And we’re moving to….

Nairobi.

In July.

Flag Day was fabulous.

We are all in varying stages of delight, panic, denial, obstructionism (not naming names here) and anticipation.

Lots to do.  So exciting!

A New Low for the French Language

Well, it seems I will not be posted to Paris.

While training, the Department of State tries to assess your language skills.  Not just the ones you claim to know, but the ones they decide you must know because you lived there for 2 months 39 years ago, etc. They have a little quickie test in which you speak to someone, and they ascertain how long it would take you to attain working knowledge.

Without violating the non disclosure agreement, let me say this: I broke new ground.  I conjugated verbs even the tester didn’t know existed. I creatively mixed possessive pronouns in sentences that didn’t have the possessive.  My proudest moment was when I simply frenchified English words as needed.  Why should I let my vocabulary limit me?

As we speak, Hollande is putting together a special delegation to send to DC to beg, plead and threaten Secretary Kerry to ***never*** send me to a francophone country. Rumors are circulating that countries in French speaking west Africa have threatened to form alliances with North Korea, should I be posted in their country and be allowed to flash my French.

A painful morning.  Not as bad as childbirth, but not a day on a Greek island either.

 

Decorating Wars.

I married well. My husband is not only stunningly handsome, but he is smart, hilarious, generous, and simply a warm and wonderful human being.  Couple that with amazing carpentry skills and an addiction to vacuuming, and I really can’t believe he sticks around for what I dish out.

But there are some shortcomings.

We are about to put the house on the market.

I am focused on ensuring potential buyers don’t sustain a Lego-tripping related injury, aren’t appalled by the laundry piles 2 teens can produce, don’t get an accidental flashing from a little nudist that happens to live here, and in general have a favorable opinion of our circus tent.

Matt thinks our otherwise pleasing decor is enhanced by the “Burlington Code Enforcement Calendar, 2013,”  which he hung in our dining room.

Let me share January with you:

It seems January is “Cellars and other prohibited basement dwellings month.”  DO YOU SEE THE PICTURE????

I am not sure what that inspires potential buyers to do, other than run screaming from the building to report to the local constabulary that we are trafficking humans from our basement.  I don’t see them writing us deposit checks.

December was a slight improvement.  Nothing says “Hey, check out this fine structure, owned by an engineer and his picky wife,” like December, which turns out to be “Foundation, roof and exterior wall deterioration month.”

I have removed all traces of Matt’s Martha Stewarting, Hopefully, during viewings, we can uphold the illusion of being a stable, “normal” family. At least until the potential buyers have left the house.  Then I will let Matt fly his freak flag again.

Self-Satisfied and Righteous

Given that the three anarchists often and eagerly want to list my shortcomings, failings and general propensity for bad parenting, I offer the text on the left into evidence.

I may be a nag, a “killer of joy,” “mean,” and so “uptight and strict,” BUT, dear children, YOU ARE REQUESTING KALE FOR DINNER!!! WHO IS LAUGHING NOW????

The College Search

Nugget, though not yet 16, has to look at colleges.  She is nearing the end of her junior year, and I suspect it will be quite difficult touring colleges next fall from Burkina Faso, Uruguay, Tajikistan, wherever we are.  Thus, we did our first round of tour de college.

Some observations:

1. Tours involve a lot of building lobbies and mention of who was on the Board/commissioned the building/paid for the building/cut the damn ribbon.
2. Colleges are afraid to show you a 60 sq ft room which your son/daughter could be sharing with one or two other humans who have not yet fully developed their frontal lobes.  Probably because it is the size of your basic bathroom stall, yet costing you the equivalent of an Upper West Side 2 bedroom with doorman.
3. Tour guides represent the tiniest minority on colleges: they don’t drink.  Ever.  And don’t know anyone that does. Anyone. They emphasize this on average 6 times per tour, usually earnestly nodding at the parents.
4. Here are some clubs and activities that do not speak to the average HS graduate wanting to fly the coop and fornicate wildly while imbibing on substances:

• The “Random Acts of Kindness Club,” which focuses on pelting unsuspecting students in the library with candy during exams and sending people anonymous notes (stalker, anyone?).
• The “Saturday Crafters,” which are featuring a “decorate your own scarf” workshop this coming Saturday between 9 pm and midnight. Even at the mature age of 45, that sounds about as much fun as lancing a boil or cleaning the litter box.
• The “Wednesday Afternoon Dorm Tea.” (Perhaps a nod to a Downton Abbey craze sweeping campuses everywhere?)

We decided to simply infiltrate.  We trespassed on a chem lab and got an insightful tour by a guy that worked there, loved his job and enthusiastically gave us the inside scoop.  We saw some athletic facilities by asking a cute, blond sports management major to show us where he worked.  We met a wonderful lunch lady, which resulted in a special tasting of a raspberry tart prepared by a visiting Swedish chef. She had put it aside for people she liked.

Should any admissions counselors be reading this, please rename your tours to “Architectural tours of green spaces and lobbies by teetotalers.”  It is a much more honest approach.

I Just Couldn’t Stand It Anymore.

As you all know, my blog was “nakedanarchists” for 4 (5?) years.  The name was not referring to any subversive behaviors or dissent, but to the children’s affinity for always running around naked and lacking all respect for authority.

I used to be mildly amused at the search terms that would bring readers to my blog:

go lightly naked

broken English in the nude (huh?)

naked haircuts

old foot nude

shoe shine in the nude

and, my favorite:

stone flooring.

No idea how stone flooring is in any way related to my categories and tags, but if tile/slate/marble enthusiasts find some happiness in my blog, I am happy to oblige.

That said, lately the search terms have gotten out of control. Why this sudden burst of deviance, people? I had hoped it was just a random outlier or two skewing my stats, but after 2 months of truly tasteless search terms appearing in my analytics, I have decided to change the name.

I was also dressed down by Nugget, who pointed out that she is in the thick of college searches and therefore no longer qualifies as the cute little naked anarchist she was when the blog started.  Philip wears clothing, too, now (though he still refuses socks and underwear).

The name is dated. The kids have morphed into vicious iconoclasts.

That said, welcome to Cranky Anarchists.  Same irreverent snark and useless information as always, but hopefully without the upsetting search terms.

Control freak? I think not.

I have a month to go before I move to Washington, DC.

Warning:  first world problem alert.

The Department of State has something called “Pack Out.” They move this flock of disorganized, ornery anarchists to DC, then to somewhere else in the world (don’t ask…remember, a kitten dies if you do). This happens in 2 stages:  UAB (unaccompanied air baggage, or somesuch) and HHE (household effects).

UAB means that I get to choose 250lbs of things I think I will need for the near future (in addition to my suitcases), such as coffee machine, favorite pots, etc.  Is my near future 3 months or 12 months, thus including winter clothing?  I have no clue. Either way, UAB will catch up to me in a few weeks.

HHE means sofas, tables, beds, etc.  They will put HHE into storage until we are sent to abroad.  Then we may be able to take all or some of it when we go abroad, depending on what the post offers.  HHE takes a few months to get to post.

Of course we had to complicate things:  I pack my UAB in March when I leave.  Then, the anarchists follow in June sometime, bringing their UAB and placing our combined HHE into storage.

I am not allowed to take time off from training for my HHE pack out date. I can’t very well do it now, either, because where will everyone sit when they refuse to eat what is for dinner?  What beds will they start off the night in before they wander into ours?  What sofa will they lounge on to exchange insipid texts about irrelevant crap?

HHE will have to happen without me.

It requires IMPECCABLE inventory.  You may not pack yourself (security? liability?) so you follow a moving guy around with a clipboard and write things like “BOX #23, fleece vest, Harry Potter Playmobile, sunscreen SPF 70, skein of lime green wool.” This is important.  When you are somewhere thousands of miles from home and you are expecting some of your stuff, you land rough if you get this wrong.  You may be sweating your butt off in southern Sudan, excited to open your box #87 with your summer clothes, only to find your cross country skis and ice hockey stick.

And, as all loyal readers can likely anticipate, this is a marriage rift in the making.  Yes, Matt pushes the vacuum 2x a day, is merrily scrubbing the toilet as I write this, cooks, small animals and children love him, bla bla bla.

He is a minimalist.  He believes you should only own one pair of shoes at a time and does not care for detail when it comes to “stuff.” (He wears plaid with stripes, for heaven’s sake.)

He will be in charge of pack out while I will be distracted with learning Laotian or Urdu or whatever. When we finally get to Helsinki/Reykjavik/Vladivostok, I will long for my boxes with down jackets, smart wool socks and down comforters, only to find that he “minimized” our carbon footprint, sold everything on Craigslist and we own 4 boxes.  Combined.

I am already furious.