The other day I got an email from Harrison’s third grade teacher informing me that he had been caught in a homework lie. He told her I’d taken it out of his backpack. He told me the night before that he didn’t have any homework.

Something was afoot.

The moment Harrison walked in the door he knew he was in trouble. “Hi, Mom,” he said shuffling into the kitchen.

“Hi, Son.” I gave him a big hug and pulled up a chair so we could talk face to face. “So you got in trouble for lying about your homework today, huh?” I said.

“Yeah. Well, I didn’t really lie…I mean just a little one…” we talked about it for a moment and he admitted he’d fibbed. After apologizing he headed to his room.

I watched him walk away and spied his green backpack dumped on the floor.

Grabbing it by the strap, the thing felt like it weighed a good 25 pounds. I plopped it on the table and unzipped the mystery.

One by one I pulled out crumpled, unfinished homework sheets. Pages and pages, an entire quarter of untouched worksheets. Why hadn’t his teacher said anything? I was horrified to see over 20 sheets of neglected homework crumpled on the counter.

And then I found the first moldy lunch.

I’m careful with money so I usually make Harrison a cold lunch for school. He has a running hot lunch account for emergencies, but we only use it occasionally; lunches cost $2.40 and that really adds up.

By the fifth moldy lunch sack I was in total awe. The apples alone were hefty, not to mention all the water bottles. No wonder his bag was weighing him down.

“Harrison,” I called up the stairs, “I need you in the kitchen.”

He turned the corner and stopped in his tracks, eyes locked on the table. The lunches. The homework. The terrible awful truth.

You know when your kid is in so much trouble that you can’t even yell because they’re such a pitiful sight? Imediately he crumpled into a heap, crying about what a terrible person he was. “I’m just a liar, Mom! A liar! I’m gonna have to live with the Devil! I know you guys hate me, you hate me! Can I have a hug, please?” He sobbed and cried, explaining that he didn’t mean to stop doing his homework, he only lied once because he was tired and then it just got easy. No one noticed.

We talked about the lunches, and how his best friends get hot lunch and they make the cold lunch kids sit on one side of the cafeteria, and he was feeling left out.

Just about then his father walked in he door early from work. Harrison ran to his room to hide his guilt and I brought Father up to speed. We decided it would be necessary for Harrison to reimburse us for the lunches. He would also lose all electronic privileges (minus light fixtures) for the week while he finished the overdue homework.

He came down and peeked his head around the corner. Jason gently talked to him for a moment, telling him to please go get his money so he could pay for the missing lunches. We knew this would be the hardest part. He’s been saving up to get the newest Mario game, and at two dollars a week it’s been a slow process. He was only days away from that last allowance and victory.

He ran up the stairs and was back in the kitchen twenty seconds later.

“Here Dad,” he said, holding his hand painted money box in front of him. “Just take it, take it all. I’m so sorry I lied to you about the homework and the lunches, there’s almost thirty dollars in there and I want you to take it.” Jason smiled and hugged him, telling him that we only needed enough for the six lunches.

The next morning before school I watched him grab his backpack and throw it over his shoulder. “Hey!” he said with a smile, “It’s so light!” He hugged me. “Bye Mom, I love you!”

His backpack wasn’t the only thing that was lighter.

It’s Valentine’s Day. I feel a personal responsibility to uphold the value of this particular holiday.

Also, for all you readers, here are some delightful Amazon coupons to provide discounts for your Valentine’s Day.

Here’s the thing about today. I know there are parents out there who strive to make it a “family” holiday, something where we talk about how much we luv each other, and luv our friends, and luv our pets, and luv Sponge Bob. I should not roll my eyes at this. I should not make fun of this. I should recognize that yes, Jesus wants us to luv everyone so why not make today about everyone?

Because I can’t. I can’t pretend that putting your children/dog/remote in the middle of your marriage, the pew at church (of which I’m totally guilty), or your bed is okay 365 days of the year. I’ll give you 364 of them with absolutely not much judgement, but I’ve got to hold out and uphold the value of today.

If you’d rather spend your Valentine’s Day Eve with a bunch of little rugrats instead of the man who gave them to you, it just might be time to reevaluate.

Tonight, just as Jason started the dishwasher (ahem, big hint there fellas) Englebert Humperdink came on KIXI AM 880 out of Seattle with, “Quando Quando Quando.” I love this song and I love the way he sings it. And my man? He asked me to dance. Doesn’t happen very often and I never turn it down.

And while we held one another inappropriately close, Jason and I confessed something to each other:

For the first time in 13 years we don’t have a darn thing planned for Valentine’s Day.

It kind of rocks.

We have not invested in cards, flowers, or reservations of any kind. There will be no hidden balloons, singing telegrams waiting in the frigid bushes, or naughty poetry. Heck, I haven’t even stopped to think of an outfit. I’ll probably just show up in my birthday suit and call it a day. I have the feeling that will work out just fine.

I am sure that in it’s way this year will be as memorable as any other; we do have the babysitter scheduled and plan to leave the house unaccompanied. Who knows? We might hit the drive through and go make out in the car.

Standing in his really nice arms tonight smelling today’s leftover cologne, with Englebert and the hum of the dishwasher in the background, I don’t think I could have loved that man any more.

Crazy are we. With all the miscommunications and bad habits and public yelling matches (always one-sided, guess which one?) we still love to crawl in bed with each other at the end of the day.

This year for Valentine’s Day I’m giving Jason a song. It’s an old one, and I bet you never stopped to think about how romantic it really is. But after this many years together the fact that I still feel like this on such a regular basis is nothing short of magical. (If you’re stateside you can listen to it on YouTube, but I can’t link it).

“Heavenly shades of night are falling, it’s twilight time

Out of the mist your voice is calling, ’tis twilight time
When purple-colored curtains mark the end of day
I’ll hear you, my dear, at twilight time

Deepening shadows gather splendor as day is done
Fingers of night will soon surrender the setting sun
I count the moments darling till you’re here with me
Together at last at twilight time

Here, in the afterglow of day, we keep our rendezvous beneath the blue
And, in the same and sweet old way I fall in love again as I did then

Deep in the dark your kiss will thrill me like days of old
Lighting the spark of love that fills me with dreams untold
Each day I pray for evening just to be with you
Together at last at twilight time”

Those last two lines say it all. Jason, I am crazy for you. See you at five.

Apparently I’m a liar. This is highly disappointing since I tell my little children regularly that “liars live with the Devil.” And then I cackle and threaten to get them vaccinated.

My husband is big on the budget. I recently won a particularly empowering budget war and took home a cleaning lady.

A week ago she was scheduled for her big debut. After four hours pre-cleaning for the cleaning lady not a sock was out of place. I had toys and books and clothing organized, found homes for things that were still camping in boxes, and pre-spotted my kitchen floor. By the time Wednesday night rolled around I was wiped (so was my house) and ready for someone to handle all the messy work–mopping, vacuuming, bathrooms, etc.

Thursday morning I woke with giddy excitement, but ten minutes before her ETA she called in sick. It was completely deflating.

Today was her much anticipated revamped debut. I have waited with baited breath and stubbornly dirty bathrooms for over two weeks. Last night I put another two plus hours into refitting and reorganizing the flotsam and jetsam so she wouldn’t be scared off.

“Hallo!” I said, opening my door with a smile. She looked nice enough, early forties, German, over dressed. Over dressed?

I ushered her inside and we began the tour of the house. When we had finally made our way back to the kitchen I handed her my list and pointed out the supplies neatly laid out on the table.

“Oh!” she said with a little start, “No no, I can’t clean today. My daughter has a meeting at school, she told me yesterday so I can’t stay. Sorry! Next week for sure,” she said.

I closed the door as she left with a little extra force and looked around my seriously dirty house. It hasn’t seen a real mop job in I don’t know how long, the toilets are unmentionable, and I kind of wanted to cry.

To make matters worse, that meant I’d have to return the cleaning budget cash to the bank account. I’ve totally overspent this pay period (it’s called magic diet juice and was a necessary investment) and hate to think of that much needed paper fuel going to waste.

Unless…

What if I cleaned the house? I looked at my watch. Two hours before my husband’s arrival, could I really do a four hour job that fast? And what if he asked me about it? Then again, if he asked if the cleaning lady came, I could honestly smile and say, “Yep!”

And without another thought I was off. I plunged in and started at the top, squeegying my way down four floors of windows and dusting and bathrooms and mopping. I took extra care to make it look like someone far more talented than myself did the actual cleaning.

Just as I wiped down the last toilet seat Mr. Prompt walked in the front door next to the bathroom. I shut off the light, shoved my supplies into the corner and casually emerged.

“Hey baby,” he said, “Did the cleaning lady come today?”

“Mmhm.”

“So how did she do?” he asked. How did she do? What kind of question was that? I hadn’t thought that far into my deceit. That was also the moment I remembered the countless hours my man has logged practicing and learning the fine art of human lie detection.

“Oh…you know.” I said, trying to avoid outright dishonesty and jail time.

“What do you mean? Did she do a good job or didn’t she?”

“Honey, you’ve got to give these people time. A person can’t really tell anything this early on…”

“What are you talking about?” he asked, “How much did you pay this woman?”

And that’s when I knew there was no way I could look my husband in the eye and tell such a big, fat, live-with-the-Devil lie. I sat down on the bench, put my head in my hands and spilled the whole sorrid tale.

The worst part? He thinks the house looks amazing and wants to know why I don’t just do this every week. I think my sister’s mantra is right: Lying makes it worse.

Maybe I’m just tired from staying up until eleven, or maybe I’ve just got PMS (seriously, it is bad), but right now I’m kind of hating homework for parents.

Last month my son’s third grade teacher (who totally rocks, I love the woman) sent home information about a heritage project the kids were doing at school. It consisted of a hand written documented interview (for the record getting a third grader to hand write anything is kind of like going to the DMV on a Monday morning), hand drawn flags from three different countries, a hand drawn world map, plus a display and oral presentation. The display needed to include things like food from one of the cultures, an artifact or piece of clothing, etc etc.

Apparently he was supposed to do the majority of this project at home–in addition to his math homework, weekly spelling assignment (which is helpful but huge) and unfinished class work.

I. Hate. Homework.

When the original information went out I figured they were working on it at school and he’d be bringing home some of the projects, or there would be deadline reminders. And frankly, being a person who lives and dies by deadlines I hate it when my kid has one. I forgot to put it into my phone and knew the project would be due “sometime in February,” but February has a ton of days. It could have been any of them.

I haven’t heard a word from Harrison or his teacher about this &%$@ project for a month now. Because I’m not a complete slacker I went ahead and had him interview his grandmother last week and requested a ton of other information from my sister about our family, but that was all me; he hasn’t given this a fleeting thought.

So last night at six o’clock he waltzes into the kitchen and says, “Oh yeah, Mom, I hate to tell you this but my Heritage Project is due tomorrow.”

THIS IS NOT A SMALL STATEMENT. It’s also not a small project.

Let’s just say last night my kitchen was not a scream-free zone.

I don’t understand why third graders are given such a huge Mommy Motivated project. We all know who did 75% of the work on this, or at least was the only driving force behind it. He wouldn’t have known where to start with assimilating this kind of information.

I am all for teaching kids to accomplish multi-faceted interactive projects, but wouldn’t it be more helpful to set small deadlines for each of the categories? Like, interviews are due this week, or maps due next week. That way parents wouldn’t be staying up until 11:30 the night before frantically frying up Johnny Cakes and rummaging around for an old piece of cardboard.

I know I am to blame here for not checking sooner, but I do not agree with giving a third grader this kind of project without more step by step instruction. Throwing it together the night before didn’t teach the kid a darn thing, and with all the unfinished homework he brings home (that’s another story I’ll tell you later) I don’t know when he’s supposed to be a kid.

Forgive the rant, I wish this country sold Pamprin.

Is there anything worse than sitting in church and hearing a beautiful talk on family happiness that includes some prophetic quote about how you should never, ever have to raise your voice to your children or spouse for any reason whatsoever, only  to realize in that moment that you just might be screaming your way to Hell?

I got another parenting book in the mail from my mother last week, Scream Free Parenting. Haven’t cracked it yet because I’m still too busy contemplating the title. Sounds like a load of horse muffins.

On Friday we needed to leave the house to meet Jason. The kids were scattered around the upstairs engaged in a number of different mess making projects (most of which included destructive materials like scissors, make up, and discarded scrap metal).

“Kids!” I called, “We need to leave in ten minutes, I want everyone to get shoes on RIGHT NOW please! Thank you my little darlings, Mommy loves you!”

Setting the timer on my phone for ten minutes, I pulled on boots and checked my German “going out” basket to make sure it was loaded with the essentials–diapers, wipes, keys, bandaids, sandwiches from yesterday, snow shoes etc. Moving to the kitchen I gathered shoes for the baby, quickly sitting down next to her and fastening them on her chubby little feet.

I looked at my timer. Three minutes and not a single stir from the nether reaches of my home.

I headed upstairs to the family room and looked in on my kids. “Harrison, Rex, Junie Bug, seven minutes before we go. Please get your shoes and coats on right now, we have to leave!” I headed down flipping off lights along the way then quickly fixed my lipstick and grabbed a coat.

Timer check. Five minutes to go and they hadn’t moved an inch. That’s okay, I told myself, there is still plenty of time for them to get shoes on and get in the car if they come down right now.

“You guys, I’m serious. We have to leave now, please grab your shoes, I’m taking Georgia to the car. Hurry!”

I headed down to the garage and strapped the baby and my basket into the backseat, throwing the keys in the egnition and checking for my purse. Taking the stairs two at a time I entered the kitchen and looked at my phone: two minutes to departure.

There wasn’t a kid in sight. I looked around at the random shoes and coats strewn about the entry way, lazily waiting for me to do something about them already. How many times had I asked my kids to put their shoes under the bench or hang up their backpacks? How many times did a woman have to kindly speak to her children before they actually listened?

And before I knew what was happening Nice Mommy was replaced with Now I’m Going To Yell My Head off Until I Get a Little Respect Around Here Mommy. And so the thunder storm began.

By the time I’d dragged my kids from their veritable projects and verbally forced them all down the stairs and into shoes I was sweating.

“Gosh Mom,” Harrison (8) said, “You don’t have to yell at us! All you have to do is ask!!”

“Yeah, Mommy!” June said, both hands on her hips. “You don’t have to be so MEAN!”

I know many professionals who say that parents in my position just drive away and leave their kids to teach them a lesson, or they make them come without shoes and coat. Unfortunately I don’t think they would have missed me, and while the “you’re coming with or without shoes” works for some people, it’s also really annoying to take your kids out in foreign country, in January, with soggy socks on their feet.

I guess maybe it’s time to crack that book and see if scream-free parenting is myth or magic.

I’ve got a lot of experience with body talk.

Growing up with so many sisters Body Talk was everywhere. I think I spent the first 27 years of my life hating my body. It was just before Rex came along that I had this big, fabulous, epiphanepic moment where I figured out something important: my tummy fat isn’t a bad thing (although I’m happily looking forward to the day when the IRS sends me a little post c-section tucking bonus).

Don’t get me wrong, I’m vain all over and constantly trying to keep myself into a single digit size in the denim section. My romantic relationship with Sugar is comparable to that of Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton. We’re kind of like this, minus the excellent cleavage.

Don’t you love the look on Sugar’s face? Constantly Mocking me?

But the biggest thing I took from that experience so many years before I had a daughter was just how powerful our personal beliefs are. Whether we want them to or not, they transfer to our children, and if you’re a mother your ideas, however secretive you are about them, are especially sticky where your daughters are concerned.

So, I decided six years ago to really love my body. Yes, I love it better when it’s skinnier, but I never look in a mirror and hate myself even in my head. I might have some chubby love going on around the waistline, but I’ve also got four fabulous kids to show for it. I despise the three letter F word and do my best to keep it out of my mouth (I also feel this way about double whoppers from Burger King but fail at least once a year).

Two nights ago I turned on Armed Forces Network for the first time since living in Germany. It was bedtime and my kids were brushing their teeth (okay, Harrison was) when I happened across “Extreme Makeover Weight Loss Edition.” I love these shows. They’re as good as a Weight Watcher’s meeting or watching Richard Simmons cheerlead. Harrison loves them and begged to join me. Before long I had Harry on one side and little miss “I’m Not Sleepy” on the other.

“Mommy,” June said after a moment of watching the 600+ pound contestant weigh in. “What’s all that stuff on him?”

“Stuff?” I asked, totally confused.

“Yeah, why’s he big like that?”

Huh. My four-year-old daughter is totally clueless about fat in general. That kind of rocks.

“Well,” I said carefully, “That’s fat. He needs to lose some weight so his heart won’t have to work so hard.”

She looked at the television for a moment then pulled up her shirt and poked her belly. “Is this fat?” she asked.

And there I was, at one of the most momentous cross roads in my daughter’s life. All those years that I despised my stomach. It was my “problem area,” the place that no amount of sit ups or plank poses could our would cure. I’m barely recovering from two decades of stomach loathing and my daughter springs this on me. What to do?

So, I pulled up my shirt and poked my frighteningly white and slightly blubbery tummy. “Sure,” I said, “See? It looks just like mine!” She reached over and poked my tummy and I poked hers and we laughed. “A little fat is healthy,” I told her.  “It’s important that we eat lots of good, fresh food and drink lots of water (and Diet Coke) and play outside as much as possible so we can stay healthy.”

“Yeah,” she said. “We’re healthy girls, huh Mom?”

Of all the gifts I’ll ever give her, I hope I can endow her with the ability to love her body. I need to try a little harder and remember to love mine.

I know that there are medicated women out there with the ability to clean and conquer thousands of square footage a week. Their cleaning supplies are neatly bucketed and stored, the vacuum never sits, unused, in the middle of the living room floor for four days in a row, and you will never find the color yellow in their bathrooms unless they intentionally put it there.

There is no soy sauce bacteria growing on the bottom shelf of their fridge (bet you didn’t know that stuff could multiply), dirty diapers hidden behind the couch (talk about multiplication), or enough toothpaste residue sprayed on the bathroom mirrors to support the “marbled glass” theory you give the plumber.

My house is huge. Let me tell you, it’s a dirty old monkey and my back is getting downright tired. I’ve got four helpless little rats running around this place and it’s time someone hired a hand.

Last night Old Tightwad and I sat down for our monthly, oh fine annual, budget meeting. Due to the fact that I hate discussing money with him unless it’s a gift card he doesn’t have need of, I’ve managed to put him off for nearly a year.

“I need to see your list of expenses,” he said. Now, I can assure you that while there is a list, I’m sad to report that it’s being recorded in Heaven and I only have access to it in faith-relying moments of serious customer service difficulties.

And so it began. I have repeatedly informed him that living over on this side of the pond has upped the ante in just about every spending situation. Prepared-ish though I was, it was a battle. $70 a hair apointment–but wait, that’s in Euro’s. How often? Every eight weeks? Times that by 26 and divide it by 12, pour a little soy sauce on it…by the time we got to toilet tissue I was ready to cry constipation just to earn a hall pass.

“Well,” he said, “Looks like we’ve covered everything.”

“Uh, sorry but we’ve got one more category to add,” I said, leaning over and manhandling his spreadsheet. I quickly typed in Housekeeping.

We stared at each other.

See, the bacon man works with a number of gentlemen who have brought wives and small children to this far off land of tile floors and monstrous bathrooms. And you know what they all end up doing? They hire a housekeeper. And let me tell you, these boys look pretty darn good on date night.

He gulped down some ice water, sniffed, and did his shoulder hunch “look at the floor and contemplate” routine while rubbing his hands together, all in an effort to scrounge up a way to trick me out of my much needed extra help.

“Yeah, I can see that,” he said. “Okay, if you have to,” he paused and shrugged. “I mean, unless…”

“Oh, I have to.”

“Well, how many hours will you need a week?” he said with That Gleam–the one that means he’s about to engage in a bout of bartering.

I thought fast. “Six.”

“Three.”

“Five!” I yelled.

“Four, and that’s all you get.”

“Done!”

I think I was so happy I actually glowed like Mr. Clean himself sitting there on that couch. But, being the fight-to-the-end fellow that he is, Mr. Last Word looked over and said, in his most innocent way, “Boy, I wonder what families who make less money do in these cases? I mean, how do they get by?”

“Golly, Sweetie, that’s a good question. Let’s be sure to thank Heavenly Father for our many blessings tonight,” I said brightly, then jumped up and ran from the room.

My new housekeeper comes on Thursday. These floors are going to look so good after someone else mops them.

I have got to get a grip on my eating.

It’s been a long time since I’ve actually had trouble keeping the scale within the right frame of digits but the past three weeks (since my New Year’s resolutions were carved in internet) things aren’t loving me. The other day for no good reason and three great days of dieting and yoga I stepped on the scale and it was up THREE POUNDS. (That is me yelling about my weight.)

And you can call it whatever you want–water, muscle, dense fat–but you can’t reason away how tight my jeans felt.

Of course I went right down to the kitchen and got even with my scale. You want to see three pounds? I’ll show you three pounds. I then proceeded to eat my way through the house for the next ten hours to prove a point.

It worked. The three pounds has been hanging around for an entire week and I’m pretty sure it’s now in a solid form.

So, here is the top five list of super drastic dieting measures I’m debating between. Something will launch on Monday, I just need to bet on the right horse.

1. Get a tummy tuck. Totally improbably at the moment but something I’m counting down to in the next few years. Feel free to add this to the list of Reason’s Why Annie’s Vanity Will Keep Her Out of Heaven.

2. Run away the pounds. This is an awesome and ideal method that I can’t do because of my stupid broken back. Walking around the house all day hurts me so running is kind of out of the question. I do have a girlfriend with an eliptical, however, and I’m planning to go work out with her a few times a week if life ever allows it. Also I’m doing yoga.

3. Jump on the HCG drop diet one more time. This is Hell on Earth, I know because it saved my bacon when we moved here. I think it was the only thing I had control over for a little while there, good thing because it kept me from ballooning out during the fast food phase of the move. I hate this diet but it totally worked and I kept the extra weight off afterwards (minus the three recent pounds that really suck and need to disappear like now). I just dread the loading days…

4. Amputate a leg. Painful and inconvenient.

5. Do a regular diet of 1200 calories a day, minus sugar, no carbs after three and absolutely no caffeine. Or caffeine. When I’m maintaining there’s nothing like a Diet pop to chase away the afternoon sugar craving, but it doesn’t help so much when I’m trying to drop back down to my best three numbers. I love those numbers, I want those numbers. I really hate not being able to wear my four favorite pairs of jeans without the ginormous jelly roll (much bigger than the muffin top, let me assure you).

I have until President’s Day weekend to get this weight off. That’s four weeks and I would like to be down eight pounds. This is a reasonable goal. Tough, yes, but doable.

And so I’m now going to go have a talk with myself in the mirror. That girl has got to get a grip on something other than the Peanut Butter Mother’s cookies she bought on sale at the commisary today for 19 cents a bag (I grabbed ten of them).

And the battle wages on…

So Jason sold our old queen bed.

Here’s the thing about extra cash. We’re not dying of moneylessness, our cupboards are overly stuffed with food I should think about cooking, and I’ve been blessed with a spouse who pays me to stay home and make house to my heart’s content. But when an opportunity comes up to earn an extra buck you can bet Old Moneybags will jump at it with arms and legs extended.

The fellow who bought our bed lives a good thirty-five minute drive away–that’s 35 minutes of autoban time. The autoban kind of rocks. Thanks to many speed limitless stretches of highway 95 mph is my new minimum.

After the initial sale, he pocketed an extra $50 by offering to deliver the bed.

“How are you going to get that bed there?” I asked.

“Easy, I’ll just tie it to the top of the car.”

“That sounds stupid.”

“Watch me,” he said with a grin.

It was date night. Mr. Uhaul informed me we needed to “drop off the mattress” on our way to dinner with friends. Because obviously that kind of thing takes no extra time.

When I came out of the house and saw the queen sized mattress and box spring stacked on top of our little Mazda 5 micro van with one measly tie around the center I almost turned around and stayed home. Unfortunately his usual ratchets didn’t fit around both mattress and box spring so he’d had to improvise. The bed looked like a stack of newspapers with a little piece of string tied around it. “It’ll hold,” he assured me as we slowly climbed in the car.

We headed out on the two-lane highway with tentative speed increases. “See?” he said. “It’s going to be fine so stop panting.”

I gulped. The moment his odometer hit 40 mph I watched through the sun roof as the mattress combo slid right out of sight off the back of the car.

“STOP THE CAR! WE LOST IT! WE LOST IT! OH MY GOSH WHAT ARE WE–” Jason pulled over and we got out. The bed had indeed slid back a good ten inches but one shove put it back in place.

“Turn the car around!” I said, “There is no way I’m doing this, take us–”

“Sweetie, it’s going to be fine,” he said with a buttery voice. “We can’t turn around, they’re expecting us and he’s already paid me. Besides, we’ve got dinner reservations.” He started out once more and took the on ramp to the autoban. Within thirty seconds, whoosh! The mattresses slid out of sight.

“ARGH!!!! IT’S GONE IT’S GONE, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE? I TOLD YOU NOT TO–” Jason quickly pulled over and we got out once more. Again, ten inches to the rear and I thought I was going to throw up.

“Look,” he said, “We can’t turn back now. Why don’t you just sit in the back seat and pull down on the rope a little, okay? I’m sure it will make you feel better.” Did I mention that the tie was threaded through the interior of the car?

Shell shocked, I climbed into the back seat and got a good handle on the nylon ties, pulling them tight with my lousy little biceps. We started out once more, flashers blazing and odometer not going above 35–until Jason got lazy and felt safe. Suddenly he was hitting 40 and whistling and–

WHOOSH! Despite my sweaty death grip and body weight that mattress slid right out of my grip and out of sight. One blood curdling scream was all it took for him to pull the car over.

By this time I was crying and shaking and convinced we would lose the bed on the autoban, kill a bunch of Germans and get deported back to America. My arms were numb and due to our extremely slow speed the GPS ETA was 30 minutes away.

At that point even my industrious husband couldn’t deny that perhaps it wasn’t the best way to make a buck.

In the end, don’t ask me how we delivered it intact but we did. Guess who got the money?

I just wrote this letter to one of my girlfriends, Melissa Bastow from “Because I Really Can’t Get Enough of Myself” and The Barrel online magazine. Since many of you fall into the same category, I thought I’d share…

Her email asked:

Hi Annie!

How’s it going?  Do you feel glamorously European?  Because that’s how I picture you now.  With your fancy salads.

I fell off of blog world for awhile, so mostly I just see some of your post titles and thumbnails of awesome european vacations on facebook, and then I just have to hate you a little, because I rarely even see the outside of my house.  Are things good there?  How’s the school thing going?  I did read a few of your posts about German kindergarten, but that was months ago, is it better now?  And, most importantly, did you get some good rugs to cover the tile in your house?!

Making my deadline while adjusting to Our New World has been just about enough to do me in. I should probably be medicated but that means I’d have to find a doctor and make an appointment…whatever.