Oh joy.  Why they don’t offer such opportunities during the spring or fall is yet another lesson in the tenured classes torturing the newbies.

But about the time when I’m feeling picky about which excavation sites we might choose, I realize that the choice is not entirely ours.  In many ways, my son and I are the odd couple, a package deal that might not be tremendously appealing to excavation directors.  I am semi-overqualified, having long ago passed my university student days, and my son is under-qualified, weighing-in as more of a high school student with limited field experience.

Not everyone returns my e-mails.

When we suggest several days in a row that we might be available, directors demur and hesitantly tell us to come one morning at the crack of dawn for “training”.  We’re instructed to bring leather work gloves, bottles of water, a lunch, insect repellent, and kneeling pads.  I add our own items:  log book for director to sign-off on our hours, field notebook to record conditions, artifacts, and features uncovered, measuring tape, sunscreen, field hat, camera, cute bag.  Make that:  cute, big bag.

Our program of study leaves a lot up to us.  We can start in the lab, field, or survey.  I try to avoid filling out anything for a site requiring an archaeological field school application.  My son has no “special skills”, he has no outstanding field experience, and he is not “at least 16 years of age”.  Three strikes, we’re out.

The most prestigious groups state that they are “not accepting volunteer applications at this time”.  Gee, we’re volunteers, and now I’m getting the feeling of being the last kid to be picked for the sports team… and we’re both good at sports.  Maybe they’re waiting for us to pay them to take us-!  After all, the university students fork over in the area of $3,500 for a week-long field school—travel, accommodations, and food extra—while we’re getting “free” experience as slave laborers.

As it stands, half of our dance card is filled.  We’re getting some decent nibbles that may work to our advantage.  Being the big fish in the small pond is not all bad.  This way, we won’t become lost in the crowd of the better-known excavations.

For now, we’ll skip the roughing-it, remote locales, and give ourselves something to slowly work up to as we peel away the layers of civilization.

————–

She was worthy.  She could enjoy life.  She was safe now and could have a childhood.

We made an extra effort, driving eight hours so that we could be in one home for the entire 24 hours of her special day.  Normally, we would arrive mid-day, but I wanted us to be there in order to properly prepare and enjoy.  The more I think about it, it’s amazing how most any travel we undertake involves either eight hours of flying, or eight hours of driving.  This time, Benedetto had us heading out after an evening meeting, driving from 9:00 pm till 5:00 am, during which time I stayed awake until about 2:00 am, just to keep him company, when he’d really rather listen to his educational lectures by headphone….

Mashenka had requested a chocolate cake with lime-colored frosting.  No matter how many spectacular cakes we glimpsed at stores, she was sure that Mama’s tasted better.  Which meant that I had to conceive of a birthday theme to decorate the cake.

Last year, it was ballet.  She was sure that she was going to be a ballerina, with all of the determination that any five-year-old boy knows he’s going to be a fireman one day.  Classes?  Who needs them?  So I bought her and her sister a ballet DVD with the basic positions and beginning moves, along with a leotard, tights, and ballet shoes, and a porcelain  ballerina was perched on top of the cake. http://www.destinationsdreamsanddogs.com/ballet-balancing-act/

They watched the DVD once.  At my insistence.  About eight months later.  Nearly killed themselves with arms and legs that would not “do” what the instructor instructed.

Ballet was “hard”!!!

Umm-hmmm….

Now we needed a new theme.  The kids loved me thinking up something of interest to them.  The simple formula would be the square root of whatever piqued their fancy today, multiplied times pi, in other words, whatever would have absolutely no relevance nor meaning for them on the morrow.  Something safe and cheap, as well.

Hmmm… seashells!

She enjoyed the beach, except of course on those days when she did not like the beach, so it seemed like a slam-dunk.  Which led me to mixing cake batter after two hours of sleep, early on her birthday.

Lime was her color these days, necessitating the cream cheese frosting to be tinted green, also.  Which required that my fingers turn a hunter green from the leaky food color cap.

I surrounded the cake’s circumference with simple shells fanning up and down, a few larger specimens and her name in Russian with a big “14” and more candles on top.  Rather busy.  I’m not sure that the Cake Boss would capisce.  It was the thought that counted.

The family went out to lunch at a hip and happening place, slightly on the loud side.  Alright, if you must know, it was Planet Hollywood, not my first choice for a variety of reasons, but some kind soul had given us vouchers.  Her birthday would be the perfect opportunity to use them for overpriced burgers.

She was thrilled, not that any of us know much about Hollywood, but they could gape at memorabilia and a few big-screen TVs.

The waiter-in-training brought drinks and ended up tilting the tray and pouring Benedetto’s steaming coffee all over his sports jacket, shirt, and slacks.  While my husband jumped up, trying to preserve now-flooded i-Phone and important papers in his pocket, the waiter sputtered his apologies and waved his hands.  I took charge.

“Please show us where the Men’s Room is located, and let’s bring some more napkins, please.  Everything will be alright….”

Turns out it was the guy’s first day and he was assisting our waitress.  He was mortified.

“It can only go up from here,” I smiled.  “You’ll be fine.”

Benedetto already had a close relationship with our drycleaner, so he’ll recover.  When the manager rushed over, my husband interceded on the young waiter’s part, calling it a simple mistake, and the men exchanged business cards.

A perfect illustration of birthdays, of learning and growing, of making the best of whatever life dealt you.  We exited in a steady rain, knowing that green cake and green presents were waiting at home.  She couldn’t be happier.

—————–

Name me one good reason why our country can’t profile, and pick suspicious persons out of a crowd.  Instead, we aim for the innocent youngest and oldest of our society, and throw in a few famous people for good measure.

Latest on the TSA hit list:  Dr. Henry Kissinger, 88, moving through NY’s LaGuardia Airport in a wheelchair with an aide.  They make him stand up, pat him down, and don’t even seem to know who the former National Security Advisor is, much less a Nobel Prize winner for his work in ending the Vietnam War.

Laura Ingraham reported that she and her kids watched a severely-wounded Afghanistan war veteran similarly being manhandled at BWI Airport this past weekend.  They felt the injustice of his treatment and were ashamed that Janet Napolitano had stated that veterans were potential terror threats.

Well-known personages such as Geraldo Rivera and Dianne Feinstein have been numbered among the ranks of those necessitating “further screening”.  Geraldo had some choice words for those who got their jollies at his expense.

Folks, it’s not getting better.  The elderly are having their diapers removed and checked.  Children are being roughed-up.  Someone’s small child was just removed from a flight because they were supposedly on the “No Fly List”.  Now we have toddler terrorists-!

What’s happening to our nation’s security?  Refuse the ridiculous pat-downs and your trip goes down the tubes.  Raise objections, or take a photo of any questionable procedures, and you’ll likely end up in the slammer.

Security, yes.  Police state, no.

Who’s going to insist on real reforms for a system with enough holes in it to run for Swiss Cheese of the Year?

————-

I am briefed before arriving in Punjab during a time when no Westerner in their right mind was in the environs.  Wearing the Punjabi women’s outfit of flowing, elegant dress, and matching poufy pants, the veil is draped like a scarf over the head, with one end flipped over the opposite shoulder.  I think I look great, yet grow concerned when masses of people part like the Red Sea anywhere I am.

“Stick with your driver and do not go anywhere on your own,” our handlers advise us.

So naturally, we slip away one day to buy Benedetto some sandals, and live to tell about it.

In the Philippines, we fly a four-seater to a remote island.  Wondering where was the runway, we find ourselves landing on a grassy mountainside.  The plane rapidly taxis behind a raised, earthen mound.

“Just in case,” the pilot turns to us.  “Sniper fire, you know….”

We are told to turn our lights out by 10:00 p.m., and we hear shooting through the night.  By day, a burly Italian in a pink jeep accompanies us, armed with an Uzi “just in case”.  After returning home, Benedetto and I hear that the plane went down due to high winds on its next run, and the bodyguard turned out to be working with, rather than against, some of the local terrorists, playing both sides of the fence.  I think he liked that my husband was Italian, and that I, the only foreign woman in those parts in a long time, actually talked with him about his life, and thus we were spared….

In the Middle East, I’m known in all of the worst areas due to some philanthropic work.  I am on my own when hiring a manager who turns out to appoint himself as my bodyguard, as well.

“Head guard,” he tells me in the local lingua.  That’s what they called a bodyguard in these parts.

“Head guard?”  I laugh, “what about the rest of the body?”

In the office, he tucks his pistol in the middle back of his pants, pulling his shirt over it.

“We probably won’t need it,” he reassures me.  “But it gives a feeling of confidence.  You walk differently and carry yourself from a position of strength.”

“Just in case,” I nod.

Having never been the type to look over my shoulder repeatedly, I understand the concept.  Several were the threats that had come my way, and I knew better than to ever show fear. So I walked tall and bold, bodyguard or none.

It helped to have someone watching my head, just in case.  Nowadays, my lifestyle meant that babysitters might be more appropriate than bodyguards, but it couldn’t hurt, right?

—————–

It’s a mystery to this city-girl why no driveways exist in the country.  And why they call their cars “vee-HIH-cles”, driving said vehicles helter-skelter onto scrappy front lawns where chickens roam at random.  We passed plenty of goats, as well.  Now, chickens I can understand, because you get some eggs out of them.  But goats?  Is goat’s milk a major commodity?  Goat meat?  I can’t imagine that chevre is a big seller in these parts, either.

My goal was to find beauty in the boonies.  Instead, as we started out long before the crack of dawn and the children were passed out in the car, I sped past other youth waiting for the country schoolbus, grouped together at the end of long, dirt lanes, shaved heads shivering beneath pulled-up hoodies and 3/4-length, drooping shorts, nary a book or notebook in their hands nor on their back.  Teens and pre-teens clustered by their mothers standing outside of pick-up trucks that had no doubt collected the crowd from this mobile home park and the next.  In the early morning mist, their other-worldly exteriors gave the sense that hoodlums were not relegated only to the inner-city.

Country lanes were well-marked, noting such gems as “Great Swamp Rd.”  My goal included making it to some kind of major highway before high noon, and MapQuest notwithstanding, I had a hard time telling in the pre-dawn hours whether I was traveling north, south, east, or west.  The state road signs popped up whenever they felt like it.

Many of the fields were farm-equipment-strewn.  It was as though a better offer had come along, and the farmers left their fields without even bothering to park the tractor or the plow off to the side.  Where had everyone gone?

Most of the pick-ups were parked outside country stores and general stores.  Too early in the morning for the Seed & Feed Store to be open, the smaller shops were doing a booming business selling country breakfasts.  From the amount of traffic generated at these two-gas-pump outposts, one could safely assume that nobody ate breakfast at home in these parts.

And why should they?  Many a rusty sign reminded, “Good Country Cookin’ Makes You Good Lookin’”.  I had half a mind to peek inside one of the eateries that probably had all of five counter stools and two booths, just to see if their claims of beauty were true, but since that involved only half of my mind, I felt it might be dangerous to show up anywhere where only 50% of my mental faculties were in operation.

In these environs, it might put me at an unfair advantage.

According to the handmade wooden signs by the sides of the roads, Sips & Chips were in high demand.  There were also a whole lot of Freewill Baptists, not that I had ever heard of Unfreewill Baptists, but if somebody was forcing somebody else to believe against their will out here in the sticks, that might be admirable as far as their eternal soul was concerned, but it should probably be something that the local sheriff might want to investigate further.

“I’m tellin’ ya, brother, ya gotta belieeeeve!”

“NO!”

“Believe!”

“NO!”

“You have no free will in the matter!”

“Oh… alright….”

Obviously, a lack of sleep should not precede any drives in the country.

To their credit, there were handpainted signs for Peach Cider and Ginger Ale.  That sounded fairly straightforward.  Or might it be some sort of fermented moonshine, that only an insider would know about?  A number of plastic, snap-on signs appeared outside pseudo-business establishments, a few with flashing lightbulbs on the sides.  One advertised some kind of ‘R_PAIR” which got me to thinking if they couldn’t even keep all of the snap-on letters on their sign, could you really trust that they were going to repair whatever it was that they were supposed to repair?

Military recruitment posters that I had never come across in our part of America were liberally plastered throughout these country cantons.  Not far from Deer Processing Plants, at least they had a targeted audience of sharpshooters in mind.

Almost to the highway, we stopped for some gas, wrongly assuming that the Bait ‘n’ Tackle Convenience Store was attached.  “RESTROOMS FOR PATRONS ONLY” the crudely-lettered and faded sign on notebook paper announced on the grimy glass door.

“Girls, go ahead,” I shooed them toward the leaky bathrooms, half the ceiling panels hanging down and sporting smells that most truck stops had never encountered, as I bought Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups for the kids, buying my own ticket into the rickety stalls.

Once outside, a young man at a roadside produce market sold baskets of fresh peaches, tomatoes, jams and jellies.  A sign said that he was saving for college, and at his prices, I came to the conclusion that it must be for his Ph.D.  They certainly liked handscrawled signs in the south, I only hoped we could find our turn for the highway when the time came.   We settled on a loaf of peach bread to surprise Benedetto, who had grown up in farm country during his early years, only it seemed to be a picturesque type of country.

“God bless you,” the young man beamed as we paid.  “Y’all have a blessed day!”

“You, too,” I smiled back, sure that he was manning the stand and dispensing blessings of his own free will.

The country wasn’t all that bad, after all.

—————-

I’m sorry it turned out this way.

It’s a shame that you’re underestimated, and underappreciated, and underwhelmed by their utter lack of respect.  I’d like to say that it will get better, but honestly, it probably won’t.

All you can do in certain situations is stand up for yourself.  You’re important.  You matter.

Don’t descend to their ugliness.  Don’t consider it normal.  Don’t allow it to reflect upon you, but on them.  All of the little comments and digs meant to wear you down and cause you pain, don’t even give them another second’s thought.  Your ears are not their dumping ground.  Their attitudes and issues did not start with you.

Something went south, something went sour, something went strange, and no one cared to reach out and save the ship from sinking.  Instead, it became worse with every passing day.

Take care of yourself, my friend.  There are people in the world who will celebrate you, rather than tolerate you, who will want to spend time with you, and tell you what a great, fantastic, warm and loving woman, wife, mother, friend, and human being you are.

————–

(And all this from someone who just found that half of our daughters’ clothes are missing.  The only things they appear to have are two sizes too small.  Yet used items purchased from Goodwill for a down-and-dirty outdoor work project are prominently featured in their closets….  Their comfort levels are making me uncomfortable.)

I check and recheck.  I have the kids present themselves for inspection.  The hemlines and necklines are appropriate.  The colors seem to match since I have to match them, myself.  Never did I imagine that they would be hiding accessories from my sensible scrutiny.

But it’s true.  This time it was 11-year-old Sashenka, who arrived for our two-day getaway, proud as a peacock.  We had reviewed all of the children’s clothes, checked and rechecked shoes, underwear, pajamas, clothing, outerwear.  It would be rather chilly, so we had to pull out heavy sweaters and winter coats for evenings.  As history repeated itself, simply with different actors, my daughter decides that she must spend the $5 burning a hole in her… ratty purse.

My eyes alight upon the most tattered bag this side of the Salvation Army’s discount grab bin.  I am about to faint.  (I must faint easily.)

“Sashenka, you need to tell me when something is becoming old and falling apart….”

“Oh, yeah, right.”  There is no recognition whatsoever that normal people don’t walk around with dirty and dilapidated items strapped to their bodies.

It’s not enough to examine her nails that she loves to chew morning, noon, and night.  Mostly night, when we can’t stop her.

It’s not enough to send her back to the shower when, after her daily shower, her hair looks like it hasn’t been washed in a week:  oily and stringy.

“Sashenka, you need to put shampoo all over your head, scrub it in, and rinse it out.  Just standing in the shower for a long time doesn’t do it,” I suggest.

We talk with them about proper hygiene, we have the occasional sniffing of the hands for any evidence of soap being used in the last year or so, and we try our hardest to focus on internals of being pleasant and polite, as well.

All for naught.  The peeling patent pink purse has destroyed all of our hard work.  Rome wasn’t built in a day, but it could be brought down in one.  Reviewing my photos, I see the pink purse in every. single. photo.  While strolling, while hiking, while shopping, while tending to little Grisha the Scottie.  Not that anyone could tell that it was ratty from a distance.

But still.  Even Grisha has his standards, and Misha wasn’t feeling well.  This could have pushed him over the edge.

I tried to rise above, really, I did.  I was going to enjoy my two days away, no matter how hard they attempted to destroy it and keep me in a constant-shopping-for-them-state.  I held my head up high and aimed to think happy thoughts.

These were good kids.  They just happened to like things that emerged from garbage bins if given their choice.  Any opportunity for free rein had to be reined-in.  I averted my eyes from said bag whenever it was within my range of sight.

On the way home, I bought her another bag.  A small black one to sling this way or that.  She likes it.  I told her we need to burn the pink one.

S’mores, anyone?

————

Mashenka was strong enough to lift our 23-pound pooch for his forays here and there, kindly caring for him.  This happened inbetween him snoozing on my lap and generally  demanding more food for his pain and suffering.  Misha knew how to milk things, that was for sure.

Grisha, our other Scottish Terrier, was right there with him, scratching and moaning and proudly stretched out on Persian carpets.  They were going to make this a vacation to remember one way or another.

Now it’s time for us to go home and the little boys are just as ready as the rest of the family.  Nice to get away for a day or two, and even nicer to head home.

We survived, we thrived, and a good time was had by all, especially Misha.

————-

“Oh, look,” I enthuse as we enter the town that has few street names, and probably as many  points of interest, but is simply picturesque-plus. “There’s a veterinary hospital.  Always good to know, should the need arise.”

Naturally, nobody bothered to note my astute observation until 6:00 a.m. the next day when Misha was hopping on three legs.  Yes, it was less than 24 hours later that we were checking to see when the vet would open for business.  Far from home, and Misha was far from well.

He had enjoyed himself up until that time.  Strolling around small, cobblestoned villages, anytime we stopped to look in a boutique window, he jumped up, too, straining to get a glimpse of jewels or chocolates.  I never knew he had such good taste-!

But it was tiring for he and Grisha, straining at their leashes and becoming excited over every event from another dog strolling by on leash, to waterbowls placed outside of shop doors.  By morning, he couldn’t walk.

We picked up the big guy and examined the pads of his back feet.  One, he had started chewing, his allergies not having bothered him since the fall.  Apparently, they were flaring up.  Now we were away with no medication on hand.

However, it was the other back foot whose pad appeared almost cut.  No doubt all of his straining on rough and hard surfaces like cobblestones had scratched the underside of his paw.  Misha was more of a soft grass type of guy, and now we were afraid that he was very hurt.

Should he be walking on the paw? we wondered.  Would it/ could it become infected?

By 8:00 a.m., my husband and I were in the vet’s office, making an appointment for 10:00.  Carrying around the 23-pound sack of potatoes Scottie in rainy, cold weather was not my idea of a mini get-away, but it was what it was.  This was our baby, and he was hurt.

At last, we got in, saw the doc, and he said it would take time and soft surfaces for his pads to heal.  We discussed any topical medications which might numb the foot, but what if he licked it off and then his mouth became numb and he couldn’t tell me what was wrong…?

“Mwy fweet aand moufth hurdt….”

Consequently, the vet decided to give him some medication to take the edge off of the pain.   And here, I thought that’s what getaways were for….

Fifteen minutes later, we were loaded with five syringes to give to him.  Benedetto and I almost fainted.  Then a nurse mentioned that they were to be given orally.

Oh.

Upon closer examination, they were simply shaped like syringes, no needle involved.  Either we held his mouth open and squirted it inside, or we squirted it over his food.

We chose the food route in order not to leave any room for error.  At the cost of this medication and visit, my eyes were opened to the fact that becoming a pet professional was the way our children might need to go.

In his favor, the vet did give Misha two treats for his trouble.  It was a scientific study of sorts, he explained where he held one liver treat, and one salmon treat, in either outstretched palm.  Misha immediately went for the salmon, while wondering where were the bagels.  The doctor explained that most dogs would choose the liver and that he obviously had a highly-developed palate.

So our culinary savant is steadily becoming better, not limping quite so much after only a few hours.  I glimpse him chewing his other paw at night and consider if this could be like kids absentmindedly chewing their nails.

It’s another rainy day today, and we’ll just have to muddle through and give him what medication we can, while carrying the King of Siam as much as possible outside.  Maybe then we can get home and get some rest.

—————–

His reluctance to buy a German car is pretty understandable after World War II.  More out of necessity, while not listening to his inner voice, we once found ourselves in the position of buying one that promptly blew up a week after our purchase.  I kid you not.  Go figure.

He feels the same about Japanese cars, good safety ratings or not.

“They were our ENEMIES,” he reminds.  “The Japanese, the Germans….”

“The Italians…” I tag-on for his Italian benefit.

“Very funny.  Would you like to discuss the Cold War?” he adds for my Russian benefit.

Both of our fathers were in WWII, so I understand the sentiment of not wishing to help their economies.  He has no problem with the people themselves.  It’s also a well-known fact that many foreign cars are now made in America, while many American cars are made abroad with cheap labor.  There are a number of philosophical arguments to be made either way.

We probably should buy another car sometime soon, and truly, what most consumers want is the same thing:  a car with a low price tag, offering high gas mileage.  In our case, if it has to seat six people and two dogs, good luck with that.

Personally, I dream of a tiny car, a Smartcar, or the Fiat 500, or the mini-Cooper, just big enough to seat me, myself, and I, which would technically be myself, and Scotties Misha and Grisha.  The three of us, period.  Alright, maybe Petya, he’s a good egg.  And a few pairs of shoes, or my very large purse.  Zip around town.

Let’s just say that the ethical questions of something’s origins don’t keep me awake at night, but concern me with the same low-level of angst that, if I thought about it enough, would equal my dislike for any animal giving his life for my evening meal.  (And  I always thought it curious that when donations were being solicited for Russian orphanages, it was always emphatically stated that Chinese goods would not be received in any way, shape, or form.)

If I could ride a bicycle and carry groceries in a basket, that would work, too.  But a peasant skirt, espadrilles, and straw-hatted bicyclist on the side of a highway doesn’t sound like the smartest idea, no matter if the bike were made in America or not.  Along with the fact that feeding a family of six would require a couple of side-cars to stock full of supplies.  Then I’d need to upgrade to a moped or motorcycle, and dress in goggles and leather helmet, a modern version of the WWI flying ace.

“Mama, I have a question,” Petya ventures during a long, mother-son trek.  He’s been thinking about all of the car talk with his 16^th birthday approaching in the fall.

“If Papa believes in buying American, how does he feel about buying Italian?  I mean, would he feel okay about a Maserati, or Bugatti?” he wonders.

“I can see these things weigh heavily upon your young mind,” I smile.  “I’m sure he would have no problem, whatsoever,” I laugh.  “Did I ever tell you about the time an acquaintance wanted to give him a Maserati?”

His eyes widen, and I relate to him how his father turned down the offer for reasons all his own.

“But are you asking about him and Italian cars, or yourself?”

He chuckles as we discuss the world economy, justice and injustice, sweatshops, and how we might make a difference in the world.  I nudge him and nod my head in heavy traffic, as a yellow Lotus stealthily slips up on our right.

“Oh, wow!” he exclaims, as all of our philosophizing flies out the window.

Do you have similar scruples?

—————