Jag backar!!!

Ladies and Gentleman, Mina Damer och Herrar, your American in Aland is back. And, in keeping tradition with the old blog, I would like to start with Today's Question for the Reader:


When was the last time you somehow embarrassed yourself in a silly way and what did you do to incur this embarrassment? Entertain me, readers! :)



Greetings!


After being an American in America for the last year and nine months, it feels good to be an American in Aland once again (you will have to excuse my spelling of the word Aland. The A should have a circle over it, as it does in the title of my blog, but my computer will for some reason not allow me to make that Swedish letter at this time. But I digress...).


Since I first left Aland in October of 2008, my life has changed in a number of ways. I made the decision not to use my teaching degree. Instead, I have been going back to school to pursue a field in medicine. This has entailed enrolling in undergraduate science classes at a local university and completeing a course to receive my EMT certification. And while I played soccer (or, as they say in Swedish, fotboll) in a co-ed league on Sundays and in a semi-professional league in my two summers away from Aland, I felt that I was forced to accept that my career as a serious soccer player was over.


That is, until, my old coach and friend gave me a call one day in late April while I was holed-up in the school library, reading about various forms of ferns.

"Hej Becca! It's Ubbe!"


The unexpected call from the familiar and friendly accent caused me to grin the biggest grin I'd grinned all semester.


"Ubbe! Hej! Tjenare?"


I racked my brain for more Swedish beyond, "What's up?" in an effort to show my old coach that I still had it. But I hadn't thought about the Swedish language in quite some time.


Ubbe laughed, congratulated my attempts at Swedish as he always did, and went on to explain that Aland United was suffering from multiple injuries. What was I up to? What have I been doing for the last 17 months? Have I been playing any fotboll? Was I fit? And, would I have any interest in playing fotboll at the top level once again?

My heart stopped.


"Wait, you are calling to check my interest level in playing for Aland United?"


I looked down at my colossal biology book. I stared at a mind-numbing diagram representing the multiple fertilization processes of Staghorn ferns. My eyes then wandered to my school calendar, opened to reveal a flurry of assignments and test dates.


Would I play soccer again?


Are you kidding me?


"Yes! Yes, I am absolutely interested!"


The next couple of weeks consisted of discussions with the new head coach--discussions in which I hoped I could convince her that she should sign me to her team rather than an ex-WPS player. The next thing I knew, the contract was sent, and I immediately signed.


Goodbye, library.
Hello, perfect, green pitch. I have missed you.


So, once again, I find myself on the Finnish island of Aland, in the middle of the Baltic Sea, where the people welcome me with open arms and Swedish words, to play the sport that I more than enjoy. I am passionate about this sport--about running, jumping, heading, slide-tackling, fighting, shooting, scoring, and winning. This sport was my identity from the age of 5 until 23. And now, at 25 1/2 years old, I get to be Becca the Soccer Player once again.




Hell yeah.







Aland United, 2010

Now that I am here, let's discuss what has happened in the last week.


1) I practiced and played in a game with the team to discover that this team isn't just good, they are great. The team is currently in 3rd place in the league. We have to win out and the #1 team has to lose one game for us to take The Title.


We won our game this past Saturday (I made my debut and played the second-half), and I have no doubts that we are capable of winning the next 7 games. It will require focus and hard work, but the women on my team love this sport as much as I do, so they eat focus and hard work for breakfast.

Oh, and did I mention that the team is playing in the Champion's League this year after their success last season? Not a bad thing to add to the soccer resume.


2) It wouldn't be my life on Aland if I didn't have a second job delivering newspapers, now would it? Thanks to some help from my awesome teammate Maiju, I start Monday. Bring it on, obnoxiously large, yellow, newspaper-delivering bicycle!


3) I have a great little apartment located steps away from my best buddies Emelie and Ante and just down the road from a beautiful beach. The apartment has all the essentials and a comfortable bed.


There is only one draw-back:


The Laundry Room


If there is an award for the creepiest laundry room on the face of the planet, the laundry room in my apartment complex wins by a kilometer. Allow me to attempt an expression of this absolutely direful place of wash:

The way to The Laundry Room begins with a dark, spiral staircase that plummets into the ground and looks as if it belongs to the deep entrance of a dungeon. These stairs are open-backed, which any child with an imagination knows that this is perfect for sub-stair lurkers to reach through and grab the legs of unsuspecting stair-descenders. The staircase leads to a damp, empty room, above which there is no working light. The room leads to a barren, eternal hallway. Follow the hallway. On the left, there is an unmarked door. Inside: the washing machine.

THIS IS CREEPY, RIGHT!?

I tried to capture this extreme and undoubtable creepiness of the staircase on my camera.



Here is the spiral staircase which I must brave to launder my clothes. By day, not so bad. But creepy, no less.





















This is the same spiral staircase by night (look closely to see the stairs). The light leads to the eternal hallway, where I feel as though I'm more likely to find witches brewing potions rather than machines washing clothes.

If I disappear, chances are pretty good that Pennywise the Clown got me in The Laundry Room.

The Perfect Present

This past Sunday was my dear friend Ante's birthday. He was kind enough to invite me over to share cake with his family and close friends. And since the invite was somewhat last-minute, I was unable to get Ante a gift. Luckily, an opportunity arose before the party which would allow me to give Ante the perfect present.

My good friend Jolanda was gone for a week with her mother visiting a Swedish island. Because Ante is such a nice guy, he offered to watch Jolanda's mother's dog while they were away. Mille, the dog, is 11-years-old and looks more like an overgrown guinea pig than a canine. He is a fat little chihuahua with long, shaggy black fur. He's like a dust-mop with a face. He's adorable.

Unfortunately, due to either his old age or to separation anxiety, or perhaps it was something he ate, Mille has a pooping problem. The problem is that he poops inside.

Because Ante is a busy man, he needed the help of my friend Emelie and her roommate Frida to step-in and take care of Mille whenever Ante has had to work this past week.

The first night at Emelie's apartment, Mille pooped on the floor. Emelie had no choice but to get on her hands and knees and clean up the chihuahua droppings. Emelie was feeling sorry for the little guy. Maybe he was sick!

The second night at Emelie's apartment, Mille pooped on the floor. This time, it was Frida's turn to clean up Mille's excrement. He was beginning to look a little less cute.

The third night at Emelie's apartment, and also the day of Ante's birthday celebration, Mille pooped on the floor.

Since Emelie and Ante live two steps from one-another, I first went to Emelie's apartment before heading to Ante's for cake.

I rang the doorbell.

No answer.

I rang it again.

Still no answer.

I pounded on the door.

Finally, Emelie threw the door open and immediately turned to swoop away and out onto the balcony with Frida and Carro.

"Watch your step!" she shouted as she went, "He's done it again!"

But due to the overwhelming stench, I already knew.

There, on the doormat, sat a healthy helping of Mille pie. Or, perhaps 'custard' better describes the state of this specimen.

Gross.

I plugged my nose and leaped the doormat to join the girls on the balcony, which was the only place in the apartment with breathable air.

"Good Lord!" I exclaimed, "That odor is absolutely horrendous! Is someone gonna clean that up?"

"Not me!" shouted Frida, "I cleaned it yesterday!"

"And I cleaned the first one," said Emelie, "I'm not touching that again."

I looked at Carro's face. "No way," she stated.

"It's Ante's dog," Emelie shrugged,"he can clean it when he gets home from work."

It was then that I was struck with the idea for the perfect present. It's not that I wanted to, so much, but that I felt that I had to.

"No one wants to clean up dog shit on his birthday," I sighed. "I'll clean it."

Armed with plastic bags, paper towels and stove cleaner (apparently the only cleaning spray available at the time), I began to clean the poop.

While cleaning, Ante came home from work and knocked on Emelie's door. She opened it for Ante to see his sweet, American friend on all fours scrubbing poop out of a rug.

"Oh my," Ante said as he stumbled back in reaction to the smell, "It stinks."

"This is your birthday present, Ante!" I shouted while simultaneously attempting not to inhale the scent. "Cause no one wants to clean poop on his birthday, right?"

Ante laughed, thanked me, and quickly disappeared into his own apartment. It was almost party time and people would be arriving soon.

When the fecal matter was finally cleaned and bagged, I was prepared to take it to the outside garbage.

"Wait!" Frida said as she chuckled, "You should give Ante the bag of poop!"

I laughed and thought about it. I mean, it would make the present official.

"Good idea! I'm on it."

I walked the two steps to Ante's apartment and rang the bell. "Antaaayy!" I shouted from outside, "I have something for you!"

The door slowly creaked open and once the gap was wide enough to fit my arm, I blindly shoved the bag of poop through the opening and shook its contents.

"Here you are Ante! Happy Birthday!"

The girls were laughing from Emelie's apartment and I too giggled in anticipation of seeing Ante's face once the door was fully agape.

The door opened all the way.

Oops.

That's not Ante.

That's Ante's mother: a sweet, elegant woman that I had met once before but very briefly. She more knows of me than knows me. She had apparently arrived at Ante's earlier in preparation for the party.

So there I was, standing in my friend's doorway, making my real first impression with his mother by shaking a bag of dogshit in her face.

She was clearly in shock and plugged her nose.

I lowered the poop.

Wow. This is awkward.

I rambled something about a dog pooping and it was Ante's dog so I was gonna clean the poop as his present and this is the poop in the bag Happy Birthday Ante ha...ha... ha. . .

"Ante is in the shower," she said in Swedish.

"Ok," I responded as I slowly backed away, "I'm really sorry."

I turned and ran downstairs, a flush of embarrassment reddened my face.

Did that seriously just happen?

In the end, I had to face Ante's mother and go back to his apartment for cake. I apologized once again the moment I entered. She laughed and gave me a big hug. What a lady.

So what about you, reader? What's your embarrassing moment? :)