Summer Homeopathy

So, as I’ve said before, Germans like to suffer. I’m not sure, actually, if they like to suffer or if it’s just a side effect of eschewing all convenience and comfort. Today, my example is air conditioning and/or screens. Choose one or the other. Choose both. But what is the deal with neither?

Last weekend was the Official “Remember How Miserable German Summers Are” day here in Krautland. The temp in our area was near 100°F (37°C) with an 80% humidity rate. So as summers are hot, one would think air conditioning would be a popular addition to homes and any sort of new development. But no, it’s not. Germans tend to think the drastic temperature differences caused by A/C units cause random and unnamed circulatory problems. I think this is some how related to the homeopathic tendencies of the typical Kraut.

In the Bay Area, summers are hot and dry. I always heard that there is a difference between dry heat and moist heat and I never really made the connection. Well, nature is giving me an education. Here, my fingers get sticky with heat and I’m still wet after drying off after a shower. In the Bay Area, I took the fantastic Tuscan type weather for granted. Just like all offices, stores, cars and most homes having A/C. Wasn’t it just a given? And I might have gotten a summer cold occasionally, but I was way more productive with A/C and a cold than healthy without A/C.

Okay, fine. A/C is out. Next solution: Open the windows. This is where one would think screens would be status quo. Again, no. Germans don’t seem to have a problem with the co-habitation of flies, mosquitoes, moths, bees and other flying wildlife.

I do. I have a big problem with a life without screens. When I bring this up in conversation, people are stunned, frankly, that this is even a subject worthy of conversation. Then again, I’m an American used to polluting the environment for my comfort and convenience. And it’s true; I don’t like going to sleep listening to the kamikaze buzzing of the bug du jour. I hate waking up in the morning looking like the buffet table at mosquito convention.

So in order to matriculate in this primitive culture, I’ve been observing the Hausfraus in our Hof. I keenly observed that doors and windows are opened early in the morning while the air is still cool from the night before. This seems to create the wind tunnel through the house, cooling the stone and replacing all the stagnant air.

This morning I followed suit. It became so cold in the house, Markus put on socks. Cleo, the lazy cat, found a blanket to curl up on. Yesterday she was sprawled across the marble in the bathroom looking like she had been shot. So this was an improvement. The house was cool. Phew. I found the answer. I couldn’t figure out why I had never been told about this trick. It’s so easy.

Then it got later and it was actually cold in the house. I considered putting on sweats. I looked outside and all the windows and doors that had been open were now closed. Maybe it was to hold in the cold air. Tomorrow, I thought, I’ll have to watch more carefully and figure out how long to leave to doors open for maximum cool effect without the cold effect. Wow, life without A/C could be cool.

Then it hit me. It was cold inside because it was cold outside. The temp dropped to about 60°F outside and with all the doors and windows open, it was cold inside. I had discovered the homeopathic remedy to a warm house, cold weather.

I’m back to square one. Wasn’t an American who said, “Give me A/C, or give me death!”?

"Seeking young, well-built men aged 18 to 30 to slaughter."

The case of the Meiwes,the German cannibal, is widely known. However, what is lesser known is the story of one that got away, or rather the one that was thrown back.

Meiwes’ defense was based on the fact that several potentials were eliminated; I mean they were let go before the eating and killing part started. The sex part happened, but no body parts had been cut off before they left. Either the main course chickened out or Meiwes rejected the guy(too fat, not fat enough, a teacher). Meiwes laywer claims it isn’t murder if the victim wanted to be eaten and die – and it happened in that order.

So as part of the defense, some of the potentials were called as witnesses.

One of the guys that had to testify was a married teacher. He had never told his wife of his involvement. Can you imagine that conversation?

1. I had an affair
2. with a man who gave it to me up the bum
3. who wanted to cut off my penis and eat it
4. then kill me
5. but he ultimately rejected me.

I mean really, what do you do with that? No Kobe diamond will make it better.

I figure if he had just gone to his wife before, explained what he wanted, she probably would have been more than willing to help him live out his dream.

I know I would.

Q: Why Does Sparky Suck?

Push The Button



Answer: He sent me that link.

Midget Tossing is a Crime

However, feeding them to a hungry lion like chicken wings at a happy hour buffet seems to be legal. Chicken Wings

High Crimes and Misdemeanors

Let me preface this post. Germans are wonderful people. This country has brought about wonderful music, deep thinkers and fascinating literature. Not to mention my husband. It has not, however, brought a decent sense fashion to its countrymen.

I figured it was part of the settlement after WW2. To make amends for the horrors, the German people will forever have to wear shoes the color of putty with suntan hose, wear neon long after the rest of the world determined that color spectrum a health hazard and to carry the weight of their communal guilt on their bodies in the form of accessories.

Case in point. We’ll call this woman Anya. Anya is a total stranger my girlfriend, Von Tauber, and I spotted while sipping our drinks over dinner on Thursday night. We probably would have not even noticed her if not for her affected continental air kisses.

Anya is a victim of the more is less principle. Please note the following: Patent leather headband plus scrunchy to hold lacquered hair back. Black polka dot neck scarf, knotted on the side, gold bracelet plus watch and black, square chunk heel with tan hose. The large faux Chanel quilt bag with matching Chanel sunglasses completed the outfit. We know about the faux part because we totally eavesdropped on her conversation while talking about her.

So to this I say, lets save the Deutscher. Let’s call a world summit over the appropriate use of “fashion accessories”. Let’s limit the number allowed per household, per person and per occurrence. Germans love rules and regulations therefore by making fashion laws, we can help the wayward Deutscher by conforming to their need of structure.

Anya is a pretty girl with a great figure. It would a crime to allow other young women of this country to fall to Anya’s Fate.

Now, pardon me while I go repair my glass house.

Face Forward! >

Anya is a flight attendant 

Swiss Schtick

Oops. Looks like there might be one happy swiss tourist out there in Florida. Swiss Stick
I wonder how you'd claim that from the lost and found?

How do you make a Swiss man laugh?

Put a gun to his head and say, "Laugh".

Before I moved to Germany, I disliked all people generally the same amount. Now after traveling "The Continent" I have learned that all Europeans are not alike.

The French are nice enough, if not very small people. Germans bring suffering to a high art. Austrians seem happier than the Germans; The Italians are the happiest and easiest to be around even with a language barrier.

The Swiss, and I speak generally here, are the most wretchedly cold and unhelpful people I have ever met. You smile and say hello and they grunt and turn their backs. I won't even go into the whole anti-Semitic argument and WW2 leave your valuables with us before you hop on this nice train to Poland atrocities.

Then I read this article.

Swiss Humor Explained

Those poor damaged people. Maybe it’s from living in such an enclosed area? Or maybe it’s the altitude. Or maybe it’s the giant stick up their bums.

The Green Eyed Monster

So my husband is in love with another female. And she seems to feel the same way about him. I tried to be all “Mrs. Kinsey” about it, but I am jealous. I guess I’m just not into all that polyamory stuff.

Kiska is my 11-year-old black cat and she has fallen head over heels in love with Sparky. She waits for him to get into bed at night, and then she wraps her tail provocatively around his neck as she settles in for the night. By settling I mean she lays down right between us in the bed with all four of her little paws pushing against me as if to tell me to shove off. I’ve thrown her out of bed only to wake up with her right back in her favorite spot. In the morning, she jumps down to follow him to the bathroom or where ever else he goes.

All I ever hear is “ Look how beautiful Kiska is, doesn’t she have gorgeous green eyes, isn’t it cute how she sleeps all close to me”. What about my green eyes? And I’d snuggle closer at night if that damn cat weren’t all cuddled close.

Kiska has turned in to a Kellie Grawtski.

Kellie was a girl in my 2nd grade class who would trip me on the way to the water fountain. I’d end up with a mouth full of porcelain, a bloody fat lip and a lecture about running in the halls. Kellie, with her matching hair ribbons and perfectly coiffed pigtails, would smile sweetly and tell the yard lady I was running in the halls again. The yard ladies, teachers and parents all loved Kellie. The other girls were afraid. Kellie was the evil chick all girls encounter at one point or another in childhood.

Well, Kellie is alive and well in my house. Kiska is all sweetness and light when Markus is around, but when he leaves, I swear her eyes narrow. I know that cat has it in for me. Kiska, that turncoat, is just waiting for me to forget to clip her claws so she can claw my eyes out. I know she’s just waiting for the perfect opportunity to suck my breath away in the night.

Tool Time

When I was younger and thought about the man I'd marry, I had a picture in my head. He'd be a little dumb because I figured most guys were a little dumb. He'd like sports. He'd be the fixer in the house and take out the garbage. He'd mow the lawn and do yard work. What do I end up with? A smart-ass kraut that hates to get his hands dirty, literally does not know how to use a hammer and doesn't have the patience to learn. He does, however, take out the garbage.

Here's the problem:

The weather strip thingy on our front door broke. A tiny metal part holding it in place broke in half. I ordered the part and when it arrived, I realized I needed a smallish (about 10mm) hex bit to remove the two screws holding in the broken part. I knew the size by sight not by numerical measurement. Know what I mean? I figure it's because I'm a mover’s daughter and grew up measuring the size of things with my eyes. Helpful talent, let me tell you.

I did not feel like going to Bauhaus (HomeDepot) to get this bit. There was no way I could send Sparky into a hardware store and expect him to come out with anything remotely helpful for this project. It finally hit me what living with Sparky means. It means I will never, ever have someone else to fix this stuff.

Now, some guys might have a hard time understanding this from my perspective. Long ago, when I had other boyfriends and something would break, they would fix it. Like the VCR, cable box, TV wiring or a doorknob that was loose. I could fix it, but why bother when Boy X, Y or Z would do it. I didn't HAVE to depend on anyone to fix it, but it was nice when they did.

Well, I just realized that I'm Boy X.

We needed the paint in the kitchen touched up. He wanted to call in the painters who don't lift a brush for less than 250€. I bought a brush and a paint mixing stick for 5€ and set to work. I could almost see paying people to do this stuff, but not really.

Sparky is useful, don’t get me wrong. He’s so bright I can barely stand him. He’s almost as good as I am in an argument. This gives me a challenge while still allowing me to win – very important. And he’s super at digging holes. He’s strong and muscular. He can carry all the heavy stuff and help lift stuff. And he’s taller than I am so he can reach all the stuff I can’t. His mother taught him to polish shiny surfaces. He’s superb at polishing knobs.

Now, this door thing really nailed it home for me (pun intended). Sparky figured we were going to have to buy a new door or at least hire our carpenters to fix it. It took me five minutes to fix.

I will never again know the pleasure of letting someone else fix this stuff.

Instead, I get the pleasure in the satisfaction that I can do this stuff. And it’s totally overrated.

Rose Petals

Sparky and I are in the middle of Fart Wars. After gorging on the best Italian food in Germany during our brief stay in Berlin, we found ourselves in a state of the binded stool. As any one of my family members can attest, I keep a tea on hand for these and similar movements, I mean moments. The tea is called Smooth Move and boy is it smoooth. My siblings refuse to drink any beverage made by me in my house as they have been served this tasty tea for my amusement. Neither Jeff nor Mim found it as amusing as I did.

So Sparky and I drank it yesterday afternoon. All last night and today, Sparky and I have been lighting up the house with our natural energy source. However, as I explained to my brother long ago, I do not fart. I lose rose petals, sweet smelling clouds of femininity. Sparky has a faster metabolism; he tends to start off this fart off. I close up the rear the next day laying out more rose petals than the 14 flower girls at Princess Di’s wedding.

I had an aunt who never let her husband see her without make-up on. She’d get up before him in the morning and make sure every liner was in place, mascara removed and re-applied. She would be horrified by this mutual gas attack.

I suggest visitors wait until Tuesday to drop by.

Hair Job

So I did it. I dyed my hair. By myself. See, since moving to Krautland, I have not found a decent hair salon. I’ve had highlights a color my sister (who has perfect hair) called cat piss yellow. I’ve had a reddish tint the color and shine of old pennies on the bottom of a purse. I’ve had a couple of cuts that left me looking like the shaggy dog. It’s been terrible. And I’ve paid hundreds of euros to look that bad!

I’ve seen exactly two women with hair I liked. One woman cuts and dyes her own hair. The other goes to such a chi chi salon, that without matching shoes and handbags, one would not be given an appointment.

Every other woman here has one of three hair styles: 1. The bleached, bleached blond straight long hair with natty roots combined with the tanning bed brown skin 2. Vato girl streaks on long brown hair with natty roots and tanning bed brown skin or 3. Short, masculine cuts with leopard spot highlights.

I am not blond, I am not Vato and the last time I had short hair was a Dorothy Hamil cut in the 4th grade that I believe scarred me so horribly that even today I hyperventilate when I think about it.

So I’ve waited. I’ve invested in cute rubber bands because a ponytail is the only “style” I can wear with 5” roots. I had hopes of visiting John V, the hair guy in SF in Feb. But I didn’t make it to SF in Feb. Then I thought I’d see him in June. June is a no go for SF. I’m keeping my fingers crossed for August.

However, since my cat piss yellow hi-lights have grown out, I’ve started to look like a crack ho. And as Crack Ho is NOT the look I’m going for, I decide to dye my hair myself. I mean, lots of women do it, right? I couldn’t be worse than that chick that gave me the cat piss yellow to begin with. And we were going to Berlin, which meant there was a bathroom I could destroy that didn’t belong to me.

The last time I tried to do my own hair I was 22. It was a Friday night, alone with a box of wine, a bag of chips and a do it yourself highlight kit. I had just read in Cosmo that chunky streaks were ‘In’. So chunk it up I did. The box said to test a strip, but as I’m a totally average person, I figured my hair was average too, no need to test. And since more is always better than less, I did my whole head and left it on for like 45 minutes. The box said 25-35 minutes. I figured 45 minutes were good enough. Actually, the box of wine said it was good enough because by that point the box of wine was actually in control. Boy, that box of wine really had it in for me.

I ended up with a lemon color that, funnily enough, absorbed all light like a black hole. This characteristic was not described on the packaging. In fact, the girl on the package looked happy and sunny and carefree. Not like she just ruined her hair for the next 3 years. To be fair, the girl on the box did not have a box of wine either.

The next morning I met my dad and step-mom for a garden show with a baseball cap on. K told me that indeed my hair looked horrible and that I desperately needed to go to a professional. I went to her hair guy to fix it. He was so pissed. He couldn’t even look at my hair without scowling. He then told me not to ever, ever, ever dye my own hair again. “Lemon is the color little girls get when they dye their own hair. I have no idea if i can fix this.” That is a direct quote from John the hair guy. Did i mention John is like 6"2', straight, ex-military with a big bald head? I have been so afraid of him for the past 10 years, I never thought to do it myself.

It turned out okay, though.

And I did destroy the bathroom. I have no idea how I got hair dye on the walls and ceiling, but I did. And thank god it wasn’t in our marble Taj Mahal. Markus would have scalped me.

...and then we take Berlin!

We're off to Berlin for a few days. later gators.

Sig, the quicker licker. He's scary, not scaredy. 

Sig the Little Black Cat

So, my sweet cat Sig died yesterday. Its sad and horrible and sad, but I’m sure “he’s in a better place.” We buried him in Markus’ mother’s backyard. I tied a ribbon around his neck with a lock of my hair sewn into it so he can find me when he re-incarnates. I told him not to come back as a spider because I might not think he’s that cute. An orange kitten might be a better choice.

So this morning at 5:30 am, I heard a noise in the kitchen. My first reaction was, “Those Cats!!” but Cleo was still asleep on my pillow and Kiska was on Markus’ side of the bed. I got up to check and found a drinking glass had fallen into the sink.

Hmm. A glass with a flat surface sitting on a flat surface falling into the sink on its own. What are the chances of that happening without some supernatural force? I looked around and everything else seemed to be in its proper place so I went back to bed.

Back to bed, but not back to sleep. I figured the logical answer to the case of the knocked over glass was Sig. He was coming back to say goodbye. Then I went even further and decided that the ribbon with the lock of hair had in fact tied him to the planet where he was destined to roam searching for a way to move on and re-incarnate into an orange kitten and I doomed him with that stupid piece of hair. I figured I had to remove the hair or else he would be here forever and seeing how there was no way I could dig up my beloved dead cat, I’d have to convince Markus to do it.

So I woke up Markus. I explained about the glass that fell and the ribbon and the hair and the roaming forever and how he could never come back as an orange kitten because I doomed him and hadn’t the poor kitten suffered enough. Markus looks over, still half asleep and tells me he put the glass on top of the sponge last night so as not to make a mark in our sink. He said he figured it might fall, but the thought of a wet ring on the stainless steel was worse in his mind.

Hmm. I don’t know which one of us is more disturbed.

So long, sweet kitten. We miss you.

the secret that never was...

So Markus and I were at the video store this weekend. We go to this one place that is near an American army base because it has US release dates on some code one movies. Meaning we get to see them before the movies are even released in the theaters here. Well, they just got in a whole slew of TV series. This is exciting as all TV here, except for MTV and CNN, are in German. Because I live in Germany.

German TV stations get all the old US shows I used to watch, except they’re dubbed in Deutsch. Nothing is more frustrating than Law & Order or Star Trek: TNG in Deutsch. You can kind of follow it, but not really. The details are what count and those are totally lost on me. If I’ve seen the episode in English, I pretend (its not lying if its just pretending) I understand and “guess” what’s going to happen. Markus only bought this a few times.

Anyway, when my dad visited last September, he recommended Stargate Atlantis. My dad introduced me to science fiction with an old black and white flick about time travel and stepping on ants. It completely changed reality, as I knew it at 10. I’ve been a closet fan since. I mean really, growing up I never wanted to be a member of the sci-fi club except with my dad. I had other image problems; I did not need to add another. I’d go to a Star Trek convention, but I wouldn’t tell anyone. As an adult working in the IT division of an investment bank, it was still not a club I wanted to join. I kept it so much to myself even Markus was not aware how much I loved Star Trek and other sci-fi TV series. Until last Saturday night.

Saturday night, I found Stargate Atlantis (the complete first season) at the video store. As excited as I was, I coolly played it off my dad’s interest.

“So what’d you find?” Markus asked.
“Eh, Stargate Atlantis. My dad said it was decent. I thought I’d give it a try. There’s nothing else to rent.”
“Are you sure? They have Sex and the City, the 2nd half of season 6. Or the new Brigit Jones. They have a ton of princess themed teeny bopper movies you haven’t seen.” I’m also a sucker for anything that refers to a princess-like story aimed at pre-teen girls.
“Yeah, that’s okay. I’ll just get this first episode to see if I like it. No big deal. You know, got continue to be #3 with my dad.”

#3 refers to the position of love and importance in my dad’s world. My brother and I compete mercilessly for this position behind his cats, #1 Sawyer, #2 Taylor. To be #4 means you totally suck. Hear that, Jeff?

We get the movies and go home. Markus wants to work a bit more (he works from home) so I CASUALLY mention that’ll just pop in Stargate as I excitedly pop it in the DVD player and set up my cold drink and popcorn bowl next to the sofa. No big deal. Won’t waste his time if it sucks.

It so did not suck. 3 minutes after it started, Markus came in. he didn’t really want to work. By the time the first episode was over, I was hooked. I HAD to watch the rest of the season immediately regardless of the consequences of appearing too interested. I had to see the rest! Now. I need not have worried about his reaction to my deep dark secret. It apparently was not so deep or much of a secret. That came as something of a disappointment.

So off went my dear, sweet husband to fetch the rest of the season while I called my dad.

“Hello.”
“Dad, its your daughter. I just want you to know I hate you.”
“Well, hello Jennifer. Nice to hear from you.”
“I just sent Markus to rent the rest of Stargate Atlantis. I’m totally hooked.”

All my dad could do was laugh. A comparison to my demanding mother might have been made, but I couldn’t concentrate as Markus called on the other line telling me all episodes had been rented. I hated my dad even more as he laughed about how with Sunday and Monday closed due to some random holiday involving a holy spirit, I’d not be able to see the rest until Tuesday. My dad, who hooked me on the heroin of TV genres, was still laughing as he hung up.

Markus couldn’t find the rest of the season at one video store, but found the next three discs at another. We stayed up until 2:30 am watching five episodes and only went to bed because my eyes would not stay open. Today, the video store opens at 1:30. Discs 5-11 had better be there.

Ms. TaTas and the Misanthrope

I hate working out. I also tend to dislike people in general. What I really hate is having to make small talk at the gym. Some people really enjoy the camaraderie and the social atmosphere of a gym. They get to talk to people, stretch and work their muscles, watch people. Some people use it as a dating service. Some people like feel so good about going to the gym and the subsequent change in their bodies that the gym is a happy place.

This is not how I feel about the gym. In fact, it’s safe to say the gym is a close second to a visit to the dentist in terms of places I like to hang out. However, I must go to this bastion of health, smiles and sweat thanks to a traitorous metabolic system. This does not mean I like it. It means that I find my less unhappy place when I go to the gym by sinking into my own head, not making eye contact and exuding an air of unhealthy misery. I’ve worked very hard to exude just enough wretchedness so as not to be approached by people, to be left alone with my 2-2.5 hours of self-inflicted torture. And it had worked for almost 18 months.

However, my husband, Sparky McSocial, loves the gym. He would work out 2x a day/7days a week if left to his own devices. He talks to people, gives advice, as those with a vast amount of VISABLE musculature are wont to do. He spots for newbies and overall is a pretty nice and very approachable guy. If he stayed in his corner during our joint ventures, this would be okay. I have no problem with his happiness, except in how it affects me. I’m selfish like that.

I have imposed a no PDA at the gym rule to no avail. I have warned him that soft touches and pecks on my head while I’m lifting weights are wrecking my plans. His sweet little public displays of affection counteract my air of misery, connecting his chipper-ness to me thus leaving me wide open for people to approach.

So now, when I walk into the gym, the trainers say hi, random power lifters say hello and ask me how I’m doing, people I’ve never met, never noticed inside my private little hell, stop and chit chat with me. When Markus is around, people chat me up all the time. My anonymity is completely wrecked. My unhappy little bubble popped for chitchat. Great.

Now I have “friends” at the gym. I have the fat friends who are looking for a little oasis of shared misery amid the happy healthy. In my head I tell them to move on, not a friend to my own fat, not going to be one to yours

I have the trainers who smile encouragingly and, thank god, move on. Then there are the talkers, the other people who don’t want to be there and talk your ear off for an hour before you finally say, phew, what a work out, I need a shower.

I have skinny friends who just want to smile and share their perkiness. I think they just want to stand next to me to feel better about themselves (the therapist in my head says this is MY issue. Whatever).

As is the case of Miss TaTas.

Miss TaTas could be the poster child for any gym or Aryan nation. She’s blond, blue eyed, about 5’8”, 123 pounds and a 32D. She’s gorgeous. Her boyfriend is gorgeous. She wears nice matching workout clothes that expose a firm tan belly and nicely nipped waist. She is my antithesis.

The first time I saw her in the locker room I celebrated as her nice firm breasts were fake, a recent purchase at that. I took comfort in while my breasts may sag, they were natural. Isn’t it funny how we make ourselves feel better in the pettiest of ways?

Anyway, Miss TaTas is American and mentioned to Sparky that she thinks Germans are unfriendly. I have always claimed that Germans are unfriendly (coming from me that says a lot). So Sparky send this perfect vision of womanhood over to my neck of the woods to chitchat with me while I’m sweating to the oldies. I could have killed him.

The worst part is, she seems really sweet. And not that fake you out sweetness that women use when sizing up competition. It was that sweetness accompanied by insecurity. That wretched sweetness that makes you want to be friends with the poor little bird.

So after a few minutes of talking, I claimed my workout was over and headed to the locker room. 20 minutes later she walks in while I’m blow-drying. We smile and go about our business. A few minutes later I’m thinking about how she ended up in Germany. I’m thinking about how lost she seemed and how it must been hard and did her boyfriend suggest the boob job. Shall I invite her out for coffee? Maybe she needs a girlfriend and I can relate.

Then she got on the scale, in a matching pink bra and thong set, after a short Asian woman and knocked the big black weight back two notches.

I can’t relate that much.

Single again.

So markus is gone for a couple of days. He's up north on business. Up until a few months ago, Markus and I had not spent one night away from each other since I moved here in 2003. And I like it. I like my husband. A lot. There are not too many people one can spent 24/7 with and not hate or have hate you. Markus and I do really well together. That being said, I had totally forgotten how nice it can be to be totally alone.

Its a weird feeling when he leaves. On some level I feel like I did when my parents were leaving for day or a weekend when I was in high school. A sudden burst of unexpected freedom from responsibility and the anticipation of a scary night alone in a big house.

Now, I have to say, I have a pretty free lifestyle. I don't work and we don't have kids. I have a couple of book groups and some girlfriends. I have to workout a couple of times a week so I don't feel completely worthless, but its not like my old U.S. life.

However, I do cook and clean up the house and neither of those things comes naturally to me. I hate cooking and cleaning is something I did once a month or when I smoked a joint when I was single. Now its a daily occurrence. It should be. Its not like I'm breakin' my back. I've got a pretty cushy existence here.

But when Markus leaves, all cleaning and cooking stops. I make pasta and eat it out of the pan and leave the pan where ever I eat it. I leave my clothes where I take them off. Toothpaste lines the bathroom sink. I read all day, eating honey toast in bed. I do this all the first day until I can't stand it anymore.

Then the 2nd stage starts. I pretend that the house is not mine so I can pretend its all mine. This is a complicated ruse to understand if you don't know my OCD challenged husband.

I clean up everything and polish all the shiny surfaces until everything gleams. I move furniture to see if there is a better configuration and leave it that way for a while. I hang pictures where I want to without asking "does this look okay here?" with complete disregard to random nail holes.

I tuck in the sheets on the bed the way I like it. This is impossible to achieve if two people are in the bed.

I burn candles with no regard to errant wax spillage.

There usually is a moment of terror as I polish my toenails red in the actual bathroom. Cream colored marble makes this risky.

I listen to music that brings up old memories of past boyfriends, flings or stupid mistakes. No need to explain why I need to listen to the same song 15 times in a row. Air Supply's Greatest Hits usually has some air time along with Journey's GHs and possibly some alt boy band like matchbox20 or Lifehouse.

I try on all my clothes again to see what still fits, what fits better and what will never fit again. I don't have to worry about someone witnessing the "jeans too tight" contortions as I struggle to zip them up. Then I hang them all up again, getting rid of nothing.

I open all the windows until my nose and toes go cold. German are a sissies about cold air.

At this point, when all the clothes are put back and dishes are done and toes are red, I start to think about Markus and low and behold its time for him to come home. The single girl goes back into the box, sated and happy to know she's still around.

Toothpaste OCD

Is there a support group for people addicted to toothpaste? I think i've mentioned, my dear crazy husband and his need for clean. Well, he moved on from walls (thank god) to teeth.

Its all my fault really. I bought this new toothpaste, Aquafresh Extreme, and he hasn't been able to stop brushing.

He brushes in the morning when we get up and at night before we go to sleep. He brushes after breakfast and again somtime midday.

Then he'll brush before he eats dinner because he likes the feel of clean teeth before he eats.

Then again after because he misses the feel of clean teeth.

Then at about 9 pm before his late night snack of something scrumptious, he'll brush again.

Then the last brush of the day comes in a two parter. He'll brush without toothpaste to remove all the build up of food since his last brushing an hour before then follow with an expansive 4 minute brushing with the super foaming action of AFE.

Finally, with raw and bleeding gums, he'll put our oral B electric toothbrush down and go to bed, only to dream of that fanastic first brushing of the day.

Feline Waste Archeology

Have you ever cleaned out a cat box? Its a very delicate process and if you've never used clumping litter you might not appreciate how delicate a process it is. There are approximately three levels of strata to the common manual-scoop-clumping-litter litter box.

Top Strata: One must look for the obvious artifact within the top layer, quickly scooping with the least amount of litter possible. These artifacts tend to be of the solid, non-liquid and concentrated-scent variety.

Secondary Strata: Requires a bit of finesse. The object at this level is the removal of the complete lump without breakage. Sub par litter can make this difficult thus resulting in an above par stink factor.

Tertiary Strata: The final and most difficult strata. Dip diggers, the bane of feline waste archeologists, prefer the 3rd strata. Difficulties occur when clumped litter creates not a clump, but a flat layer of moist product blocking the slits in the scooper. Thus the subtle vibration of the scooper to remove clean litter becomes futile. The experienced scooper understands that there is an accepted amount of clean litter to be sacrificed. This is where one must question the benefit of scoop/dump vs. scoop/vibrate/dump.

The pleasures of the house cat.