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.

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.

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.

Woah.

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.

So this got me to thinking that all job applications/interviews should include a section for people to list some of their endearing traits. You know, little things about themselves to remind their employer that that they are, indeed, human; as opposed to mindless, lifeless automatons that serve only to further your mission of lining your pockets as thickly as possible. And vice versa.
If I had known something small about my employer, like that he collects seashells or secretly wanted a puppy, perhaps that would have softened the “highly polished, manipulative bastard” vibe I got from him during most of our interactions (which weren’t that many). Perhaps not, since I’m pretty sure those vibes were basically who he was, but even highly polished manipulative bastards once dreamed of becoming an astronaut or harbors a secret love of gummy bears. Everyone has at least one endearing trait.

So I’ve decided to list some of mine and I invite you to do the same, either here in the comments, or maybe in your own blog.

1. I love the smell and feel of laundry right out of the dryer. Sometimes if no one else is around, I take a big armful out of the dryer and bury my face in it.

2. I love stuffed animals, especially teddy bears.

3. I can’t grow them and I’m usually allergic to them, but I really love flowers.

4. A tiny little part of me will always believe that fairytale and mythical creatures are real.

Are you done jeering yet? I can wait.

There.
And I’m not sure how I feel about this development because I have always, always been a loather of half naked, over sexed pop music. I have never believed that having a body that makes guys want to bang you is synonymous with having musical talent. I have never believed that society should deify girls/women whose image preaches all of the exact opposite perceptions that young girls (or boys) should have about themselves or themselves in relation to others.

And the first time I heard a Gaga song (Pokerface) I thought, “ooh, catchy, and she’s not afraid to do interesting things with her voice.” But then I saw the video for Love Game and immediately jumped from “maybe she’s okay” to “slut!raging slut who demeans women simply by existing!ack! Damn those whippersnappers and their new fangled, trashy music!” (see also:

)

Y’know, pretty much the same reaction my parents had to what I liked when I was young and had to sneak my friend’s copy of Dookie* up to my bedroom to secretly listen because anything with a parental advisory on it was contraband until I was 15 or so.

So I’ve been clinging to my intense distaste of Gaga, all the while hearing songs on the radio and occasionally thinking about a few particular songs: “hey, I really like these, whoever this girl is, she’s good!”

This morning I was on a forum I frequent and some conversation led me to dare to look up some videos on youtube by Lady Gaga that weren’t Love Game and lo and behold… every song I’ve liked off the radio was hers. And although there is the mostly naked element in her videos, the times she is dressed are incredibly interesting and out there. And I love the really interesting burlesque style imagery she uses as well as the fact that a lot of her videos actually depict a narrative, which I prefer in music videos (one of my favorites is Don’t Come Around Here by Tom Petty).

Anyway, this morning, about 5 minutes before I began writing this post, I was forced to admit that I am not too old to enjoy the music kids are listening to nowadays. I actually sincerely like some of it.

I pity my future pre-teens when I start singing Bad Romance in the carpool on the way to volleyball practice/ballet lessons/etc.

And two workdays sooner than expected.

Here’s what went down yesterday…

Since my bosses decided last Friday not to add a third person to our crèche to help with the ten (soon to be eleven or twelve) children ages 4 months to 15 months (which was also a major catalyst for quitting when I did), they also either never took into account, or simply ignored that, with one of us opening the creche and one closing, there was a 3 hour gap where each of us was working solo. The result being that from about 9:00 until 10:30 in the morning I was alone with 8 children on Tuesday and Wednesday, and 9 children yesterday.

Which is not only a mental and physical strain, but is also illegal in pretty much any modernized country. In Pennsylvania, the child:teacher ratio depends on the age of the youngest child. So, since the youngest was 4 months old, legally, had I been in PA, the ratio would be 4:1. According to Kind en Gezin, the governing body of childcare regulations in Belgium, the ratio for the age group in my creche is 5:1. Either way, I was pretty much running at double the legal capacity. I sent a message to my manager saying I was alone with 9 kids and it was too much, but she never answered me back.
Needless to say, it was insane. So much so that at least 3 parents commented on the situation and I was left to shrug and say, “I dunno.”

Because there is absolutely no fucking excuse for leaving one daycare worker in charge of nine children, half of which are babies, alone. Anyone, even someone with no experience in childcare can see that. But anyway, that’s the situation I was in for the third day in a row (the week before a few kids were sick so I was caring for 6-7 children alone for the first few hours) and that was about the time my physical ability to endure the work load failed. I’ve had a knot in the mid-left side of my back for a week or two now and yesterday the knot turned into a fire ball.

Lifting my left arm and shoulder began to cause back pain.

Standing up caused back pain.

Breathing caused back pain.

So I finally caved and called the doctor (while juggling two kids on my lap and keeping another entertained with my foot) and made an appointment.

CB came with me to better explain the full situation (I could’ve done this myself but he knew how stressed and upset I was so he came for moral support) and after hearing the whole story, plus seeing the fact that I was clearly in pain, the doctor told me I had to rest my back and he gave me sick leave for the rest of the week.

I will never have to go back to Brussels again.
Okay, that’s a lie, cause the embassy is there and sometimes some good concerts and events.

But I’ll never have to go back to that particular place again. I’m mailing the keys, uniform and sick note today and spending the next several days enjoying Gent and the tranquility of a city that takes it’s time and treats its residents like human beings (well, mostly, with the exception of Immigrant Hell, although Immigrant Hell borders on pleasant compared to Brussels rush hour).

Music has always been one of the strongest memory triggers for me. The Little Nash Rambler makes me think of my late aunt Ronnie, sitting in her car while she sang to me in an Elmer Fudd voice to make a pint sized me giggle.

How You Remind Me by Nickelback takes me back to a gravel parking lot after dark my junior year of college where my roommate Peep and I sat, belting the song in my green Pontiac, both of us trying to plug up the void of a broken heart.

Lemon Parade by Tonic puts me in my car at the age of sixteen, driving home from a night working at Long John Silvers, after my second “real” kiss with a guy.

So music seemed the obvious path to choose this weekend when a surprise visit to my blog by an ex inspired me to do a short series discussing my exes and what I learned from those relationships.
But after I made that decision, something strange happened. Or perhaps it is always happening, I just rarely notice it anymore.
Every time I started formulating a post in my head, I would look at CB, or he would say something to me and I was overcome by how very much I am in love with him. I was actually choked up a few times, the feeling of utter completeness was so strong. I don’t think I’ve ever looked into the eyes of a man so confident in his love for mz, so happy when I’m happy…until now. I rarely, if ever, think much about my exes since I met CB and while I do maintain that I learned something from every relationship I’ve had, it all seems to pale in comparison with the feeling of “right” I have with CB.

However, that doesn’t diminish the men from my past or what they’ve taught me. I even occasionally exchange an e-mail with a couple of them. But rather than go into a detailed analysis of each (I lose the desire to do that pretty much any time I’m with CB), I’m going to put up the song that reminds me the most of each one, along with a thank you. Because without lessons learned from the past, we as people wouldn’t be able to build better futures.

Pie Jesu

Bub – Thank you for teaching me that there are people out there who can love me unconditionally.

Miss America

Asshat – Thank you for teaching me not to lie to myself about my emotions just to make asshats people happy.

It Ain’t Me Babe

M. – Thank you for teaching me how to be more independent in a relationship.

My Immortal

Chinchilla – Thanks for teaching me that chemistry, while important, is not the basis for a good relationship.

Long December

Cabana Boy – Thank you for all the lessons you’ve taught me and for all the lessons yet to come in our life together. Thank you for making me believe in the impossible. Thank you for loving me.

Yes, work has become a nightmare. Which is the main reason that this blog has been silent so long. I have done very little besides work, come home and then cry over things from work before falling asleep. I decided not to talk at all about what was going n until I was able to somehow resolve the situation. And sadly, it seems that work and the anger and exhaustion I was feeling over it was all that was occupying my mind, because I found I had nothing else to write.

There had already been some incidents at work that put me off of my bosses. Mostly those incidents included me being left alone with too many children at the crèche due to lack of coworkers or lack of substitutes for sick coworkers. I had to work double shifts every time my one colleague called off sick, which was, I think, four times in three months. Maybe that doesn’t seem like much, but when you’re the person who is called last minute to be forced (yes, forced, the one time I said no to working an 11 hour day I was told I “had no choice”) into working from 7:30 in the morning until 6:30 at night (not counting the 3 hour total commute), it is a lot. Especially since I have never called off sick.

Anyway, on top of those things, other smaller issues piled up. One day I forgot to write everyone’s breaks down in the agenda. I was reprimanded three times, on three separate occasions for this offense. My coworker left the crèche earlier than she should on several occasions, but that didn’t seem to be a problem, despite the fact that she rarely asked our bosses permission to leave. I left once for an hour to go to a clinic for my foot (when I stepped on that broken tile, but still came to work anyway) and was reprimanded three separate times for that offense, and was then made to work a double the next work day (I had to cancel the appointment I had made cause the foot was infected) because my coworker called off sick again.

After Christmas break I came back to find that I had overlooked some of the closing details (I had, in fact, only overlooked one detail but a coworker threw diapers and garbage into the clean, double-checked bags after I’d double-checked them and then didn’t bother to clean it up) and had been demoted. I only found about I’d been demoted after someone translated the note my boss left for me, because he wrote it in French, which I can’t read. The replacement manager does not speak English. They did not even bother to ask her if she did. Fortunately she remembers some Dutch from high school and we are able to communicate in Dutch, since my English speaking coworker (the one who was sick all the time) quit the day we came back. I was told that my responsibilities no longer included writing breaks in the agenda. However, later that day my one manager called me once asking if I’d written the breaks down, once asking if I’d scheduled visits for new kids, and twice to go over a report from the Kind en Gezin inspection last month. Later that week all communication in English stopped. Now everything is in French, including messages for me.

This past week the one boss complained that I was writing my own breaks down in the agenda (which another manager had told me to do the week before), another manager complained that I hadn’t updated the singing activity board for the week (I didn’t know I had to, since my tasks are all written in French), and another manager reported me to the boss for leaving early without permission (I left at 3:28 instead of 3:30, according to her watch). We have been short handed all week, with 8-10 kids and only two of us (which means we’re each alone for 2 hours with 8 kids) and were awaiting a third colleague. On Friday we were told that we would not have a third colleague. That we’d be working extra hours and wouldn’t that be great, cause we’d get to spend more time with the kids.

Mind you, the past week I’d been asking around and had heard that the coffee place in Gent station was hiring. I’d already spoken to the manager and he was ready to hire me, but I was trying to wait to hand in my notice at the daycare until I had signed the contract at the coffee place. On Friday, I finally said “fuck it” and called my boss and gave my notice. I’ll be signing my contract at the coffee place today.

In the meantime, in the past two weeks, I’ve lost ten pounds, simply because I’m too stressed to eat much from the time I leave Gent until I get home. I think the first day I haven’t cried since the 4th of this month was on Friday. And even though I still have to work at the crèche until the 27th, I don’t feel that lead weight on my chest when I think about going to work. Hopefully if all goes well with the coffee place, I’ll have a job that pays better, with more flexible hours, and that is only 20 minutes from home instead of an hour and a half.

No wonder I found myself grinning and whistling the oompa loompa song as I went to pick up some groceries this morning. There’s a light at the end of this tunnel, and it’s finally in my sight.