The pack-out from Hell

Admittedly, part of this is my fault.  I didn't really purge anything last year when I left Frankfurt.  So I sent 3000 lbs of stuff from Frankfurt to  Riyadh.  I barely remember what's in there and I certainly don't need all of it here.  But as a single person in the foreign service, I had never run up against the 7200 lb weight limit.  So problem 1 was sending too much stuff from Frankfurt to Riyadh.

So, back in April, when the pack-out company sent out their "expert" to do an estimate on our weight for our packout, I was ecstatic to hear him say that all of the stuff in our house, including our outdoor furniture, queen bed, and a couple of couches we wanted to bring would be round 4000 lbs - just under our weight limit.  He said there might be a few hundred lbs difference, but we were willing to send the couches to storage if we needed to.  No big deal.  Listening to this expert was problem 2.

Problem #3 was not really doing any significant purging in DC.  A big part of this is that most of the things in our house in DC were either new things we had bought in the last year or two or were things Sara brought into the marriage.  We both talked about purging things, but really it was me asking her to get rid of her stuff so that we could move to the desert.  Where she couldn't drive.  It wasn't a very good argument on my point and I never really pushed it very far.  I didn't think it mattered --we had enough weight to get all our stuff to Saudi and we could purge there after we had (finally) merged our houses.  This was problem 3.

On Day 1 of our two-day packout, they sent four packers.  They didn't arrive until after 10 and left after filling one full crate and packing a whole bunch more boxes.  Before he left, the head packer told us he thought we might be overweight and that some of the furniture we were planning to take might have to be sent to storage.

On Day 2, they sent 7 packers.  When the lead guy arrived, he told us that we were definitely going to be overweight

It's always been for my Mom

Despite my New Year's goal to write in this blog more frequently, I have failed miserably.  Part of it is having a baby at home, part of it is questions about how public I want my life to be in Saudi Arabia, but mostly it has been because Mom died this summer.  She died suddenly at home from a heart attack.  She died in my dad's arms.  I was at FSI when I found out.  It was a week before my Arabic test and 8 days before we were supposed to have a big family reunion.  It sucked.

Since then, I haven't been able to blog, not because I haven't had things to say (Passing my Arabic test, the pack-out from hell, Saudi Arabia is fascinating!), but because I didn't know how to start writing again.  How do I write anything about this summer without talking about the massive hole in my heart and my soul?  I didn't (don't) want to write publicly about her death.  But skipping over it and pretending it didn't happen wasn't an option either.  So every time I thought about writing something, I had this giant decision to make - talk about Mom's death (and it's impact on every

thing, every moment this summer) or skip over it on the blog.  This choice blocked anything else I wanted to write.  This post is my feeble attempt to address the issue.

And that brings me back to writing this blog.  It sprung from letters I wrote home when I was a high school exchange student in Italy.  By the time I was a college exchange student, I had upgraded to an email list serve.  When blogs started to gain popularity I switched formats again and I started this blog in 2010 just before I started A-100.  Whenever I wrote, I always knew that whatever I wrote, Mom would read it.  She was my audience.  Others could and did read what I wrote, but I always wrote with her in mind.  If I wasn't willing to tell my mother a story, I knew I shouldn't blog about it.  And my Mom was a great audience.  She would always comment to me (either online or on the phone) about what I wrote.  She loved my stories.  I always assumed that at least 80% of her love for my stories was because I was her son and maybe 20% was the writing or the story.  I've always been okay with that.

Right now, I don't know if I will keep blogging or not.  For 6 years, blogging has brought me joy. Today, it only brings me sadness.

I miss you Mom, I love you the most.

Thanksgiving in San Antonio

Drinking beers at the British High in Belize

Dancing at my wedding

Meeting the Ambassador

Last week was my second full week in the office.  On Wednesday, the Consular Section had a scheduled Admin Day.  During our staff meeting on Tuesday, I asked about the dress code and my boss answered - "No Hawaiian shirts, but casual."  As I had seen some of our local staff wearing jeans the previous Thursday (last day of work week here), I went ahead and wore jeans.  While none of the other officers were wearing suits, I was the only one not wearing dress slacks.  Duly noted.

Other than this minor hiccup, the morning was going well, when at 1030, Outlook pops up a reminder about my meet-and-greet meeting with the Ambassador.  I hadn't met the Ambassador yet and all I had really heard about him was that he hated tardiness and could be a bit formal.  I had a meeting in 15 minutes AND I WAS WEARING JEANS.  Shit.  After a minute of panic, I eliminated Plan A (run home and change) because there wasn't enough time.  I went and asked a colleague what he thought I should do.  Plan B - push or cancel meeting.  I called up to the Front Office, and asked his staff assistant if I could move the meeting as I was having a little crisis down in the Consular Section (I did not mention that said crisis was that I was wearing jeans).  She hesitated and passed me to his secretary who said she could ask, but that he would definitely ask questions about what caused me to miss the meeting.  Strike Plan B.

I am now 9 minutes away from my meeting and needing a Plan C.  My colleague had offered me his shirt and tie so, I stood up in the NIV officer bullpen and said to my staff - "What I am about to ask comes from a colleague and not a boss - please feel no pressure, but does anyone wear a size 34 or 36 pant?"  One of the ELOs said he did and the two of us made our way to the bathroom to switch pants (6 minutes left).  On the way back, I stop by the first guy's office and get his shirt and tie.  Two other colleagues, now fully vested in my saga, offer me sports coats they keep at work.  A blue blazer sort of fits, and I make my way to the Ambassador's office a full two-minutes early.  Amazingly, the outfit actually looked good and the meeting went off without a hitch.

Fortunately, Plan C worked because Plan D was go home sick and Plan E was pull the fire-alarm.