Monday, June 25, 2007

In Which I Cause an International Incident

I wouldn't call me a patriotic person. I cringe during the Independence Day celebrations when I'm forced to listen to that awful Lee Greenwood song. But, I do have moments of national pride from time to time, most often when listening to classic rock tunes . . . although the Brits hold their own in that department, too. I justify that by telling myself they were all largely influenced by the blues and other black American music genres. But Americans do, from time to time, cause me to stand up tall and proud.

That said, every now and then I just lose control and become That Person, That Ugly American who just can't grasp that he or she is not in Kansas any more and things just aren't going to happen here they way they do in Peoria or Detroit or Cincinnati. I dread these moments. Most of the time I am respectful about my host country. I recognize that I am the guest here and that it is up to me to learn to fit in.

But today the heat must have gotten to me.

I took the kids to that little Scottish place. You know? The one with the golden arches and the Happy Meals? It was over 40C according to the car thermometer. I don't even want to know what 40C is in Fahrenheit. I think my head would explode. To get a rough estimate, double 40 and add 30 to it: that's the Fahrenheit ballpark. Yeah. It's hot.

So I step up to the counter and ask for two Happy Meals. Chicken nuggets. No sauce, just ketchup. Milk, please. Yes, milk.

She looks at me like I'm Crazy Lady here. Milk is new on the local Happy Meal scene. You never see milk on restaurant menus.

"We got any milk?" I hear her yell in Slovak, having determined that the cooler in the front, where they have plenty of beer is devoid of milk.

"I'll bring you your milks," she says, handing me the rest of my order. No problem. This is common. They usually trot right out with the missing item in just a few moments.

When she arrives, she has two boxes of apple juice.

"Terribly sorry," says she. "No milk. Juice, ok?"

And then I uttered the three words that convinced her that I am utterly and completely Out of My Mind. I said . . . you might want to sit down, it's that shocking . . . I said, "Is it cold?"

She shuddered visibly. "No." Of course not. It's for children after all. Cold drinks equal painful death by flux.

"Can I have cold ones?" I venture.

"I don't have any cold ones." She's looking at me sideways and backing away slowly.

"Oooh! I know!" I have an idea. Once upon a time I worked at the Scottish place. "Ice! Can I have some cups of ice?"

Huh? She's unclear. But that's my fault because I don't know how to say ice in Slovak.

I hop up from the table and gesture that she should follow me back to the counter. I point at the ice bin conveniently located under the fountain drinks. It is full.

"Ice!" I'm starting to get excited. "Can I please have cups with ice?" I'm thinking I may get pushy and ask for THREE cups of ice since my own Diet Coke came with nary a cube.

She goes behind the counter and hands me two small drink cups and what we in the industry called a "courtesy cup" (think Dixie cup) with about four ice cubes in it.

And that is when I lost control. In my defense, I was good natured and laughing, but in her estimation I had, as of this moment, gone barking mad.

"Oooh, no!" I, perhaps, began to raise my voice here. "Ice! Cups of ice! It's hot and we are three people!"

She looked confused. Her colleague, with a manager tag, leans over to see if he can help translate.

"IKNOWIKNOW . . . YOU THINK I'M CRAZY GIVING ICE TO CHILDREN. I'M A BAD MOM AND THEY ARE GOING TO DIE. Just give me IIIIICE!"

I did not reach, Homer Simpson style for her neck, but I think she caught that intent in my tone. By now she is quickly shoveling ice into the drink cups, one eye glued on me in case I leap over the counter and attack. Manager is laughing.

"IKNOWIKNOW . . . CRAZY AMERICANS AND THEIR COLD DRINKS . . ." I'm beginning to ramble.

She hands me the cups of ice and backs away. I am effusive.

"Oh, thank you so much! Thank you. Have a lovely day. Thanks! GIRLS! Look what I got for you!"

My children cheered: for the first time in I-can't-remember-when, I was their hero. It's too bad I probably can't return to that particular Scottish restaurant for the rest of the summer.

Sunday, June 24, 2007

Coming Soon: The Bratislava Slut Strut

Now is as good a time as any to mention the Bratislava Slut Strut tentatively scheduled for the last half of August.

Let me explain. I have this wonderful and outrageous American friend. She's one of the few Americans here I really like (many I tolerate, most I have no patience for). She has been my Diet and Fitness Muse: she lost a lot of weight a few years ago and reemerged lithe and gorgeous. I climbed on that bandwagon and the Spouse followed soon after, and now we are all much thinner.

Anyhow, she has always been even louder than I am about the competition here from the Slovak lovelies, although, rather than being intimidated by them, she is inspired. We'll be sitting outside at a restaurant, having a coffee, and she'll practically stop mid sentence and say, "LOOK! Look at that one . . . she's really got it!" And sure enough, some tall, cool drink of water will glide by, and we will toast her for being fabulous.

These beauties are compelling to look at, but I find myself in an awkward position sometimes. I want to stare, but not in a bitchy way. As Friend says, it's a matter of admiration, not hostility. I want to see what these babes are doing and if I can incorporate any of their techniques into my look.

I saw a great example of one of these yesterday as I was driving into town. She was wearing two little tank tops, a white one under a red one, a pair of white short shorts, and at the end of her mile long tan perfect legs, she sported the highest red stiletto heels I have ever seen. But not only were they absolutely fabulous red shoes, they were IRIDESCENT fabulous red shoes. Oh, how I coveted them, in spite of the fact my arthritic toe will not permit me to even try them on, much less strut down the street in them. Alas.

On a related note, the Spouse got checked out by a gorgeous piece of work on his birthday. We were walking together through a parking garage on our way to pay. A 20-something woman, tall, slim, brunette, and very pretty, gave him a very obvious up-and-down and then SMILED at him. He was delighted (as he should be). I was, on the one hand, high-fiving him for turning a head and on the other, a little put out that she would do that in front of me. After all, what am I? Chopped liver?

But I digress. This is the stuff that fuels my friend's project: The Bratislava Slut Strut. The point is to not go without a fight. Not to be mutton-dressed-as-lamb, but to assert our sexuality and beauty as adult women with confidence. If you can't beat 'em, study 'em, learn from 'em, and join 'em.

We are officially in training for it. The event, which will take place on some to-be-decided summer evening in August, will consist of my friend and me and any other women over 40, expat or not, who feel fabulous and brave. We will pour ourselves into our most revealing and clingy summer dresses. Friend says spandex is key here. We will get our hair done, our feet manicured, our legs waxed. Our abs will be toned from a summer of crunches, and our tans (real or sprayed on) at their peak.

We will start at the Michael's Gate at one end of the historic part of Bratislava and there join the river of humanity that flows along the pedestrian zone, sashaying and feeling terrific. At the other end of town, our husbands and other good friends, men and women, will be waiting on the terrace of a favorite restaurant hangout with bottles of good champagne to celebrate us.

Let me know if you want to come along on the Strut or just join us for a drink.

Friday, June 22, 2007

Friday Update: This and That

Girded my loins, as it were, and took Baboo back to the hospital for her "control" this morning as ordered. Walked into the waiting area for the People's Surgical Consulting Office and EVERY brown pleather seat was filled with sad kids with broken arms and their resigned parents. This was at 7:55 a.m.

Turned around and walked two doors down the hall to the Private Practice Surgical Consulting Office. Instead of awful brown pleather chairs, there were cheerful green modern ones. Three patients ahead of us. Sat down and was called within 10 minutes.

I hadn't been inside the other office (see photo in previous entry) but this was a totally normal, cheerful little suite. Explained to the good doctor (a very cool, grey haired woman) that I don't speak Slovak, and she laughed because she doesn't speak English, but I had the typed report from the last visit, and I explained I was here for a control, and her nurse said to me "swimmen?" in German, and I said, "YES, PLEASE!" back.

So now they cut off the old cast and washed her hand and replaced it with a snazzy red one that can tolerate the pool and the tub and life. She was thrilled. Hurray for British friend who tipped me off about the Private Practice Surgical Consulting Office in the first place! For she's a jolly good fellow . . .

Oh, and the whole thing cost me $35. Cast, doctor's time . . . the whole thing.

The only catch now is that they said to come back in three weeks (which is what the other guy said Monday . . . basically a week ago . . .) and then said they would be on holiday then, so I should just go back to the People's Office. I don't want to sit there all day to have a cast removed, so I may have to explore other options. Will keep you posted.

In other news, while we were at the French School Fun Day last night, we had one hell of a rain/wind storm. I collected THREE large grocery bags of pinecones from the back yard this morning. Pani Babka said our big pine tree was swaying like a metronome. Yikes.

Odd observations in the Old Town this week:

* The women in burqas posing for photos in front of the Roland Fountain. I just wonder how they will know who was who when they look at their photo albums later?
* That same day I saw a man with a wizard's cape. It's pushing 100F and this free spirit has a black cape with a purple lining. Oh, and a Bluetooth on his ear.

Tuesday, June 19, 2007

Bad Luck Comes in Threes?

Sheesh. When will it end, the constant ferrying of family to medical facilities around Central Europe?

First it was The Spouse’s Unfortunate Bottom, which, while not completely finished, seems to have turned the corner, as it were. His last visit to the jolly Greek doctor in Hainburg was Saturday.

Yesterday, Monday, I notice a missed call from a woman who is identified in my phone as New Mom. She is, in fact, no longer new here, but I am slow and lazy about changing her title in my contact list. She has recently taken on the new title of French School Playground Monitor, although when I returned her call I thought she was calling me to confirm a French Mom Girls’ Night Out scheduled for last night and which I was already feeling too wimpy to deal with.

I spent two hours on Sunday afternoon entertaining six French-speaking little girls at an ersatz birthday party for Baboo on the playground behind the Aupark shopping mall. I told them they could do the trampolines and the bungee jumping (not real drop-until-you-soil-your-pants bungee jumping, but hang-in-a-harness-and-jump-on-a-different-trampoline bungee jumping) and the climbing wall and the other pay-to-play features there. And I would cheerfully pay for all of it and buy drinks as necessary. But two hours of that, even with the nicest French-speaking little girls, wipes me out. I tell you, Midge, I just didn’t have it in me to sit with the French moms, even though they are all extremely nice women.

All of this is a long way of saying that I was already mentally composing my list of excuses for French Mom Girls’ Night Out when New Mom surprised me by saying, “We think Baboo broke her finger playing tennis. Can you come and get her?”

This scenario is absolutely My Worst Nightmare because I just don’t know what to do. I become paralyzed with indecision. Her passport was at home on the kitchen counter. The Slovak hospital would prefer I had it because they use a number on our residency permit as our ID number for things like medical records.

I would also need it if I wanted to take her to the hospital in Hainburg, Austria, except I understand that this hospital does not have a pediatric ER. Counter this with the fact that someone, I can’t remember who, took a child there recently, for I can’t remember what, and was treated. Add also the fact that we just had a so-so medical experience with the Spouse in Bratislava and ran screaming to Hainburg. Add to this the fact that while my Slovak is virtually non-existent, my German is limited to things like “Water with gas” and “Check, please!” although I can never understand how much money they want because in German all numbers are presented backwards, as in “four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie.”

So I called the Spouse, who dropped everything and came along with me to collect the children. My little athlete had tried to catch a tennis ball and instead managed to mangle a finger. The finger was swollen and bruised, but she could move it (although, remembering my broken toe from last summer, I’m here to tell you that broken digits can, indeed, move). She was sweaty and extremely dirty, having been playing outside. But the worst thing was that she, in a moment of boredom and self-experimentation, had administered two . . .well, hickys, to her upper arms. Which, of course, look like bruises. So we get to take a child who looks like she has just been abused to the Slovak hospital. Good times.

The Slovak hospital is nothing if not irritating and grim. We were sent to Room 110. We went to TWO rooms labeled 110 until we found a THIRD room which, indeed, was where we were supposed to be. In the meantime we ended up on the surgical ward and then could not get out because the doors are locked. God help those children if there is ever a fire on the surgical ward.

Here is the Room 110 we were looking for. Inviting, isn't it?



Okay, off to x-ray, where we sat in a long, grim corridor facing an endless wall of closed and locked doors until we realized there was a giant sign pointing to a buzzer that said, albeit in Slovak, RING BUZZER! Duh-oh!

I may be repeating myself, but these facilities just don’t have stock in inventory, partially because no one wants to lay out the money for inventory and partially because it all apparently walks off. So gloves are rare. Lights are never on. Forget about paper products. Baboo was stressed and weepy. Her hay fever is also acting up. So her nose was running. Being the Bad Mother, I had no tissues in my purse (although there are four packs in the car and each of them has a pack in her school bag).

The Spouse says, “Go find a toilet.” Ha! You really think there’s toilet paper in the toilets of a Slovak hospital? I was amazed to find toilets at all. There was a Boys and a Girls, but nary a paper product to be seen in there. I found an adult WC, but it was locked. So she used her shirt tail. We’ve already been labeled as Child Abusers; adding Hillbilly Slobs to our pedigree is no big stretch.

By contrast, when we saw the cheerful Dr. Papas in Hainburg, he whipped open a huge cabinet revealing no end of bandages and other basic medical supplies. He handed us a box of pain killers, several types of products for covering the wound, and a tube of Betadine ointment all without batting an eye. The first guy we saw didn’t even have paper to cover his exam table.

Diagnosis: broken pinky. Back to Room 110 where they put a small cast on it (that goes practically to her elbow) and told us to return Friday for a “control” or check. She will need to wear it about three weeks. I’m hoping, because it doesn’t totally encircle her arm, that perhaps I can remove it myself in three weeks and save another trip to the hospital because I find it so grim and depressing.

It’s now 24 hours after the fact, and the cast has grown tiresome. It’s difficult to write with it. My normally upbeat Baboo returned home from school depressed and tired. Not to be outdone, Skittles presented with a migraine: she came in the front door, had a quick rinse, and took to her bed.

Me? I’m waiting to see if the Siege of Bratislava is over. Did we have our three events? Or is something else looming on the horizon? I sure hope not.

Wednesday, June 13, 2007

In Which I Go Temporarily Insane

I’m not sure if this is appropriate blog material, so please give me some feedback. At the time, it seemed hysterical and just full of endless discussion topics. You be the judge.

Where to begin? I suppose a discussion of midlife crises is in order first. I have a friend from college who I have recently rediscovered via email. He asked me, “So, what did you do for your midlife crisis?”

I was at a loss. If the definition of a midlife crisis is “an emotional state of doubt and anxiety in which a person becomes uncomfortable with the realization that life is halfway over, commonly involving reflection on what the individual has done with his or her life up to that point, often with feelings that not enough was accomplished,” if this is the gold standard, then I have been experiencing a midlife crisis every birthday since I was, oh, let’s say 30.

My lame answer at the time was, “I got a tattoo when I turned 30 . . .” Very lame, as he countered with fabulous tales of sailing the North Sea and bungee jumping in Africa.

But this week I think perhaps I have undertaken something as life threatening, complete with the requisite adrenaline buzz to match his tale of trying to stay awake at the helm during an all-night storm: I got a Brazilian. And not a very good one.

This is where I hesitate to share the story as it involves . . . a lengthy discussion of what the Argentines would call mi concha. Not exactly dinner table talk, as the Spouse would say with a sigh.

I had sort of been thinking about it for a while. It is, of course, the stuff of women’s magazines worldwide. And I see it at the gym all the time. I have mentioned before that the young Slovak woman is a force to be reckoned with: tall, leggy, usually blonde, with perky breasts, and a flat stomach. It gives those of us kicking fifty, well, pause.

Initially, I countered the aging process with sports and fitness. I go to the gym twice a week and work out with a trainer. In addition, I often swim once a week and usually have 90 minutes of tennis.

I have a French girlfriend who thinks I spend too much time and energy on working up a sweat. But that’s easy for her to say. First of all, she looks fantastic. And second, she is genetically predisposed to look great well into her 70s. The Slovaks may have the corner on the under-30 demographic, but no one ages like a French woman. Like fine wine, they become more beautiful and more interesting with each passing year.

So I formed a fast relationship with my cosmetic dermatologist. Dr. Jana, with her arsenal of non-invasive, “lunchtime procedures,” various lasers, fillers, and cabinet full of Botox, keeps my wrinkles in line and my whiskers at bay. Nonetheless, I have been lobbying the Spouse for a wattle-ectomy. The young Slovak beauties tend to have jaw lines sharp enough to open envelopes. But that involves general anesthesia, a trip to Brno, and money that is probably better spent on practical things like the electric bill.

Add to this the Spouse’s birthday next week and a pair of hairy gorilla legs, and I found myself walking into a local salon yesterday on the off chance I could get my legs waxed, at least, on the spot.

It’s a place I’ve been to many times, but I had never mentioned the B-word there before. I’ve never mentioned it anywhere, except, perhaps at a bar with similarly giggly and tipsy girlfriends.

I remember when I was pregnant in Argentina, discussing “courtesy coiffing” with another American woman who was also pregnant and seeing the same obstetrician. Because her Argentine husband is also a doctor, she knew our OB socially as well as professionally. Somehow we had reached the conclusion that the Argentine medical professionals did not think it was necessary to depilate as preparation for delivery. But what about the average Argentine woman on the street? This is a culture obsessed with beauty. Did they do any . . . lawn work as a precursor to any quasi-public viewing of the nether regions?

I thought American Girlfriend ought to ask the OB at the next barbeque, preferably before either of us went into labor. But she claimed cowardice. I thought I should ask at the waxing factory I used to frequent in Buenos Aires. But I just couldn’t work out how to phrase the question in Spanish without feeling like some sort of pervert.

So it came to pass that both of us delivered our children in whatever state we were in at the time. I do not recall any snarky comments from the doctor to his midwife along the lines of “Oh, dios mio, did you see the state of her concha . . . ?”

Fast forward ahead six years to yesterday.

I walked into the salon and in my limited Slovak said, “Terribly sorry, my Slovak sucks.”

The Woman Behind the Desk replied in Slovak, “Yes, I see, but nevermind.”

Me: “Is possible, depilation? Today?”

WBD: “Sure! No problem. What did you want done?”

Me: “Legs. Bikini. Underarms?”

WBD: “Sure! No problem. Follow me.” And she leads me into the part of the salon where they do facials and hair removal.

Cool, I thought. I don’t have to wait.

Then I dropped my bombshell: “Is possible, Brazilian?”

Woman Formerly Behind Desk, Now Wielding Hot Wax (cheerfully, as if she’s asked this every day): “Sure! No problem.”

I remove my skirt and blouse and climb up on the table. Unsure of the knickers protocol in a Brazilian wax job, I queried: “These? On? Off?”

WFBDNWHW: “Down!”

Now it seemed awkward to me to hop off the table again and I was unsure about my ability to toss them, Michael Jordan style, onto my purse across the room from that angle. So I stuck them under my head. Let me just clarify the scene: I’m not worried about showing her my goodies. But I feel leaving my knickers nearby is too much. Just so you’re clear on my state of mind.

What followed were 20 minutes of totally inept wax wielding, grimacing, and the repeated use of the Slovak word for pain. As in

WFBDNWHW: “Too much pain?”

I was beginning to realize I was going to be left with more stubble than Crockett and Tubbs. About this point she must have realized that we were inching towards terrain on which she was lacking confidence. She threw in the towel, as it were, by saying one word.

WFBDNWHW now known to me as The Butcher of Bratislava: "Gillette?"

Exactly, I thought. I’ll just take my poor plucked chicken self home and should I ever go looking for my heart’s desire, I won’t go any farther than my disposable razor. But not before she went after me with the tweezers first. Dios mio.

Once at home, safely cloistered in my office, I googled “Brazilian bikini wax.” Found two very entertaining videos on YouTube. They approximate the experience without actually showing you anything untoward:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AWXLSnnmNE8

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lRDkO2Z6_Ik

Learn from my mistakes. It’s a jungle out there.

Friday, June 08, 2007

In Which I Volunteer at School

I did double volunteer duty at the French school Wednesday and, I tell you Midge, I am fried. First, I had Piscine (swimming pool duty). They ask pairs of mothers to come along and help, and my partner for this was a very nice woman who speaks English better than I do.

Thankfully, we weren't required to get in the water, but just kept an eye on the kids from the side so they don't drown or injure themselves. Some of the girls seemed fixated on building sandwiches with themselves: they would lie in layers on top of each other, pushing the one on the bottom farther and farther under the water . . . seemed like a bad idea to me. I finally called a halt.

The kids didn't seem to get any instruction: just an hour in the pool. They were divided into two groups, and the bigger, stronger swimmers (on this occasion it was all boys) stayed in the deep end and had some structured activity with their regular teacher, Monsieur V. But the others, and this included Baboo, just splashed about in the shallow end while the Gym Teacher, who speaks no French, mimed that they should throw and retrieve the balls and other objects he brought with him. At least he got into the water with them. But he didn't teach them a thing.

Baboo swam around like a fish, and at the end Monsieur V told me he would move her to the section of better swimmers next time. That was good.

Then we helped process them in the showers. Here the good part was that I got Baboo to wash her hair, so she looks half decent.

I was totally exhausted after Piscine. I was yawning in the van with the kids on the way back to school. My partner mom, who knew I had several more hours of volunteer duty ahead, thought this was very funny.

Piscine Duty was followed by Playground Duty. The parents hosted a Thank You Lunch for the teachers and staff, so together with a different English-speaking mom, I directed kids through the lunch room (like herding cats!), served them their soup ("Please sir, may I have some more?"), and then, watched while they did not eat their main course. The other mom and I then shepherded them out to the playground where they tried to kill themselves and each other for a while. Eventually some of them began to want to go inside (a group of boys approached me and said they wanted to go in to "repose," which is just French for "quiet time," but sounds so funny.) so I became Inside Mom while the other woman remained Outside Mom.

My God! The dramas:

Kid 1: She ate my snack!
Me: Well, too bad. I can't bring it back, can I?

Kid 2: I lost my lunch bill.
Me: Well, if you've looked everywhere, then you'll just have to ask for a new one tomorrow.

Kid 3: He hit me!
Me: So stay away from him. The playground is big.

Kid 4: WHAAAAA!
Me: Oh, dear me, yes, there's quite a bit of blood. Let me wash your arm and side and shirt. You say it was a girl who did this? A YOUNGER girl?

Me: Why did you hit that other kid on the head with that giant rock?

Me: If you think you can behave now, you don't have to sit on the time-out bench any more.

Me: Did you want your glasses back?

Me: I thought hanging upside down off that was not allowed.

Did I mention this was all in French? Boy, talk about crash course on the imperative and tu forms. I'm not that good, either; I spent most my time hunting for one of my kids to translate . . . A few friends have suggested it would be hysterical to read back the transcripts of this day, translating what I said back into English.

I concluded that all of the teachers and staff are grossly underpaid. Many of the children were delightful and charming. Many of them, kindly, viewed me as a curiosity and followed me around to see what I would do and say. They thought it was impressive when I shuffled cards for them (and I can't even bridge), and funny when I had to count in English to deal. Several drew pictures for me. I have a new fondness for many of them: they're good people.

Spouse Update:
Thursday morning found a Very Cranky Spouse trying to work from our bedroom. He was still profoundly uncomfortable which didn't make him particularly patient when the office staff didn't respond the way he would have liked to his request to courier some documents over to the house. Follow that with the fact that he thought the documents needed a lot of revision, and you have a very good reason to tiptoe out of the room.

I thought about what I would want in a situation like that, and decided that when I am the least approachable, what I really crave is affection. So I offered what I expect is the Boy Version of Affection: Sex. This is how bad he felt: he smiled, but he took a rain check.

After lunch I took him back to the doctor for the follow-up visit. This time they didn't even pull the paper over the examining table: he had to lie on the vinyl, goodies just out there on the plastic where God-Knows-Who laid their goodies last.

The doctor yanked off the bandage like a salon wax job.

So far so good. They pull out the rain-chain drain. The Spouse winces. Then they filled a needle less syringe with Betadine and shot up the wound with it. THAT really hurt: Betadine STINGS and, further, it was being shoved into the very tender spot anyhow. I think he bent his end of the table while I stood there whispering, "Calm blue ocean! Calm blue ocean!"

This time he did NOT sit down while the doctor wrote out the report. But he is certainly feeling better because his mood has improved dramatically. It was like a different person returned home and hung out in the living room last night. He even kept me company while I watched Manhattan (Still funny. And for some reason I still want to be as neurotic and intellectual as Diane Keaton's character. What is wrong with me?).

We have a Big Weekend of Social Events coming up, and, for once, I am actually looking forward to all these parties. He claims he feels well enough to drive, so I have my designated driver, too. Sweet. I just hope it isn't too much activity for him. I'll give you a full report next week.

Tuesday, June 05, 2007

HIS Medical Problems

The poor long-suffering Spouse. In a continuation of the My Medical Problems theme, we have often discussed how nothing that happens to him is ever in what I might call a “public” part of his body: not the elbow, nor the big toe, nor the earlobe. It’s always something that involves removing undergarments and revealing intimate body parts.

Such was the case again on Sunday, when he came downstairs and announced, “I seem to have a . . . pimple . . . that’s causing me some discomfort.” Always kind and supportive, ever subtle, I probably hooted loudly and shouted something like, “HA! You mean on your BUTT, right?”

Thus it began.

Now I might back up a bit and point out for those of you who don’t get the blow-by-blow of our ups and downs, the “for better, for worse” aspects of our quotidian life, the minutia of “Can you believe what HE did?,” that our last Really Big Fight involved him not hopping off to the doctor to check out his migraines as fast as I thought he should have. Now since he rarely, if ever, reads my blog, I can confess to you, Dear Reader, that he probably did approach that problem in a reasonable manner. But I thought it was serious and that he had recently had two or three in close succession and that he didn’t make an appointment fast enough to suit me.

It was a doozie of a fight.

So for him to schedule an appointment for today, for TUESDAY, could only mean that he was really not feeling very good.

He was having trouble sitting, for one thing. And if it’s one thing lawyers do, it’s sit.

Plus, it was getting worse.

At first he would only let me feel it, through his sweat pants. It was unmistakable. This morning I paid him a quarter so I could see, and, yes, it merited professional help.

So imagine my surprise when he sends me a text message this morning, telling me he will see the doctor later today. This is one Sad Rabbit.

I had a lunch planned with a diplomat’s wife, a woman I don’t know well, but with whom I was looking forward to becoming better acquainted. I was sitting in the restaurant, waiting for her, when the Spouse texts me again: GOING TO HOSPITAL.

I text back: WHAT? NOW?

To which he replies: YES.

Now no matter how much another person may have vexed me in my life, one thing I could not do was sit there and blithely eat sushi while he went off to a Slovak hospital to have his abscess lanced or worse. So I cancelled the lunch, with promises that the situation was urgent but not serious and all would be revealed soon. Lunch was rescheduled.

Expats who have experienced Eastern European hospitals tend to fall into two categories: those who, for whatever reason, could not get somewhere else in time, and those who, out of some sociological curiosity, choose to subject themselves to the experience with a “It’s Gonna Make a Great Story” and “How Bad Can It Be, Really?” outlook.

I have no lack of confidence in the training of the practitioners here. Further, while some may report brusque bedside manners, my experiences in Bratislava have been generally warm and fuzzy.

It’s the facilities that are so grim. Long unlit hallways. BYO toilet paper, cutlery, meals. Private facilities are much better and closer to Western standards, but even those are not my first choice for treatment.

So I thought he needed moral support.

The Good Dr. Sedlak was avuncular and soothing: old enough for grey hair and a “seen it all” outlook. His English was flawed, but in a way that made his meaning clear and his manner more charming. Upon greeting us, he translated the catch-all Slovak phrase nech sa pači as “You’re welcome,” meaning “I welcome you.” It was nice.

And he even let me come along.

There he asked the poor Spouse a few basic questions about the condition, and then had him lie, face down and pants at his knees, on an examining table. In retrospect, I probably should have urged the Spouse to just strip everything south of the border off, so it wouldn’t get . . . . in any way ruined. But both of us thought the first step was just going to be further examination.

Next thing I know, Dr. S is shaving the skin and shooting the Spouse up with local anesthesia, a painful-looking process as he was digging that needle around, and deeply, and that was one particularly tender place or we wouldn’t have even been there. The nurse, Miss Jane (or maybe Janka) Fuzzy-Wuzzy, leans in closely and asks him, “Are you okay?” I decide then that, fascinating as this all is, and as much as I would, seriously, like to watch all this, the Spouse would be better served if I stood next to his head, held his hand, and tried to remind him to breathe.

So, alas, I can only report that the variety and size of the various instruments was nothing short of remarkable (I swear they had a large crochet hook going at one point), the loss of blood was minimal, and the attention to sterility, laughable. Neither the doctor nor the nurse were wearing gloves. Okay, probably they washed well. I wasn’t paying attention at that point. But what really made me raise an eyebrow was when he asked for the material that would form the drain for the wound for the next two days.

Nurse Janka F-W brings it to him between forceps, I assume to keep it from being traifed up. But then they both set upon it with bare hands, cutting and shaping the piece like it is a barbeque rib at a family reunion, before shoving it into the wound. It’s not a tube, but more akin to a rain-chain. Let’s hope those antibiotics counter anything they may have introduced with it.

So the Spouse regained his dignity and, thanks to the lingering affects of the local, was able to even sit while the doctor wrote out the report and the prescription. But by the time we got to the door of the building, that was a distant memory and the car ride, even in the New Car with the Better Suspension, was clearly painful.

We dosed him with his antibiotics, and set him up in our bed where he languished, bored and in pain, occasionally even sending me pitiful text messages while I cooked his lunch.

I have no doubt it really hurt. I saw them digging. But he seems to be feeling better now. The little fever he started to develop when we got home is down. And he’s even sleeping. But he’s going to be bored, after two days like this. It will be difficult, if not impossible, to work.

Thankfully I have an out: I volunteered to help at the school tomorrow. I get to round up and help process kids after swimming lesson and then amuse the after school club crowd while the teachers and staff are treated to a well-deserved thank-you lunch. I’ll let you know how we both fare.