tour every last inch of China and how I've been here in Chengdu without having gotten to yet like SOME of us have.


So, yeah. James went on the school field trip with Zachary and Zachary's school classmates while I stayed home with Matthew, because only the jr. high kids were going that week. James took days off of work, paid his hotel/flight/train/meal costs, and left me behind for a week in order to SEE THE WORLD.


Or, at least, the Chinese part of the world.

AND THERE WAS CHINA:



 

Waiting for them in all its glory! 


They flew out of Chengdu and flew to a different part of China (because China is big, yo!), and the first place they went was the Shaolin Temple. 


Which basically is a big, huge, GIGANTIC school where boys learn to kill people by using lots of different scary weapons.


Now, James is going to come home from work and read my blog and be all No it's not, it's the birthplace of martial arts! And Kung Fu! and... and then he'll talk all about what it really is and that's all great. But I'm sorry, when he came home from his trip and I downloaded all the pictures he took, it looked to me like the place was basically teaching boys how to use lots of different weapons to kill people.


Because the Shaolin Monk Warrior Guys know how to kill you with long poles:





And they know how to kill you with machetes and chains:





And they can fly around in the air upside down and kill you with disc thingees:





And tridents:





And whips:





And there are so many of them and so many different weapons that there's pretty much no end to the ways that they could kill you:

And there are so many younger students there (because it's also a school) that are also learning how to do all of this:

That when you tour the monastery, the young practicing students stretch out as far as the eye can see:





And it's all so very not like an American junior high or high school, you know? 


Because while all those well-disciplined Chinese junior high/high school guys were training and such, my American junior high son was...


... busily trying to make sure that there was at least one excellent photo of him with a water bottle suspended in midair, kind of like a UFO Flying Water Bottle:

So, yeah. If a well-trained Chinese Kung Fu Death Force comes hurling itself at my American son, they had darned well watch out for that water bottle, is all I'm saying.


(Insert here how different American and Chinese kids and schools are, etc.)


To be continued...

 

Welcome to China!

Recently, James had the pleasure of hanging out with a few State folks who came to China on a temporary basis to help out with stuff.


They'd never been to China before.


And now that James and I have been in China for something like almost eight months, it's interesting to see what folks that have newly-arrived notice that he and I don't even see anymore.


Before you move to China, people try to prepare you for some of the totally whacked things you will see when you get here. Except that I hate it when people say stuff in English that basically means nothing to me. For example, before we moved here we would read all manner of vague verbiage like "It is sometimes difficult for westerners to acclimate to some local Chinese practices." And I would think: What does that MEAN?!?! Use real English, please!


So I will. I will use real English for you, dear readers. Prepare yourselves.


Translate the above vague statement to: So, you will be walking down the sidewalk to go to lunch and then, on the sidewalk, there will be a human being that is pooping and you will be all HOLY CRAP, WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?!?! but you will keep walking while also trying not to step in phlegm/yellow puddles/poo, and you will remind yourself (for the zillionth time) that you will throw away all of the pairs of shoes that you've worn here in China at the end of your tour.


You see, babies/toddlers/young children here don't wear diapers.  They wear something called "split pants." (And this is a good time to tell you that I didn't take any of the pictures in this blog post - that I grabbed them all off the internet.)


Behold, split pants:




So, yes, you will be walking down the sidewalk/walking through the grocery store/walking through the museum/standing on the subway and then some kid will squat and out will come... the stuff you THINK comes out...and if you are with newly-arrived, visiting westerners who have never been to China before, you will very much have to tell them that yes, this happens. Constantly. 

Because that child? In this next picture? Is doing what you THINK it is doing:





Welcome to China.


If the child is old enough, it will squat on its own and do its thing, like the child in the picture above. If it isn't, the grandmother/mother will hold it in a certain way (yes, ANYWHERE), like this:




And when you walk by and you see a grownup/child combination in that sort of arrangement, you immediately look away unless you want to have to go home and bleach your eyes.


Sure, there are diapers here, but almost no parents use them. And no, it's not a money thing, at least for lots/many folks. At one point, James actually saw a Mercedes pull over on the side of the road (there's some serious money in China), the back door of the Mercedes open, two grownup arms extend out of the back seat holding a baby in the fashion like you see above, and a little penis flying about in the wind, doing its thing. 


Oh yeah, we're not in America anymore.


Chinese parents will walk down the street with their split-pantsed kid all holding them and playing with them and I see this sort of thing all the time:




And I think: isn't that sort of DANGEROUS?!?! For the parent, I mean?!? But, then again, I remember that it's really not my problem. 


I mean, it's my problem sometimes, of course. Because there we will be in McDonald's and I'll look over and I'll see some young child sitting in the chair all:




And I'm sorry - maybe this is totally Western Judgey McJudgerpants of me - but I can't help but think... ewwwwww.  


And then the same split-pantsed child runs into the little McDonald's playplace and slides down the plastic slide and I can't help but be grateful that my kids are basically grown and I don't have to forbid them from playing on the playplace equipment.


Or I'll be shopping somewhere and I'll look over at another shopping cart and I'll see:




And I'll inwardly roll my eyes and sigh. Not unlike what I do when I'm in the grocery store and there are little yellow puddles on the floor. 


NOTE TO VISITORS IN CHINA: Never step in the yellow puddles. It's not, like, canned pineapple juice that spilled or something. You will see them everywhere. After a while you will forget that they're there.


And yes, babies/toddlers/children will "go" ANYWHERE. Literally anywhere. 


Last time James was in the Chengdu airport flying out on a trip somewhere, he was standing in line at the ticket counter and - you guessed it - a child right next to him squatted and did its thing on the floor. 


OF THE AIRPORT.


So, yeah. I'll shut up now. I just wanted to prepare you, in case you ever came here. Because westerners may find it difficult to acclimate to some of the local practices.

A Biology Lesson or Two

So... my semester is almost 3/4 over, and recently I've been studying my little heart out.


What am I studying? Right now I'm on genetics. And you know what? 


GENETICS. HATES. MY. GUTS.


Know why?  


See this:





That is my (extremely handsome) husband. And my husband's gorgeous blue eyes, which I love.


I have brown eyes.  And did I mention that I'm part Indian?  Yeah.  BROWN EYES.  The sort of brown that is basically black.


So then when it's all baby-timez, something evil called "genetics" comes along and - POOF! - all of the sudden my husband's gorgeous blue eyes are erased from our family's gene pool because my brown eyes beat the crap out of them and left them for dead somewhere along the baby-forming way.  DAMMIT.


And THEN, to add insult to injury, "genetics" comes along and says that the only hope I have in the world of having blue-eyed grandbabies is like a one in a gazillion recessive chance and that's only if my sons marry blue-eyed girls or whatever, and even THEN "genetics" will probably make sure that the brown eyes I gave my boys beat the crap out of my daughters'-in-law blue eyes. 


Times infinity.


So, yeah, genetics can just bite me get lost.


Speaking of James, I'm thinking that I have to buy him this outfit:





Know why? Because the snazzy belt's belt buckle is the first initial of our last name AND the paint splashes on the pants are blue and yellow (blue matching his eyes, of course, see above) and OHMYGOSH YOU GUYS, THERE ARE EPIC SHOES TO MATCH.


Actually, there are TWO pairs of shoes that match! Y'all have to help me choose between Shoe Choice #1:

 

Which, HELLO, *also* has our last name's initial on it, so it totally matches the outfit's belt. In addition to that, the shoes are BMW brand (NOT, look closely!) and who wouldn't want those?


So you would think those shoes would be a shoo-in (ha!), but there's one other shoe choice that is potentially equally awesome.  Shoe Choice #2, my friends:

Oh my word, how could I not? With their snazzy yellow (to match the paint splotches in the pants, of course), my man would be one seriously happenin' dude! 


The decision is too hard for me. I Just. Can't. Choose.


Meanwhile!  


There's a little bit of warm going on outside, but it's still cold here and there, which means that I still have my photographic fill of darling Chinese babies, who are, as I've said, the cutest things on the face of the earth:





And as long as I'm asking y'all for your help with stuff... anyone seen where the Noug is at? I can't find it:






 Yep... I just can't seem to find where that Noug is at at all.


[Sorry- LAME, I know! I just... couldn't help myself.] 

(James Isn't) Going Postal

If you're the sort of person who is interested in trying to get/have/find a federal law enforcement Special Agent job, you don't have to go too far before you start hearing about how incredibly long it takes to get hired on with a federal law enforcement agency.


We're talking... a looooooooooooooong time, you guys.


So back in 2006 when James was first starting to try to go from DHS to something federal law-enforcement-y, he cast his job application net super duper wide.  It's what you have to do if you want to get on somewhere. This is because some places go through hiring freezes, or some places have their budgets cut, or some places only hire a dozen people every other year, or what have you.  Trying to get a federal law enforcement Special Agent job really is almost like playing the lottery. Some folks end up getting lucky; some don't.


So anyway, back to 2006 and James' wide net.  It includes lots of three-letter-non-word agencies, as it should.  He goes pretty far with one agency just to be told that they imposed a brand-new hiring freeze just as he was nearing the end.  He goes pretty far with another, just for them to lose his paperwork during a piece of the process. Talk about one bummer after another, and none of them his fault.


Time goes by.


Then, one day in January of 2008 his loud and obnoxious wife shows him the Special Agent position announcement that the State Department has just opened. And it sounds FABULOUS! (Yes, of course I am the heroine of this story: THIS IS MY BLOG.)  He fills out all the stuff and takes all the tests and passes everything on the first try (hello: HE IS AWESOME) and from the day he applied online to the day he is hired and officially starts training, only about eight months goes by (yes, he didn't even spend a single day on the Register, and yes, there was one, so eat your heart out).  TALK ABOUT FAST!  In federal law enforcement job land, years can go by just for *just one single step,* and yet here he is!  Hired! Start to finish in just about eight months!  It's literally like a dream come true!


So James goes to FLETC.  And he does a lot of pushups and runs a lot and stuff.  Or whatever they do there.  And one day, while he's at FLETC, his cell phone rings.  And it goes to voicemail, because he is busy in class or running or whatever.  But the person who called left a message, and the message is as follows:


"This is Special Agent So-and-So from the ATF.  We're pleased to offer you our next class as a Special Agent.  Please call me back so we can confirm."


Well, James hadn't heard a word from the ATF for so long he didn't even know he was still in the process with them. So he calls Special Agent So-and-So from the ATF back and says, Thanks, but I'm now with State and I'm at FLETC with them, so thank you but no thank you, I'm staying put with State.  


And the ATF guy literally is INCREDULOUS and tells my husband on the phone that NO ONE has EVER said NO to the ATF and he has to have James' no in writing because he just can't even believe he is being told no. Because, again, this never happens.


So James writes him or emails him or whatever (it's been a while so I can't recall which) telling him no in writing, and life goes on. 


Years pass.  James is happy as a clam with State and we burrow in.  And now we're in China.  As you know.


A couple of weeks ago, out of the clear blue nowhere, James gets an email sent to a very old personal email address.  CONGRATULATIONS, the email says to James and many other people, but YOU, LUCKY YOU have been selected to continue on with the Special Agent hiring process with the US Postal Service!  Be in Orlando in a week and bring (this freaking huge stack of original) documents with you and we will see you then!   


Things are very busy here in China and James is tired.  But amused.  And we both look at the email and James wonders aloud if and when he even applied to the Postal Service.  Do either of us even recall such a thing?


And we put our heads together and come up with our best estimation:  We suppose that he must have applied (or they wouldn't be emailing him?) and we suppose it therefore must have been circa 2006. And certainly he heard nothing since then, so we've both quite forgotten that he even submitted an application SIX. YEARS. AGO.  (I'm telling you... federal law enforcement job hiring can go veeeerrrrrryyyy slooooooooowly.)


James and I both forget about the email.  Because he sure isn't going to be in Orlando with his freaking huge stack of original documents on that date, that's why.  James tells some fellow DS folks here and there about the email and they all get a good chuckle out of the situation. 


A few days pass.  Then, again out of the clear blue nowhere James gets a PERSONALIZED email, this time from a Ms. So-and-So., THANKING HIM FOR HIS CONTINUED INTEREST IN A SPECIAL AGENT POSITION WITH THE U.S. POSTAL SERVICE (!!!!!) and directing him and his freaking huge stack of original documents to Orlando in three days.  And to call her with any questions.  James hadn't responded to the original widely-sent-out email, so they were reaching out again just to be sure, I guess.


James tries to call Ms. So-and-So, but it's, of course, not business hours in the US, so another day goes by.


Then James gets an email from Mr. Postal Service Special Agent Such-and-Such, and a few hours later he gets a VOICEMAIL from Mr. Postal Service Special Agent Such-and-Such (left on a very old phone number's voice mail), inquiring as to Orlando in two days and the freaking huge stack of aforementioned original documents.


So, yeah.  All that to say:  James didn't make it to Orlando and neither did his stack of documents.  Not that he would have gone, as he's quite happy where he is thankyouverymuch, but the whole thing is rather amusing.


So just in case you or a friend of yours ever hears rumors about how applying for a federal law enforcement Special Agent job can take a SERIOUSLY LONG TIME, now you know just how long it can actually take in reality!  Six years, my friend.  Six years from the opening up of a job announcement online until the job process begins.  That's not even from the opening of the announcement to the *hiring* for the position, that's just from opening the announcement to when the process BEGINS: six years.    


And that, you guys, is a long, loooooooooooooong time. 

Turns Out: I Haven't *Completely Destroyed* My Husband's Career!!

How do I know this?


Because the other morning we woke up to the awesome newz (delivered to us via my husband's Blackberry, who I long ago bitchily nicknamed "Your Girlfriend," as in I call out "Your girlfriend wants you!" when it rings or buzzes, so at least she delivers good news occasionally!) that


MY HUSBAND JUST GOT TENURE!!  


That's right: on his first try!   


Now, this is a big deal for anyone, right?  I mean, going from new-employee-who-can-be-fired-at-will-for-any-reason to real-employee-who-gets-to-actually-keep-this-job-long-term is a big deal no matter *who* you are.  We will be able to eat!  And have health insurance!  WOO-HOO! 


But there are bigger reasons why this is awesome, as well.  First of all, from a professional standpoint, James was worried because between getting hired and being up for tenure, he's been almost permanently in training.  The tenure process already is unknowable and mysterious, and the reasons why Person A gets it and Person B doesn't often aren't at all obvious or knowable, but the gossip has been that those who spend lots of time in training - particularly long-term language training like, oh, say, CHINESE, end up with EERs that are pretty much empty. Not. Good.


But then there was the OTHER reason to be worried that James wouldn't get tenure.  The big, huge, OBVIOUS reason that James wouldn't get tenure.  


Um, you're reading it.


Yes, my friends... THIS BLOG.  This blog (written by James' loudmouth wife).  She tries hard to be a good wife, bless her heart, but somehow her blog has gotten him in very deep trouble on multiple, multiple occasions.  Official, deep trouble, complete with meetings with high up people and unpleasant conversations.  On multiple occasions.  For multiple reasons.  Over the last few years.  One meeting of which included discussions regarding his upcoming tenure process.  The one he just got through, THANK GOD.  


So yes, I was worried.  


Over the years, this blog has disappeared and reappeared.  It has gone from having lots of State links on its sidebars and linking to other State bloggers to... not having or doing those things (very much).  It often hosted the Weekly Blog RoundUp (back to that in a second). You get what I'm trying to say.    


In fact, did you, by chance, read last month's edition of the Foreign Service Journal (the December 2011 issue)?  If you did, you might have seen the extremely well-written article (starting on page 13, and can be found here) by my dear friend, Matt Keene, regarding State Department bloggers and some of the extremely unpleasant things that have happened to them behind closed doors.  And if you read that article, you read several items about my blog and some of the things that have happened to James and me because of it.  You just didn't know that those parts were about me and James because I hadn't told you yet. But now you know.


The trouble James and I have received has weighed on us heavily. I have cried.  Oh, how I have cried.  I have offered a thousand times (begged, actually, some of them) to delete/be allowed to delete this blog in order to stop my husband from getting into trouble over and over again. The trouble which comes out of nowhere and can never be predicted. The trouble which comes only because some at State hate blogs and blogging.


But James has never let me.  And he has further told me to keep doing what I do and keep being who I am. To be brave.  On multiple occasions, he has told me those things.  Over many years.  Continuously.  


Blogging is very high stakes if you are an employee or EFM with State.  I cannot describe how high the stakes are.  Better, kinder, more talented bloggers than I have been forced to delete their blogs.  Behind closed doors, careers have been destroyed.  And no, I'm not talking about Mr. Publish-A-Book-About-Iraq-Guy or anything like that.  I'm talking about normal people normally blogging about their normal lives.  And then... they aren't.  There are ALWAYS backstories.  And I know some (most, perhaps?) of them.  And I grieve for them.  Because James and I have seen trouble, but are still here.  


I wish they were, too.


The "Tigers" can be anyone, my friends. They can be anyone anywhere at State who can leverage any authority or have any influence over an employee.  They're not just one department or one bureau or one piece of State or whatever.  Sure, they can be that employee's boss, of course... but they can also be their boss's boss, or boss's boss's boss, or anyone at post, or anyone in that section of the world, or anyone anywhere high enough to have any say over what happens to that employee, or anyone in any lateral piece or department who doesn't like blogging in general or that blog in particular.  


So today I celebrate that my husband now has tenure.  Thank you, Tenure Granting People, thank you.  Maybe you knew that James was THAT GUY whose wife has THAT BLOG... and maybe you didn't.  Maybe it wasn't an issue whatsoever... and maybe it was.  Maybe it was discussed and maybe it never came up.  He certainly, certainly deserved to get it, because he's fabulous at what he does.  


So, yes, the RoundUp.   


Which is BACK! ON!


Because my dear friend Jill (The Perlman Update) has taken the RoudUp and run with it!


So Jill is hosting the first week of the RoundUp's resurrection (publish date January 20th) and then Jill will be the new RoundUp hostess from now on - so GO JILL!  I look forward to seeing the RoundUp come back alive... helping people to connect with each other and helping us all share information about the crazy, fabulous, wonderful journey that this State life is.  And I'm grateful to Jill and to everyone else who loved having the RoundUp around and wanted it to come back!


It's a good day!


And if anyone official is having or would like to have a *substantive* dialogue about State blogging policies and how to make them better for the future... and wants to actually include a real, live blogger who has been through the fires multiple times from multiple sources for no good reason whatsoever (only because some folks at State hate blogging even while others are actively championing it**)... you know where to find me.  Because at some point, this has GOT to change.


** See that very first blog link on the right hand side of the official State.gov recruiting webpage?  IT'S MINE. 

I Would NEVER Do Such a Thing!

So this totally awesome lady who has a blog but who I won't link to because if anyone ever messes with her it will NOT be because the mess-er found her via a link on my blog linked to this totally hilarious and very irreverent article about totally idiotic diplomats.  But I would never EVER publicly link to such a hilarious article because, as I have told all of y'all before on multiple occasions, I am 


Not. Completely. Stupid.  


And also because I don't want my husband dragged into a dark room and flogged or something because his idiot wife went and acted out on her blog again, like always. 


But since said article is just totally way crazy, I just couldn't help but at least bring it up. You know.  As a conversation piece or whatever.


Ahem.


In other news, it used to be Christmas.  Which was... odd... in China.  Because here in China (or at least in Chengdu) people decorate for Christmas all the hell over the place and no one fights about whether that's acceptable or not.  Everywhere you go, you see Christmas decorations like:



 

and shopkeepers dressed up like at this store (the motto of which is "No Right Just Suitable") where they wore Santa hats for the occasion:





Yep, here places decorate and no one argues/debates about it.  Which was... surreal...because I would read on the internet how, back in the U.S., some shop refused to put a Christmas tree up or some town refused to let some Christmas banner hang and...yeah.  


I even had someone here in China, I am not making this up, note to me with utter confusion that one of the only places on the street where the Consulate is located that was NOT decorated at all on the outside for Christmas in any way whatsoever WAS THE U.S. CONSULATE.  And then they asked me, confusion in their voice, "Don't you Americans celebrate Christmas? I thought Americans celebrated Christmas!"


Um, YEAH.  Try explaining to someone in China all about how decorating for Christmas is all totally fought over in America... while standing outside a ton of Chinese places that are, themselves, decorated for Christmas.  


[I will note, however, that I didn't see a single Hanukkah decoration whatsoever here in Chengdu. Not. One.]


And that's not all!  Because this totally uncomfortable thing seriously happened to us.


Christmas Eve, James and I walked to our favorite little Chinese restaurant to eat dinner.  (The kind of little Chinese restaurant that is so yummy I literally cry when thinking about how, someday, we won't be here to eat its yummy food and also where you can get enough food to stuff four adults for about $9 USD.)  On the way there, I saw that some of the other pedestrians on the sidewalk had glossy fliers in their hands.  Glossy fliers with Christmas pictures and Christmas colors on them. And with the writing on the fliers being IN ENGLISH *AND* IN CHINESE. And I saw those fliers, but didn't think much about it, though they really were out of place, since I never ever see anything written in English.


Then, when we were eating in the restaurant, some Chinese folks with big smiles on their faces stopped by our table, wished us Merry Christmas (in Chinese), and handed us one of those same glossy Chinese/English fliers.  


Turns out, it was some sort of glossy flier about how Christmas is about Jesus and God, etc., etc., and you guys?  I'm not proud of my reaction.  I Totally. Freaked. Out. They had handed it to James and right after they walked away I quietly hissed to him across the table: "OHMYGOSH, JAMES, GET RID OF THAT THING!  GET RID OF THAT THING RIGHT NOW! WHAT IF SOMEONE SEES YOU WITH IT AND THINKS *WE'RE* THE ONES HANDING OUT THOSE RELIGIOUS FLIERS TO PEOPLE! GO THROW THAT THING AWAY!"


But then I felt like a total and complete nutjob (nothing new there) because I realized that some kind-hearted, Christian Chinese person probably thought that James and I were totally headed for hell and needed a serious Christmas Message. And, really, you guys?  If pretty much all I really knew about Americans was what I had seen either from Hollywood movies or from a bad translation of Desperate Housewives or Sex in the City or whatever (heaven help us all), I would totally be thinking that James and I probably needed a Christmas Message, too.


Talk about humbling.


Anyway, literally the day after Christmas - December 26th, no lie - every Christmas decoration vanished from the Chengdu streets/shops and Chinese New Year decorations appeared.


Except at this one high-end jewelry store.  THEY still have Christmas decorations up, even to this day, probably milking the Christmas gift giving thing for all it's worth.


So maybe America and China just really Aren't. That. Different. You know?  Except for the fact that it seems that it's easier to decorate for Christmas if you're in China... and Chinese.  Go figure.

 

And then My Husband & I Got in a Big Fight Right There in the Consulate

(NOT.  Because James and I don't fight, actually, believe it or not.  I just like using dramatic blog post titles that at least sort of relate to the topic at hand and catch your attention.  Did it work?)


Anyway, so, I've already whined about how, a couple of weeks ago, I sat for TWO. DAYS. at a computer at the Consulate trying to work with this hideous software program, e-QUIP, and beg it, plead with it, cry until it stopped giving me a thousand error messages and allowed me to submit my personal information in pursuit of a clearance (in hopes of possibly getting an EFM job at post).  


But what I didn't yet do is tell you the backstory.  


Day 1 of my two days in front of the computer involved just me.  Well, that's not true - since the one computer that I'm allowed to use is right smack in front of all manner of other things going on, I was never really ALONE alone, but at least I fought with worked with e-QUIP as much as I could by myself that first day. 


Day 2?  Oh, on Day 2, James had to come and sit with me and help me since e-QUIP hated my guts / wanted me to kill myself / was less than user friendly.  Perhaps this is because my life just doesn't seem to fit in its prescribed boxes (boxes that MUST be filled out or the program won't continue or gives you a thousand ERROR!! messages and THEN won't continue).


Here.  Maybe this** will explain it better:


[**And I'm not kidding, you guys.  This conversation ACTUALLY HAPPENED this exact way.] 


                                             ~   ~   ~


[Setting: James and I are in front of the Consulate EFM computer, staring at the e-QUIP screen. Because if he doesn't help me, I'll never be able to finish. Really.] 


ME (poking my finger at the screen marked "Previous Employment in the Last Ten Years"): What do I do about THIS?  It's MAKING me fill it out, even though for the last ten years I've only been a stay-at-home-mom!


JAMES (helpfully):  I guess just type "Stay at Home Mom" in the box?


ME (who has tried to do this before):  Oh, SURE.  Watch THIS.


[Types "Stay at Home Mom" in the box.  Immediately gets next empty box that also MUST be filled out, titled "Name of Supervisor."]


ME AGAIN (sarcastically):  So NOW I have to type the name of my SUPERVISOR.  And it's MAKING me enter this or I can't go on.  What do I do NOW?


JAMES (turning a bit green):  Oh, Lord. 


[Pause.  A long pause.  In which James doesn't want to speak.  And I don't blame him.]


JAMES AGAIN (helpfully):  Maybe you... put... yourself?  Like that you're your own Supervisor?


ME (yet more sarcastically):  So that I then have to fill out all the self-employment boxes that come after it??


JAMES (turning more green):  I guess.... you should just... put.... me?


ME:  WHATEVER.  I guess that's as good as anything else.


[Bitchily types "My husband?!?! How the hell am I supposed to respond to this question, anyway?!?!" into the box marked "Name of Supervisor." OH YES I DID.]


JAMES (quietly, helpfully, tentatively):  You *may not* want to actually type "hell" on the official form you're submitting to DS?  Maybe?  It's just a suggestion?


ME:  OH, FINE.


[Deletes the "hell" part and leaves:  "My husband?!?!?!" typed under "Name of Supervisor."]


*click*


ME:  Okay, now it's making me enter MY SUPERVISOR'S address, phone number, and email address.  Well, SUPERVISOR, what would you like me to type?


JAMES sighs and hands me his business card.  I type all of his contact information into the little boxes.


*click*


JAMES (groans when he sees the next screen)...


[The screen that made James groan was a question that basically asked:  "Have you ever been disciplined or threatened to be disciplined or reprimanded in this job at any time?  Or needed any remediation?  Etc.?"  and then you have to choose YES or NO in response.  Or something like that.]


ME:  Well?  And what do I put for THAT?

JAMES:  Well, you OBVIOUSLY click NO.  Because you're a good wife and mother!


ME (narrowing my eyes at him):  But in my workplace environment there aren't exactly any yearly review processes.  WHAT IF my Supervisor has actually felt that I DESERVED to be reprimanded upon occasion for poor attitude in the workplace or some other subpar job performance issues, but didn't have any mechanism for doing so??


JAMES (literally wishing for death):  You're a GOOD WIFE AND MOTHER.  CLICK "NO."  


ME:  FINE.


*clicks No and Next*


JAMES (groans audibly like he's in great physical pain)...


[The screen that made James groan audibly like he was in pain was the screen that pretty much says, "And we WILL be contacting your Supervisor to hear all about whether or not you're a good employee in order to verify that, because you just said that you are," or something like that.]


JAMES (has pretty much had it with e-QUIP at this point):  REALLY?  Well.  THAT would be interesting.  I sort of hope they DO contact me. They can just GO AHEAD.


ME (snidely but in a fake nice kind of sugary sweet way):  And if they do contact you, SUPERVISOR, will you be voluntarily disclosing that you and I are currently involved in a long-standing sexual relationship?

JAMES (brightly):  We are, aren't we?


ME:  Um, YES.  We ARE.


JAMES (musing):  So would that qualify as... some sort of workplace sexual harassment?


ME:  I should think that's some sort of textbook definition!  I can't imagine it getting any more clear cut!


JAMES (feigning confusion):  But... are *you* sexually harassing *me* or am *I* sexually harassing *you*?


ME (all matter-of-fact-like):  The legal presumption is that the person with greater authority is the harassER and the subordinate is the harassEE.  Therefore YOU are harassing ME, Mr. SUPERVISOR.  OBVIOUSLY.


JAMES:  Excellent.  That's just... fantastic.


                                              ~   ~   ~


After a few more hours of this kind of fun (NOT), I was finished correcting everything that had given me a zillion e-QUIP ERROR!! messages.


All that's left is to see if James really does get contacted as part of my background investigation.  


Since he's my current Supervisor, and all. 

Three of Us Went Out and Had a Ball!

Oh, yes, my friends... I'm talking about the Marine Ball held here in Chengdu. Yesterday I caught y'all up with all the stuff that's been going on here recently, and today it's time to get back to our regularly scheduled program!  


We folks here in Chengdu are MOST blessed, for even though our post is super-duper-small, we have Marines here, which means that we get to have a Marine Ball!  Which was a couple of weeks ago.  Or a few weeks ago.  Or something like that.


Now, before I get to the pictures from the Marine Ball (and I will... oh, yes, I will), I have to rewind time a bit. You see, my husband wore a tux at the Marine Ball, which got us both thinking.


Thinking about how long we've known each other (a really long time).


Also, at the Marine Ball, there's a tradition where a huge, pretty cake is cut and then three people eat the first pieces.  One person is the oldest Marine in the room and one person is the youngest Marine in the room.


And when they announced the date of birth of the youngest Marine in the room (who was then munching on cake), James and I looked at each other.  Because the youngest Marine in the room was born the year James and I started dating.  


Yes, we're OLD.


Thus, when the youngest Marine in the room was born, James and I looked exactly like this:





No lie, y'all.  That's James and me in high school.  He was 17 (we'll get to THAT parallel in a moment) and I was 15.  This is the first picture I have from our relationship.  (And YES, wearing scarves as belts was the style back then.  DON'T JUDGE ME.)


Time went by.   


Then we went to James' Senior Prom together.


He wore a tux:




And I wore a dress with lots of sequins and a big bow on the backside:





IT'S NOT MY FAULT.  THAT WAS THE STYLE BACK THEN.


Time went by.  


Then James graduated from high school:



Time went by. 


Then we got engaged:





Time went by.


Then we got married.  James wore a tux for the second time in his life:





Then, at the Marine Ball, James wore a tux for the THIRD time in his life.  And I've been there to see all three times.  


That's what happens when you fall in love basically at BIRTH.


And remember how that first picture of us was from back when James was 17 years old?  Yeah, well, Matthew is now 17 years old.  And he went with us.  To the Ball.  


Almost adult children for the win!  


A few weeks before the Ball, both James and Matthew went to a local tailor to have some finery made.  Because neither of them had a thing to wear.  The local tailor is so talented that, I swear I'm not making this up, he took their measurements and created a suit for Matthew and a tux for James, both of which were perfect and neither of which required so much as even one single fitting.  Measurements straight to perfect suits and tuxes.  Unreal.


Here's Matthew being measured for his suit (and yes, the dude measuring him is the insanely talented tailor):




And then, a few weeks later, voila!  Both of my guys looked amazing:





Such handsome, handsome guys.


Even though I was - no joke - wearing heels that were SUPER DUPER high (we're pretty much talking stiletto stripper heels, people, and I'm not kidding, because the dress was really long and couldn't be hemmed or it would ruin the look), Matthew is still much taller than I am:





Come to think of it, even with stiletto stripper heels (hello, creepy Google searchers! Wrong blog!) on, my husband is much taller than I am, too:




 

Which is just fine by me.  And no, I have no pictures of the shoes.  Sorry.  Nobody at post saw them, I don't think, except perhaps when I was getting into and out of the car to go to the Ball.  That's because my dress was super long and covered them up.  I hope. 


Long, long dress:





And not a single stripper heel in sight.  Because I have CLASS, people. And in that picture, you can TOTALLY see the coats (and a shoe) from two Marines.  Also, the American flag.  Because the Marine Ball is all about Marines and America!  And dancing. 


Because OH HELL YES I DID, ACTUALLY, MAKE MY TEENAGED SON DANCE WITH ME.  Did you doubt me even for one moment?  If you did, then you don't know me at all:





I actually made that son of mine dance with me multiple times.  Just like I made a 17-year-old James dance with me at Homecoming and Prom (and, of course, he danced with me at the Marine Ball, at which HE WAS WORKING, and I'm not making that up, either, but I won't whine because I just whined yesterday).  Because sometimes life is very interesting like that.


Oh, wait - I haven't yet shown you how pretty the Marine Ball was!  It was quite gorgeous:





The tables were quite lovely:




 
And the food was AMAZING.  As in UH-MAY-ZEENG. There was a buffet. Of super high end American food.  'Nuff said.


Oh, and here's another fun little story about how OLD James and I were feeling that night. The afternoon of the Marine Ball (yes, Darling, I'm putting this story on the internet for the entire world to read. You're welcome!), James was literally asked if he'd fought in World War Two.  


And so I said to James, "Damn, Baby!  You make guys who fought in World War II look GOOD!" 


(Just in case you're wondering, the answer is NO.  NO, my husband did NOT fight in World War II.  But all of our grandfathers did, so there's that.) 


And also just in case you were wondering, yes - Matthew WAS the only one at the Ball under the age of probably 25.  But he had a fabulous time, just the same, and we had to pull him away from the venue when it was time to go.  


See the happy?  SOMEONE got to sit at the table with the Marines and didn't have to sit with his old fogey parents!

Oh, yes, there was a lot of happy.  Oh, and that's also his Dad's tie... isn't that fun?  


Have I said before that having almost adult kids is a blast?  Because it totally is, you guys.  It makes all the younger kid chaos super duper worth it.