The Night I Invited a Strange Man to Stay Over

Alright, I feel like this post needs a disclaimer right off the bat.  For starters, yes, I realize this was not the smartest thing I've ever done.  If at all possible, please try to refrain from scolding me about something that's already happened (and that turned out well).  I promise I won't ever do anything like this again.  Or, at best, I'll try to be smarter about it (because I really shouldn't promise not to help people - what are you all, heartless monsters?  You don't want to help people in need?  I'm ashamed of all of you).

A few weeks ago, while I was mopping the front entryway to our house, the doorbell rang.  I opened it to see an exceptionally tall young man who explained that he was from Estonia (and was astounded that I knew where Estonia was... which doesn't say much for the other good folk he's encountered on his door-to-door sales experience here in "middle America...").  I tried my best to look frazzled in that "please just leave me alone" way, but he explained that he was selling educational books for children and asked if he could come in for a moment.

Since he clearly knew my personal kryptonite is educational books for children, I had no choice but to let him come in and fall victim to his sales scheme.

After talking briefly about Europe (he was excited to hear that I'd lived in Germany for several years on my own), he showed me the books, and Ant (who was supposed to be enjoying "quiet time" in his room, but, in true "quiet time" form was actually hiding behind the couch) immediately grabbed the books and started excitedly exclaiming about every single picture, shape, color, and letter in them.  Way to go, kid.  He basically painted me into a corner of obligatory parental guilt: I have to buy the books, or he'll probably turn retarded and will likely fail out of pre-school.

I offered the Estonian something to drink, and while I was getting him some juice, he asked what I do all day.  I'll re-mop the front entry way after you leave... I thought, but then I realized, I had the perfect display of "what I do all day" sitting in my fridge - my minion cake.  He was so impressed, he asked if I could take his picture with the cake and email it to him, exclaiming that his friends absolutely wouldn't believe that it was a homemade cake.  Ego boost - another point in his favor for buying the set of educational books.  He really was a good salesman.

He explained that I'd be receiving a postcard in the mail sometime in September with the date he'd personally return to deliver the books.  I wrote out a check for half the cost of the 6-book set, and sent him on his way.

Several weeks later, I received said postcard.  I waited around the entire morning on the date he was supposed to arrive, but he never showed up.  Fearing my gullible nature had led me into a scam (the check had already been cashed weeks ago), I began to do some research on the company he was working with.  Southwestern Advantage.  It would seem as if there is a good deal of negative attention toward them on the internet.  The more I read, the more sympathy I felt for the tall, friendly Estonian.  Was he being taken advantage of by this large, evidently evil corporation?  Did he have any money after all the out-of-pocket expenses he's expected to pay, or is he starving and miserable?  Has he been assaulted by strangers on his door-to-door adventures, only to find out the company refuses to involve itself in any of the salespeople's legal issues, to include violent assault?  Was he on the verge of suicide, driven to depression from the weeks of stress after working 80 hours every week for the entire summer - walking door-to-door in this exceptionally hot Kansas summer?  I have to do SOMETHING for him!  (Assuming he ever shows up.)

So, true to my nurturing, motherly nature, I baked cookies.

He didn't show up the day he was supposed to, and, instead of believing I'd been swindled, I grew increasingly concerned for his well-being.  I was convinced he'd run across some psychopath living in central Kansas who was probably holding him hostage somewhere in his basement and torturing him.  The poor, naive Estonian.  He wasn't raised in America, where we're taught everyone we don't know is a serial rapist/killer who just wants to kidnap us/our children.  There's no way he can survive in this cruel, violent world of central Kansas.

I was outside, working on the (never-ending) play set when the doorbell rang.  I ran to answer it, and there he was - the tall Estonian kid, not (visibly) harmed or being held captive, books in arm.  He apologized for being a day late and explained that his car had broken down yesterday (gesturing behind him at a very used 1992 piece of rusty metal), and he'd gotten behind in all his deliveries.

I invited him in so he could show me the books, and then I offered him cookies.  And juice.

And then I started to question him.  About the company, about his experiences.  I just wanted to make sure he was okay.

Like some of the voices out there on the internet regarding Southwestern Advantage, he simply said, "it's not for everyone."  He explained that yes, he has a lot of out-of-pocket expenses, and he works extremely strenuous hours, but he expected as much.  The people who feel used or abused by the company are the ones who don't do the research beforehand and expect the company to do things for them, like find them lodging in their assigned cities.  For instance, he was no longer staying with his host family (he was the only one in his group who hadn't finished his deliveries yet), so he didn't have anywhere to stay tonight.  He said he'd just start asking people as he dropped books off this afternoon.

I didn't win the "Good Samaritan Award" six years in a row at three different schools in elementary school for nothing.

"You can stay here, if you need a place to stay!"  I blurted out without really thinking it through.

He seemed about as surprised as I was.  "Are you sure?" he asked. "I only need a clean place on the floor to sleep... and maybe a shower, if that's okay."

Where has this poor guy been staying that he thinks those are acceptable conditions?!

"Oh no, I have an entire guest room downstairs - and a full bathroom."

"But I won't be getting back until late... like after 9pm.  Would that be okay with your kids and their bedtime?"

Sweet D doesn't usually go to sleep until 11, and that's past Ant's bedtime, so I didn't see a problem.  We agreed on it, exchanged phone numbers, and he told me there was a chance he'd finish all his deliveries early and not need a place to stay, but if he didn't, he'd be extremely grateful to me.  I sent him off with a bag of cookies and a big travel mug full of coffee, feeling good about myself for helping out someone in need.

I'd like to take a moment to interject here that, if he'd been an American, I more than likely wouldn't have even considered letting him stay here (especially with Husband being gone).  I just felt like I had a certain camaraderie with him, as a European, that I couldn't have with an American.  It reminded me of so many wonderful Germans I'd met, who would welcome anyone into their home and treat them just like family.  I've had some of the most amazing, welcoming, warm experiences in German households with people I barely knew - but I know if I ever end up back there, I could just ring their doorbell, and they'd welcome me back in like a long-lost cousin.  It's not something I've ever encountered in America; it's simply a different way of life, and I saw this as my opportunity to "pay it forward" for all the times other Europeans have done it for me.

Still riding the high of feeling like I've done a really good deed, I talked briefly to Husband online and told him (I'd seriously considered NOT telling him, because I knew his reaction wouldn't be favorable, but I figured he'd trust my judgement).  As expected, Husband wasn't thrilled with the idea.  I believe his exact words were "no."  After some mild convincing that I'm not, in fact, a complete idiot, and I might even be a decent judge of character, he relented and said, "fine, but I'm going to be worried sick until I talk to you tomorrow."  Understandable.

Then I texted my good friend Mouse, who happens to live in the same town as us (one of the main reasons I wanted to move here in the first place).  She, like Husband, flipped out.

Their reactions were starting to wear on me and convince me that maybe I wasn't the best judge of character after all.  And maybe I'd just agreed to something that was going to get me raped and all of us killed.

So my American-raised mind agreed to do something I never in a million years would have before considered.  I borrowed Mouse's gun.

I should probably tell you now how incredibly anti-gun I am.  I HATE them.  Even the thought of guns makes me feel queasy and my hands start sweating.  When I was growing up, we weren't even allowed to point finger guns at each other.  There's a chance I've tried to fire a BB gun once or twice, but I even hated that.  I can't stomach the thought of guns in my house, ESPECIALLY with small children also in my house.  Yes, I am aware that I'm married to a soldier, but he doesn't bring his guns home.  I'm not opposed to the idea of guns - I see them as necessary for many things in life.  I'm opposed to the idea of ME and guns.

She came over in late afternoon with this adorable little pink camo gun case and gave me a quick tutorial in how to load and fire the gun.  I couldn't bring myself to actually touch it, but I'm a relatively fast learner, so I got the basic gist of it.  She told me she felt much better with me having it, I know Husband felt better with me having it, and I have to admit, after the two of them riled me up into thinking I was going to be raped and killed, I felt better having it, too.

I put the gun on the armoire next to my bed.  Then I put my canister of dog mace in easy reach in the living room.  I was prepared.  The AmURican way.

Shortly after I got Ant to bed, the Estonian called to make sure it was still okay if he stayed the night.  As soon as I heard him on the phone, my fears (mostly) dissipated.  I'd gotten so nervous and wound up between Husband and Mouse's concerns, I'd forgotten that I'm not an idiot, and I CAN trust my own instincts.

Sweet D went to sleep just minutes before the Estonian arrived.  I showed him in and showed him the guest room.  He was extremely grateful and offered to sleep on the ground, so he wouldn't dirty the sheets.  I told him to quit being ridiculous and just sleep in the bed.  He was my guest, and I was going to treat him as such.

He said he'd have to leave around 6am (way before I'd prefer to be awake), so I showed him how to lock the door behind him, and asked if he had breakfast (he showed me this absurdly small breakfast bar).  So I took him to the kitchen, got a pot of coffee ready so he could brew fresh coffee, showed him where the poptarts and cereal are, and then asked if he'd eaten dinner.  He seemed almost apologetic and said no.  I made him a garlic pork sandwich on fresh homemade french bread.  Then I got him juice and chips.  While I was digging in the pantry for more food to throw at him, he remarked how much I reminded him of his mom.  What a fantastic compliment.

I've always been a motherly figure.  I was voted "most likely to have 15 kids" in my high school class.  My Fulbright friends used to joke about how they'd be high, and I'd be sober, making sure they all had their mittens on before we went outside in the cold.  I guess I'm just a very mother-hen type.

We talked for a bit about Europe and America and politics and his job, etc.  And I remarked about how I likely wouldn't have invited him to stay if he'd been American.  He seemed to think it over for a minute, and then he agreed - the whole situation was much more European to him, too.  He said he felt comfortable here, like he would have in a typical European home.  Not that Americans can't be hospitable or good hosts, but it's simply a different mindset for the majority of people.  After I shot down his ridiculous notion of changing the sheets on the bed when he got up in the morning, he thanked me for everything I'd done for him (which really wasn't much of anything), and told me that I shouldn't ever lose my European-trained sense of hospitality.  I whole-heartedly agree.

After sending him to bed, I cleaned up the kitchen and brought the dogs into my room (who, it turns out, are COMPLETELY worthless as guard dogs - they didn't even make a noise when he was up in the morning in the kitchen - but I was wide awake the whole time - and only a little nervous).  I didn't sleep very well, waking at every noise and running through my plan of how I'd grab and load the gun if he came anywhere near our rooms (it's hard to get over the ingrained fear - especially in such an unknown situation).

Of course, everything turned out fine.  The Estonian really did just need a place to stay (which I knew was a common problem for the Southwestern salespeople from all the reading I did on the internet about the company), and I'm glad I was able to provide that for him for a night.  It's the least I could do after all the wonderful people I've met during my travels who have done the same for me.

And a final disclaimer, if you believe anything untoward may have happened, then you truly don't know me.  I was far too mentally-consumed with the idea of "tonight being the very first time I may kill someone!" to even consider the notion of infidelity.

Oh, and Estonian - if you read this (I'm friends with him on facebook now!), please don't be offended that I armed myself against you.  I am an American, after all.  :)

The Day I Didn't Have a Blog Post

Okay, so that's been many days.  But today is another Monday without a post.  I don't really have an excuse, either.  Except for the whole Husband deploying and being stuck alone with the Monsters.  But that's not even a very legitimate excuse, since the Monsters have been doing surprisingly well.

Sweet D slept through the night last night.  For the first time ever.  10 straight hours.  The longest she'd ever slept before was 6 hours, and that only happened 2-3 times.  Usually, she sleeps one 4 hr stretch at night, and the rest is anywhere from 20 min - 2 hrs.  I, of course, didn't sleep all night, but instead woke up in a panic at 4am, realizing she hadn't gotten up yet, ran frantically in her room expecting to find her dead.  I'm hoping we've finally broken the over-tired cycle she's been in, and she'll maybe get on a more regular sleeping routine now.  Because that's one thing about babies - if they get too tired, they can't sleep.  What is wrong with you, babies?!  Sometimes I get so hungry, I feel like I'm going to throw up.  But I also have a penchant for throwing up.  I throw up more than any non-bulimic person I've ever encountered, so I'm not sure that's the same thing.

Ant has been handling the deployment fairly well.  He's an expert at distraction, which is evidently his coping method of choice.  Sometimes I try to talk to him about Daddy being gone, and he abruptly changes the topic to inform me of useful tidbits such as, "lids go on our cups so the chocolate milk doesn't spill."  While that IS true, it's not exactly relevant.

My dryer started making very loud noises a few months ago (but still works fine), and sometimes it makes a noise that sounds like the garage door opening.  Ant runs to the top of the stairs and yells out, "Daddy's home!!" but then when I tell him that, no, it was just the dryer, he doesn't seem to care.  He just shrugs it off and returns to whatever he was doing.  The only times he's really seemed to really be upset about Daddy being gone are times when he's already having a meltdown - then he just throws that in there to make me feel worse.

One time (thankfully only once, so far), he was on the floor throwing a fit about something else entirely, and I was about to put him in time out, when he yelled out, "Daddy can't ever come home!"  Oh jeez, how am I supposed to discipline you now?!  So I calmed him down and tried to read him his Daddy Book (a photo book I made for each of the kids with pictures of them and Husband and a little story about how Daddy has to sometimes go away for a long time to keep other soldiers healthy, etc), and then he kicked me, which made disciplining him much easier.

Another time he told me Daddy "went to Holland to get money for pizza."  As you can tell, he has a clear and mature understanding of what's happening.  He may have been trying to say "hospital," and just forgot the word, since Daddy sometimes works in a hospital.  And I do tell him that Daddy goes to work to earn money for us.  Money to buy delicious pizza.

As for myself, it turns out I'm a surprisingly capable person, and this is like a macrocosm of our normal lives: when Husband is at home during the day (weekends, etc), I become immobilized and usually don't even manage to shower, much less clean or do anything else with any semblance of productivity.  But when he goes to work (or to the store on weekends), I'm overcome with a sudden urge to do as many chores as possible while he's gone.  Now that he isn't coming home for a few months, my motivation has turned to larger things - cleaning out and organizing the garage, building an entire playset in the backyard (my neighbors have learned that I have a filthy mouth), and I'm slowly becoming obsessed with our weed-filled lawn.  I enjoy mowing and weed whacking it.  I'm excited for the weather to cool down a bit so I can rent an aerator and plant grass seed.  And hopefully some trees.  If we had a ton of money sitting around, I'd do all our landscaping plans myself.

I'm sorry this isn't funny.  Literally nothing humorous happened to me all week.  I'll try better this week, or at least try to get the motivation to tell another good story from my past.  I can't even come up with a short anecdote for you, because The Wiggles are singing loudly at me in the background (the only method I could come up with to keep Sweet D from smashing the keyboard, short of locking her away somewhere), and Anthony Wiggle is wearing some suggestive butterfly costume with tights, and I just can't concentrate.  I may have a crush on Anthony Wiggle.  There's a chance the kids don't even like this show, but I force them to watch it so I can get lost in his dreamy blue eyes.  Oh, I'll tally your bananas, Anthony.  Daylight come, indeed.

The Day I Bought a Steam Vac (Today!)

Ant had been giving us signs that he was ready to start potty training for a while now. He's interested in the potty chairs, excited about "big boy underwear," and he's met all the other milestones the experts recommend (being able to stay dry for a certain amount of time, being able to undress himself, etc). So after Husband deployed (and Ant seemed to show no reaction to Daddy being gone), I decided it would be a good way to pass the time. And what an awesome "present" for Husband to come home to - one kid out of diapers without any work on his part!

We started yesterday. We read all our different books on using the potty, took a tour of the bathroom, including two potty chairs (one on loan to us that looks like a dinosaur!), his potty chart, rewards for going potty, toilet paper, the sink and soap, etc. We were set, and we were both very excited to get this show on the road.

How do you start potty training? The "experts" all say to let the kid run around without pants on. They're more aware of what's going on with their down-theres, then, and less likely to confuse underwear as just another form of diaper (which also means less laundry in the form of soiled underwear every time the kid forgets). I knew going in to this that we'd have some accidents, and they'd likely be on the carpet, so I was prepared. I've had two kids, we have two painfully stupid dogs and a cat; I'm certainly accustomed to messes on the carpet, couches, walls, and so on. I bought a brand new bottle of Resolve Pet Stain Remover just the other day.

The morning started out with me asking Ant every 2 minutes if he had to pee or poop and reminding him to run to the potty if he felt like he needed to go. I can't even begin to tell you how excited I was the first time he jumped up, ran to the bathroom, and happily exclaimed that he'd peed in the potty. I ran in to see for myself, and, sure enough, he had! Pee, right there, in the dinosaur potty. And some next to the dinosaur potty. ... And some on the rugs. But still! Pee in the potty!!

And he kept doing it, too! Pee, in the potty, at least 8 times yesterday.

But pooping was another thing entirely. I had a feeling it was going to be more difficult, but the peeing was just going so well. He was playing by himself with his Little People farm toy when I notice he stopped moving for a second... and was in a tell-tale squatting position... I jumped up to grab him, yelling (in my most helpful, polite-but-urgent, mommy voice), "Ant! Do you need to go to the potty to poop?!" Too late. Poop. On the carpet.

It's okay, not a big deal. It cleaned up easily (easier than the stupid dogs' poop ever is). We talked about how he didn't get a prize (skittles) for that one, because it was on the carpet, and not in the potty, where it's supposed to be. He was sad, but he understood. Just to show me how well he understood, he proceeded to pee in the potty (and get his skittles).

The rest of the day was uneventful (except for one pee incident, on a kitchen chair, because he was too involved with his play-doh to realize he had to pee - in spite of my asking every 2 minutes if he needed to go). More successful pottying, and even some (remarkably small) poops. Gross, I know, but this is the reality of having and raising children, people.

The day ended with a minor battle over how to proceed with nighttime potty training. I made the mistake of telling Ant he could come and get me if he needed to pee, and I'd help him take his diaper off. Being the crafty little kid he is, he realized this was the perfect excuse to stay up late - even if it was just staying up to sit on the potty. I let him sit there for 30 minutes (producing nothing) before I cracked and forced him to go to bed, telling him it was okay if he peed in his diaper.

He woke me up this morning, bright and early, excited to get back to potty training. It should probably be noted that he thinks a "potty train" is an actual train and something that will be his when he can use the potty correctly. He keeps asking for his potty train, which, to anyone who didn't know what he actually meant, would probably sound very progressive - toddler-led potty training: "I want my POTTY TRAIN!!" It isn't progressive; it's actually just greedy.

It would appear that he had peed immediately before waking me up, because his diaper was fully loaded, and he didn't need to pee for the first several hours we were awake, in spite of my incessant asking.

He was sitting on the couch with his blankets and a hammer-and-ball toy thing when my phone rang. Seeing a number that started with a bunch of 0's, I got super excited, because I knew it had to be Husband, calling from somewhere "over there." I hadn't talked to him since he left, so I was very eager to hear his voice and regale him with the events of our last few days, specifically our potty training successes thus far.

About two minutes into the annoyingly-voice-delayed call, Ant suddenly started screaming. I looked up just in time to see him jump up from where he was sitting on the couch, kick his legs and flail his arms about, and throw himself to the other side of the couch, before dropping to the floor, all while screaming like a lunatic. His toys and blankets got caught up in the action, also springing about on the couch, and Sweet D, standing in front of the couch where Ant had just been sitting, began to hit the couch and yell in excitement.

But then I noticed a little something else was involved in the flailing mix. It didn't register at first, because I'd never been witness to anything similar, mostly because I've never spent any remarkable amount of time in monkey houses at the zoo.

Shit. It was shit. I don't feel like I need to apologize for using that word in this scenario, because it's truly the only appropriate word to describe the reality. It was horrible, noxious, filthy, diarrhea shit. And it was all over my couch. Then all over Ant. And all over his blankets and toys. Oh God, no, the table. Stop moving, Ant, STOP MOVING! Now my pillows. And the carpet. JUST STOP, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, STOP MOVING. IT'S SHIT; HE SHIT ON THE COUCH; OH MY GOD. And the rug. No... NO, SWEET D, NO!! ... And Sweet D.

I was frozen for what seemed like minutes, but was probably only a couple seconds. I yelled to Ant, "did you not know you were going to poop?!"

"Nooooooo!" He wailed. Looking at the diarrhea-poop, I'd guess that was probably true.

"GO TO THE BATHROOM AND WAIT FOR ME."

Oh yeah, I'm still on the phone to Husband, who is separated from the shit-living room by his security bubble of half the world and a 3-second phone delay. I started trying to explain to him what was happening when I saw Sweet D going for the kill - inches from a giant pile of shit, she had that crazy look in her eyes that only an eager 10-month old can get when she's about to grab something that she instinctively knows is off-limits.

"WHAT DO I DO?!"

Husband, ever the level-headed rational one suggests, "put Sweet D in the bathroom with Ant and deal with him first, then clean everything else up after he's calmed down."

Good plan. Baby to the bathroom. Oh God, the bathroom is also somehow covered in shit. Is more coming out, or is it just splatters of already-coated flailing limbs? HOW DO I EVEN BEGIN TO GET CONTROL OF THIS?!

Ant, sitting calmly on his dinosaur potty now, stands up and announces, "I peed in the potty! I get a special treat."

Ha.

I start trying to wipe Ant off with toilet paper and realize it's just not going to cut it. "Let's go to your room and use some wipes. Oh no, what does Sweet D have? IT'S SHIT. SHE HAS SHIT ON HER HANDS. AND SHE'S PAINTING THE FLOOR WITH IT!! AHHHH, CHILDREN!!!"

After frantically cleaning Sweet D's hand, we proceeded to clean Ant up in his room (and getting more shit all over everything in there), and then back to the bathroom to have a family bath. I'll never feel clean again. Ant, in typical Ant fashion, starts throwing a fit. No sympathy, into the tub. Thankfully, Sweet D loves water, so she gladly gets in and gets clean. My kids have some sort of psychic ability with each other - if they're only minorly upset, they will, inevitably, always be minorly upset at the same time. They throw fits at the same time, wake up at night at the same time, get hurt at the same time, need attention at the same time. But if something is TRULY wrong (like shit-splosion all over the house, or accidentally biting their tongue in half), they have an awesome ability to take turns. I'm so thankful for that.

I get the kids cleaned, DIAPERED (both of them), and dressed, then head back out to clean up the shit-covered living room. Meanwhile, the phone system interrupts our call and informs Husband and me that we have 15 more seconds to talk. Great, I'm glad we got a chance to catch up...

I used half a bottle of Resolve on the couch, carpet, and rug, and half a container of disinfecting wipes on the table and toys. Blankets go into the washer, my hands get washed 18 times, and I sit down at my computer to get on Amazon and order a steam vac. I've been wanting one since we bought our house, and it seems now is the perfect time to stop putting it off. Because I'm NOT going to sit on that couch again until it's been semi-professionally cleaned.

In the meantime, I've decided it's not going to hurt anything if Ant doesn't potty train right now. He's not starting school any time soon, and I hate the idea of having to hunt down bathrooms every single time we go shopping or to the park, etc. Maybe another few months in diapers won't be a bad thing, and I'll be thankful to have the stress off of me. If Husband were going to be gone for a real, full-length deployment, I'd have no choice but to do it myself. But as it is, it seems like waiting 3 months and doing it during his Block Leave, so he can help, is a pretty freaking ingenious idea. After all, I've heard some stories about what a nightmare he was to potty train (whereas I potty trained myself at 18 months). It would seem as if there's some 26 year old karma waiting around to catch up with him.

The Day it Smelled Like Broccoli

I always hate writing stories about people who may realize the story is about them (unless they're in my family; then I think they have to just expect and accept it), but sometimes it's hard to pass up a really good anecdote. That being said, names have been changed to protect the (not so) innocent (and if the subject/culprit does ever stumble upon and read this and recognize that the story is about them, no hard feelings - like always, this is just my personal recollection of events; who knows how accurate it really is?)

The summer after my freshman year of high school, I went on one of those everything-has-been-arranged-for-you-including-your-meals group tours of German-speaking Europe. Overall, it was an awesome trip filled with visiting lots of amazing places that I had never heard of and thus did not recognize the significance of our visits to them until years later, at which point I grew frustrated with 15-year old me and my lack of historical knowledge and appreciation. And my drastically limited experience with cinematic artistry, specifically in the form of "The Sound of Music." Salzburg (and a tour of places from the movie) is not overly interesting when you are only vaguely aware that said movie exists. For that one I blame my parents, who never really let us watch any movies (my older brother had ONE nightmare from an episode of Scooby Doo when he was three - consequently, 99% of all television and movies were banned in our house, much to the chagrin of poor Husband, who is left facing the incredibly daunting up-hill battle of making me watch all the "classics" - Ghostbusters, Star Wars, Indiana Jones, among hundreds of others).

I don't know how these kinds of tours are arranged, but I suspect certain companies (specifically a German version of a fast food chain, called Wienerwald) are slipping money under the table to the tour organization in return for a huge commitment to eating at their restaurants. I think we ate Wienerwald for at least 75% of our meals during the 2.5 week tour. It was not especially good food, and in all the time I've lived in Germany since, I've yet to encounter another Wienerwald. Almost as if the pre-arranged tour was to an alternate German-speaking Europe universe in which all the McDonald's are replaced by Wienerwalds.

Regardless, we were not only contractually obligated to consume Wienerwald slop, we were only allowed to eat what they had pre-arranged to serve us. They claimed that, in order to have"that many meals" ready at one time (our group was about 15 people, total), they had to limit our options to "vegetarian" or "generic German meal," but, as defined in our contract, one had to choose whether or not they were vegetarian before embarking on the tour, so our numbers (1 vegetarian, 14 generic German) were sent to all the restaurants weeks in advance of our actually eating there. I suspect they began preparing the food that far in advance, as well. As I learned through my other experiences living in Germany, many Germans are not necessarily opposed to leaving food out for uncomfortably long periods of time, subjecting it to various contaminants we Americans tend to shy away from consuming.

One of our first stops on the tour was Berlin. Shortly after arriving in the city, we were shipped to a large youth hostel-style lodging facility. There we were divided into groups of three to share rooms. Fortunately, I was placed with one of my closest friends at the time (Kay) and another girl from our school. The rooms were minimalistic, though likely not as an attempt at art, and the bathroom was one of the strangest things I'd yet encountered in my life (if you've never been fortunate enough to have utilized a German toilet, you truly don't know what you're missing out on). Not only was the toilet a classic German "shit shelf" toilet, but the tank was high above it on the wall, made of wood, and had a long pull cord hanging from it to flush, which, when pulled, released a torrent of water (necessary to clean the shelf, most likely) that would literally spray the entire room if the lid weren't held down tightly.

After a few minutes exploring the room and the most bizarre bathroom I'd yet encountered in my short, sheltered, sanitized American childhood, we were off to eat our first meal at Wienerwald (whose mascot was a fat golden chicken, if I recall correctly. Most likely because of the abundance of free-range, obese chickens in the vast forests of Vienna. Everything about that statement is accurate.)

After we were seated around a long table, the wait staff gruffly brought out our pre-arranged meals (no need for a menu!). The third girl staying in our room (let's call her Sarah) informed our teacher that she had ordered the vegetarian meal, but the restaurant had evidently made a slight oversight. After a brief scuffle with the staff, a revolting mash of over-steamed, soggy vegetables in some weird yellow-ish sauce was dropped in front of the girl. The smell was powerful, which is not an attribute that readily goes with well-prepared food. But Sarah dove right in, pronouncing the food as "great." After fighting to cut off and choke down several bites of my own dry wienerschnitzel, the smell of the vegetarian dish became too much for me, and I forfeited any further attempt at eating. Sarah cleared her plate in record time, however.

Our teacher took us on a brief walk around the city following our meal, but since most of us were suffering from our first case of jet leg, she let us go back to the hostel with the warning that we should try our best to stay up until nighttime, in an attempt to adjust our internal clocks to German time. Off we went, to struggle through the next several hours of exhaustion.

Back in our room, Sarah asked if either of us had to use the bathroom. She said she wanted to shower and would be in there for a while. In retrospect, I feel she lied to us.

After about 20 minutes, a smell started to escape under the door of the bathroom and fill our small hostel room. It was a familiar, powerful smell. Kay and I exchanged looks and laughed. But after another 10 minutes, and it was no longer funny. The smell became all-invasive. It was one of those thick smells; the kind you can feel in the back of your throat.

Kay and I went over to the giant window in the room and attempted to figure it out. Like German toilets, if you've never encountered a German window, you don't know what you're missing. They have weird, detachable hinges on all sides, and, depending on the direction of the handle, you can change which hinges stay attached and which ones release, enabling the window to open at the top or the side. We managed to figure this out after minimal confusion, and swung the window open wide.

It was cold outside, as evenings in June in Berlin so often are (they are typically either way too cold or way too hot - and the lack of air conditioners in the majority of German buildings makes "too cold" the preferred option). The cold air fought a valiant battle with the smell and won. But the room was soon freezing cold.

After another 30 minutes in the bathroom, Sarah emerged (with the last of the smell), and remarked at how cold it was in the room. Kay and I, through chattering teeth and blue lips, explained that we were attempting to stay awake until bedtime, and the cold was helping us. We might have also implied we were warm. We hadn't thought through our excuses, but neither of us wanted to make Sarah feel bad about the horrific odor. With the smell finally dissipated, we closed the window and passed blissfully to sleep, giving in to the exhaustion of jet lag.

The next morning, we were herded onto our pre-arranged tour bus and shipped (literally, by ferry) to Potsdam for a pre-arranged tour of Sanssouci (the Hohenzollern's summer palaces) and Cecilienhof (the palace that hosted the Potsdam Conference after WWII). While walking through the gorgeous gardens and paths that lead around the Sanssouci complex, Kay and I found ourselves walking a few paces behind the majority of the group, including Sarah. We were admiring the lavish palaces when, out of nowhere, our noses were again affronted with the same mind-bogglingly offensive smell from the previous night. But this time, we weren't the only ones who noticed it.

Sarah turned around to us and absent-mindedly remarked, "hmm, that smells just like my broccoli from last night!!"

Also, for anyone interested, Wienerwald is slowly disappearing due to bankruptcy in the 80's, which would explain why I saw many more of them in 1998 than in 2004-6.

The Day I Took a Road Trip to Hell

Husband is in this seemly never-ending struggle to deploy (the unit he's currently assigned to has been in Baghdad since October, but he was in PA school until June, so we've been spending the last three months trying to get him over there - with the Army saying, "He'll deploy next week, for sure." Then the next week comes and they realize there's something else they forgot to do to deploy him, so it gets pushed back another week. The whole thing is really annoying. It's not that I want him to deploy, but if he's going to, I just want it to happen so we can move on with our lives and stop living in this "this is our last weekend together" mindset. That's just too exhausting, no matter how much we love the guy.) As part of the pre-deployment process, he had to attend a course at Ft. Sam Houston (in San Antonio - I was so jealous) for medical providers deploying to combat zones (basically a crash-course in how to treat acute war-related injuries). So I figured, if Husband was off playing Army for the week, the kids and I should take the opportunity to visit my dad up in Sioux Falls, South Dakota; we usually make an annual trip up there around this time, and it would help pass the week without Husband (I usually road trip without him, anyway, so it would be "normal" for us).

Ant's birthday party (complete with Despicable Me Minion Cake) was on a Saturday, and since the most recent move, we're now much closer to my dad (Pop-Pop), so I was able to convince him to come down for the party, wait around on Sunday to help watch the kids while I packed, and then caravan up north with me and help out on the stops (the only thing that make me nervous about road tripping with two little kids - how do you handle stops alone? 10 month old, + almost 3 year old + public bathrooms + two arms = not enough arms). The drive up went well (thanks to Pop-Pop), despite one hysterical fit in Burger King (I'm still not sure why that one happened - also, their guacamole is not very good, which shouldn't have been as surprising to me as it was), and then we were there, in Pop-Pop's completely not baby-proofed house, with a giant pool out back that just begs little boys to sneak out there and run around it in the hopes that they'll slip, and it will get to eat them. Or maybe I'm just paranoid.

The first day and a half went great, other than the constant need to watch the children, which got old fast (and resulted in me not getting to lounge around reading "A Song of Ice and Fire," as naively planned). Then Wednesday morning happened.

We woke up early, woke up my younger brother (both of my brothers also came to visit from Arizona), and went to eat breakfast before our planned trip to the Sioux Falls Zoo (if you're ever in Sioux Falls for any reason, I suggest going to the zoo - there's also a museum there called the Delbridge Museum. Apparently, some super rich guy in the early 1900's or something had too much money and too many guns, so he went around the world, killing as many animals (including endangered ones) as he could find. Then he had them stuffed, often in comically ferocious poses, and when he died, he donated them all to the city of Sioux Falls.) I was feeding Sweet D, and Ant was eating/playing around on the bar stools in Pop-Pop's kitchen, as he had been since we got there (they're pretty cool saddle-style stools). I heard him slip, followed by the unmistakable *thunk* of hitting his head, and the ubiquitous howl of a constantly-being-injured, usually whiny, almost 3 year old. I turned to scold him (good mother that I am), and froze.

There was my sweet little boy, climbing back up the stool, crying and howling, with blood literally pouring out of his mouth. My first thought was one of resentment, "why did we spend the last two nightmare years with Husband in PA school if he's not even going to be here when the kid turns into a blood-fountain?!"

I scooped up the boy, spraying blood all over Pop-Pop's kitchen, carried him to the sink and started trying to locate the source of the blood. "Please don't let it be his teeth," I thought. Through his hysterical screams, I could see all those beautiful little white dots, shining brightly through a flood of red. Okay, it's not the teeth... so what is it? Gums? Tongue?

Then I saw it. A gigantic flap of tongue, sticking up in the middle of his mouth. It was like two tongues in one, but the second one was smaller and facing the wrong direction. And blood was pouring out from under it.

Panic. Call Husband.

Husband doesn't answer.

Panic.

I looked at my little brother, who was standing in a state of shock with that unmistakable "I'm never having children" look on his face. "We have to go to the ER," I told him. He nodded in celibate-terror agreement.

In the meantime, Husband left class to call me, I explained the injuries, and he agreed that we should go to the ER. So off we went.

I'm forever indebted to my younger brother for coming with us and helping with Sweet D. He pushed her in the stroller around the ER parking lot for 30 minutes while I took Ant inside. I don't know how I would have handled both of them myself (well, actually I do, but it would have involved a lot of crying and screaming from all parties, and anyone else in the ER would have been much worse off for it). We got Ant to stick his tongue out (after much coaxing and promises of baby rhinos), and the doctor informed me that it would heal on its own, then sent us away with nothing (which I later learned, via Husband's frustrated outcries, was not the appropriate course of action on the doctor's behalf - she SHOULD have given us a prescription pain killer).

Back to Pop-Pop's we went, with the world's most pathetic little boy. He couldn't swallow or talk because of the pain, so bloody drool was dripping from his face (for the next two days), and he could only make "uh-huhs" or "uh-uhs" noises to communicate. As I carried my tall-for-his age, drooling, grunting, filthy little boy into Walgreens (and I myself was unshowered and covered with splattered blood) to buy him popsicles and medicine, the disgusted glares of the check-out lady made me realize I looked like an impressive sample of trailer trash, hauling around my clearly mentally retarded, angry (and evidently spoiled and injured) child. The only difference was that I have shame; so I was embarrassed.

At Pop-Pop's house, he curled up into a ball on my lap, whimpering continuously, and refused to move. We watched a movie until he fell asleep, and I put him down in his bed upstairs. He woke up after an hour or so, screaming hysterically. When I got into the room, he looked at me and pathetically cried (as deciphered through swollen-tongue screams), "you left me, Momma!!" Stab me in the heart.

The rest of the day wore on with more drooling, whimpering, and grunting. By about 6pm, I realized he hadn't had anything to eat or drink since his two bites of peanut butter bread at 8am, moments before he tried to bite half his tongue off. I called Husband, who proceeded to incite panic in me, telling me if he didn't drink something soon, he was going to get dehydrated. He gave me warning signs for dehydration and told me they'd have to hook him up to an IV if he did dehydrate. Panic. I tried begging and forcing him to drink; neither worked. Then I realized his drool output would be a good indicator of dehydration. And based on the current saturation level of his shirt, I still had nothing to worry about.

He went to bed the first night still having not consumed anything since 8am. We were all (Ant, Sweet D and I) sleeping in the same room, which, generally speaking, wouldn't be much of an issue. Sweet D still wakes up 2-4 times a night, but Ant is a fairly heavy sleeper. So I was surprised when he woke up screaming hysterically at 2am.

I ran over to him, and he looked up at me, moaned, and proceeded to throw up all over my shirt. Fortunately, he hadn't eaten since 8am, so there wasn't much to throw up (the doctor had warned us that he'd likely throw up because of the amount of blood he swallowed during the blood-fountaining, and it's a basically a rule that 3 year old are only allowed to throw up in the middle of the night or in moving vehicles). I rushed him to the bathroom, lifted the toilet seat and pointed to it, telling him, "throw up in here!"

He gave me a confused look, dropped to the ground, and threw up again, down his shirt and on the floor.

I picked him up and set him on the counter, pointing to the sink and telling him, "throw up in HERE!"

Again the confused look, followed by more vomit on his shirt, my shirt, the counter, and the floor.

So I handed him a towel and said, "throw up on here?"

He was done throwing up.

We went back to bed where he promptly passed back out. The drama had woken Sweet D, who had woken Pop-Pop, so I retrieved her from him, and nursed her back to sleep.

Fifteen minutes later, Ant was up again, screaming and retching. I ran to him and grabbed the towel, putting it in front of his face.

He screamed angrily, shoved the towel out of the way, threw himself backwards onto the floor and proceeded to vomit straight up in the air, ensuring the widest coverage of clothing and carpet. I tried to sneak the towel in to catch it, but this only upset him, causing him to roll back and forth as he projected vomit in a 180 degree arc above his head.

As soon as he was finished, he passed out in bed again. I picked up screaming Sweet D and nursed her back to sleep.

Repeat 15 minutes later, complete with floor-rolling and full-carpet-covering vomit.

And an hour after that.

The next morning, I felt like a zombie. Ant still couldn't eat or take pain medicine, but he was finally able to take some sips of water and chocolate milk. He had no recollection of his impressive show of preschooler incoherence the night before. We went to the zoo, played with some friends, went swimming in Pop-Pop's pool, played with Crayola colored bubbles (which stain EVERYTHING within a 50 foot radius of them), and by dinner time, Ant was able to eat some ice cream. Quite a bit of it, actually.

We were planning on leaving in the morning, so I was praying for a decent night's sleep. I was already nervous about how I was going to handle both kids by myself, and I knew I needed to be well rested so I wouldn't accidentally kill us all. I got us all asleep by 8:30pm, and everything seemed great.

Until midnight, when Ant woke up screaming hysterically. I ran over to him and asked what was wrong (meanwhile, Sweet D woke up and joined the screaming). He refused to open his eyes or quit screaming, but he managed to yell, "GET IT ALL OUT OF MEIN BED!"

Assuming he was talking about his blankets and toys in his bed, I took them all out. Wrong.

"PUT THEM BAAACK IN MEIN BEEEED!!!" For some reason, he's German when referring to his possessions.

I put them back, but he kept screaming. After trying another 10 things, I finally lost it. "ANT. STOP SCREAMING AT ME!" It snapped him out of it. He finally opened his eyes, looked right at me, then promptly laid down in bed and zonked out instantly. I picked up screaming Sweet D, nursed her back to sleep, and fell asleep myself. For all of 15 minutes.

Then the screaming started again. Cycle through the process of trying to figure out what he wanted, end up screaming back at him, and he falls asleep instantly without responding. Nurse Sweet D to sleep, sleep for 15 minutes. Screaming. Nurse. 15 minutes of sleep.

And so on, for the next 6 hours.

In the morning, I felt like death. There was no way I was going to be able to handle packing, loading the car, and driving 6+ hours back home - including making multiple stops with two incredibly dependent little humans. Practically in tears, I trudged my way through preparing to depart. I loaded the cargo topper on the car, threw the rest in the back, and managed to get the kids ready and into the car. And then I did something I've NEVER done before.

I trick Ant into taking benedryl.

He HAS constant allergies, and he takes zyrtec every day - but we ran out of his prescription before we left for South Dakota, so he hadn't taken any in the last five days (not that he would have taken it with his giant, swollen tongue, anyway). And we WERE heading back to Kansas, where I knew his allergies would be acting up again. So technically, it wasn't JUST to get him to sleep in the car.

But mostly it was.

And it worked.

But about 40 minutes into our drive, I was passing a pick-up pulling a U-Haul trailer. Since we were in South Dakota, we were going in excess of 80 mph. As I was pulling up along side her, she decided to come into my lane for no apparent reason. It all happened so fast, I didn't get a chance to honk until my left tires were already in the grass in the median. She frantically (at least it appeared frantic to me, but in retrospect, I may have just been interpreting her very large, feathered, 70's hairstyle as "frantic" and her actual implied emotion was something else entirely) pulled her car back and mouthed "sorry." My usual reaction would have been to glare or make choice hand gestures. But after the week I'd had, I just lost it. I had to pull my car over on the shoulder, where I burst into hysterical tears and shook violently for about five minutes.

Like typical self-centered children, neither of my kids reacted in any way to this incredibly uncommon maternal outburst.

Back on the road (we passed the U-Haul lady again, but I didn't realize it until we were well past), we made it all the way to Lincoln, Nebraska without stopping. Then Beatrice, Nebraska (near the NE/KS border). Then into Kansas. Once we passed the state line, I was committed. No amount of screaming from the children or urgent need to urinate was going to keep me from making it home without a pit stop.

And we made it. Without a single stop. In just 5 hours and 45 minutes. We were finally home, and the nightmare was over. And I didn't even pee in my pants. I just wanted to buy new air fresheners for the car for no reason, not to cover up the smell of urine soaked into the driver's seat.

(In case you're concerned, Ant is back to his normal self. He can eat and talk again, and he's no longer a drooling, grunting, mentally questionable puddle of whining. Though his tongue does still look pretty gross...)

Adventures in Caking: The Making of the Minion Cake

The Minion Cake!!

My son just turned three. We had a party for him, and some family and friends came over to help us celebrate. They were all pretty blown away by the cake I made for him, but the truth is, even if it had just been me, my husband, and the kids, I would have made the same cake. I got one comment from someone who said my kids are the luckiest kids in the world (to get awesome cakes on their birthdays, etc). It's such a sweet thought, but my first reaction was, "why? I did this cake for me." I guess I should just not tell the kids that, and they can live their lives in ignorant bliss, believing their mom would "sacrifice" an entire week of her time to bake them ridiculous birthday cakes (yes, I foresee this becoming a tradition in our house - hopefully I'll be able to live up to each cake wish!).

Several people asked me how I made the cake, so I thought the easiest way to share was a photo blog entry (also, I know this doesn't count as a "real" entry, so please forgive me - I SWEAR I'll work harder at updating regularly - I'm just waiting for my life to settle down for a second - please forgive me, loyal fans (i.e. Joe)).

Without further ado, here is how the Minion Cake came to be:

First, I tinted and sculpted the little features out of Wilton (store-bought) fondant. I also use Wilton coloring for all my cake decorating. It's easy to work with and cleans up well (even if it looks like it will stain your counters forever - so far, it's always wiped up clean for me). I use the store-bought fondant for the external features because it hardens quicker and sturdier than my homemade marshmallow fondant. But tinting it is a mess. Anything with black food coloring is a mess.

I made the goggles out of the Wilton fondant, cut into strips (with a ruler and pizza cutter), and let them harden around soda cans. Then I molded the eyes to fit inside them, added pupils and eyelids. After the eyes set for a few hours, I turned them over and shoved toothpicks in them (so I could put them on the cake later). I let all this stuff harden for about 5 days. It gets hard overnight, but I had too much to do, and it was nice to get it done so early and not have to worry about it again. After they'd hardened for a couple days, I sprayed the goggles with edible silver spray. It didn't seem to have any affect on their texture or hardness, which was a concern I had after reading other people's reviews of it.

The "3" candle, gripped in a little minion hand, waiting for the cake to exist.

I baked the cakes that would become the minions about 5 days in advance, too, and froze them. I used 6" round pans and the Wilton sports ball pan.

Four days before the party, I made all my homemade fondant. Three batches. Fondant is very messy. I plan on making a photo blog with my fondant recipe and tips. I'll try to do that in the near future. :)

Scraping yellow pre-fondant out of the bowl. It's hard work!

All my little features, sitting out to dry. The hair and arms were made with (store-bought) gum paste. It's the first time I've ever used gum paste. The only difference I really saw was that it was harder to get the lines out of it than it is to get a smooth surface with fondant. It worked nicely for the hair, and it weighs less, but otherwise, it seemed almost more difficult to work with. Maybe if I knew how to make all those fancy flowers, I'd have more of a purpose for gum paste.

The base cake, crumb-coated and chilling in the fridge overnight before it gets fondant. It was cream soda cake with root beer frosting (and eventually, root beer fondant).

The smaller minion - I crumb coated him with strawberry frosting (he was lemon cake), then carved his mouth out of the frosting. Also, he was two 6" round cakes and a half of the Wilton sports ball pan.

Stacking the taller minion. I used bubble tea straws as supports to keep the cakes from sliding off each other. He was chocolate cake with chocolate frosting.

All three cakes, crumb-coated and chilling overnight before they get fondant!

Fondant on the little minion! His mouth is just another piece of fondant that I cut to fit, then I molded little fondant teeth.

The fondant-covered base cake. The rivets are just fondant balls (a lot of fondant on this thing). But the root beer flavoring worked GREAT in the fondant. I actually liked it more than normal vanilla. The only issue was that root beer concentrate is very dark - it would only work for a fondant that was being colored a darker color, or something that could easily incorporate the brown of the flavoring.

Taller minion with fondant and hair. His lip is just a small, rolled piece of fondant, stuck in with a tooth pick. Then I covered the whole thing with the yellow fondant and used the back of a paring knife to draw the mouth lines.

Blind, naked minions in my fridge.

Overalls! Again, just rolled out fondant, cut with a pizza cutter and ruler.

He looks like an idiot farm boy or something.

The "stitching" on the overalls was one of my favorite features of them - it was done with a tracing wheel (like the thing used in sewing).

My kitchen was a giant mess of confectioner's sugar. But the Boy is getting excited about his cake!

The "G" symbol was cut out of a rolled out piece of gum paste.

Big minion's "G" symbol.

And one on the cake, for good measure.

Sightless minions in my fridge!

The completed cake.

A lot of screw-ups with the fondant on the back (and a minor incident with the taller minion's goggles, because I didn't take into account how rounded his head would be - oops!). But I definitely learned from this time, and my fondant work will be better on the next cake. :D

Husband made fun of me for my attention to detail, but I think little things like the hinges on the sides of the goggles are what make the cake work.

It's kind of sad to think that my little boy probably won't even remember this cake. Hopefully I'll just keep learning and making cooler and cooler cakes that he can remember more easily as he gets older.

My sweet little minions. I got very emotionally attached to this cake.

Sitting in my fridge, smiling at me!

A fair likeness, if I do say so myself!

He WAS happy about the cake...

Tasting the fondant!

The inside of the chocolate minion - you can see the layers and the bubble tea straws used for supports. I also had both minions on their own round cake boards, sitting on top of the base cake, with supports going through the base cake (the minions each weighed quite a bit and I was concerned they would crush the base cake).

The inner workings of a minion cake.

Losing a goggle...

Happy Birthday to my favorite Big Boy!!

Also, check out my cake's page on Coolest-Birthday-Cake's website!

http://www.coolest-birthday-cakes.com/coolest-despicable-me-birthday-cake-6.html

The Day I Got Married (The First Time)

In the Spring of my Fulbright year in Germany, I flew home for a whirlwind weekend of necessary insanity. Husband was going to be commissioned in the US Army, then he was graduating, and two of our very best friends were getting married, and we were the maid-of-honor and best man.

Because Husband was about to join the Army, and my Fulbright scholarship was coming to an end (along with my health insurance through it), we'd discussed having a quick, private courthouse ceremony to get legally married. Even though our parents were all going to be in town, we didn't want them there, because we were really only doing it for the legal status for the Army (a very common occurance with military folk). I figured, if our parents were there, when the pressure of planning and following through with a real, church ceremony started to build up, we'd be able to shrug our shoulders and say, "everyone already saw us get 'married,' so we don't need to do it again." I had no idea at the time how right I was with that assumption - especially when we were told just 7 weeks in advance that Husband would be deploying for a year - three months earlier than the wedding date for which I'd already sent out save-the-dates. But that's another wedding and another story.

I flew out of Germany on Thursday and made it in to Omaha about two hours before my friend (Mouse)'s bachelorette party. We went bar-hopping in the Old Market of Omaha, met up with the bachelor party, and generally had a good time, staying out until the middle of the night.

The next morning, we all had to get up extra early to be on time for the university's Army ROTC Commissioning ceremony. Husband and Mouse (among others) were commissioned, we took lots of fancy photos of all the brand new 2nd Lieutenants, and then we all went out to brunch together.

After brunch, we drove over to Husband's dorm to pack up all his stuff. He had rented a U-Haul trailer that they attached to the back of his dad's SUV. We basically threw all his stuff into garbage bags and threw them in the U-Haul. After he was cleared out of the dorm, we went to the hotel we'd be staying in for the next few days (his parents, the bride and groom, and their parents, and all our other family were all staying there, too). His dad asked the manager of the hotel if it would be okay to leave the U-Haul trailer in one of the parking spots in the back of the hotel's lot for the duration of our stay. The manager said it wouldn't be a problem, so we parked the U-Haul and left it there, only checking on it every time we drove in and out of the parking lot.

The next morning, we all got up bright and early to go to the university's graduation ceremony, where Husband and Mouse both graduated. Afterwards, we went to the Henry Doorly Zoo in Omaha (one of the best in the country) to waste some time before the wedding rehearsal that evening. The wedding rehearsal and rehearsal dinner went smoothly without any issues.

We had to get up extra early on Sunday morning to get ready for the wedding. The girls got all prettied up, we headed to the church, and everything went as planned. Our friends got married, we all piled in a limo, took a billion more pictures, then went to the wedding reception (conveniently at the hotel where we were all staying), and partied until well after midnight.

The next morning, we slept in, then got ready to head to the county courthouse. Husband did a great job planning everything - he'd set up an appointment for us at 4:15pm with a judge, and he had all the paperwork we needed (fortunately, Nebraska does not have blood test or waiting period requirements). So we drove down to the courthouse, filled out all the forms, showed proper form of ID, and waited for our appointment. Our best friends who had just gotten married the day before weren't able to come down to be our witnesses, so we called in our back-ups - who were working out at the university gym at the time, and came down in their workout clothes (they also ended up being our back-ups at our church wedding, 5 months later - they are exceptionally useful people!).

It was a very informal, quick ceremony (I was wearing a white skirt, at the very least). We didn't exchange rings; I didn't legally change my name. But it was still very sweet and brought a tear to my eye (it also kept me from getting any sense of "cold feet" before the real ceremony - no point in running away if you already have to get a divorce to leave the guy). The whole thing took about 15 minutes.

After thanking our witnesses and dismissing them so they could return to their workout, we went back down to the clerk's office, turned in our paperwork signed by Judge Schwartz (who married us), got all the proper signatures and stamps of approval, and then we were officially married. Not really the most romantic procedure.

We met his parents for an early dinner, then headed back to the hotel. We went up to our room, and less than a minute after we got in, Husband's dad came by, frantically pounding on the door.

"The U-Haul is gone," he told us. Husband ran out to the parking lot to verify that the U-Haul was, indeed, completely vanished from the spot it had been sitting in for the last three days.

Omaha is not exactly the safest town in the country, so our first thought was that it was stolen (evidently, this is a rather common occurrence - people steal the entire thing and drive it somewhere less obvious so they have more time to break the lock off and steal everything inside). We went to the hotel's front desk and asked if they'd seen anyone drive off with it, or if they'd called U-Haul and had it removed.

The person working the desk had no idea what was happening and called a manager to deal with us. It was the same manager that Husband's dad had initially talked to when he verified it would be okay to leave the U-Haul in the parking lot. We told him it was now missing.

"How can that be? We wouldn't have called U-Haul to have it towed. Especially since it was only there for three days. It must have been stolen."

We called the police, who came to the hotel to take our statement and file a report. The officer asked the manager if they had security tapes of their parking lot (they did not - their system was, unfortunately, broken at the time), and again verified that the hotel did not call U-Haul to report an abandoned trailer. The manager confirmed that no one had called - HE would have been the one to report it abandoned, and he certainly didn't, since he had spoken with Husband's dad himself.

The officer told us it was most likely stolen, and, even if they found it, all of Husband's worldly possessions would be gone.

I was overcome with a terrible feeling of guilt and dread. At his commissioning ceremony, his favorite professor had given Husband a pair of Lieutenant rank bars he had worn during the Vietnam War. While packing Husband's dorm room, I'd put the rank bars (at his direction) in one of the bags. Then that bag was put in the U-Haul. And now the U-Haul was gone. With the incredibly sentimental, meaningful Lieutenant bars. And Husband's rare acoustic guitar made from a now-endangered species wood. And all his clothes, cds, dvds, books, etc.

Through tears, I confessed this dreadful news to Husband. His reaction was beyond sad. I could see his soul being crushed with the weight of this loss. My first wifely duty, and I had failed miserably. We'd been married less than four hours at this point, and I'd already crushed his very life-essence.

The police officer suggested we drive around the neighborhood, scanning the area for the trailer. He said thieves oftentimes just drive them around the corner and out of immediate sight. At least finding the empty trailer would give us some sense of closure. He also suggested driving to the near-by U-Haul lots to see if, by chance, the trailer had been picked up by them. Unfortunately, it was now getting fairly late in the evening, and the U-Haul stores had all closed for the night.

Husband and I got into the car with his dad to drive around while his mom and sisters drove the other car so we could canvass the area. After driving around for about 30 minutes, the sense of dread growing steadily with each U-Haul-less street we passed, we decided to hunt down the local U-Haul storage facilities to see if we could possibly see the trailer on their lots, so we didn't have to wait until they opened in the morning to call.

This was before anyone (of us, at least) had GPS, so we had to rely on calling 411 to get an address, then driving around trying to find said address. After another 30 minutes or so, we found the U-Haul location. From the main parking lot, we could see their entire storage lot. They only had two of the same size trailers as our missing one, and neither of them had the right picture on the side (a giant marlin jumping out of the water). Dejectedly, we drove off, heading back toward the hotel.

Husband's mom called us at that point and asked if we'd checked at the U-Haul store. After confirming that we had, she asked if it was the one at a different location, further away from the hotel. Husband's dad asked if we wanted to drive by that store and look. Our first reaction was to just return to the hotel and get some sleep (I had to fly back to Germany first thing in the morning), but we decided, since we were already out, we might as well go look.

The second U-Haul location was much larger than the first we'd found. We pulled in to their public lot and began trying to scan the private lot for our trailer. The lot was much larger, and we couldn't see all the trailers.

But then. There it was. Behind two other, bigger trailers. That giant, blue fish, majestically adorning the side of the orange and white trailer. His giant, unblinking eye bored a hole through my chest.

"I SEE IT!!" I shouted as Husband's dad slammed on the breaks.

We all leapt out of the car and ran up to the security fence. "There it is!" I shouted, pointing between the other trailers.

"I can't see the ID number on the side," Husband replied, negatively.

Of course there are more than one U-Haul trailer that size with a marlin on the side. Of course this one wasn't ours. After all, it was behind other trailers, as if it had been there for a while. And the hotel manager had told us repeatedly that he hadn't called U-Haul for it to be picked up. It couldn't be ours. I could feel the hope draining out of me once again.

But I just had this feeling.

"Let's jump the fence and go check the number," I said, meaning, "Husband, go jump the fence and check the number."

He looked sadly at me, "I just got commissioned... I don't want to get arrested for trespassing and ruin my career before it starts."

And there it was. My opportunity to redeem myself. To prove I could be a good wife. I'll commit minor misdemeanors for you. And learn to cook someday. Totally.

"I'LL DO IT!!" I shouted, and before they could stop me, I was clamoring over the fence.

It wasn't until my feet hit the pavement on the other side that it dawned on me that the lot might have security cameras, or, much, much worse, guard dogs.

I glanced around and didn't see or hear Cujo, so I bolted for it. I ran up to the suspected trailer, and there it was, to the lower left of the jumping marlin: Husband's trailer's ID number.

This was Husband's trailer. I found it.

I am the best wife. Ever.

I started shouting excitedly and ran back to Husband and his dad, who were waiting patiently (legally) on the other side of the fence. I practically flew to the top of the fence.

And then I got stuck.

I'd turned my foot the wrong way, and found myself stuck on top of the fence. It was a chain-link fence (thankfully with no barbed wire), and the top was finished in the little twisted spikes of a traditional chain-link fence. As I tried to balance myself on top of one of the spikes to get my foot unstuck and readjust to a position from which I could properly dismount, I felt myself slip ever so slightly.

And that's when the fence took advantage of me. On my wedding night. Before my husband.

"Oh my God, Husband. The fence... It raped me!"

Husband and his dad, being the heroic gentlemen they are, immediately jumped into action - by laughing heartily at my struggle. After they calmed themselves, they proceeded to help me down. I quickly regained my composure, tried to hide the fact that I'd just screamed "fence-rape" in front of my father-in-law, and we started celebrating the finding of the U-Haul - lock intact. I later learned that my father-in-law informed Husband that I "was a keeper" because of this incident - not my bravery and willingness to break the law on Husband's behalf, but my unintentional wit in the face of intimate crisis.

We got back in the car, and I examined my injuries - just a small scratch on the inside of my leg. And the memory of it's cold, steel fingers that would last a lifetime.

On the drive back to the hotel, Husband and his dad's excitement and joy turned to anger and confusion as it dawned on us that the only way the U-Haul could be safely behind that rapefence was if the hotel manager had called and had it reported as abandoned.

Once back at the hotel, Husband's dad went on a rampage. He explained that we'd found the trailer at the U-Haul location. The manager suggested U-Haul had seen the trailer and picked it up themselves.

The next morning, Husband's dad called U-Haul to figure things out. They informed him that the manager of the hotel had called them and reported it abandoned. They said they would never just start picking up trailers off of private parking lots (like the hotel's).

Husband's dad went on a rampage. The manager refused to speak to him, but told the hotel clerk to only charge him for one night in the hotel.

They dropped me off at the airport, then went to get the U-Haul from the store. Everything was still safe and secure in the trailer.

It was definitely not how I ever imagined my wedding day would be (or really, any day of my life - who ever anticipates being forcibly taken by a chain-link fence?), but I think it was a good trial for us. Every marriage should start out with a crisis on the first day. It's good to learn right whether or not you're willing to break the law for your spouse. At the very least, I know I won't be asking Husband to be my get-away driver as long as he's still in the Army.