Like a camel through the eye of a needle

People have been asking me left and right if I'm nervous about going back to the States after four years out. The question started appearing in emails and phone conversations around two months ago, right about the time we bought our plane tickets. I always answered 'No.', and quite truthfully at that. I've never been one to anticipate a future feeling and live in it unnecessarily for weeks on end beforehand, preferring instead to do my best to pretend that everything is quite normal, at least until the last possible minute.

Well, it's hit me finally. And while I can't really say I'm nervous I'm having a hard time finding what is the right word for the butterflies that have once again taken up residence on my insides. I do know that as a result of all this I am in constant motion; I cannot sit still. I think this is what the experts call 'mania'.

Naturally, I had us half packed weeks ago. The rest of our stuff is still strewn about the house in utter chaos; picking it all up somewhere on my list of to-do's but not quite making it to the forefront yet. There have been other, more important things to worry about than the state of our house. We microchipped the dog and got his papers stamped at the American Embassy where they peered at me through the plexiglass inquisitively and asked, perplexed, 'You're exporting a dog??' To which I replied, 'Yes, a little Indian street dog.' which didn't exactly unfurrow any brows. But they shrugged and stamped and smiled and sent me on my way $50 lighter. One more thing ticked off the list.

Actually, my most anxiety-inducing concern and the biggest butterfly of all is Mooshy. I hate to think of him in the belly of an airplane (three airplanes, actually if you count the flight to Bangkok from here and the flight from LAX to Vegas.) and stuck in his kennel for a good 24 hours. We did have the good sense to take a hotel room near the airport in L.A. that first night as the last thing I want is to see my parents again after eons looking like a big dishevelled mess of a daughter. And I have no way of even estimating just how long it's going to take us to get through customs and immigration - with an imported street dog and an Iranian husband I anticipate something of an extended remix bordering on trauma.

For now, I've got three days to check off the rest of the items on my list; not the least of which is handwashing the rest of our laundry. We donated our washing machine to a local charity and so I'm back to bucket and hand to get the job done. It's an exercise in humility to be sure...wringing out sopping shirts and shorts with all the force my pathetic little hands can muster. A fitting tribute to my life in the third world. I'm dreaming, ridiculously, of a set of Kenmores.