I'm A Man of Wealth, And Taste

It's been another exciting week of making sure Gabriel doesn't die. The upstairs neighbor, who lives in Florida ten months out of the year, came home -- like, from Florida to Bucharest -- specifically to see the baby. So we had her over for a visit, along with Tania and Gagi's godchildren and I don't remember who all else. Gabe is very popular.

I tried Burger Night again, and came even closer to the True American Hamburger. At this point I'm mostly hampered by the fact that there's no cheddar cheese here. I know, right? It's not even like the big cheddar-producing areas -- such as Cheddar, England, a town so nuts about cheddar cheese that they named their city after it -- are that far away. But for some reason it's all mild white cheeses here, with the occasional Swiss thrown in when you want to get really crazy.

Our cash-flow problems got solved when I had my bank send a check to my parents, who wired me cash via Western Union. Hey Romania: something is seriously screwed when it's easier for me to send a check to my parents on the other side of the world and then have them send the money all the way back to me rather than deal with your banks. But anyway, now I don't have to deal with my idiotic traveler's checks anymore. Until I get back home. After sitting in front of a bank teller and signing thirty $100 traveler's checks before I left, now I get to go back to the bank and countersign twenty-seven of them back into my bank account.

Hopefully I won't get the same guy.

The Romanian government continues to beat me like a Giants fan at a Dodgers game and we still have no birth certificate. I had been told that if you're an American abroad and having trouble with the local government, you can call up the American embassy and there are teams of diplomatic personnel waiting to swing into action and assist you. Like they just sit there by the Red Phone and then all the sudden it's like, "Ryan needs a birth certificate! GO GO GO!"

I figured at the very least, maybe a US diplomat could call someone here and ask them to speed up the birth certificate as a favor due to our special circumstances. Since everything a US diplomat says impliedly ends with "...or we might just Stealth Bomber your ass" I thought that might help. So I called the embassy and asked to speak to Henry Kissinger, but they gave me some bullshit runaround about how he doesn't work there anymore or something. Their basic reaction was "A birth certificate? Yeah, that takes two months. Good luck." Thanks for nothing, diplomats! I don't think the Stealth Bomber was even doing anything this week.*

We've been taking the Foxy Stroller and our Foxy Son out for occasional strolls. A couple of days ago we went out in the beautiful sunshine, got just far enough from home that we couldn't get home quickly, and then it started raining. I gallantly surrendered my jacket to cover the stroller, so King Gabriel was kept warm and dry and didn't have to do anything but lay on his ass while galley slaves pushed him home through the wet. But he still screamed his fool head off the whole time.

We started up our ESL classes again this week, as well. Teaching English while simultaneously managing a brand-new baby: pretty challenging. It's like juggling while you're doing the crossword. But we managed. Fortunately, our students so far have been very understanding. Between this and Io's return to nursing school, life is at least attempting to give a facade of returning to normal. Well, the New Normal, anyway.

Next week we have another well-baby appointment, which I expect Gabriel to pass with flying colors. Not that it's a test or anything.

But you better win.

"When you stare long into an abyss, daddy, the abyss stares also into you."

* Although really, how would I know, right?