the sandbank

We landed on Ibo Island on a Sunday, and stayed at the romantic lodge Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday nights.  Tuesday morning we got a preview of our Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, when we woke up with the sun and sleepily walked to the docks.  The four of us piled into a tiny, wooden rowboat with an African gondoleer at the helm.  With his long, skinny stick of an oar he paddled us out to the sister of the dhow we'd call our own the next four days (ours was being prepared for our journey), and we shakily climbed aboard.

 
The morning was chilly and we huddled under towels while we watched the crew raise the sail.  Then we awkwardly climbed the narrow ladder to the small, upper deck for a 45-minute sail in the crisp air to a sandbank in the middle of the sea.  Nervously we watched what seemed like huge waves and ominous other boats (the lodge manager had regaled three of us with tales of pirates over cocktails the night before; he terrified O).  Soon enough the crew called for us to go ashore, so ever the lady that I am, I hiked up my dress and got my feet wet.  Joey, L&O followed, and we explored the small mound of sand we'd inhabit for the next few hours.

I wish I could take credit for this amazing picture of the sandbank, but I have to give  it to L.

Even though it was still quite cold, one of our crew said it was time to go snorkeling, so on went the flippers and masks, at least for three of us.  I'm not exactly the most coordinated person, and snorkeling is high on the list of things that freak me out and can't really do (escalators, specifically descending ones, are also on that list).  I've tried snorkeling three other times - and only one of those have I even managed to kind of do it (I blame one of those instances on alcohol.  Booze cruises should never be accompanied by snorkeling.  Or kayaking.  That was really bad.)  It'd been about four years since my last attempt, so I decided to give it another try.

While L and O were off enjoying the reefs, Joey was teaching me how to breathe and trying not to laugh hysterically.  Maybe it was because I was going off about Darth Vader with the tube still in my mouth.  Eventually, though, I figured it out - until it was time for the flippers.  How do people swim in those things?  I felt certain I was going to drown immediately with those giant fins on, so I left them on the bank.  Finally we were ready to snorkel, and off I swam.  I made it to the first reef and I panicked.  Although heavily breathing, I seemed to be managing, but what would happen if I accidentally sucked water?  The coral seemed so close I was sucking in my stomach - I couldn't put my legs down and all I could see was coral.  Where were Joey and L and O?  By then I was completely flailing in every direction.

Thankfully Joey saw my panic attack, and swam up and held my hand.  Instantly I felt better, and with white knuckles I squeezed his hand as I continued to flail about, albeit less, in the water.  But hand-in-hand we explored the reef and the amazing colors of the ocean.  We saw a bright red, puffy starfish, a kingfish, and innumerable shimmering schools.  Although the breathing apparatus still scared me, with Joey holding my hand I almost could feel the peace of the underwater world.  Unfortunately my "swimming" did not bring anyone else peace, as L and O had to come up several times to contain their hysterical laughter at the sight of my flailing body.

After we'd snorkeled for a while, it was time for breakfast.  The other members of the crew had erected a table under a tent on the sandbank, we warmed up with hot coffee before we were served fresh scrambled eggs, breakfast sausage and toast.  Then we stretched out on our towels in the sun and let the food settle before another round of snorkeling.

The rising tide soon swallowed up more and more of our shore - it was time to get back on the dhow and head back to Ibo Island.  On the upper deck once more, it was time for a beer and tanning.  I looked over at Joey and he wore one of the biggest smiles I'd seen on him in a long, long time.  The sunshine, the bright blue ocean, the wind in our face had made for a pretty hard-to-beat morning.  An hour later we returned to the dock in high spirits.  We all breathed a sigh of relief in anticipation of the next four days.

hubris

You may recall a few instances in which I used my husband as fodder for my blog.  Okay, more often than not - thankfully he's a good sport.  But two specific posts come to mind, each from when Joey attempted to use my rose pan to make my traditional lemon birthday cake.  And so here I humbly submit photos of my recent effort at lemon cake. 

I like to call it, "When life gives you lemon cake."  Joey prefers "karma cake."

camping

I've never been much for camping.  My first memory of camping is in my grandparents' pop-up trailer parked in their driveway.  I was about eight years old and it was also the first (and probably last) time I ever had Mellow Yellow.  I made it until about 2 am when I called my mom and begged her to come get me.

Then came summer camp.  I cried my eyes out the first three days.  Looking back, I'm pretty sure it was because I missed my nice clean bathroom and longer-than-3-minute-showers.  (Just kidding, Mom.)

Even in college, camping consisted of hanging out at the campsite until late in the night and then driving home to pee in a real toilet and sleep in a bed above the ground.

So when I was planning this safari and the travel agent told me the only place available in our budget in the area where I wanted to stay (to catch the Great Migration.  Of course I would sign up to go camping and then it wouldn't rain all year and the animals would go somewhere else) was actually a tented camp, I was skeptical.  But I figured since the website said it had toilets and hot showers, it was only one night (I hadn't taken into account how bad the place in Moshi would be) and it'd be an adventure.  

How much of an adventure I didn't realize until we read the rules.

The giant tarp which held our beds was partitioned into four parts: a bedroom, a sink/dressing room enclave, a toilet and a shower.  The toilet, flanked by wooden boards, flushed twice - total - and in order to get hot water, two men stood outside the tarp and poured a fire-heated bucket into the shower nozzle.  It was more slime than water and which left me wishing for a shower after my shower.  I tried to tell myself it probably had really good anti-aging qualities.

Then there were the lions.

Joey caught a cold, and the poor guy had been sniffling and sneezing all day.  Normally this translates to a lot of snoring at night.  After we were escorted back to our tent for bed by the African tribesman, Joey heard a noise.  With big eyes he looked at me and asked, "Did you hear that?"  I shrugged it off and fell into a light sleep.  At one point what I thought was Joey's snores roused me, and I told him, apparently loudly enough for Angela and Steve in the next tent to hear, to roll over.

It wasn't Joey snoring.  It was a lion.  Which is why Angela and Steve were awake to hear me hollering. 

We had an early drive the next morning to see the nocturnal predators returning from the hunt, and at 5:30 am we sat in the dark with our coffee while we waited for our driver.  Joey, Angela and Steve said a lion had kept them up all night, but I didn't believe them.  Then the lion roared again, closer this time, and I apologized to Joey for complaining about his snoring.

Click here for all of my pictures from day two of our safari.

      

cleanse

My employment contract expired on Friday.  My new contract was supposed to begin yesterday, but it's all tied up in red tape, which means I am taking an indefinite staycation.

This staycation perfectly coincided with the arrival of my new juicer and impending vacation to Eastern Europe (where all those bitches have legs a mile long and an inch thick), so I finally started a cleanse.  I've been trying to plan this cleanse since my January edition of Whole Living magazine arrived in February, but organizing all of the components isn't easy when you live in Nigeria.

I believe the editors of Whole Living intended for the cleanse to jump-start the new year.  My edition arrived significantly later, not by any fault of the people at Martha Stewart publications.  Then I had to order a juicer.  Then I had to wait three weeks for said juicer to arrive.  Then I could start compiling the foods needed for this cleanse, because obviously those things need to be consumed fresh.  One would think that living in a tropical climate would afford accessibility to a large variety of fruits and vegetables, but I think I would have had an easier time finding all of the ingredients in Iowa in January.  Maybe that was the point...I guess there aren't a lot of Whole Living subscribers in sub-Saharan Africa...

Anyway, the vegetable delivery man came on Saturday and Joey bought all the items he could find on my list.  Then yesterday we went to the market to buy more vegetables and today M. is going to the supermarket to hopefully find the rest.  I think the only thing we may not find is kale, but there is another vegetable delivery man coming on Friday and he said he might have Swiss Chard.

Did I mention I'm starving?

Anyway, by last night we had amassed enough ingredients, and so this morning I began my cleanse.  Nothing but fruits and vegetables for 1 week.  Three hours in and I'm already starving.  My breakfast of grapefruit, carrot and ginger juice kept me full for about one whole hour and I've been sucking down water and tea to try to get me through the next two.  In fifteen minutes I get to eat four dates stuffed with pistachios.  Oh yay.

So we'll see how this thing goes.  My other option is to sit at home and eat all day long, so I figure the cleanse route is worth a try.

Only 9 more minutes until my dates...

ruminations

Perhaps I may be a little melodramatic at times.  Additionally, I tend to take things personally when my feelings really have nothing to do with the matter.  One of my parents' favorite things to say about me is that I will cut off my nose to spite my face.  Hmm.

I realize that Panama is considered a great post.  We would have happily served in Panama the first time around.  We bid it high last time.  I've been there - it's nice.  Especially compared to where we are placed now.  It has beautiful beaches, great restaurants and lots of old people from the US.  Kind of like Florida.

But it's not Europe.  And frankly, I had my heart set there.  So I'm not disappointed so much that they assigned us to Panama, but that they didn't assign us to Europe.

I don't think that my expectations were unrealistic.  One great colleague of Joey's whom we met here in Abuja is in a fabulous European capital now.  Another colleague will leave Abuja and head to the same fabulous European capital in a few months.  Another colleague of his from Abuja is headed shortly to my favorite city in the world.  Every person we know who has served in Abuja received one of their top five bids.  Our top seven bids were in Europe, five of them with perfect timing.  Yet we were assigned number nine, which was imperfect timing.  Frankly, I find it insulting.

I'm sure this seems petty.  I know.  It is.  But serving here has been freaking hard.  And we were told that serving here would virtually guarantee our pick of anywhere in the world for our second post.  Which seems to me like a pretty blatant lie.  Joey's CDO (career development officer) told him that all posts above us went to people with higher differentials.  I don't see how the smaller winter bidding cycle had eight other people with higher differentials (considering ELOs (entry-level officers) aren't allowed to serve in Iraq, Afghanistan or Pakistan), while Joey's colleague who heads to the fabulous European capital in a few months bid in the huge summer cycle.  Where were all the people with higher differentials then?

Oh, and the same day we got our bids was the same day that they finally approved an additional 10% differential for Abuja.  Seven months later.  It really just makes me want to scream.

So while there are some amazing benefits to Joey's career, this is also something that we (okay, me.  Joey, ever the laid-back, nonchalant man that he is, could really give a shit.  He's amazing at accepting the hand he's dealt and making the best of it.  Maybe that's one of the reasons I love him so much: his "that's the way the cookie crumbles" attitude really complements my "oh really?  Well GFY!"-ness.  (I know, I know, I'm so eloquent)) have to very carefully weigh: are the benefits worth feeling like someone's pawn for "the needs of the service?"  We certainly haven't been singled out - this shit happens all the time - but I just don't know if I can handle being tossed around to places where I'm meh at best and horrified and bawling under the covers at worst.  Also, as calm and collected as Joey is, I'm not sure how many more we-got-our-post-Melissa-is-having-a-meltdown he can handle.  

Anyway, that's where we are now.  We'll have to truly consider all of the costs and benefits (which will certainly involve more than one Excel spreadsheet).  Right now the plan is there is no plan.

and our next post is...

The United States of America.

Actually we got assigned to Panama, and since I can't handle two more years of not being able to drink the water, two more years of living somewhere that needs the Peace Corps, two more years of cockroaches and being afraid to run by myself, that means we will be moving back to the USA.  Seriously.

I will leave it that I am exceptionally disappointed.  I really thought after living in an exceptionally difficult and dangerous third-world country for the last two years we would have earned our way past that.  Apparently it doesn't work that way.

I will write more when I'm better able to mince words.  In the meantime, feel free to shoot me an email and I'll tell you how I really feel.

ghana: the end

Unfortunately, before our arrival, we’d also already arranged with Big Milly to hire a cab and driver to take us up the coast for a day.  That meant another ride in the ghetto-rigged taxi rocket.  All day long.  And, as if we needed a reminder of its volatility, our driver had to stop for gas.  When the gas attendant climbed in through the hatchback and used a plastic bag to seal the valve, I decided it’d probably be a good idea to get out of the car.  Joey and I stood a few feet away and waited while the tank filled, but the smell of propane permeated the vehicle for the next half hour.  

The information I found said it would take about two hours to drive to Cape Coast from Big Milly’s.   So we arranged to visit Kakum, for its rainforest canopy walk, followed by St. George’s Castle in Elmina, and finally, Cape Coast Castle in Cape Coast.  Unfortunately, the information I found does not, apparently, take into account traffic.  After forty-five minutes on the bumpy road in the hot rocket, our driver told us it’d be another two-and-a- half hours to Kakum.  I’m not going to lie: I was exceptionally annoyed.  Four hours, unbuckled, in an un-air-conditioned car on exceptionally bumpy roads had just turned into seven, and had I known this from the get-go, we probably would have planned the whole trip differently.  But que sera, sera, and soon enough we reached the entrance of the rainforest and bought our tickets for the canopy walk.

I’m not really sure how I manage to take us on death-marches (as my husband likes to call them) every time we go on vacation, but sure enough, we faced a hike up the rainforest that left us sweaty and winded.  With my unique inability to put two and two together when they’re staring me in the face, I hadn’t realized that in order to get to the canopy walk in the rainforest, one must first climb to the height of the canopy.  Duh.  Somehow I also neglected to heed that walking through the canopy means walking over the tops of trees.  Really old trees.  Really, really tall trees.  And I am afraid of heights.  

What was I thinking?  Did I mention this canopy walk is a suspension bridge?   This means when you move, the bridge moves.  And the more people on the bridge, the more the bridge moves.  And the guy in front of me is tap dancing.  I so terrified of heights I don’t even enjoy sledding and I am suddenly on a swaying, rope bridge 100 feet off the ground.

And then it started to rain.

I get that it’s called a rainforest.  Who would guess that it would rain in the rainforest?  But seriously, why did it have to rain as soon as I climbed on the suspension bridge?  The first five minutes walking along the wooden planks weren’t so bad.  The view was breathtaking (in more ways than one) and the rain wasn’t coming down too hard. 

Then it really started to rain.  And we are still on the longest suspension bridge in all of Africa.  With a tap-dancing ranger.  It’s actually a series of seven suspension bridges, in total over 1000 swinging feet, and now it is freaking pouring.   My attempt to shelter my camera from the downpour was overwhelmed by my desire for pictures of the gorgeous, terrifying scenery (or maybe documentation of my bravery), so my repeated, one-handed endeavor of removing my camera from my purse, securing the strap around my neck, taking a picture, taking the camera strap off my neck and returning the camera to my purse every few feet, all while trying to balance on the bridge with one set of white knuckles firmly locked on the rope, ended up with Joey in hysterics and me looking like a five-year old who has to pee.

We finally made it off the bridge to the covered platform, but by then we were completely soaked.  At first we decided to wait it out with the other people who walked the bridge with us, but then they discovered we were American.

“OBAMA!”  One Ghanaian exclaimed.

“Yeah!  Obama!  Obama!”  The others chorused.

Then we proceeded to become photographic fodder, as all of the Ghanaians took their picture with Joey and me.  Then each Obama-loving Ghanaian posed for an individual picture with our soaked and bewildered selves.

After our wet’n’wild photo shoot, since the rain didn’t seem to be letting up any time soon and we were already drenched, we decided to just hike back down.

Oh. My. God. it was wet.  Any semblance of a trail before had turned into a rushing brook, and as if I already don’t have enough problems hiking down hills, I was faced with hiking through a stream down a hill.  The water ran into my eyes, taking with it my sunscreen, and the burning sensation that followed was an added bonus.  All I want to know is why we are incapable of having a normal vacation?  I mean, why, why, can’t we just go for one day without some crazy-ass adventure?  What is wrong with us?  Whose idea was it to vacation in the rainforest in Africa?  Just two dumb Iowans who think it’ll be such an authentic adventure! 

Finally we made it to the bottom of the trail and under the gable of a lodge.  We literally rung out our clothes as, lo and behold, the sun came out.  My soggy sandals squeaked beneath me as we waddled back to the rocket, and when we sat down in the taxi, I opened my purse to see how my camera had fared.

Apparently my method of alternating between taking a picture in the rain and stashing my camera in my purse was just as brilliant as going to an African rainforest and not expecting it to rain.  I unzipped my bag and there my camera sat in at least two inches of water.  I grimaced; the cab driver said, “Oh, shit!”

The last picture as shown by my screen.  Oh shit, indeed.

It took about forty-five minutes to drive from Kakum back to Elmina; during which time I pressed the on/off button on my camera at least two-hundred times.  That puppy was not working.  First the lens opened and then the lens wouldn’t open at all.  Then the lens opened and stayed there.   And the screen?  That thing was completely FUBAR.  We are driving past palm trees, white-sand beaches, crystal blue waters, with awesome African fishing boats and a freaking 15^th century castle in the background and my camera is D-E-A-D.  Dead.  Are you trying to kill me?!

As we pulled up to the visitors entrance of St. George’s Castle in Elmina, I tried to remind myself that in the grand scheme of things, my broken camera was pretty far down the list of atrocities that took place where we stood.  St. George’s Castle was built in 1482 by the Portuguese as one of its African trading posts on the Atlantic.  Sadly, it was also where thousands of slaves were kept for months in filthy, deplorable, inhumane conditions before they were sent through “the door of no return.”  The castle tour was quite sobering; it’s just impossible to reconcile how human beings could treat other human beings that way.  But our Ghanaian tour guide remained positive.  He ended our tour by saying, “We keep this castle not to reopen old wounds.  It just serves as a lesson to humanity.” 

Meanwhile, my lens seemed to be responding, and although the screen was still black and worthless, the rest of my camera appeared to be functioning.  Using the viewfinder, I mimed taking pictures, with hopes that I might capture even a little bit of the scene around us.  We drove back through the town of Elmina, in which you could sense the European influences in the narrow streets and architecture, before driving along the Atlantic to reach Cape Coast and its infamous slave castle.

One of the views of Elmina from St. George's Castle

The tour guide at the Cape Coast Castle was decidedly less friendly.  Part of me can’t blame him; it was absolutely disgusting how those slave traders behaved.  But the second tour guide was so hostile that each description of the slave traders’ barbarity seemed to end with the entire tour group of Africans subtly turning and glaring at the two white scapegoats: Joey and me.  We were so uncomfortable that we left half-way through the tour.  It felt like a mob was going to punish us for the sins of our forefathers, and for some reason I didn’t think our argument that none of our ancestors had even stepped foot in America before slavery was abolished would suffice. 

From Cape Coast castle it was another three hours in the rocket back to Big Milly’s.  The dirt roads our driver took to circumvent the brutal traffic were both physically and emotionally jarring.  At one point I felt pretty sure we’d stumbled onto the set of the movie, “City of God,” as we drove through the maze of concrete blocks.  But we made it back safely, and just in time for dinner.  In between bites of fresh grilled rock lobster and sips of hand-muddled caiprinahs, with the sand beneath our feet and the salty ocean breeze in our hair, we swayed to the reggae music played by the band under the moon, and life was good. 

Our last day in Kokrobite was perfectly relaxing.  We walked on the beach, collected shells, drank fruity drinks and ate lobster and french fries.  One more ride in the hot rocket returned us to the airport in Accra, and in a few hours we were safely (well...) back in Abuja.   

Amazingly enough, all of my pictures turned out.  Here's the link.

lessons learned

Travel lessons I should have learned the first time we schlepped around Italy:

1. Train rides suck.  They make me feel like I drank all the vodka in Russia the night before, whether or not I consumed a drop of alcohol.  They are crowded, generally stinky (although after 6 months here, my tolerance for BO is now as high as a Russian's tolerance for vodka), and just altogether unpleasant.  Whose brilliant idea was it to plan a 9-hour train ride from Provence to Santa Margherita? 

2. Europe is not handicap-friendly.  And big, heavy suitcases are big-ass handicaps.  The same brilliant person who planned the 9-hour train ride thought it would be much easier to just lug one bigger suitcase (each) instead of having to juggle two smaller suitcases (each).  Maybe, until the 9-hour train ride included 4 stops, which meant five separate times Joey had to heave my 60-lb suitcase and his 60-lb suitcase down the staircase to the train platform, up into the train, down out of the train and back down one staircase and up another staircase to the next platform.  In 90-degree heat.  Oops.

Yeah, just because Aix-en-Provence is close to the French Riviera, and Santa Margherita is on the Italian Riviera does not mean you should take a train between them.  Maybe if you take a day in Nice.  Or maybe if a direct train overnight existed (it doesn't), it might be a tolerable trip.  But definitely don't do it the way we did.  By the time we left Aix-en-Provence and stopped in Nice, Ventimiglia and Genoa before arriving in Santa Margherita, we were completely and utterly exhausted.  And I didn't even carry the suitcases.  Which brings me to #3:

Pick one destination and stay there.  Going from A to B to C to D to E is expensive, it's exhausting, and by the end of the trip, it's just plain annoying.  Packing and unpacking and repacking your suitcase gets progressively harder, especially if you buy any sort of souvenir.  Particularly if you've been in Nigeria for six months and are struck, first numbly, and then overwhelmingly, by your innate, American consumerism that sat dormant during the last several months.  Trust me.  Go somewhere you can explore for a few days and from where you can easily explore a few other destinations for a few days.   A to B to A to C is infinitely easier.

Oh, and wearing high heels because your travel shoes are broken and you'll have slightly more room in your suitcase is beyond inane.  Who would be dumb enough to do that? 

lemon meringue

I took a quiz about desserts.  It asked me to pick my favorite from a list.  Any of you who have ever been to a buffet with me can attest I do not pick favorites.  I taste them all.  My dad calls this "turkey-dom," when women get really excited about dessert but say they only want a little bite and then hold up their pinkie while they eat their one bite.  I would argue that I am not a turkey in that I generally eat more than just a bite of each dessert.  I finish at least two or three.  Good thing I run.

Regardless, it was really hard for me to pick this dessert, albeit hypothetical.  Finally, after much salivating and hard thought, I decided upon Lemon Meringue Pie.  Here's what that says about me:

"Smooth, sexy & articulate with your hands (um, ok, I guess I used to play the piano), you are an excellent caregiver and a good teacher.  But don't try to walk and chew gum at the same time.  A bit of a diva at times, you set your own style because you do your own thing.  You shine when it comes to helping others and have many friends."

Sunday evening, while clutching four bottles of wine at the grocery store, I dropped one on my toe.  Oh my God did it hurt.  Then while I was trying not to cry and/or pass-out, my brilliant husband told me that his little brother cut his toe off that way.  Wonderful.  Thank you for that fact.  I took a picture of my big, fat, black and blue toe but then decided I need a pedicure and am not posting the picture.

Recent example number two of my brilliance (for which I do not have a picture at all), would be the large blisters on my left pointer and middle fingers.  After it was on all evening, a light bulb in one of our lamps flickered.  I instinctively reached out to adjust the bulb.  Burn.  No pun intended.

So I sent my dessert psycho-analysis to Joey with the sentence about walking and chewing gum at the same time highlighted and exclaimed how accurate I found it to be.  He agreed but only with a change in the highlighting: ...A bit of a diva at times...

I don't know where he gets that impression.

i'm considering changing the title of my blog

to "FML Moments."  I thought I'd share one from today. 

Our suitcase collection needed some updating.  It consisted of several carry-on approved size suitcases (about 20"); one ten year-old, regular size suitcase that begs to be thrown away, as it has been all over Europe and the Western Hemisphere several times and looks that way, with its now gaping hole in the corner; and one gigantic, human-sized suitcase.  So today I took it upon myself to visit several stores to find some sturdy, functional luggage at a minimal price to safely transport many of our belongings to Abuja.  I ended up purchasing four suitcases at Marshall's, which my husband hasn't even seen but has already informed me two of which are considered oversized.  I bought a pink set of three: 28", 25", and 20", as well as another 28" in black.  So who knows the big black one will probably have to go back (I thought I was replacing the regular-sized one), but that's not even the point of my story.  Just a tertiary FML.  Anyway, I nested together the set of three suitcases and put them in the back of my car. 

So on Sunday night, after dropping Lauren off at the airport, Joey and I made another trip to Costco.  Our cart was so full and so heavy it took both of us to move it, and at least fifteen minutes to load into the trunk and back seat of our car.  Sunday was also the first day of some rather pleasant weather we've been having here.  Apparently the average in DC in December is 50 degrees, but lucky for us, the temperature is hovering around 35, with a wind chill of 25.  So after freezing our asses off in the parking lot of Costco, Joey and I were loathe to do it again in our little parking lot (not to mention the dogs were howling and its a pain to shuffle everything back and forth).  We decided to at least unload the back of the car, as our alley can get a little shady in the dark and we didn't want to provide any incentive to break in (not that three gallon bins of olive oil and cans of diced tomatoes incite me to break in cars but you never know).  So we left the trunk full of food. 

I had this brilliant idea that I would take the food and put it in the new suitcase.  In the parking lot of Marshall's.  Which was full of holiday traffic...Turns out not all of the food in the trunk fit in the suitcase (duh).  And so then the suitcase wouldn't fit in the trunk.  Which meant it had to go in the front seat.  Now you know how the doors on two-door cars swing pretty heavily?  So I'm trying to avoid dinging the car next to mine which means I can't open the door too far.  And now I've loaded this 28" suitcase full of jars of roasted red peppers, kalamata olives, honey, artichokes, as well as 7 - 2.5 lb bags of coffee beans and 2 - 6 lb bags of chocolate chips.  And its freaking heavy.  I can barely pick the thing up off the ground to roll over to the door and then lifting it into my car?  Not happening.  So I roll the suitcase back to the trunk where I unload half of it.  I figured taking out the 27 pounds of coffee and chocolate would make it light enough to pick up.  Nope.  Defeated, I unload the entire suitcase back into my trunk, pick up the suitcase, put it in my front seat, and drive home. FML.

i'm losing my mind

Truly, I am losing my mind.  I locked myself out today.  Again.  I locked myself out last Monday too.  You would think that after sitting outside for an hour with George last Monday and having to fork over $127, I'd be a little more careful next time.  Well I was, for exactly one week.

This morning, as soon as George and I stepped into the foyer and I heard the lock click behind me, I realized I had locked myself out again.  Last time I spent about 20 minutes trying to pick the lock.  I used the little wire connecting George's dog tag to his collar and was so miserably unsuccessful I broke the wire in the lock.  So seeing as I no longer had any device with which to even attempt to pick the lock, this time I tried sticking his leash under the door to trip the lock (seriously suburban white girl - why the hell would I have any idea how to break into things), also miserably unsuccessful.  I still waited like 45 minutes before venturing out for help because I knew it was going to cost so much.

So the phone books were delivered two weeks ago and both our neighbor upstairs and Joey and I have neglected to bring them off the front stoop as they are pretty obsolete nowadays.  Thank God for that.  I grabbed one of the soggy phone books and found an ad for a locksmith.  Then George and I walked down to the neighborhood doggy daycare, and asked to use the phone.

About 45 minutes later the shady looking locksmith pulled up in his old, faded, pale yellow Lincoln with the royal blue "Prestige Transportation" letters peeling off the sides.  He was number 904, which I noted because I was pretty much convinced this dude was going to rape me and I wanted to be able to tell the police.  So the six-feet tall man got out of the car in his baggy, black cargo sweatpants and baggy hooded sweatshirt.  He pulled a black stocking cap over his shaved head and stood at the foot of the stairs to my house.  Great.  He took one look at the lock and told me in his Middle Eastern accent its going to be $160.  I told him that I didn't have that much and that I would just call someone else.  Just because I'm freezing my ass off and this is the second time in two weeks that I've been locked out doesn't mean I'm going to be taken for a ride.

He said, "She (referring to the dispatcher I spoke with on the phone) told you about the service fee, right?"

Me (who by the way just rolled out of bed and is therefore wearing her pajama pants, which were thankfully black sweatpants, but because who seriously wears underwear to bed, my ass was eating my pants; my pajama shirt, under which I am obviously not wearing a bra; my black Northface jacket; and my black fuzzy slippers): "What service fee?"

Locksmith disguised as hoodlum: "Well there's a thirty dollar service fee just for coming out here."
 
Me: "Fine.  Send me a bill for the service fee and I'll find someone else to open the door."  (Duh I'm not going to pay that bill.)

"No, we can't do that.  You have to pay today"

Look dude, I don't have my freaking bra, let alone my phone - you think I'm just going to magically pull my cash or credit card out of my ass to pay you?  Guess what, you can tell me whatever you want but if I walk away and you continue to pick the lock I'm pretty sure you'll get arrested.  Obviously I don't say this and reply, "I got locked out last week.  He only charged me $120.  Your ad says you will beat any price" and I triumphantly pull it out of my pocket.  Thank God again for obsolete phone books.

He calls his dispatcher and tells her that I will not pay $160.  She tells him to charge $140 plus the service fee.

"That is still $160.  I don't have that."

So he tells his dispatcher again, "She won't pay that."  So the dispatcher tells him to charge me $120 plus the service fee.  I again refer to their ad, which says they will beat any price.  Finally it is agreed that I will pay $120, and the locksmith went back to his car to get his tools.  He comes back with two pieces that look like blood pressure sleeves and some screwdrivers.  After a few minutes of pounding, he announces that he may have to drill it, and returns to his car to get another box of tools.

He picked and picked for another twenty minutes, informing me several times that I have a good lock.  Then he said he'd have to drill it.  I told him that I was not willing to let the door be drilled and he said it'd just be the lock he'd have to drill.  I asked him what I'd have to do to fix that and he said buy a new lock, which according to him, a good one like mine would cost another $170 to replace.  I began mentally gearing up for the inevitable argument that I would not let him drill the lock, and I would not pay him for a lock he couldn't pick without a drill and to begin the run around about the service fee when finally, the door popped open. 

He stepped back, because thankfully, when he first arrived the dogs went crazy.  Obviously all of the pounding and banging of the door and the lock sent Moe running for cover, but luckily for me the locksmith doesn't know the big dog barking inside is chicken shit.  So the locksmith went to his car while I grabbed my keys and wallet.  He tried to convince me over and over again to just pay him cash and something about that just made me nervous.  Plus I don't carry $5 cash, let alone $120, and I really didn't want to walk the block and a half to the ATM.  I told him that I could go get cash, but that my bank has a $100 limit on ATMs, so I could either pay him $100 cash or he could charge my card $120.  He then suggested charging my card $20 and me getting the cash.  After some back and forth he finally agreed to charge my card for the full amount, but then while using a pen to imprint the card, he asked if there was any way I could pay him a little more in cash.

So anyway, here I am two hours later and another $120 poorer.  I have plenty of stories from the weekend as my friend Lauren graced us with her presence, but those are for another post, another day.  Right now I am vacillating between a run and a very large glass of bourbon.

People Don't Kill People, Guns Kill People

Joey, six other friends and I went to the NRA shooting range at the NRA Headquarters in Virginia last night.  The first thing I noticed when we pulled into the parking garage was the three burly soldiers leaving the range with their steel gun cases in tow.  As we made our way down the ramp, we spotted a "PHOTOGRAPHY IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED" sign, much to the chagrin of George and me, as we both really wanted our picture taken shooting the gun.  This was quickly forgotten as soon as the door opened and you could hear it.  I think Sujata put it best: "I thought they had raquetball courts here too until I realized those were guns firing."  Even behind the glass the sound of guns was so loud!  I winced every time one went off, and with 12 lanes of people firing guns, that was a lot.

We were greeted by two men with handlebar mustaches and shaved heads and one petite, twenty-something girl, all in their red "NRA Shooting Range" polos.  She gave us a safety test and ushered us off into a classroom; she told us "cheating is encouraged, because we want you to know the answers."  Twenty-five questions later, we were back at the desk.  While one of the handlebars checked us into two lanes, the girl made us NRA shooting range identification cards.  Then half of the group went to the waiting room, and I put on my headphones and goggles and headed into the range with Joey and Lee.

Lee was in the Navy, so he has some serious experience with shooting, and was nice enough to let us use his guns - a 9mm and a glock? - 42 caliber pistol maybe?  Anyway, Lee got us set up in the lane with the guns and the ammnuition and then left Joey to instruct me on the art of shooting.  The night before, all of us gathered at our friend Tom's house.  Lee brought his guns to Tom's house for an instructional session on how to safely use them.  So we'd practiced picking up the gun safely, not ever pointing it at anyone, even if its unloaded, putting the magazine in the gun, checking the chamber, etc.  Handling an unloaded gun is kind of cool.  Its like, wow, this is a gun.  This could kill someone.  But its still abstract when there are no bullets and when you are not surrounded by the sound of gunfire.

And oh my God, the sound of gunfire - I thought it was loud on the other side of the glass.  Once we entered the actual range - I don't even know how to adequately explain it.  It was like gunfire - everywhere - and every gun sounded like a canon - and the headphones made every other sound so muffled that it was like listening to people talk underwater, peppered every few seconds with a blast.  My earlier wincing turned into jumping and I can't even imagine what I must have looked like, dressed in my multi-color minidress, black cardigan, black tights and ballet flats, wearing bright blue headphones and safety goggles, cowering over my purse and jerking every time a gun went off.  Thankfully, I believe every man in there was completely engrossed in his gun(s), so no one was looking at me.

So once Joey put the magazine in the gun and handed it to me, I started sweating.  No longer was killing some abstract concept associated with the gun.  The reverberations of the guns firing so close on either side, coupled with the empty casings flying everywhere, and the weight of a loaded gun in my hand were a very stark reminder of just what deadly power I was holding and I did not like it.  First of all, I am clumsy as all hell and just the idea that if I accidentally dropped this thing it could kill me or Joey or some other unsuspecting fool was really overwhelming.  Then, when you are so close to all these other people firing their guns you can see the kickback from the gun when you shoot it.  I was so nervous that when I fired the gun I wouldn't be able to control the kickback and it would fly out of my hands and the gun would fire at me instead of down the lane.  (Nevermind that once I fired the gun the bullet would be long gone, even I did drop the damn thing, but when you've got gunfire all around you and this heavy killing machine in your hand rational thoughts aren't really available.)  Anyway, Joey patiently showed me again how to hold it and how to fire it and helped me get it in my hand right and so I aimed it at the target and thought "well, its now or never, you can stand here all night pointing the damn gun" so I fired it.

OHMYGODITWASSOSCARY!  The recoil from the gun is even worse than it looks and I thought my heart was going to beat out of my chest.  That thing is heavy and when it fires it really moves your whole upper body!  Also, I had one of my thumbs on the wrong side and the chamber hit it when it fired and that freaking hurt (didn't draw any blood unlike when Tom made the same mistake later).  So Joey helped me move my hand and one of the mustached guys came over and told me to really get a grip on the gun with my whole palm and so a little shaken but determined I firmly grasped the gun and fired again.

OHMYGODITWASSOSCARY!  Really not any better this time.  In fact I am pretty sure I hated it even more.  But I thought, "okay, maybe you just have to get used to this" and so, sweating through my cashmere cardigan, I shot one more time.  Same.  I put the gun down, looked at Joey and said "Okay, I'm done."

He looked at me, a little surprised and said "That's all?"

"Yes, I'm done."  So he picked up the gun and fired the rest of the magazine into the target, pulled the target toward us, handed it to me, and off I went into the waiting room to send another of our friends into the range for their turn.  My head was buzzing as I settled into one of the leather chairs and waited for everybody to take their turn.  After about an hour, somehow I got talked into trying it one more time (I think it was after watching Sujata march out there and shoot three freaking bullets right into the heart of the target her first time out that I was like, okay, Melissa, man up, go try again).  So I put my headphones and goggles back on and luckily this time there were less people in the range.  Only three other lanes were in use besides our two, so instead of twelve different guns firing at once, there were only five.  Joey quickly showed me how to hold the gun again and I pointed and fired and

OHMYGODITWASSOSCARY!  Seriously, I really don't know any other way to describe how freaking terrifying shooting that gun was.  I really thought that my second time in, after watching everybody else do it and survive, that it would be better but no, I'm pretty sure it was worse.  Joey looked at me and said "Calm down" but I really couldn't.  I fired three more times, each time completely terrified that the recoil was going to throw the gun out of my hands and then I put the gun down again.  The overwhelming knowledge that this weapon is deadly was just too much for me to handle in good conscience.  Joey told me later that everytime I picked up the gun my whole body started shaking.  I thought that was just on the inside!  So again, Joey finished the magazine, I took my target and went back to the waiting room and filed my nails until everyone was finished. 

While I watched everybody take their turn shooting the guns, I couldn't help but notice how out of place all of us yuppies looked.  One man to the right of our lane was dressed in a camel colored tee, white-washed jeans and hiking boots- he had a big gun in a holster on one hip and a little gun in a holster on the other hip and in between shooting those guns he shot his giant, laser-guided, M-14 air-rifle.  That puppy was LOUD.  Seriously every time he fired that it shook the room a little bit.  He was in there the whole time we cycled through and he shot from his feet, from a chair, laying down on the ground.  Intense.  And creepy.

A few lanes down from that guy was group of rednecks, outfitted in straggly long hair, tank tops, ripped jeans, flannel and trucker hats.  They took turns firing off their guns at paper plates (targets cost 50 cents each) about ten feet from their face.

Next to them was the most intense dude in the place.  He was wearing khaki cargo pants, a short sleeved khaki oxford, a khaki utility belt and military boots.  He had a shaved head and carried several guns, including one in a massive case.  He would get into a stance, quickly grab a gun from his holster, fire it a few times, grab another magazine from his utility belt, fire the gun a few more times, grab another magazine and fire the gun again.  He'd look over both shoulders and then fire and it was seriously like he was doing drills of some sort the whole time.  I'm pretty sure the emblem on his giant rifle case was Marines, and he definitely looked like a mercenary.

My target - most of those bullet holes were made by Joey.

Suffice it to say (8000 words later), while the NRA range was an exper- ience I will never forget, I don't think I ever want to go there again.

Well you know you’ve reached celebrity when you start pissing people off. Apparently my blog is that good, as Joey and I have begun receiving complaints regarding its title. As indicated in the “About Me” section located to the right of my postings, I may not have taken his last name but I am going to follow him to whatever corner of the earth the State Dept decides to send him. I have always considered myself a strong, independent woman. I felt when I got married that I would be losing a big part of myself by changing my last name, and so with the support of Joey, I decided to stay Melissa Soda. The fact that my last name is not Cordaro has nothing to do with any preferences for or against that name, and feelings for or against that family, or any other negative connotations. I proudly say that my last name is not Cordaro because its Soda. My dad didn’t have any boys, and even though he has encouraged, even pressured me to take my husband’s last name, I like that I’m carrying on Soda. As Bill can attest from our debate this weekend (after he mistakenly asked what our childrens’ last names will be), my last name is not Cordaro because I am a Soda girl through and through. After 23 years of Soda I’m just supposed to write it off because I got married? Transferred from one man to another? Take his last name because I’m his property now? Why couldn’t he take my last name? If it’s about family unity then why does it matter what the last name is as long as it’s the same? Joey didn’t change his name for the same reason I didn’t change mine – he’s proud of it. Just like I’m proud of mine. And so when people assume that just because I got married I changed my last name, it frustrates me. Probably in the same way Joey is frustrated when I make room reservations and he is then addressed throughout our stay as “Mr. Soda.” So I believe my blog, which I write to address the daily trials, tribulations and triumphs of moving and marriage and life, be it in Des Moines or DC or Djibouti, is appropriately titled, as from the very beginning you can tell its written from my perspective. And if my perspective is something you find offensive, you don’t have to read it. Joey’s blog is http://travelingpack.blogspot.com and his is far less opinionated (and entertaining, but that’s just my opinion…)