Frederica

I'm not Italian. I'm Danish. However, in my everyday life, I am forced to declare myself a pseudo-Italian 40-50 hours a week in order to keep up with the chaos which is my job. The girls that I nanny for, Isabella and Gigi, do not speak Italian but this family is rightfully proud of their heritage and welcome in, "the white girl," as part of their family.

Today was no exception. Enter....Frederica.....

Frederica is 8 years old, an age which she shares in common with my oldest, Bella. Other than that, not much else was similiar. Frederica is a chubby Italian cookie flown in from Sicily. She is crusing the country on a 45 day vacation with her parents and she doesn't speak a lick of English.

I'm not sure if its a Eurpoean entitlement syndrome, but Frederica's parents (cousins of my boss) took it upon themselves to sight-see the Chicago suburbs today, sans Frederica. Instead, they decided to drop her off in my care while they perused Woodfield Mall.

Now, accepting additional kids to watch isn't something I'm a stranger to (Love you, Ang!) but this was the first time that I was subjected to a foreigner of types. Loving a child knows no boundaries, but communication does! Frederica doesn't speak English and I don't speak Italian.

Enter.....problem....

Since Frederica's arrival was a surprise, I was unprepared for what my day held. Bella, although she doesn't speak English, was a playmate for Frederica in days past; however, today, she wasn't home. So, here we sit on opposite couches just smiling at each other. Gigi (4) is in my ear reminding me that Frederica can't understand what I say. Thanks, Gig.

I figure that I will take the two of them to the park. I tried to communicate this field trip to Frederica but all I got in return was smiles, a nod, and reptition of the word, park. Okay, I will just show her what the park is. We arrive and she sets up camp on the swings and doesn't really move. I mentioned before that she is a bit chubby, and I'm quickly sensing that the park is not her bag. Well, I figure that icecream speaks universally to all children, so we hop in the car once again and sit together in the local old-fashioned ice cream parlor. This is when the conversation begins. Oye.

Bless this sweet little darling's heart, she is a doll. She has wonderful intentions, but conversation was not be had. We sat over melting icecream, desparate to understand each other. Eventually, we made a bit of a break through and using single adjectives and a grandiose game of charades, we were able to "discuss," her trip to America.

Here is what I now know about Frederica: She went to Disney World. She lives in a house. She is going to be in 4th grade. Her school is not pretty. She has not pets but her cat scratched her. She likes vanilla icecream.

I can't be sure about the accuracy of most of those "Frederica Facts." I think she will be in fourth grade this year, but then she kept counting past four to thirty. (Something we finally had in common, because, I too, can count to thirty). I also think she chose vanilla icecream because it was easier than trying to decide on a flavor.

From there, we reached a cultural understanding. We were going to bond our countries and teach eachother the language. We proceeded to point to things, for instance the washer and dryer and I would tell her what it was called in English and she would repeat it to me and then tell me the name in Italian. This satiated my teaching tendencies, but all good things must come to an end.

Gigi, I think, was stressed out and to dodge all the hardwork it took to communicate, she fell asleep on the couch. That left me and Fred. She wanted to watch tv. YES! Ohh, wait. TV-Disney Channel is in fact, in English. I turned in on anyway and quickly tuned myself out. I was quickly brought back to reality when Frederica showed up in my face, nose to nose, and relayed to me that she couldn't understand it. Oh boy. Finally, she just agreed to basically stare at the tv and admire how "beautiful," (a word in her English vocabulary, also used to describe my car) Hanna Montana is.

Finally, my Italian speaking boss arrives home and bridges the huge gap that crossed two countries. I slinked back onto the sidelines and nursed my tired Danish brain.

Lucky for me...the adventure doesn't stop here...Frederica is in town until next Thursday. Stay tuned.

Marriage Counseling

July 18th of this year offered the official exit for Pat and I from newlywed-dom. We are still new at this game, but the formal title has since expired and we are now on our own, no excuses.

It was just prior to our first wedding anniversary that I was unintentionally subjected to marriage counseling by the unlikliest of sources... my 9 year old nephew, Austin.

Austin was up visiting for the weekend. He loves coming to, "Chicago," so much that he will even settle for just his ole Auntie Ash when Pat is away for work. This was one of those weekends.

Austin and I had just exited a movie and sat down at Buffalo Wild Wings to eat dinner. Being 9, Austin was more intent on the video game at the table and his soon-to-be delivered hot wings than a conversation with me. I felt like I was dining alone. Then suddenly, he interupts my thoughts and offers me some advice.

Austin: "I don't have a girlfriend anymore. I pretty much just like being single."
Me: Really? What about Izzy? I thought you really liked her?
Austin: "Yea, but she always wanted it her way. That's how girls are. I wanted to play football at recess and she always made me chase her."
Me: "Do you think that is how all girls are?"
Austin: "Yea, that is why I don't think I'm going to get married."
Me: "Pat and I are married and we are happy."
Austin: "Yea, but wives nag. They always say you have to take the garbage out or clean up. You can't be like that Ash. It starts with recess and ends with the garbage."
Me: So that's what you think, huh?
Austin: "Yea, if you wanna keep married you can't be nagging. You gotta let Pat do what he wants."
Me: "So, I should say he can play football?"
Austin: "Yea, it's the only way."

My nephew can be a guy of few words, but when he has something to say, he likes to be heard. I definitely heard him that day. I laughed and relayed that story to Pat and my parents, but I never forgot his advice.

From that day on, I was careful to make sure Pat felt he had his freedom. But, for some reason, he still likes to chase me around..... ;)

I see London, I see France, I can see your underpants....AGAIN!

As of tomorrow, it will be three months since I posted my last blog. It seems that I have all but abandoned my role as the blonde blogette; but, truth be told, it has simply been a busy summer. This evening, I am out-sourcing my services on the late shift, so I have ample time to catch you up on the latest and greatest news of the sunshine season.

One of the highlights of my summer has to do with my favorite holiday, Fourth of July, and my favorite pair of polka-dot underwear from Victoria's Secret. Underwear seems to be a pretty popular and laughable theme of my adventures, so it is deemed appropriate to share this story with you. Far be it for me to determine what one may find sexy; however I think I jumped to the waayyyyy other end of the spectrum with my granny panties debacle.

Pat's Aunt and Uncle host an annual Fourth of July party that brings together his own extended family, as well other's who are related on the other side. This was my first time attending the much talked about soiree and I was looking forward to seeing my newly married-in famly, as well as meeting the others. In total, I believe 35-ish people were invited.

I didn't think too much into my outfit for the day other than comfort and breathable alleviation from the heat! So, I wore an average white ribbed tank top paired with a navy blue cotton skirt. Very basic yet understatedly holiday-appropriate.

The party was a great time, but the heat was pretty intense so I spent the majority of the time following my very pregnant and very hot sister-in-law around like a lost puppy. I had lost my husband to a grueling volleyball game and the two cocktails that I had drained to ward of "dehydration," instead left a headache probing my left temple, so I sought refuge in the air conditioning (which by coincidence was also closer to the margarita machine). Danielle (that's the very pregnant and very hot sister-in-law) was pretty miserable so we sat inside where she could be more comfortable. I was enjoying bossing her around by making her move to the darker portion of the living room when she decided that she couldn't take it and ran off to the bathroom to lose her lunch. Like any lost puppy, I began to wander around aimlessly. I went upstairs, grazed the food, chatted up a fellow-partier and excused myself to the restroom.

When I returned, the interior of the home was deserted. I went back outside to join the party and stood in a cluster of my new family. I was chatting with Danielle, her husband Mo, and my parents-in-law. There was talk about the party winding down and the dispersing of families to their own dwellings, so my mother-in-law went off to start saying goodbye. Danielle and Mo wandered away as well, leaving my father-in-law and myself watching the volleyball game with our backs to the rest of the party. My father-in-law spotted my mother-in-law's shoes and holds them up to let her know he has them. All of the sudden I hear someone running up behind me. I glance over my shoulder and my mother-in-law is headed full speed at us. I kind of laugh and think to myself that these must really be her favorite shoes, or that her pedicure is suddenly at risk if she is warranting speeds that could challenge a cheetah.

As I turn back around to face the volleyball game, my mother-in-law fakes left and instead of scooping up her sandals she is pulling on my skirt! Um, excuuuuse me? I realize that I am newer to the family and some initiation may be due, but is depantsing me in front of family, strangers, and God really necessary? I spin around with what I imagine to be a horrified look on my face to see her expression mirroring my own. Then she lets the bomb drop. She alarmingly whispers, "Your skirt was tucked into your underwear!" I am shocked speechless. Um, Victoria obviously can't keep a damn secret if she is flashing my polka-dot pseudo granny panties to everyone at this party! Granted, they were bikini underwear, not true to form granny panties, but at this point we are just comparing apples to oranges.

I recover slightly and march directly over to Danielle. If you know anything about my newly-appointed older sister, you know that she wouldn't hesitate to point out my faux pas so I was shocked that I stood next to her for 15 minutes without a peep. I approach her and vehemently say, "I absolutely cannot believe that you didn't tell me that my skirt was tucked into my underwear after I had just you about the leftover vomit in your hair." It turns out, she hadn't seen. As many of the other party-goers hadn't also. I'm not sure why my humility was spared that day, but it turns out the only person that did see, was Mo. He is very conservative and he was embarrassed on my behalf and so instead of calling attention to it, he just walked away. Thanks. A. Lot.

Surprisingly, I wasn't all that embarrassed by the situation. I laughed a lot. But that is probably because it seems as though no one accepted their invitation to my peep show.

I wanted to make a good impression, and instead I made a lasting impression...welcome to the family, Ash!