A "Chier" Situation

Yesterday I arrived at work as I have every other day for the past few months: greeting people as I walk down the corridor towards the front door of the embassy; telling the gardener I like her hat; getting trapped between the front doors of the embassy by the guards playing pranks; asking about everyone's weekend while simultaneously shooting the guards a menacing look that implores them to stop prank-locking me out, but while wearing a slight smile because it is kind of funny; stopping by the kitchen to grab a cup of tea and ask what's for lunch (and more importantly: is it vegetarian?); turning the corner into my cozy, cave-like area, finding my lovely co-workers sitting at their desks, surrounded by goodies shipped in from all over the world (well, mostly from Amazon) and plopping down at my mess-covered desk with my broken chair and post-it covered computer monitor.

Except yesterday was slightly different. I still asked about my favorite guard's family, complemented the gardener's chosen hat of the day (a white beach hat with big red flowers) and managed to convince the cook to make me some veggie pasta. But yesterday, when I walked into the mail room cave, only one of my co-workers was at his desk.

"Kossi, where is Fofo?" I asked, immediately hoping out loud that he wasn't sick-- for reasons both unselfish and, admittedly, selfish. I had a record to keep. People who arrived the same time as us had been sick multiple times, and even Mr. Kate had been on the receiving end of a brief E. coli infection. But not me. I didn't want the flu. I wasn't gonna get sick until it was something good-- Giardia, Amoebas, Ebola. Something worth being sick with and being able to brag about! I have epidemiologists to impress!

I heard the doorknob turn behind me "Madame, I am here!" Fofo sang as he walked through the door.

In the beginning I pleaded with my co-workers for weeks to just call me Kate, but then realized it was a losing battle. "Kate" in French with a Togolese accent is apparently very hard to spit out. So, Madame, I am destined to be-- although now I feel like my angry high school French teacher who threatened to run over her students with her station wagon if they misbehaved...

I digress.

Fofo went to his desk, and I to mine. As our computers warmed up and our inboxes started to chime, I noticed Fofo and Kossi intensely discussing something in Ewe, the local language. After a few minutes I realized that, while debating, they were passing a small packet back and forth between themselves and getting more and more heated.

My inner drama queen was getting agitated. If there was something entertaining happening, I certainly wanted in on it. It was very rude of them to exclude me from what was possibly the only exciting thing to happen in the mail room all week. I wished I was either 4 years old or drunk-- the only appropriate times to stand up, climb on the table and scream "Hey! I don't know what you're talking about! Pay attention to me!"

I decided to go for it anyways, "Guys, why are you arguing?!"

"Madame! Fofo is trying to give me woman tea!" Kossi exclaimed, while Fofo stood defiantly beside him, waiting to explain himself. "My wife says it's just normal tea-- I ran out of Lipton so I had some last night! It is fine!"

"Why do you think it's woman tea?" I asked, with a smile, as I had just reaffirmed that butting in to other peoples conversations is ALWAYS the right choice.

"There is a picture of a woman on the wrapper!" Kossi pointed out, exasperated. "I can't drink that!"

"I'm pretty sure that they put a picture of a pretty woman there so men will buy it-- and besides there's no such thing as woman tea!" I confidently explained to Kossi. Who would make woman tea?

Moments later, as Fofo was in the middle of his "I told you so speech," he quickly excused himself and left Kossi, tea bag in hand, to process this wealth of tea-bag interpretation information.

Kossi looked at me. He looked at the bag. He grabbed his mug and lifted it in the air to signal to me he was going to get some hot water. He had made his decision.

When Fofo returned, he apologized for his quick departure. His stomach was upset, and he wasn't sure why... he hadn't done anything out of the ordinary the day before.

Suddenly, clarity. The light bulb went off above my head. I struck gold. Eureka, and all that. "Fofo, can I see that tea bag again?" I asked, since Kossi had left it on the table.

Like a prettier, more awesome, 21st century, slightly-older-but-who-is-really-counting-because-lifespans-sucked-back-then-anyways, Nancy Drew, I solved the mystery. The tea was made of Senna root. After my wonderful encounters with Africa and its many illnesses and parasites the first time, I quickly came to rely on the presence of Senna root tea, or as Mr. Kate likes to call it "Poop tea." Or as I like to call it, Oh-my-god-I'm-going-to-feel-so-much-better-tomorrow-morning.

"Fofo, your wife thinks you're fat," I informed him. "This tea, um, makes all of your food.... exit." Is there a diplomatic way to tell someone that his wife has intentionally given him diarrhea? "Also, I'm really sorry I bring in cookies for us to eat everyday."

He looked my way, with his face full of confusion and panic. Then, slowly, his face broke into a smile. "Is this why I have been "chier" all morning?", he laughed. "I thought there was something wrong! My wife is very tricky!!" He applauded her hilarity. "I had no idea!"

As we sat laughing, Kossi walked in. He had been privy to the fact that Fofo's stomach had been upset all morning. "Why are you laughing?" he asked. "Do you need to stop and run to the bathroom again?" Kossi erupted in satisfied laughter, glad he had finally been able to work in a jab towards his friend's extreme gastric misfortune. "Or did you finally chier your pants???"

"No, not yet," Fofo responded with a smile, while unwrapping and handing him the tea bag. "But don't worry about me! Enjoy your tea!"

Several hours later the sweet taste (yet not-so-sweet smell) of revenge was Fofo's. I spent my afternoon watching a carousel of my colleagues entering and exiting the room without warning, leaving me healthy and alone at my desk.



*chier- it means what you think it means.

Going Postal

When we arrived in Togo I was excited to get to work. I imagined myself using my newly acquired degrees and working on a project that would allow me to learn more. I imagined being part of something big: malaria prevention, vaccination campaigns, HIV/AIDS sensibilisations, nutritional counseling for women in rural villages, or NTD research with a university. Or maybe I could work in science education and outreach as I had for the past several years? Maybe I could even start my own non-profit working with the Togolese Ministry of Education to better Science and Health education and comprehension within the country?

But it turns out that Togo doesn't have much in terms of NGOs. Sure, the few directors that were here would love to meet with me, but they are fully staffed and not needing anyone at the moment. It also turns out I have no idea about how to start an NGO.

So, a few weeks ago when the embassy had an urgent need for a US citizen, they called me. "Can you come work in the mail room tomorrow? Please?"
For lack of anything better to do and to be helpful, I agreed to go work.

As disappointed as I am that this is what I am doing in Togo (at least for a little while), in lieu of what I had so excitedly anticipated, I am grateful to have a job and to be having a good time.

So, here are the top reasons why working in the mail room is awesome.

4. My French is awesome. I spend all day talking in French with my co-workers, whom I have instructed to correct me every time I make a mistake. As a result, I have become more courageous and excited about French. The other day while speaking, I reflexively used the subjunctive. It just slipped out! Everyone looked at me, and in one fine moment we simultaneously raised our hands above our heads and yelled "SUBJUNCTIVE!" Then my wonderful coworkers offered to buy me lunch to celebrate, but it was fermented cows' feet that day, so I politely declined.

3. I am super popular. I'm regarded by the embassy the way most children think of Santa Claus. Everyone loves me. People seek me out in the lunch room to ask me how I am and how my weekend was, in the hopes that I'll stop mid-sentence and say- "Oh, hey! By the way, you have a big package of presents just waiting for you in the mail room!" Every day I get multiple people who send me little messages or come down to my little window just hoping that they got lucky and received something. When they do, they love me! And if they have nothing I offer a laugh or a bon-bon to soften the blow (if I haven't already eaten them all).

2.  I KNOW EVERYTHING.
Hey. You. I know you read People. I know you know what's going on with Britney. And Brangelina. And Honey Boo Boo. Share the wealth.
Hey. You. I know how you voted in the last election. The political fliers you receive tell all. I'll try to look past it.
Hey. You. I see that big box of cake mix and taco kits you just received. If you want me to keep my mouth shut so no one else knows you have it, I expect a dinner invitation, stat.
Hey. You. Sure I'll mail this stool sample, please tell me you wrapped it really tight. And let's never talk of it again.

1. My posse.
I work with two awesome guys. We practice French and have our own little cultural-exchange meetings everyday. I answer questions such as: "Why do Americans here only use the vous (formal) tense," Because that's what they teach us at FSI. "How come American women don't take their husbands' last names?," Because we're awesome.  "Why don't you have children?" Because I'm awesome."Are you sure you don't want fermented cows' feet?" Yes. "Dog is delicious." What.
I have also introduced them to fabulous things such as the Saved by the Bell round-house high five, high-fructose corn syrup, and the macarena. Things I'm sure they ask themselves how they've lived without for so long.

And the best part about working in the mail room?
I get to have lunch with Mr. Kate every day.

Adventures in Spanish

Around the time Mr. Kate and I were preparing to leave for Togo, my beautiful, newly-engaged sister was preparing her trip to drive her VW Bus from the US down through South America with her fiance. Along the way, she decided, she would stop and get married in Costa Rica, and we would all meet her there. The whole family was thrilled! For several weeks before the trip Mr. Kate asked me if I would like to borrow a Spanish grammar book, or even go over the basics with him. "No, no, I've got it," I reassured him.

This is how my sister rolls.

I grew up in Arizona, learning occasional Spanish words in school. My first job was in a restaurant, where the cooks spoke limited English, so we communicated through gestures, the few words I had learned in high school and the vulgar words they had taught me. As a teenager, I was able to fine tune my Spanish abilities by listening to my stepmothers' conversations with her family--which were inevitably in Spanish-- and about us kids. Nothing promotes learning quite as well as piqued interest... And during college I took 2 semesters of Spanish, thankful for the easy A when faced with a heavy course-load of molecular biology courses. With all that experience I  assured myself I would be fine-- of course I knew enough Spanish!

My self delusion was quickly extinguished after my first interactions in Spanish.

At the airport, upon realizing my seat was a middle seat, I approached the gate desk to ask about alternatives.
"¿Habla usted espanol?" The gate attendant asked me.
"Oui," I responded.
He looked at me.
"OH! Oh oh! Si! I mean Si!" I quickly recovered.
"¿A donde vas?" 
"Je vais au.... er.... Yo... can we just do this in English?" I pleaded. 
I realized, in that moment, that any Spanish that had ever been in my head had been fully replaced by French. And that, maybe, in this one instance, Mr. Kate had been a little right to suggest a Spanish review. 

As I prepared to board the plane I gave myself a pep talk. "It's okay, we just need to think before we talk," I consoled myself, while also referring to myself in the the plural. It's fancier that way. 

My next task would not be so easy. 

On the plane a small girl sat behind me. Halfway through the flight (which was, by the way, my 6th flight), the small girl started kicking the back of my seat. At first I ignored it. Then, as the kicking continued, I turned around and tried to make eye contact with her mother, hoping to avoid the awkwardness of dealing with this myself. Her mother was asleep. "Okay," I prepped myself, "what Spanish do we know to deal with this situation?"

This is what flashed through my mind:

After gathering my thoughts and preparing my statement. I rose up in my seat, turned around and looked down at the child sitting behind me. She slumped down in her seat and stared up at in me in horror. "Alto con zapatos aqui!" I said, pointing at the back of my seat. "No bueno!" I added for good measure.  

I've since learned that what I said was a bunch of gibberish and there is no way the kid understood what I was saying, but the kicking stopped. Possibly due to the scary, crazy, haggard look in my eyes, but either way, I accomplished my goal. 
 
And this is how it went. The first few days in Costa Rica I communicated with people through simple words and gestures. I used Google translate a lot to find my way around. This involved driving for hours in the (semi) correct direction, finding an internet cafe (o soda), Google translating, and screaming the translation at every passerby until someone stopped to help. Totally works.

  My crowning moment of communication achievement came 3 days into my trip. 

I stopped a taxi, stated my destination and exchanged a few numbers until we came to an agreed-upon price. I took my place in the passenger seat and the taxi driver asked how I was. Good, I responded, and testing the outermost boundaries of my Spanish, I returned the question. Muy bien!, he said, followed by a whole bunch of words I didn't understand. "Oh no," I said, "English?" I asked, hopefully. Nope, no English. "Francais?" I figured it wouldn't hurt to ask, although I already knew the answer. No, no Francais. We tried several more minutes to use simple words to communicate salutations and niceties and then fell silent. Then he yelled a few words which I understood to be angry about the traffic, given my propensity to remember swear words in other languages (a skill which gets more useful with every passing year). After that, the silence was awkward, we were obviously both born chatterers. 

Suddenly, he turned the radio up. We both got excited. It was MICHAEL! We started dancing. We jammed. We got to the chorus: "I'm starting with the man in the mirror," we both sang simultaneously. We looked at each other and grinned. "I'm asking him to chaaaange his waaaays!" Oh my god! Communication! We were BOTH starting with the man in the mirror!! We were both asking him to chaaaange his waaaaays! Then both hung our heads and jammed in silence for the next verse because it was incomprehensible and neither of us knew the words, which made us laugh even harder. 


For the grande finale, we both looked up, out the windshield and then back at each other: " and no matter blab bla bla bla bla bla bla blah," we lip-synced, building up confidence, "if you want to make the world a better place, take a look at your self and make a.... CHAAAAAANGE!!

We erupted in laughter! We hooted, high-fived each other and yelled song lyrics out the window the rest of the way to my destination. As I exited the car I poked my head back in and invited him and his wife to come visit me in America sometime and he invited me to dinner the next night (or at least that's what I understood).


It was then that I realized, as I was walking away: it doesn't matter what language you speak-- as long as you are fluent in Michael Jackson.  

 

Confessions of a Charge

Between my time in the Peace Corps and traveling, I've spent some time in West Africa, so I feel pretty comfortable saying I can "do" the region-- for the most part. I can haggle down from the tourist price to the local price, I can find almost any obscure thing I need, I can verbally beat the crap outta any jerk who demands a bribe in order to do his job, and I can make any child (read: person) laugh by doing my funny white lady dance (it’s basically the Carlton mixed with River Dancing, and it’s awesome, although Mr. Kate assures me people just think I'm having a seizure). 

  

Before we arrived I was determined to keep certain things minimal. I would not remain in a little American bubble, as it seems so many expats had the opportunity to do-- I would experience the wonderful (and sometimes not so wonderful) things that made this country what it was. I would live by incorporating myself into the world around me.  I would not hire a chauffeur or a housekeeper or a cook. I know how to take a taxi, I know how to clean (well, perhaps Mr. Kate knows better than I), and I know how to buy vegetables and cook them!

And then we got here.

And as I continued with my job search, finished up some work from home, took French classes, started an online certificate program, walked to the market, cleaned the house (sometimes), walked the dogs, cooked dinner and received crate after crate of stuff to be cleaned, organized and unpacked, things became somewhat chaotic.

One day Mr. Kate received a call from our predecessors' nanny. Since our predecessors had left she had been out of a job and was wondering if we might consider hiring her? Even though she was a nanny before, she also did the cleaning, shopping and she could cook, too! Mr. Kate hired her immediately (I think he was sick of doing the dishes) and she started the next week.

When Pierrette arrived, life got better. My clothes were clean. My dishes were clean. Even Mr. Kate seemed clean(er). I had someone to speak French with, and a buddy to help me haggle. My ADD no longer had an excuse to exist—I now had plenty of time to complete endeavored tasks. Like the addition of Michael to the Jackson family, life became awesome with Pierrette, and incomplete without her.

Last week, we received our final shipment of unnecessary things from the US. As we were putting the last of the boxes away, I pulled out our Bocci ball set. I love Bocci ball, so naturally, Pierrette and I went outside and played. Later that night, as I was telling Mr. Kate all about the Bocci ball champion I had trained Pierrette to be, he started cracking up. “Good thing we hired a nanny!” he teased.

That night as I was going to sleep, my mind started racing. “My god, we have hired a nanny,” I thought, "and I am certainly her charge."* There was no doubt. The sequence of the past few weeks played through my mind.

My days all begin by being awakened by my sweet Pierrette, with a cup of tea in hand. After we chat about what we did the night before, we discuss what we will do that day. Then I go to my computer and work for a few hours. Around 11:00, lovely Pierrette interrupts me and asks me what I want to eat for lunch. I insist that a croissant or leftovers are fine, as she demands I eat a large meal and bien grossir (this is a very real possibility, as anyone who knew me in the Peace Corps can tell you. I readily succumb to “Il faut manger”).

After my large lunch, I am praised for all the hard work (or Facebook, or blogging) I’ve done throughout the course of the morning and sent to my room to take a nap. Resting is good for your health, my angel reassures me. After I wake up, we hang out together, unpacking boxes, going to the store, chasing down the ice cream man or playing Bocci ball. Then, as I take my afternoon shower, she makes dinner, making sure to exclude any meat products, and cuts our fruit into pretty shapes so we’ll be more inclined to finish our plates.

When she leaves for the weekend, she makes meals for the next 2 days, lest we starve to death. When I’m sick, she makes me mint and lemon grass tea and brings me medicine. When I forget to brush my hair she gently pats me on the head to remind me. When I try to walk outside without shoes, she squeals and pulls me back in. She never gets mad, but if they spoke the same language she and my mother could start an I’m-not-mad-I’m-just-disappointed club. How does this girl keep forgetting shoes??

As I worried, I found solace in the fact that there must be someone else in the world like me: an adult who is perfectly normal, but likes having an "adult nanny," and I had just the tools to find out: the INTERNETS. As my friend Disco says, "When placing bets, check the Internets."** 

So I googled "adult nannies" expecting a statistic from the Bureau of Something Important  that told me yes, in fact, one out of ten people have adult nannies, confirming my normalcy. And it turns out, there aren't many people with my problem. Except this guy:

...And he got a reality TV show on TLC out of it. This, in turn, game me an excuse to sit and watch several episodes, for "research purposes." Reality TV, like heroin, can be terribly addictive, making the viewer lethargic, unmotivated and defensive of both the characters and herself. As I fell deeper and deeper into reality TV land, I came to understand and relate to Stanley.

The next night, as I was explaining the benefits of an adult nanny to Mr. Kate, I mentioned Mr. Stanley Thornton Jr. and how it's possible that we are kindred spirits. As I explained his life story, Mr. Kate interrupted me, "Have you been watching reality TV again?"

"No, of course not!" I lied, "It was on NPR. Diane Rehm found him fascinating!"

He didn't believe me. 

I start a new (temporary) job next week, and I am already distraught thinking about how much I will miss my wonderful Pierrette. What will I eat? What if I work too hard? Who will remind me to rest? How will I attain my daily intake of tea? But, these are all concerns for another time because, right now, Pierrette assures me I have worked WAY too hard this morning, and it’s time for a nap. 

*Email between me and my mother:
Kate: What does a nanny call the children she nannies? Her charges?
Satan: Yes. You were often also referred to as "little shits."

**She has actually never, ever said that, but it'd be cool if she did. 

Kpalime -or- La Crise d'Essence

Our second week in Lome, I was lucky enough to get a surprise visit from my friend Ian (otherwise known by his more appropriate nickname: Fâché). Fâché and I met in the Peace Corps, so our first few days together again in West Africa were spent rejoicing in the glory that is ex-pat living. We lay by the pool, we went to the grocery store and bought CHEESE, we savored the air conditioning, we played on, and downloaded things with, our computers and fancy internet, we relished being in a West African country that had beer (and bars!) and we lamented our lack of these glorious novelties during our time as PCVs. This took a solid week of our time.

We are drinking beer! And eating cheese sandwiches! And being happy!

 The second week of Fâché's visit Mr. Kate suggested we try to go outside a little, while glancing at our growing beer bellies.  After pretending to be offended for another day, Fâché and I got out, played around town and planned a weekend excursion to Kpalime. Mr. Kate was ecstatic-- Kpalime was a birder's paradise. We were also thrilled-- we had heard rumors of waterfalls and ruins --and a little Belgian lady who ran an amazing restuarant with imported beers.

The day our trip was to begin, as I was picking up the rental car, I recieved a text from Fâché: "Demonstrations and gas shortages expected for this weekend."
"So, what you're saying is, we're in Africa?" I responded.
"Basically. Pas de problemes."

Soon after, we loaded up our stuff and the dogs and went on our way.

The happiest dog ever.

Most of our weekend was spent climbing, hiking, swimming and eating at Le Bon Vivant-- the small,  miraculous, hidden-away, mirage-like restaurant that actually does exist! Mr. Kate even woke up early and got some good, quality bird-watching time! We were able to take the dogs almost everywhere with us-- on the hikes, to the waterfalls, to the restuarant and through small villages. They were "well" recieved by most everyone (from a very far distance), until Loki took it upon himself to take a refreshing dip in the hotel's swimming pool. No one was really thrilled about that.

So far, traveling with dogs in West Africa has been relativley easy and oddly helpful. Do you want to escape your car for a few minute break on the side of the road, but have concerns about being overwhelmed by gateaux ladies? Let the dogs out! Do you need to use a toilet (aka. side of the road), but you don't want anyone else to stop to see whats going on? Have Mr. Kate stand by the car with the dogs! The gendarmes want a bribe? Perfect time for a doggy pit stop! In fact, I may never again travel without dogs.

Because upon seeing our two large dogs exit the car, most Togolese in the immediate proximity run away screaming and flailing. And that's just the men. Next the children scream and cry hysterically, and usually the mamas stand their ground, grab their babies and laugh at the men, while maintaining an appropriate distance from the dogs. But the level of overall fear exhibited in response to the dogs is only equaled by the level of astonishment shown in response to dog "tricks."

Our dogs can sit on command. That's it. One can sometimes do another thing called a "prarie dog." But that's it. They sit. And yet the enthusiasm is endless. Anytime you make the dogs sit, everyone gathers around as though you have been touched by the hand of God-- or at least the hand of the Dog Whisperer. And then they get up, you make them sit again, and voila!! The magic never ends!

These girls were literally running from us- until I made the dogs sit. 

Then they ran back towards us and wanted a picture taken with Loki, the magic sitting dog.

We had an amazing weekend and we made some great friends (mostly through dog tricks), but Sunday afternoon, it was time to go. As we were leaving town, we noticed the gas gauge was a little low. We were slightly perplexed. "How did the gas tank get so low?"
It turns out that, during Mr. Kate's early morning bird pursuits, he had driven far and wide to find as many birds as possible-- leaving us with no gas.

This is a blatant plea for Mr. Kate's birding buddies to come visit.

This normally wouldn't be a problem, but we were stuck in the middle of a "Crise d'Essence!" There actually was no gas in the entire country. At that point, we did what any normal person would do.
We found a gare full of taxi men and asked them to buy the gas in their tanks.
The transfer of gas was going smoothly until one of the taxi men looked in the back window, saw the dogs looking back and screamed. At that point, all the men dropped their funnels, their filters and their bottles of siphoned gas (they came prepared), and stepped back. One man jumped back about 10 feet and wouldn't stop screaming "Whoop! Whoop!" while running back and forth between the other cars, keeping as many vehicles and as many people as he could between himself and our car at all times.
Eventually, Mr. Kate and Fâché pulled the dogs out, made them do the sit trick, and voila! Everything was right with the world again. The guy even stopped Whoop-ing.

The taxi-men resumed pouring the gas, all while complimenting our glorious beasts, at which point Mr. Kate jokingly told them the reason we were keeping them was to take them home and make some great brochettes (meat-kebabs).* He expected a chorus of "No! No! Why would you eat magic dogs that do everything you say!?" But instead he recieved a cacophony of excited mumurs, head nodding and doggy fat pinching-- all acknowledging the promise of a fine meal. One man offered to let Mr. Kate give him the smaller dog (Kima) in exchange for the gas. They were really ripping us off with that gas, so we thought about it for a minute. But in the end, we got the magic dogs back into the car with a half tank of gas and empty wallets and made it home.**

It was a great weekend.



*Sarcasm is not a language spoken in West Africa. Ever.
** Upon returning home Loki dug a hole in the yard and we are currently re-evaluating the brochette decision.

Up, Up, Up and Away!

I could spend our first blog post since arriving in Togo documenting the extensive and exhausting work it took to get the dogs here with us (a ton), or the exceptional warmth and kindness of the Togolese people we’ve met so far (incredible), or even the other Americans and expats here, complete with links to Stuff Expats Like.

But I won’t. I’m sure those things will all be discussed in due time.  In fact, I’m sure you’ve read that blog before-- 1000 times.  Instead, I’m going to talk about how awesome my friends at home are.

Now, I don’t really like one-uppers. In fact, I find them quite annoying.

Me: “Yay! I just booked my ticket to Mexico!”

One-upper #1 (the negative type): “I lived in Mexico for years. It sucked. You’re going to have a horrible time.”

One-upper #2 (the enlightened type): “I lived in Mexico and became fluent in Spanish and was fully integrated into my community and inducted into to the local hall of fame for building a hospital/library/school and no one will ever, ever forget me. Ever. Oh, I also saved all the babies.”

One-upper #3 (the blatant one-upper type): “Oh, my dad is BFFs with President Nieto. I’m basically his son. NBD.”

But, as much as I dislike one-uppers, I’m totally going to one-up all of you. Right now.

My friends are actually the best friends ever. Better than yours. They're basically Nieto's kids. NBD.  

Besides being wonderful and thoughtful, they are just awesome. You want some proof? When we were about to leave, we received a barrage of presents, which might have been bizarre to some, but were perfect for us. That takes love and talent. So much so that I thought I'd blog about it... 

Present #1: Geeky science t-shirts. 

I think maybe the reason I stayed in grad school so long was to have an excuse to wear geeky science t-shirts as often as possible. Towards the end of my grad school career, after working in a lab several days a week, coupled with my clumsiness, my geeky science t-shirt reserves had been slowly diminished (read: I accidentally burned holes in a lot of them). 

So, over the course of the past few months I have been sent back-ups (or maybe my boss knew no one else would hire me with holes in my shirts). In addition, having been unemployed, I have found that my geeky t-shirts are a perfect complement to both hippie skirts and pajama pants, 2 main staples of my clothing diet. 

Present #2: A Little Disease Magic...

Included with this gift was a note, which read: "Don't get too much diarrhea. Although, I hear it's a great diet."

Not only have these been extraordinarily fun daytime reading for the unemployed-- leading to daydreams of newly discovered parasitic species, preferably via Mr. Kate, rather than myself, but these came in very handy during Mr. Kate's first battle with West African E. coli (he was very excited to learn he had probably contracted it through ingestion of contaminated feces).

Did you really stop reading that horrible book to me just so you could take a picture?
Leave. Me. Alone.
Also, you're right, it is a great diet.

Present #3: Arizona

Mr. Kate and I love this one. It's made of bamboo and I'm sure it's supposed to be a cutting board, but as soon as we get our things, I'm hanging it on the wall. This has been very perplexing to the woman who does the cooking during the week-- why would we not use a perfectly good cutting board?

The little heart is over Tucson! 

Present #4: Love books

Two of our most wonderful presents currently sit on our coffee table. One is a book made by all of our friends, to remind us that no matter how far apart we are, we will always be together. The book includes pictures, stories and quotes from amazing times we have had with everyone we love. The other book is a handwritten book of blonde jokes, made by two of my very favorite people. These books give us constant reassurance ("you guys are amazing!"), love ("we love you even if we don't want to go to all the weird places you'll live"), and life lessons ("Do NOT try to sniff the scratch and sniff sticker at the bottom of the pool. It is a trick!").

And last, but certainly not least...

Present #5: The Winerack

I'm not sure if any present will ever surpass the awesomeness that is The Winerack. Made for discreet wine drinking, the wine rack fits easily under your shirt and makes you appear to have huge boobs. Then, you drink all the wine through a tube that goes down your sleeve, until- voila!- the wine is gone and your rack has returned to normal! Perfect for a small, pleasant  dinner with the ambassador and his wife.

That's basically what I look like when I'm wearing it. NBD.

The best part of this present is the card it came with, which read: 

Kate, you are going to be the BEST diplomats wife EVER. Go make us proud!

Mr. Kate might get to do some cool stuff for the next few years, but he will never get to wear the wine bra. No matter how much he begs. I am going to wear my Winerack to build a school, culturally integrate, and save ALL the babies. I win.

Pupdate

No doubt, by now, you may have seen the glorious dog shaming website. This site allows you to take pictures of your naughty dogs and try to shame them into submission. It never actually works, but it allows pet owners to laugh and commiserate.  If you haven't, check it out, STAT: http://dog-shaming.com/

A few nights ago I was reading the website for, admittedly, way longer than I should've been (Just one more page... No, really, Just one more page now... I mean it this time, this is the last page!...), when I started thinking-- I should totally submit my dogs to this thing! I mean, the dogs accepted by the website eat underwear, steal food from babies and fart, while mine can open the door, knock on the neighbors' doors, get neighbors' kids to come outside to play/give treats and destroy an entire bedroom's worth of carpet all in one day-- I win! I hope they accept me!

And then I kept thinking... oh my god. I have my own web page! I'll accept me! I do what I want!

And then I realized I hadn't posted anything for a long time and that it was finally time for a PUPDATE! Drumrolllllll please....

After the carpet was destroyed by our dogs in an effort to escape our apartment, we knew we needed a new plan, so we started by doing some internet research. The internets assured us that the only way a dog could open a lever handle was by jumping up, pulling down on the lever, and pulling back. Surely, this was how our dogs were escaping! So, we did this:

No way you're escaping now, you naughty dogs!

The wire shown above is attached from the edge of the handle to the screw towards the top of the handle mount, making it impossible to pull down on the handle and in essence, locking our dogs in the apartment. That evening, as we were at dinner with some old friends, at the very moment of explaining our newly "fixed" door, proudly basking in the glow of our genius, and raising our glasses in a toast for finally outsmarting our dogs, Mr. Kate's phone rang.  

It was our neighbor. The dogs just knocked on her door, she said. They apparently decided they wanted to play with her children. Don't worry about a thing, she said. They were rolling around on her living room floor right now and having a blast. After we regained our composure and rediscovered our humility, we put our wine glasses down, finished our meals and rushed home.  

 24 hours, a trip to Target and multiple apologies to neighbors later, we had a NEW plan. 

That's right, 3 different locking measures. We kept the original wire that prohibited the handle from being pulled down. Then we tied a peice of rope to the handle that was just longer than the distance to the floor. At the end of the rope we put an empty medicine bottle. Now, every time we leave the apartment, we pull the bottle out of the apartment, under the door, preventing the handle from being pushed up. For good measure, we added an additional device around the handle itself that provides extra resistance if the dogs manage to get through the first two locks (which we decided they inevitably would).

While the dogs didn't get out the next few nights, the final test of the door locks occurred during the visit of our very dear friends, Celina and Gavin. 

After a fun-filled weekend at the beach, our friends took a cab to the airport very, very early Sunday morning. To be nice, they engaged all the locks so the dogs wouldn't get out while we slept. Unfortunately, engaging all the locks also meant that we couldn't get out. Sure enough, we woke to find that we had been imprisoned alongside our dogs, who looked at us with ironic amusement as we spent the next 20 minutes clumsily removing the doorknob to make our own escape.

We had become the hapless victims of our own creativity, but we knew, in that moment, that we had finally won.