Annie Valentine

Tonight I am overwhelmed. Like, sit in the car and talk to my mother on my cell phone for an hour overwhelmed.

I guess somewhere along the way I forgot that moving to Germany was going to take a little more work than the average “across town” relocation program. We’ve been here over a week and my kids haven’t seen a castle. We’ve been here over a week and I have yet to register the boys for school. We’ve been here over a week and apparently I missed soccer sign-ups.

We’ve been here over a week and the only thing I’ve managed to stay on top of is the laundry. (Okay, I’m kind of proud of that one.)

We want to travel, but when we start asking other families questions, I feel like what we get is an encyclopedia of “good ideas” that fly past at light speed. Can’t someone hand me a piece of paper and say, “Here, take this trip on Saturday. Your family will love it. Afterwards, please report back for your next assignment.”

As civilians, we know next to nothing about military living. The resources (which are available aplenty) and opportunities that all the good mothers are already on top of–I’m overwhelmed and slightly frightened that I’m going to miss the boat and end up homeschooling my children in the German countryside.

Oh gosh, that was a really bad visual.

I know we’re going to be fine. I know this will take time and patience and trial and error. I know we’ll screw up and get it right and hit all the colorful areas in between. And I guess the good stuff is worth working for.

So this is me, rolling up my sleeves. Bring it on, Germany.

You only scare me slightly.

We left more than family behind with this move. Much to my husband’s dismay, we also had to leave the big screen. Frankly, our lovely television just couldn’t take the voltage over here.

Due to the mass expense that comes with this kind of move (seriously, it’s kind of killing us right now–don’t believe all the rumors about getting rich off moving with the government, not true at least for us) we’re having to carefully plan where the money goes. Frankly, we could really use some lamps.

(Yeah, I didn’t find out until AFTER I sent seventeen of them into storage that lamps are one thing you can plug in with a converter and a euro bulb. I kind of wanted to stick my finger in a light socket when I realized my mistake.)

And so we’ve decided that until October, we will be living without a television. No videos, no DVD’s, no PBS–just us and the kids and our old German house (and the neighbors and their tramp and, hopefully, their television). We’ve talked to the kids about it and they are perfectly willing to go TV-free for a while. Harrison has decided he’s going on a “tv diet.”

So last night we went out to drop off some groceries and spend an hour or two chilling on our stick furniture. The house is equipped with the barest of necessities: a couch, a dining set, four beds and mattresses (no linens), six armoirs and a few night stands. It is emp-ty.

But would you believe those kids played hide and seek in our sparse selection of furniture for an entire hour? I don’t want to get my hopes up, but at one point it almost appeared that they were enjoying themselves. (Then again, Rex did punch June in the tooth once when she found him.)

I’m sure we’ll be breaking out the mini-DVD player as much as the battery will allow, and I’m sure that our ten pieces of furniture will get really old really fast. But I’m also feeling more and more sure all the time that this is the beginning of a really, really good time for my family.

I want my kids to try something different, be a little less plugged in and a little more aware of each other and just how great their relationships can be.

Something with a little less punching, you know?

We’re in Germany. The grocery store is foreign, the yellow lines on the road have disappeared, everyone has a red tile roof, and the biggest thing freaking me out is my new iPhone.

See, I should have paid attention when people started calling them “smart phones.” Apparently you have to be smarter than the phone to use it–or in my case, you have to speak German.

In order to be a Good Wife, I let Jason and his jet lag hit the hay early last week and took it upon myself to “surprise” him by programming both our new iPhones.

Unfortunately, I told our phones that we live in Germany. Since people in Germany speak German and my phone is too stupid to know that I’m a recent transplant, it welcomed me with a very German salutation. (Then again, it might have been swearing; it was all Greek to me.)

For the first four days all my texts came and went in German, my browser was in German, my facebook account? German. I would have loved to get in on all that “app” business but it’s ALL IN GERMAN.

Determined to fix this problem myself (since Jason has been kind of busy), I went to two different places and all they could do was stare and ply me with subtle answers like, “Seriously? If you can’t figure this out then you’re not worthy of a smart phone.”

I am, by the way. Worthy. I’ve stood by my broken Motorola for way longer than my contract asked me to.

After four days of confusion, my husband finally came to my rescue last night and rebaptised our phones.

The worst part? I spent thirty minutes of driving through beautiful German countryside trying to figure out how to use my new camera app so I could take pictures of the beautiful German countryside.

Sometimes technology really defeats the purpose.

It’s three am and I should be sleeping. We’ve got church tomorrow and I have clothes to iron. Oh wait, I should probably do that right now.

I can’t sleep because today we met our home. It’s old, it’s German, and I think it’s been waiting half a century for us to come find it. Like any other talented obsesser, I have been laying in bed for the past two hours putting my things away in my head; couch here, picutures there–no wait, there…yeah, it’s going to be a long six weeks before our crap arrives.

But the best part (if that’s even possible) is how incredibly efficient Heavenly Father is at answering my prayers. Seriously, you should all get in on this praying business because let me tell you, He’s kind of amazing.

For example, I’ve had a number of quiet concerns. I’m worried about finding a friend close by. I’m worried about how I’ll ever locate a decent babysitter in this little village. I’m worried about friends for my kids. I’m worried about being a civilian and needing to locate a pediatrician, and then trying to work out getting the insurance to pay them back. This, honestly, is about my list.

Apparently, God is listening.

Today we met a Mormon family that flew in on the Rotator with us. They have five children; their oldest is a beautiful 12-year-old who loves to babysit. Their second is a nine-year-old boy who needs a friend (like Harrison), then they have three daughters, ages six, four and one.

If I don’t frighten her off with my overbearing “let me help clean your bathroom” ways, the mom seems incredibly down to earth and just my type (since I’m not necessarily heavy on the down to earth business and am routinely in need of such a friend). And not only is the dad the nicest, coolest guy ever (next to Jason), he’s a PE-DE-A-TRI-CIAN.

Cha-ching. Oh yeah, ’cause Jesus loves us.

Now I need to repent for all my evilness and seek to be worthy of such miraculous, rocking blessings.

(We. Love. Germany.)

We. Are. Here.

I know, it doesn’t seem real to me either. Perhaps that’s because we spent our first 48 hours of Germany confined to a three block radius on base, surrounded by super American Americans.

The flights over were, in some ways, too easy. There were moments when I could practically feel the chariots of angels escorting us, keeping the kids safe and meltdown free. The glitches were few but potent. Most of them involved me.

For example, after a full day of traveling from Salt Lake to Baltimore, they finally started boarding the Rotator (aka Patriot Express) just before ten pm. In order to avoid multiple trips to the loo, I decided to run to the restroom thirty seconds before taking the plunge. Unfortunately, I ran into everyone’s least favorite Aunt in the bathroom. Talk about unprepared, it’s been two solid years since she and I have been in touch.

With over a hundred soldiers all watching and waiting for me and the circus to get on with the pre-boarding already, I had to make quick friends with one of the small handful of other mom’s on the flight.

Did I mention that the plane was full of men? Have you ever tried to casually ask a total stranger for a tampon with an audience of 194 curious boys standing seven inches away? Could anything be more my life than that right there?

The good news is that within ten minutes of boarding all four of my dumplings were zonked out like a bunch of little snorty pugs. It was a good thing. With a plane filled with soldiers heading out into the field of battle, we ended up sitting right there at the gate for over four hours because two of the idiots on board decided to get sloshed just prior to take off. They were both so drunk and so sick that the captain finally kicked them off.

It took the ground crew an hour and a half to locate all 14 of their bags, then another hour and a half to re-ticket and reboard the airplane. The captain was kind enough to let my babies stay aboard during all the chaos (also I might have threatened him with super death by mother bear if anyone even attempted to dislodge them). The kids all slept a full 8 hours of that 12 hour ordeal, Georgia ten.

So here we are and I don’t know what to do with myself. Since I’ve only had seven hours of sleep in the past two days, I really should try to get some rest.

Good thing I brought the laundry to keep me company.

It’s a funny thing about jumping; no matter how prepared you think you are, the fall always knocks the brevity right out of you.

The summer before my 18th birthday was a hot one–in more ways than one. Being from the wet side of Washington State, it wasn’t uncommon for most of us to come from non-air-conditioned homes/cars/work places. When the temperatures hit the nineties, kids with weak, western Washington blood running through their veins got desperate. We did the only intelligent thing, bridge jumping. Because obviously throwing yourself off a large structure and falling tens of feet to the rapid cold water beneath was so much more refreshing than, oh say, swimming.

Perhaps I’m using the term “we” a little too inclusively here. My cousins and friends would go bridge jumping while I sat on the river’s edge, dipped my toes in the current, and clapped at their bravery. This would be because I’m the world’s biggest wimp (according to my cousins). I spent most of the heat wave that summer listening to chicken calls and trying to defend my intelligent terror.

But temperature has a funny effect on people who are bored and overheated. It only took a week or two of peer pressure before I found myself, one hot July afternoon, standing at the railing of a very high, very industrial looking bridge.

 And they said I wouldn’t jump.

Honestly, I think the only thing that actually got me out on the ledge was watching my skinny little 14-year-old cousin shimmy over the railing, step two feet out onto the large metal beam that ran suspended beneath the bridge by some sort of engineering magic, and plunge to his (not quite) death without so much as a whimper.

I remember putting my cold hands on that sun-hot railing and swinging my right leg over to straddle it. Getting the other leg to agree to this move was more of an effort, since it seemed to think that we shouldn’t mess with dry land. Once I finally had my entire body on the unsecured side of the bridge, it was just a matter of forcing my rubbery legs to step down to the lower beam. (And yes, I probably should have used the restroom before I got up there.)

Longest. Step. Of. My. Life.

Finally there I stood, seventy (okay thirty) feet from the rushing water below with nothing to stop me from going back but my pride. I had no idea how the fall would feel; exciting? Elating? Terrifying? Would I hit that one rock everyone warned me about and die? Would I feel like a bird or a stone, and which one was better? A breath, a whisper, a step and…

SMACK!!

 No one told me I should jump feet first, straight like the arrow. By the time I landed I was in a sitting position, and holy moly but that river spanked me like a naughty school girl. That was, inevitably, my one and only plunge.

We fly to Germany in 72 hours and I feel once again like that girl on the bridge. I can look down and see the water, cool and refreshing and exciting and scary. But standing here I’m still a world away from the fall.

What about the language? The food? My children’s happiness? Will there be friends, or decent grocery stores, or English movie theaters? Will we miss The Office and college football and Sunday dinners with the family?

Some of the answers will be yes and some will be no, but still I feel compelled that this jump is exactly what my family needs right now.

Here’s hoping this time I land on my feet.

We are 72 hours from go and already I feel compeltely cut off from everyone I know and love. Cause that’s what happens when someone takes away your cell phone. Bye bye world.

Don’t get me wrong, I have been hanging onto the most detestable, ghetto cellular device on the planet. The back is gone and the battery is held in with double stick tape, the glass is cracked, and half the time I can’t hear anything when I answer it.

But that darn phone is loaded with people I love, losing it means losing my life lines.

It was supposed to last until Tuesday. On Tuesday the thing can flip open and die for all I care, but not until then. We’ve made it this long, can’t it charge through just three more days?

Apparently fate has decided to give me a little taste of what being cut off from everyone I know and love feels like. Yesterday the phone fell on the pavement once, cracked in half, I made a desperate attempt to retrieve it, but alas it jumped from my hands and plunged head first to the pavement, cracking into irreparable pieces.

And here I sit. My laptop is dead. My phone is dead. It feels like I’m being kicked out of my world three days early.

Fine, if that’s the way fate’s going to treat me I might as well go and move to Germany after all.

72 hours. I’m feeling slightly dizzy…

Last night I gathered with a handful of my closest friends, in real life and on the blog. We ate, we laughed, and as hard as I tried to be joyful and jovial, beneath the deep fried shrimp I couldn’t help thinking about the fact that I won’t be doing this again for a very, very long time.

Holy crap we’re moving to Germany in less than a week and I’m leaving my best friend behind.

I’ve got sisters, but we haven’t lived by each other for years. And while I love to talk to them and my mama multiple times a day, they don’t live down the road. They don’t clean the bathrooms with me, or help me sort the seven piles of dirty laundry I like to keep on hand.

I’m leaving one of the best friends I’ve ever had and it’s freaking me out.

Finding a best friend takes time and careful consideration. It’s not something to jump into and once you’ve got one, losing her is like losing a limb. Seriously, Tricia and I see each other more often than the girls on Sister Wives. Costco, Walmart, Savers–I do all my shopping with an extra set of hands. I tried taking all my kids to Walmart yesterday by myself and I almost left June in the restroom for someone to find. Hey, she doesn’t have a microchip and we’re leaving the continent. Believe me, if you could have seen the tantrum she threw in aisle 4 you would have suggested it.

So here I sit, trying to think of something exciting to say. This is going to be the adventure of a life time and I know there are friends to be made and memories to be had. But frankly, with an eight hour time difference and an ocean between us, my friend is about to enter the twilight zone, where we try to call and visit now and then and hope that in five years we’ve managed to see each other at least once.

I’ve got to be honest, Germany is going to be awesome, but it would be even better if I could take my children’s other mother with me.

In case anyone else wants to ditch their real life and meet up, we’ll be gathering tomorrow at Chuck-A-Rama in Draper, 7:30, for one last hurrah before my move.

Speaking of my move, why did I think I could sail through this experience without feeling anything? I forgot that I might feel sad/frustrated/fat, I forgot that moving away means leaving my best friend and an entire continent of family members who mostly like us.

Right now we’re in the gray area; stuck in a hotel watching the clock tick until next Tuesday when we fly away. This is kind of like waiting for a lean cuisine to cook when you’ve had nothing but celery and herbal tea all day. Longest four minutes ever.

My computer is dead and I’m using the one in the hotel business center. June and her itsy swimsuit are about to converge on the roomful of men in a business conference next door. Since I’m running around in the same type of clothing, going to get her would be less desirable.

*Party with me Tuesday, July 12th at CHUCK-A-RAMA in Draper! Send me an email if you’re interested, regardingannie@gmail.com.

What’s good for the hair is not always good for the soul.

I am blond. Whether nature agrees with me or not, there is only one way I’m happy and that is glow in the dark platinum. Bring on the ruddy skin and split ends, I’ll act as lighthouse any day of the week.

Of all the things I’m going to miss next week when we move to Germany, my darling hair girl, Sierra, is right at the top of my list. She gets me and has managed to make getting a cut and color a delightful, fumigating experience. I always leave with a bounce in my step, feeling sassy and happy. No one fights the frump better than Sierra.

I was all set to have my last hair appointment with her a few days ago when disaster struck. Her adorable little girls came down with a virus and she had to reschedule. Unfortunately for both of us, the virus kept hanging on and I had no choice but to find a last minute replacement.

I found a salon where a girlfriend of mine works and swung by for an emergency appointment. The gal on duty looked to be about my age with super cute hair–two good signs. I took a breath and made the appointment.

Since I’m about to be hairgirl-less, I’ve decided that it’s time to take the platinum down a notch and go back to something more in the honey blond family. It’s darker and I hate that, but it will be manageable.

For those of us who don’t know the in’s and out’s of hair coloring, taking a platinum blond with darkish roots to a medium shade is tricky. This is why I go to someone with plenty of experience; they know how to handle stupid idiot women who get off on bleach fumes.

But when I explained to the new girl that I wanted to go all over with one color, she got confused. I couldn’t understand why she was having such a hard time understanding what I wanted and she finally said, “Look, you’re just really confusing me, I don’t know what you want.” Then she stomped off to the back of the salon and closed the door.

There is nothing worse than putting your most vulnerable feature in the hands of a virtual stranger (a stranger who, I found out later, has only been doing hair FOR TWO WEEKS) only to be told that they have no idea what you want. To make matters worse, she didn’t stick around to talk through it with me.

I am about as vulnerable right now as a souffle in a cold kitchen. My life is in limbo, my kids are all on the verge of panic attacks 24 hours of every day, I’m trying to hold everything together and all I want is a good hair job so I can move to Germany feeling semi-attractive.

I decided that perhaps she wasn’t a good fit and gathered my things to leave. When she finally came back out I told her that I really wasn’t feeling comfortable, but thanked her for her time. She turned around and stomped back into the store room without a word.

I was flustered, frustrated and frightened. But with family pictures looming I felt desperate so I turned to my girlfriend who was working on another client. “Don’t worry,” she said, “If you want to stay I will help her and we’ll get it right, I promise.” I sat back down, and when the girl returned I quickly apologized for my anxiety and asked her if we could start again.

Then she told me off, made me feel like a complete jerk, and grudgingly agreed to do my hair. I, of course, burst into tears and spent the next two hours apologizing and trying to make her feel better about the situation. When she was done, I looked in the mirror and put on the biggest, fakest smile I could muster. My. Hair. Is. Ruined.

Every time I look in the mirror I want to cry. Not only did she get the shade darker (which I tried to tell her before she started), but my hair has streaks of colorless gray running all through it. You know it’s bad when your 8 year old looks at you really seriously and says, “You know, Mom, I saw this stuff on TV that would probably help your hair. Would you like me to go to the store and get it with you?”

The whole experience was draining and upsetting and in hind site, I didn’t have to stay there just to prove that I’m a nice person. And lucky for me the owner is absolutely wonderful and amazing and tomorrow morning I’m going in for a re-do since I can’t live another minute looking this way. I was going to have her whack my hair off but by the time she had unveiled the color, I just wanted to get out of there as fast as possible.

She didn’t take any of my friend’s advice, and she didn’t know what she was doing. Sadly, I found out this morning that this wasn’t the first problem they’ve had with her in the past two weeks and this morning they let her go (for the record, I did not say anything to the owner about this, the other employees did). I sincerely hope she has better luck with her next employer.

Fingers crossed I feel more like myself after tomorrow.