Lilac Colored Glasses

Once upon a time, in a land called Yerp, there two little boys named Frankie and Willy (actually, for this particular story, I guess I should call them Wouter and Jean-Pierre, but I’m the author and I’m American, so just go along with me, okay?).

Frankie and Willy were twin brothers, but they couldn’t be more different. Frankie was hard working and industrious. He worked long hours in the fields, took care of the crops and studied hard during lesson time. Willy was laid back and preferred traipsing about the wilderness, fishing and trapping muskrats to bring home for supper. He didn’t care too much for lessons, finding it much easier to laze about until the truancy officer eventually insisted he study a bit.

Frankie’s favorite color was gray, Willy’s was green.
Frankie’s favorite snack was pastry, Willy’s was sausage.
Frankie spoke a language spoken by few, Willy spoke a language spoken by many.
Frankie earned money by doing the daily chores, Willy nicked the money from Frankie’s piggy bank.

And the two were always fighting.

Frankie insisted that Willy should work harder around the homestead. He stomped his feet and told Willy that his language was important too, and that each brother should speak each other’s language.

Willy smirked and refused. Why should he work harder when he knew Frankie would just continue to do all the hard work himself? Why should he bother earning his own money when he knew Frankie would just continue to fill the piggy bank. And who wanted to speak Frankie’s language anyway? It was silly and little and hardly anyone else used it anyway.

The twins fought and fought, nearly coming to blows until their father, Russel (or Ruxelles, if this fairy tale isn’t already transparent enough), stepped in and negotiated a truce.
See, Russel was the head of a large pottery company called West Urn Yerp  and ever since he had been given his position, he had been under a lot of pressure from his boss to show that he could hold his company together. And how can a man be trusted to hold an entire company together if he can’t even control things in his own back yard?

So Russel, who was in the middle of his own identity crisis and was struggling with drinking problems and sinking ever deeper into a life of crime, decided to patch up the relationship between his sons in the easiest way possible.
He raised each of their allowances and promised them that, no matter what, they’d be treated equally, as long as they held hands and pretended to get along.

Willy, who was never one to ignore the insistent knocking of opportunity, grabbed hold of Frankie’s hand as tight as he could and promised he’d try harder. He even learned a bit of Frankie’s language (Frankie had already mastered Willy’s language long before, since that was the only way Willy would bother speaking to him) although he rarely bothered to speak it, since he knew Frankie already understood him well enough.
Frankie grudgingly held onto Willy’s hand as well, knowing that without Russel, he’d have a much harder time finding enough chores to do to earn money for his piggy bank.

And so it went. Frankie continued to work hard to earn money and learn new things while Willy continued to wander around and pluck the coins from his brother’s piggy bank. If Frankie complained, Russel threatened to stop giving him chores to earn his allowance. If Willy demanded too much, Russel scolded him a bit before patting him roughly on the head and heading down to the bar to join some of his sleazier friends for a round of drinks.

And so it continues to this very day, far far away in the land of Yerp. Frankie and Willy are still forced to hold hands, despite their constant squabbling while Russel grins falsely and continues to hold onto the day to day management of West Urn Yerp, ignoring the troubles in his own back yard.

The tale doesn’t end here, of course, for there is always the matter of trying to clear the wild Turkeys out of Frankie’s garden, or the inexplicable flow of Morro Cans into Willy’s forrest.
But the hour grows late and those are tales for another time.

If you ask me when I’m awake, I’ll tell you that I’m totally unstressed.

I have a wonderful boyfriend who loves me and two sweet cats who cuddle up to sleep with us on most nights. I have a job that seems relatively secure, pays a decent wage, and is not too much of a drag. I’m getting married in less than 4 months and I’m totally excited for it.

All the plans have basically been made. Now it’s just a matter of hammering out small details with the photographer and DJ. So really, I have no real reasons to be stressed.

Which is why I can’t really figure out why I have only slept through one night in the past two weeks.
And why my tri-yearly migraines have suddenly become almost a daily thing.
And why my stomach constantly aches or feels too full when I don’t usually find myself eating very much on a daily basis.

Why am I having nightmares so frequently? And why has the recurring nightmare of being attacked/bitten by large, hairy spiders suddenly been replaced by humiliating scenarios in which I am back in high school and basically told by my entire soccer team that I’m not good enough to play and that I’ll be the only person riding the bench the whole game?

I really love my wedding dress.
Why did seeing a picture of myself wearing it fill me with disgust?
I’ve lost almost 20 pounds since that picture was taken. Why do I still want to gag when I look at myself in the mirror?

I keep seeing old friends on Facebook and it really looks like most of them have gotten nothing but thinner and healthier, while I still have about 30 pounds to lose just to be in a normal weight range. I hate it. I feel like I’ll never ever ever look how I wish I looked.
I keep seeing old friends who have careers and post grad degrees and families of three or four, while I’m working as a barista in a train station with a useless bachelors and pretty much no hope of anything higher unless we move back to the US.
There are a few job opportunities in Gent to work with children right now that don’t require a language test, but I’m afraid to apply. I don’t want to apply. I’ve never been a job hopper. I prefer to settle in, get comfortable, feel useful. And even if I did apply and get the job, with the experiences I’ve had so far in Belgium with childcare, I don’t trust that I won’t be abused for my labor somehow.

And all in all, my “step up” from coffee maker would be to “glorified babysitter.”

Yes, I know that I, of all people, should not think of things that way. I know that childcare workers are important and that caring for a classroom of 20 two year old children is a lot harder and more involved than babysitting for one or two children. I know that most parents truly and sincerely appreciate the people that care for their child(ren) on a daily basis. I know I would play an important role in a little person’s life.

But the salary and the social status pretty much says it all: glorified babysitter.

A big part of me wants that masters, or even that doctorate; wants that ability to choose between hands on or academia; wants to take my visions of early childhood education to another level.

But another big part of me just wants the first part to shut up and be happy with what I have: the amazing boyfriend, the sweet cats, the stable job, a roof over my head.

Because really, I have no reason to be stressed.

The wedding plans are well on their way.

We were assigned our photographer from our wedding picture company, I’ve lost about a third of the weight I want to lose, CB is going to start looking for his suit this week, and my mother sent the wedding invitations out to the Belgian side of the family less than a week ago.

And for once, the cultural hiccup had nothing to do with me.

See, the thing you have to know about Belgian wedding receptions is that the eating is a major part of it.
Like, the main part of it.
Like, the first dance won’t start until midnight because up until that point, people are still eating.

There’s the opening drinkies and h’ors douevres (which is a bitch to spell and I will, from now on, use the Dutch word for them, which is hapjes, which is said more like HOP-yus, see, there, you learned some Dutch because this blog is nothing if not educational *snort*), followed by a three course sit down meal and rounded off with coffee, a dessert buffet and a wedding cake (you’ll hear about the cake another time, cause it’s worth telling you about). Often times, because the dancing lasts until 2 or 3 in the morning, people will also serve sandwiches or even fries with mayo very late into the evening.
Belgians reeeaallly like their food, especially when it’s food served in dinner party fashion.

Anyway, the important thing to remember here is that in Belgium, the couple chooses the menu for the reception and there are no options.

What we choose, you eat.

If you go into anafylactic shock due to the food containing shellfish or nuts, well, you’ll be in Belgium, so no one will bother to help you sue us. Tough shit.

But I digress.

The invitations to the American wedding/reception were received last night by all of CB’s attending relatives and more than half of them ended up calling CB’s mom all confused because why were there two lines and a list of all the courses under each line? Was it a typo? What were they supposed to do?

Because none of them has ever had a choice of what main course they eat at a wedding. We’re offering a choice of chicken, salmon or pasta as the main course but, not knowing they get a choice, when CB’s relatives saw the three options, they assumed each one was a course and had no clue why the meal was listed twice on each RSVP card. Cabanamom had no clue either, so she ended up calling CB who had to explain to her that no, there was no typo on our wedding invitations, but rather, each person had to write their name and then check off their meal choice. And all was right with the world.

Or at least it will be until the Belgian contingency finds out that our imported beer is Heineken.*

*To the average Belgian, Heineken is complete and total swill. It’s like Pabst Blue Ribbon or Milwaukee Best or pretty much any other beer you can think of that tastes like someone blew bubbles into toilet water.

In 4 months I will be someone’s wife.

Woah.

On this, my second day at my new job, I have learned the following:

1. Belgians drink a hellaton of chocolate milk. I work in a coffee place and over the past two days I have sold, by far, more hot chocolate than coffee.

2. Those irritating people that rub and crumple the nice shiny new bill in order to be absolutely sure that it isn’t two bills sticking together are an international phenomenon.

3. Leaving work smelling like cocoa powder is not as yummy as you’d think.

But overall, everything is okay. I haven’t worked a basic counter/customer service type job in years so I’m not used to standing for almost 8 hours straight, but I’ll get used to it. Otherwise, it’s exactly what I just said; your basic counter/service job. I’ve done it before and I have no problem doing it now. My coworkers all seem very nice and it’s corporate, so I don’t have to deal with any tyrannical bastards.