Helpful Germans and other folklore

So I lied. No funny story today, either. I have a ton of repair people coming to the house today and I have to play hausfrau for a few hours. New construction to an old mill equals tons of money and constant work. We’ve been here her more than a year and stuff still needs to be finished. So much for a new house=turn key operation.

So, for those living far away in customer service, convenience and answer land, let me give you an idea of what I’ve had to deal with building our house.

We got home late last night and woke up this morning to the doorbell. Granite man cometh. Sparky and I raced to throw on clothes. Didn’t want another incident like that with the painter, the locksmith, the mirror installation guys, the tüv inspectors etc. Everyone in this town has seen me naked or in some sort of compromising position.

Our granite guy came to re-do the silicon in our kitchen and bathroom. The house has shifted and all our glued parts have come unglued. The granite countertop separated from the granite wallboard. The marble kickboard from the floor tiles and the glass from the marble in our shower. The glass required clear and the marble, jurabeige. The kitchen was some unknown color the granite guy had since he installed it in the first place. One would think this was easy, but no. That is not the German way.

The marble silicon, left over from installation last year, had dried out in its container. The color, Jurabeige, stumped the granite guy. He offered to do the bathroom in the same dark taupe color as the kitchen. Our marble is the lightest shade of cream. Taupe is not good with cream. White would not work either as the rest of the bathroom including the floor times and walls were done in jurabeige. It needed to be beige. The inability to match colors seems to be national epidemic. I asked if he had jurabeige or if he knew where I could get the same product.

Well, the “jurabeige” tube had a label in French. The granite guy told me there was no way I could find that in Germany. I asked if there was a market I could find it in, someone I could call. He told me specifically that there are no shops or storehouses for tile and stone workers, there were no similar colors. I must call the French.

Well, dealing with the French was out of the question. Our construction came to a screeching halt in the early days because the French were not available to ship parts. I’m sure it was because they were drinking wine, eating cheese and fucking each other’s wives. Time means nothing to the French, until payment is required.

Then there were slight disagreements between the specific specifications of the German builders and the Laissez Faire French when it came to the actual building part. Those arguments did nothing for French-German relations. Our master builder would not even speak to our French designer after a few meetings. Since my French is limited to “Voulez vous coucher avec moi ce soir “, I wasn't THAT helpful in smoothing things out. We did not separate happily with the French firm. I would have to find this tube of silicon on my own. Why this is so complicated, I do not know.

So on to the Internet I went, looking for this one particular brand, thinking the color must be specific to this company and rare as the megamouth shark. Looking at the tube and I saw faint writing beneath the French label. I tear a little piece off and what do I find? German writing. The freakin’ company is German. They stuck a French label on the tube to sell to the French who sold it to us, in Germany. And old Mr. Internet told me that jurabeige is a common color for natural stone silicon. It’s like white, black, clear and beige. Like jurabeige.

To an American, the granite guy must have been smoking crack. To a German, this is standard customer service.

I sat there, fuming, tearing off the label. I found a phone number for the company. I had Markus call, but it was between the hours of 12-2 when NO ONE works. We’ll have to call back between 2:00 and 2:03pm to reach anyone. They might answer the phone if their circulatory systems are okay during this heat wave. Or not. There are lots of fests right now so it may be some sort of holy day of the beer stein or heavenly ascent of the apple wine.

It’ll take us at least 4 weeks to get this tube of sticky stuff, 3 weeks to get an appointment and 300€ to have this genius come back and install. I wish I were better with silicon. I’d do it myself. It’s never smooth and seamless. I just manage to get it all over the place and in my hair. Damn Deutschers.

Smurfs and Witches

It’s still hot here. We’ve had a bunch of stuff going on and tonight is the Tori Amos concert that I’ve been looking forward to for months. I’m excitedly making lists for what to do/buy in America, do/prepare for my sister’s college experience and preparing a workbook for Markus while I’m gone. No time for a funny story today.

Since he and I have been together, Sparky has never done laundry, watered a plant or made a meal. Because I do not want to come home to dead plants and a pile of laundry, I’m putting together a workbook of how-to and a checklist of what needs to be done before I come home if he wants any of the goodies I’ll be bringing back.

No doubt, Mutti will be over to help with the plants and the laundry. He says no, but I’ll know. She and I fold towels differently. And I don’t really mind anymore as long as she doesn’t re-arrange my underwear again.

The word schlampe loosely means dirty, loose girl, filthy whore in my head. The word Schlumpf means Smurf as in those little blue guys. I always get those words mixed up. I could not understand why Markus' mother thought I was Smurfette. On the other hand, one of the first phrases I learned was alte Hexe which loosely means old witch. I guess we were even.

Markus’ mother, Mutti as I call her, and I have come a long way. She’s gotten over the heartbreak of her son marrying an American and I’ve learned to accept that which I cannot change. And since we moved out of her house, it’s not so tense. The living situation was not a planned event; we lost our sub-let before the construction on our house was done. We had no choice. Believe me, I understand that two women living in the same house can be tricky. A wife and mother-in-law, living together, is impossible. Add language and cultural barriers and it’s a nuclear meltdown.

I have since proven my worth as a Hausfrau. I can keep our home clean. I can cook. Markus is far from starving. I can repair and paint and overall take care of the same things she does. And I haven’t said no to kids.

On the other hand, she hasn’t re-arranged all my stuff, commented on the repair state of my underwear, cried at the thought of our marriage in a long, long time. She has even given up lecturing me on the health risks of my cats. Markus had a tough time in the beginning, balancing the women in his life, but eventually he got there. He was bloodied, but he got there.

So, today, I’ll go do other projects and tomorrow I will tell a Mutti tale.

Scoop that Poop, Be-yotch

Bought my tickets. I’m a going home for the almost the whole month of August. I can’t wait. It’s been about 1-½ years since I’ve been home and it’s started to take its toll on my love for Germany and its conveniences. I mean, this is truly the land of convenience right? Oh and customer service.

This will be the first time Markus and I have been separated for more than two days since I moved here. I’ll miss him horribly. I’ll be very, very busy preparing my little sis for college, eating at all my favorite restaurants, shoe shopping, and seeing old friends. It’s really a bitch, but hey, someone has to do it, right?

What will Markus do while I’m away? Other than the vast amounts of cocaine and hookers, he’ll watch all the zombie movies I never let him watch while I’m in the house. All the scary movies that I can only watch half of and fast forward to see if I can see the rest, decide I can’t, leaving him hanging because he has no problem with supernatural scary. He’ll have a prog rock night with his buddies and play music loud. And… he’ll scoop the poop.

See, on the household chore list, I’m the pooper-scooper. Markus may be German, but he’s not a scat fetishist. Markus may love the cats, call one “his”, smuggly cuddle Kiska, but he never scoops the poop. He tried once. The gagging noises were obviously, pathetically contrived, but he absolutely refused to do it again. I mean, REFUSED. Just no, not gonna happen refused. Not even a night with Kylie would convince him to scoop. And it’s really not that bad. He’s just a baby about it. I blame his German mother for never forcing him to do icky chores. Now its neigh on impossible to force him to do anything that might remotely make him gag.

Well, since I’m going to be gone for close to a month, Markus will have to scoop the poop or the house will smell to high hell. Cleo pees elsewhere when her box is not clean. Like on clothing and valuable rugs and gym shoes. He’ll have to clean the cathouse after Cleo decides the litter level is too low or too high and pees just outside the box coating the bottom of the cathouse in pungent piss. He’ll have to empty the litter locker. He’s in charge of the whole cat defecation process.

(Hear evil maniacal laughter.)

So, while I’m snacking on fresh cracked crab at the Wharf, he’ll be scooping poop. When I’m sniffing the erotic scent of gunpowder residue left on my fingers after a morning of shooting guns too big and too powerful to be legal, he’ll be poop scooping. When I’m shopping in Union square, driving us towards bankruptcy, where will Markus be? Scooping the poop. When I’m getting my legs waxed, my toes polished and my hair styled, Markus will be scooping the poop. When I’m cavorting on the beach with men who are not my husband, what will my husband be doing? Yep, he’ll be on his knees, praying that Cleo does not get pissy again while I’m gone.

I hear a rap hook: scoop that poop, scoop that poop, scoop that poop, be-yotch. Ye-eahhh

And they say there’s no justice in this world.

9 1/2 weeks, Doggie Style

Removed post.

To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

I have a great story to tell of love, marriage, divorce, Tourette’s Syndrome and cell phone covers but unfortunately, I am too tired to tell that story. Why? Because the 4 hours of sleep I got last night are not enough to fuel the sardonic wit necessary to tell that tale. So let me tell you another.

Let me tell you where I come from. I come from a city, with buildings, with concrete, with asphalt, with homeless, with cars, with taxis, with pollution.

Let me tell you where I live now. I live in a village with few homes within sight, a forest that surrounds the meadow that surrounds the stables that surrounds the Hof that surrounds our building. I live with birds and foxes and these small deer-like things munching dandelions in the meadows. I live with the scent of the land (horseshit) in the evening. I live with gravel roads and Hausfraus on bikes. I live with bugs, spiders, mosquitoes and horseflies.

Most of the time, happy in our loft with our urban décor and technology, I don’t even notice. But there is one time of the day that living where I do is so apparent, so obnoxiously disturbing, I long for my days of gunshots and gang members.

It is the morning between 4 am and 7 am.

Where I’m from, this is the quietest time of the day. Weekdays, only traders, those who support traders and the homeless are up at this time. On weekends, only those doing the walk/drive of shame are awake. Guilt by association and fear of being pulled over with our panties shoved into purses keep us from communicating with more than a nod of acknowledgement. Flora and fauna keep to themselves at this time of the day when you live in the city.

In a Southern German village, the day starts noisily at 4am. First, it’s the sunlight, breaking into my bedroom like a thief, stealing my cool dark sleep. Then the birds start with their morning choral rehearsal, echoing in through the valley. The small deer-like animals are in mating season right now. I hear their honking love songs all until I want to scratch my eyes out.

It might be nice on vacation, to hear these sounds of nature without a CD, but on a daily basis it is driving me mad.

If I thought it would do any good, I’d haul out a shotgun and let off a few rounds. All animals, man to beast, know the sound of a shotgun and silence usually follows.

If I wasn’t sure that our neighbors would gossip for years over the crazy American, I’d scream my frustration into the valley on the odd chance the damn birds would shut-up. I swear, it’s like we live in a rain forest.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I love the aminals as much as anyone else. I just do not like them during those precious last hours of sleep. And since we don’t have A/C and this place is freakin’ hot, I have to keep the GD windows open. Open windows means bird calls and honking deer.

Markus: Get your wife a room a/c unit and stop the madness.

Gay, Bi-Racial GangBangs

One night, not so long ago, my grandparents invited my aunts, Rachel and Rita, to dinner. This is always a dangerous endeavor. My grandparents eat anything, especially if its meat that has been left out on the washing machine in the garage for a few days. You know, nothing like aged meat and all. I have no idea what it is with old people and spoiled food and dried citrus fruit rinds, but it seems to be endemic.

That night my aunts got a little more for dinner than just spoiled seafood and food poisoning. They got Gay, Bi-Racial Gangbangs!!!

I was totally jealous. All I ever got was some weird beet salad.

Apparently, my grandfather was having some trouble with spam and pop-ups on his computer. He’s 84 and tackling the Internet. He asked Rachel to look at his computer and see if there is anything she could do about it. So Rachel set upon the task of searching my grandfather’s cookies and history to find the culprit of the pop-ups. And lo and behold, she found the treasure chest of all history snoopers: Porn Sites.

Anyone who has ever done this knows that snooping in the history file is opening a can of worms, Pandora’s box and a barrel marked Danger: Toxic Waste. It is more dangerous than eating my grandmother’s cooking. Whatever you look for, you WILL find and it WILL damage you. Most of the time, we just don’t need to know. If you want to continue to like and respect the person you are snooping, do not look. Go home until the urge passes. If you are divorcing them, make a copy.

At times, Rachel puts more information in her head then she can handle. This coupled with a skewed sense of logic tends to lead her down paths most of us would never dream of taking. In all fairness, this is a family trait, shared by all, diluted in the 2nd generation, but still, shared by all. I do it, i mean did it all the time as a kid.

Rachel, therefore, was mortified. Rita, on the other hand, just asked outright. “Dad, what is this? You surfin’for gay, bi-racial gangbangs?”

To which my grandfather says, “NO, that’s what I’m talking about. They just keep popping up and I don’t know how to get rid of them.”

“What does it mean, this gay, bi-racial, gangbang pop-up?” Rachel asked herself and I’m sure her therapist later. Is our 84-year-old presently Mormon, previously Masonic father really a homosexual? Does he like a little Chinese noodle with his meal? Does he want a some chocolate cream for dessert? Maybe he’s a sex addict. Was her childhood a lie, how does this affect her life now, the lives of her children. Is it catching, this gay, bi-racial gangbang illness? Should she shower immediately or call an intervention.

It’s not her fault that she becomes so undone by such farcical situations. Thirty years of therapy will do that to a person. If you’re not cured with therapy, you’re hamstrung by it. Therapy has only two results: 1. It helps you see the world from a distant, healthier perspective removing your focus from your teeny tiny world of ID and ends or 2. You become myopic, searching in vain for the rhyme or reason for why you were picked on in the 3rd grade or to the lascivious gesture you saw your mother make to the milkman and how it affected your sex life/drive and how it will affect your children and your cat thus continuing to pay the house payments for some unscrupulous therapist who should have sent you packing years ago.

So, suffering from chronic therapy, Rachel could not see the truth. She was so consumed with having a perverted father, she couldn’t see a more logical conclusion.

It was my 84 yr old grandmother.

She’s on oxygen. I think she gets a little high and surfs the net looking for gay black ass.

Family and Other Social Diseases

So it’s been an emotionally eventful few days. Let’s see where do I start?

Okay, how about the STD I picked up. It’s my fault, really. I shouldn’t have been seduced so easily. After all, I get plenty at home. But he was black and so sweet. Once you go black, you never go back and all. After our brief encounter, I left, longing for more such encounters. I foolishly left my number should he need it. Then I went home, my thoughts lingering on the possibility of a future together. I know, what was I thinking? I was supposed to wait it out for a red head. That was the agreement I made.

6 days later, the same amount of time it took God to create the earth, I caught the first glimpse of the plague. The Darmstadt Tierheim plague. Ringworm. That sweet black kitten with the striped paws must have been riddled with it because all over my neck. Where he crawled and purred seductively, the rash broke out.

My good friend, WebMD, helped me with a home diagnosis, confirmed by a non-homeopathic dermatologist. Do you know how hard it is to find a doctor that doesn’t try to push homeopathic remedies in Germany? Please see this link for more information. Homeopathic medicines rely on dilution factors of a million parts of water to 1 part of mineral. It’s about drinking water and swallowing salt pills. It’s not the valerian root that knocks me out or the Echinacea or the chamomille teas. Its snake oil and can really make people sick by non-treatment of illnesses.

Anyway, I digress. I was complaining about the rash I will have on my neck for the next 8 weeks. This thing is the first “social” disease I have ever caught. After a life of drinking, smoking and screwing, I catch ringworm from a GD kitten.

Let’s move on.

As we all know, none of my family commented, so it is open season. And what a season it will be. As all family functions go, someone ends up mad at someone else. And like most families, the ties that bind reach far and wide and can strangle with the simplest of tugs. This time it’s my neck. This time it’s me. I’m the pissy one. And I wasn’t even there.

My mother’s side of the family is terribly selfish and narcissistic. I mean really, they are most clueless bunch of people I have ever encountered. They also provide hours of entertainment. Telling the stories of my familial escapades keeps my friends rolling for hours. They are pretty funny if you aren’t in the direct line of fire. Who says things like “If not for my manicurist, my housekeeper and my massage therapist, I do not know how I would have survived the last two years” and not hear what they’re saying? I mean really, who thinks their daughter is having relations with animals when finding teen/animal porn Spam in her email. I mean, I suppose it possible. Her daughter dated some barkers, literally, but I find it highly unlikely. Then again, in my family, we tend judge others by our own image.

So, with familial matters what they are, I’ve decided its time to go home and kick some ass, take care of business and eat a GD burrito. It’s been so long. I have a list of people I want to see and a list of food I want to eat. I don’t know which list is more important.

Absence

I see my mother everywhere. I’ve seen her on a San Francisco-bound plane. I’ve seen her in a cab on a Parisian street. The last time I saw her, she was driving a Fiat Punto through Darmstadt, averting her face, her eyes so as to hide from me.

The first time I saw her, I was on a plane, returning from my first trip to Europe. It had been five years since I saw her last. I noticed her hair had grown back after all the chemo treatments. I was amazed that after years of wearing wigs, she had her hair back and she had permed it. If I had lost my hair and it had grown back, I’d swear off bad perms forever. But maybe it was just familiar and comfortable.

Her head was turned towards the window and the sunlight reflected in the auburn curls. I knew it was my mother because she wouldn’t turn her head. She was afraid I’d see her and her cover would be blown.

I imagined she had had enough of the kids and the house payments. She had had her fill of teenage daughters and young ones. She decided one night as she lay alone in the familiar hospital bed, that she would escape. She’d fly to Paris and live the life she always wanted as an artist, free of kids and husbands, parents and siblings. She would be free to live the life she was meant to live. So she did.

Throughout that flight to San Francisco, I was sure it was my mother. She had a window seat one row in front of me. I analyzed every detail available. The tilt of her wrist as she handed her wine glass to the attendant for a refill, the choice of wine, the rings on her fingers, her fingernails, the tapestry bag she kept her book in. I walked the aisle hoping for a glimpse of that preternaturally familiar face. I followed her off the plane and through customs before she finally turned. She was not my mother. She didn’t have a crooked smile or down-turned green eyes.

I had a dream the other night where I met her with the warmth and awkwardness of meeting an old friend who had become a stranger through the passage of time. We exchanged greetings and I told her I was newly married. She said it sounded like a good life. I asked her where she was living. She said she wasn’t really living anywhere at the moment. The child I would forever be in relation to my mother offered to move back to Oakland and we could live together, she and I. An old pattern I repeated in my dream. Overzealous, knowing that the greater my need, the less responsive she’d be, but unable to stop myself. My heart fell, as it had a thousand times before, when she shook her head. ‘I’m staying with the boys for now, but I appreciate the offer.’ She said with her crooked smile.

I woke up wondering why my mother had not given me a forwarding address or phone number when she left. I had the feeling that I had long ago been abandoned and was really okay with it. I had hope that maybe I could still find her. It was a full minute before I remembered my mother was dead.

My mother was as all mothers are; Mysterious in their wisdom, in their lives prior to our memories, in their humanness. My mother was the first religion I believed in. She was so unreachable and omnipotent and omniscient. She is just as unreachable in death. And yet even in death, our relationship continues to twist and turn. Truth turns to lies and lies to truth as time and the lives of those who loved her move forward. My mother remains just as complicated and her motivations just as inscrutable. She is ever present and yet it’s her absence that I feel the most. Isn’t that how believers feel about God?

I got married at almost two years ago. It was bittersweet. I adore my husband and am happy to be married now, but the whole wedding process and cyclic change from single girl to married woman is difficult for me. I keep looking for my mom to show me the way. I didn’t want a large wedding because my mother would not be coming and it would have felt hollow without her. I wanted a simple ceremony that would mark my marriage and leave room for a more extravagant event later, when she’d attend. I have never missed her more than I did the hours before I said “I do”. As I bathed in the tub I had dirtied as a teenager, I expected to hear her tell me to remove the hair from the drain. But she didn’t.

The next time I saw her, I was driving with my husband through Paris. We were lost. I looked over and saw her hand playing with her hair, the same bad perm, in a taxi as we stopped at a light. Her head was bent and her face was hidden in the shadows, but I’m pretty sure it was my mom. She wouldn’t have recognized me. She wouldn’t have expected me to be there, not having heard about my wedding and subsequent trip. My mouth was open to say something, anything to either stop the taxi or have my husband follow it until she got out. I imagined a great reunion, after she got over the shock of seeing me. She’d be happy for me of course, but would decline dinner and sadly smile as she wished me well and walked back into her new life. The taxi shot forward and my car turned left, leaving my mother lost in Paris.

I wonder if as I get older, the pain of my mother’s absence will fade, if I will ever stop seeing her in airports or taxis. I wonder if I will want to stop seeing her in these places. Its better to think of her alone with her artwork, seeing the world, children abandoned than alone in bed, afraid death will come and afraid it won’t. Maybe these sightings of mine is her way of keeping in contact and letting me know that no matter where I am, a mother never really abandons her child, that in that absence, she is still here.

sweet 2 yr old 

Super Girl

My little sister is all grown up. Today, she’s 18 years old. It’s shocking really. She was such an ugly newborn, a bit premature and yellow about the gills. The first time I saw her, she was in a yellow dress. The jaundice, the dress and her red hair did not a pretty baby make, but the first time I held her, I was sold. Ever since, Miranda has been my favorite person on earth. My first car had a baby seat in the back and I took her everywhere. I wish I could still strap her in and take her with me. I miss her so much.

Miranda is the best my mother had to offer. She’s brilliant. She’s gorgeous. She’s wickedly cruel and hopelessly kind. She’s got a strong spirit. I’m hoping this spirit will help her when she’s living alone in a state far away from her family for the first time. She can also hit harder than anyone I know.

As she grew up, her dad made sure she liked bugs just as much as the “My Pretty Ponies” that seemed to multiply like tribbles. He would take her on nature walks in the backyard, turning over logs and big rocks to see what bugs lived where. He taught her how to live peacefully with insects and not run terrified from them; rollie polies living in harmony with Polly Pockets. She’d rather open a window than crush a bug.

Our mom died when she was 10, I was 25. Since then I’ve struggled to find the right role in our relationship. She needed to learn stuff a mom teaches you, yet I wasn’t her mom. I felt it was my responsibility, but she would have none of the mother stuff from me. Miranda helped me find the role that fits us both, her friend.

When she called and changed her spring break this year from a week doing sister stuff in Germany to a few days doing sister stuff and 4 days in Mallorca, with a school friend, I flipped out. I tried to get our brother to chaperone. Jeff just laughed. When I told him what people do in Mallorca, he stopped laughing. Our little sister was traveling alone, internationally, to a place where, according to my European friends, all you do is drink and get to know one another… biblically.

And what about all the white slavers? My sister is really a white slaver breeder’s dream. I know, I once read a ‘historical fiction’ novel about a redhead stolen to make redheaded babies. Her fine stranded liquid-maple-in-autumn-colored hair is halfway down her back. She’s tall, long legged and stacked. She is simply stunning. And she has no idea. I researched Mallorca and found that very few people lose more than sleep on that island of sin. I didn’t have to worry about serial killers and sex slave traders. I had to worry about buckets of sangria and gorgeous, charming Spanish men.

At the same time, I made sure she knew how the god of irony, Ironus, will get you laid if you go out wearing the ugliest panties you own and unshaved legs. She should know these things. Then I bought her pretty panties and made sure she had a razor.

I’m old enough to know how truly terrifying the world is and I’m young enough to remember how I couldn’t wait to take it on. But I barely managed to survive.

I hope she has fun, but not to the extent our brother and I did. I hope she can sense the line between fun and horror before she steps over it. I hope she has more self-control. I hope she feels better about herself. I hope she has confidence and stands up for herself when needed. I hope she doesn’t have as much worthless sex. I hope she doesn’t do as many drugs. I hope she graduates. I hope she realizes she really is the best of us.

When Miranda was about three years old, she wanted to be Super Girl. My mom made her a cape she could wear around the house. The moment my mom finished, she put it on, wearing not a stitch more than her flowery panties and cape. As the rest of us were talking and laughing she climbed up onto the kitchen counter and jumped off. My mother, her dad, our brothers and I - we all suffered fear induced paralysis as she hit the ground.

Her little face beet red and the long silent inhalation of breath made us think she was hurt. Never has a little girl been so loved as all of us jumped up to try to help her. She would have none of it. She picked herself up. Her blue eyes squinted in accusation as she turned on our mother.

“It doesn’t work! Mom, you did it wrong!” she cried as she tore the cape from around her little neck and threw it on the ground. She continued screaming, totally inconsolable, unable to understand the aerodynamics of three year olds and counter tops.

The cape didn’t work, but the ability was never in the cape. It was in the girl. Regardless how she takes flight, she does fly. And I hope she knows she has always been Super Girl.

Calling all family Members

Tomorrow there is a family reunion in the WC which I am not attending because I live 6000 miles away. This is good and this is bad. Good because its always a nightmare and people end up fighting and my crazy ass relatives all drive me nuts at some point. Bad because all these relatives give me such good stories to tell and there is nothing like first hand obseration. I've waited with the familial tales in order not to piss anyone off. Its really almost not worth it in my family. As much as i love them, they can be something of a pain in the ass. However, since they don't seem to read this, i'm starting to feel a bit more comfortable in telling the tales. This is their last chance. Let me know you're reading and I'll spare you. Otherwise, its Tourette's and gang bang galore. Its about funerals and 911 delays, husbands and birthdates. Its all in my dossiers, darlings. let me know now or its open season. love and kisses jen

I swear, he was THAT big!

It was a day like any other. Or so it seemed. Gargantua trembled softly as he skittered across the floor. If only he could make it to the bedroom, he’d eat like a king for days.

“AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!!!”

Splat.

The world biggest spider tried to get me yesterday. And it died quickly. There was a momentary standoff. He was standing in front of my closet, barring access to the good spider smushing shoes. Fortunately, Markus was away on business so my thick-soled slides were still where I had kicked them off and not promptly put away.

Markus hates to see shoes in the designer line of his wall, wood floor, and carpeting or even on feet. Unless they are high heels. High heels have a free pass. I leave my shoes wherever I happen to take them off and at one time, expected them to still be there when I needed them again. That special part of my single girl brain still functions. It’s the shoe, jeans, and sweater map, similar to the where did I leave my underwear thing. Regardless of where I left it, I can usually remember where it is. Unless someone puts it away. Then I’m totally screwed.

Anyway, I was able to reach the one pair of shoes not held hostage by Gargantua. I know every spider looks like the biggest ever and I’ve seen my share of spiders. Growing up with my mom and brother terrified of those hairy-legged creatures of horror, I was the family member designated for spider euthanasia. That being said, this spider stopped me in my tracks. I could see his individual legs move from 10 feet. I know this because when I almost stepped on him, running to catch the phone, I jumped back about 10 feet.

His body was thick and roundly elongated. I swear I could see him gyrate to the music I was blaring. He was that big. He was so big that the two steps up to the bedroom were really not much of an obstacle. I was lucky to smash him before he jumped up and smothered my face. The après smash shiver dance lasted for at least 3 minutes. I ran around screaming, jumping and shaking, wondering if I could just leave the shoe in place for Markus to dispose of when he got home at 1 am.

Of course I couldn’t. This spider was so big that I wasn’t even sure if he was dead. I could leave the shoe only to have him crawl away pissed. Markus would come home, I’d lift the shoe and there would be no spider. No, he would hide under my bed only to crawl around like that Tarantula on the Brady’s Hawaiian Vacation. I’d wake up with his front legs on my chin and his fangs set on kill. No, I had to make sure this guy was dead.

Yep, he was smashed. I went to Markus’ toilet (we have two and he wasn’t going in mine) to shake him off the sole. In the shaking process, Gargantua, still relatively intact, flew on to the side of the toilet seat. Three minutes later, after another extended screaming-shaking-shivering dance of spider death, I was able to recognize that he was indeed dead, not just faking it. I had simply shaken the body onto the toilet rather than in to the bowl.

Five more minutes were spent determining the best way to move the body. The toilet brush would get all gunky with spider parts. I know, I know. It’s a toilet brush. For some reason, spider guts seem worse to me than poop. Maybe I’ve lived here too long. I don’t know, but the toilet brush was out. I didn’t want to touch it with toilet paper because he was all wet with spider guts. I tried to shoot him down with Clorox Clean-Up, but I just made a mess. I ended up with a Clorox wet wipe and the edge of a bottle. Still, a leg was left. I did think of the Wraith on Stargate. If that leg had moved, i would have been a goner.

Three flushes later, life was back to normal. I have no idea how that spider could have gotten into the house. It was that big. Did he walk in with me when i got home or had he come in when he was small and just grew. That's a thought to keep me up at night. And, where were my pussy ass cats during this episode? Captured prey for these lily-livered felines. Cleo used to take out squirrels and bring me the tails. Where was she during this engagement? Watching from far, far away. The spider was that big.

Educating Miranda

Today my sister graduates from high school. Friday is her 18th birthday. I’m skipping my 15 yr HS reunion in September. I felt really old until my dad told me it was his 40th. I feel so much better. Thanks, Dad

Congratulations, Miss Miranda. Hope you have a great day and I totally wish I could be there.

Tips for a successful graduation ceremony:

1. Wear underwear
2. Go to the bathroom before the ceremony
3. Do not be the idiot with the beach ball
4. Do hit the beach ball if it comes your way
5. Shake under, Grab over
6. Don’t fall down the stage steps, its been done and is totally overrated
7. If you do fall, you’ll wish you listened to #1

Take the requisite grad photo with your dad and brothers or you will not live to see 18.

Does anyone else have any graduation/abi advice?

You are my wife. Goodbye city life.

I made scrambled eggs for breakfast this morning. I opened the carton and realized how accustomed I’ve become to the German way of life. These eggs were straight from the chicken’s free-range butt, spotted with chicken poop and feathers. I just cracked them open and whisked them into the pan. Baby has come a long way. When I first arrived in Germany, I figured the hardest thing I’d have to deal with was the language barrier. I mean really, how hard could it be to live with Germans? They are just like us, and by us I mean Americans. Boy, I couldn’t have been more wrong if I had been dropped in North Korea.

I felt like I had moved to a third-world country. It was like sky diving without the initial pull-this-thingy-here lesson. I just packed up and got on a plane. I brought two boxes of pharmaceuticals. I brought language tapes and cute, comfortable shoes. I brought my cats. But I did not bring an ounce of knowledge about how to live in a foreign country. I was Eva Gabor on Green Acres. Goodbye San Francisco, hello Hooterville.

My first week in Germany, I bought and disposed of 30 eggs, sacrificed 3 pairs of socks and walked 4 blocks home from the grocery store carrying all my purchases in my arms sans bags. Germany is so quaint with its dorm-sized fridges and its shops just around the corner. Everyone walks or bikes everywhere. After 2 days I realized that also meant me. I’d have to walk to the store and carry home anything I bought. With the size of the fridge that fit under the kitchen counter, it wasn’t going to be a big shopping trip. Off I went, taking my time, reading or trying to read labels, searching for any familiar product. I stood in line and paid in euros and waited for my stuff to be bagged. After standing at the end of the check out counter for a few minutes too long, a fellow shopper explained, in English, that I would have to bag my own groceries. Since I did not know this, I had not brought bags. This was humiliating on so many different levels; so obviously being American was not the least.

The eggs. I’m one of those paranoid eaters. If something is near an expiration date, I won’t touch it. If it gets warm and its supposed to be cold, forget it. I hit the trifecta with German eggs. Germans sell eggs on the shelf at room temp, not in a cooler case. Since everyone was buying them, I figured, I’d be okay. At the time, I couldn’t read more than menu so I had no idea about the expiration date. I just had to trust. Trusting is not an easy task for me.

Every single egg was filthy, from all three packs. All poop smeared and feathery. So I washed them. What’s a little poop among friends? I was working on the “trust the German market”-thing. Poop was minor.

Upon cracking, the yolks were a dark orange with dark red spots. All of them. Every pack I bought. Egg upon egg. I figured they were all salmonella riddled because they were sold at room temp, filthy and I had no knowledge of the expiration date. My step-dad had to explain to me that orange was the correct color and the bloodstains were normal and since eggs come from the chicken butt area, chances were the poop was normal too. He said I had been eating hormoned and caged chicken eggs for so long, I just didn’t know a real egg when I saw one. How charming.

Then there was the laundry. German washers are front loading and believe it or not, all the little words that explain the cycles are in German. It took me three months and loads of gray, smelly clothes to figure out that it wasn’t inferior German laundry soap, but rather an inferior American mind. I put the detergent in the wrong slot. FOR 3 MONTHS!

Another quaint little quirk of the Deutsch Hausfrau is the preference of air-dried laundry as opposed to say, a dryer! We did not have nor did we have access to a dryer. Did I mention it rains ALL the time here?

Come on, not so hard. I’d hung laundry to dry all the time at home. I’d even hung laundry on business trips. And we had this cute little rack I put out on the balcony to let everything air dry. Well, three pairs of Markus’ socks later I realized why people used clothespins. The wind swept those socks away one by one until I realized it wasn’t just a washer-ate-my-sock moment Since we were on the 3rd floor, which is Deutsch for 66 steps, those socks were goners. Markus commented later about the poor guy who lost socks in the parking area. I said nothing.

And here I am almost 2 years later, I can eat a poopie egg, I know the pre-wash slot from the wash slot and I bought a dryer. I not only bring bags to the store, I’m a pro at the grocery-bagging gig. As long as I don’t go to Aldi, I can keep up with the checkers and watch the prices. I can drive a big car through the little streets of the nearby villages and I’m no longer afraid to go over 100mph on the autobahn. Well, I was never really afraid of that. I can talk to a two-year-old fluently. And I still haven’t bought a pair of putty colored shoes.


Eggs are my friends. 

Bavarian Skies and Nazis

So we’re back. Munich was delightful as usual. I do like that city. Its not Berlin, but its nice enough. We also went to the Dachau concentration camp. Yep, in one day I spent 11 hours in the car and 4 hours at a concentration camp. Fun day.

The drive to Munich was beautiful, so I’m told. I have about a 20 minutes in a car before I fall asleep. It’s a bit longer if I’m driving. Markus has tried to show me Europe via car and for most of it I have been asleep. I try and try to stay awake. I hold my head up and will my eyes to stay open. I slap my wrists, open the window, sing dirty limericks, but its no use. It’s like a 9am Art class in college. Lights go down and I’m gone. No matter how interested I might be in the content, I’m gone. 20 minutes and I’m snoring away.

Markus will occasionally try to wake me up to show me a pretty Baroque steeple, nestled into Bavarian countryside village. I’ll hold my head up for approximately 4.6 seconds while my eyes wobble around the back of my head, focus for 1.3 seconds before I lose consciousness again.

The weird thing is I still understand speed and stopping sensations. I’ll be asleep, Markus will be bebopping to his death metal and suddenly the car slows for stau (traffic) or cute girls or whatever Markus “Slows For” when I’m asleep. My reptilian brain wakes long enough to activate the passenger side brake pedal and check out the circumstances. This is usually accompanied by a loud intake of breath and verbal check. “UHHH. Stau, ok.” Then I’m totally out again. I have no idea why I do this. I mean, really, if Markus were slowing because we were going to be in a horrible head-on collision, do I want to be awake? Do I really want to know? When I fly, I have no problem taking a whole handful of sleeping pills. If we’re going to crash, I do not want to be awake watching fellow passengers get sucked out of some hole in the side of the plane like on final destination. So why do I do this in the car?

Markus likes to use this as an example of my incredible controlling nature. Even in my sleep I can’t let go. I think its more likely Markus’ driving that has me in fear for my safety while I sleep. BTW, there isn’t really a passenger side brake pedal; it’s just my right foot’s auto-response to fast speed reduction.

So that’s how I saw the amazing Bavarian countryside with its blue and white skies. On the way back it was blue and white until we entered the CC grounds. Then it got all gray, windy and rainy. It was really eerie. German skies tend to be a bit mood swingy. You never know when it will be sunny and light or shadowy and dark. It is truly a country of shadow and light. So the great mood swinger in the sky gave us atmosphere for our visit.

The concentration camp was a very worthwhile experience. Horrifying and terrible and heartbreaking and oddly inspiring. What the prisoners went through and the spirit those who survived had to have in order to survive. It put things in perspective. The bookstore however left a bit to be desired. They sold only books filled with heartbreaking photos and letters from the prisoners to their families that never got delivered. It would have been nice if they had jazzed things up a bit. Maybe a pen that when held upside down, the nazi uniform came off or a set of bunker blocks. Maybe a t-shirt that says “My grandma when to Dachau and all I got was this lousy T-shirt”. I know, I know. I’m going straight to hell, but after 3 hours in the museum looking at all the horrible, horrible things we do to each other, a little levity was needed.

Other than that, Munich was pretty quiet. No terrorists leaving on a jet plane and no obscene amounts of beer.

By the time we got home, I needed a little mindless entertainment and low and behold, the last Stargate episodes were released. Now I have to wait until next year to find out what happens!!!! Damn it.

One Day in September in June

We're off to the city of Oktoberfest and Olympic terror for a couple of days. The police have learned a thing or two since 1972. Last time we were there, riot police were out patrolling soccer hooligans. And boy did the bavarian police look mean. I guess if i were a terrorist i probably would have to take business class out of the country now. We might hit Dachau on our way back to jazz thing up a bit. This is what happens in Munich during the last days of September.


Father and Son bond over 7 liters of Germany's finest. Jeff got lost soon after on his way back from the loo. 

Calling Ms. Post

Do you always have to credit someone with a link if you find it on a blog you usually hate, but occassionally read?

This site is where I found this. And I don't really like her. Mostly because she said ugly people get married in winter and Markus and I got married in the DEAD of winter and our wedding photos suck.

My dad is totally a spy

As a kid, I was a snoop and a storyteller. I told stories based wholly on my findings as a snoop. Since both my parents worked, I had lots of unsupervised time to search our house for ‘objects of interest’. I’d make notes in my Little Twin Stars diary to keep track. I would make connections between very real objects or events that had absolutely no connection whatsoever. From this I would create the ‘truth’. I found that the more ‘truth’ I shared, the more attention I got. I’d like to blame birth order or astrological sign on my need for attention, but really it was/is just my ego.

I still don’t know if my dad knew of my subtle searching and subsequent stories. I still don’t know if he salted my game on purpose or if he was just having a little fun, but one sunny day when I was eight, my credibility as a storyteller was ruined.

I had been snooping through the bookshelves in our TV room, skimming through books and searching behind the stacks when I found them. Proof my dad was a spy.

I had already figured this spy stuff out when I found a small spy camera on the top shelf of his closet complete with a small vial of 110 film. I had never seen such a small camera and since it fit so perfectly in a small pocket, I figured it had to be a tool of his trade. I knew my dad had been in the Air Force and I had seen all his medals. And even though he was nice, he wasn’t like other fathers I knew. He had secrets. I couldn’t tell you what those secrets were, but the drawer where he emptied his pockets when changing after work held many objects of interest. Like business cards or matchbooks from restaurants and coins from places like Mexico. I was sure these were from clandestine meetings with contacts.

The proof I found was in the form of pictures; pictures of space ships and people on the moon. They looked just like the other pictures my dad had from before I was born. Now that I had this proof, I had to confirm my suspicions.

That night, when my dad got home, I waited for him to change from his suit and empty his daily pocket of secrets. Then I confronted him in our upstairs hallway, pictures in hand.

“Dad. What are these?” I asked with my hand outstretched.

He told me they were pictures and asked where I found them. I explained that I found them in a book I found in the shelves I was using for homework. And I explained that I thought he was a spy and since I had already figured it out, he might as well just tell me.

He took me downstairs and started to make dinner as he thought about what to tell me.

“Jennifer, what I’m going to tell you is a secret. You must promise never to tell anyone what I’m going to tell you.”

I promised. I promised even though I had never, ever been able to keep a secret, ever. I promised even though I knew I’d tell my best friend Suzanne and that smug Francie the very next day at the bus stop. I promised because if he didn’t tell me, I would never get to the ‘truth’.

That’s when he confirmed the spy part. He went further. He was the man in the pictures of the man on the moon. The big helmet obscured his face. He told me that before I was born he was on a special mission for the Air Force and they had sent him to the moon. He told me that I was never to tell anyone because the government would find out. Then he told me to stop snooping because the government had placed very small listening devices in the house and would know when I snooping. He told me he had no idea what would happen if they found out I knew about those top secret pictures. He told me I could keep the pictures as long as I never told anyone.

I sat on that secret for about 14 hours. The next day at the bus stop, I pulled the top-secret photos from my Bee Gees lunch box. Suzanne was impressed, but Francie told me the photos were fake. She said that if my dad really was a spy, he never would have told me and I wouldn’t go to our school, but a special school for kids of spies. Suzanne believed me. That was only until she told her parents and they told her that men had been to the moon, but as far as they knew, it wasn’t my dad.

I held on to those pictures for years. I hid them in my Hans Christian Andersen Stories, a book I could never read because the stories were too sad. I knew my dad was a spy because this time the ‘truth’ came from him. It wasn’t just me making it up. I figured someday, he’d need those pictures and I’d have them.

I was 13 before I realized the ‘truth’. I saw a documentary in school about the moon landing and funnily enough, the pictures I had hidden looked rather similar. I asked my dad about it, and he just laughed. Then he said, “Don’t feel so bad. Your brother still thinks you and I are aliens who just look like his family. He’s waiting for them to take your mother!”

Code Name: VanHelsing 

I wear my sunglasses at night **

So, as an American, there is this thing here in the land of sausage with which I’m not so comfortable. It’s called Free Body Culture or FKK in Deutsch. This is the practice of nudity in bathing areas such as lakes, rivers, streams and locker rooms. I found out about it when Markus tried to use FKK as a justification for showering with Leo at his previous gym after I found out that Leo was actually Leonie, female and extremely hot.

As Americans, we grow up in a clothed culture. Boobs are gratuitous, but they usually have small triangles of cloth over the nipple. Why this matters, I don’t know. We have small triangles covering the denuded front panel of the coochie and string up the butt, but the women are not naked.

Men are rarely naked in public, ever, in America. We associate naked men with streakers or flashing perverts. Or occasionally Brad Pitt or Will Smith. Here in Europe, this is not the case. People are naked everywhere. On the beaches in Italy, women walked topless, in heels, on the boardwalk. Men, who had never been on a swim team, wore Speedos with pride. Bodies were not as perfect as the beach bunnies of LA or FLA. Yet all these people walked around confident in their cellulite and Chianti bellies. Most Americans I know say that they would rather have their kids see nudity or sex over violence. Then why is it practiced so rarely?

I can tell you. It’s Mr. Droopy and the Pips. The doodles are the reason we are all clothed at the beach. It has nothing to do with cellulite or fat rolls or saggy tits. Well, it might have to do with saggy tits, but more so with the doodles.

Last summer, Markus and I hit one of his favorite lakes in the area to cool off from the staggering heat. Oh My God. Forward all mail to: Willies, NekkidStadt, FKKland. Everywhere, there were families hanging out, and I do mean hanging out, naked. Fathers and sons were jumping off rafts and rocks, doodles flying everywhere. I’ve never seen so many penises in my life and let me tell you, that’s sayin’ something.

As a woman, I will never truly understand the john thomas. It just sits there, like an afterthought. “Oh yeah, we made that nice vagina but we forgot the other part. Here, stick this on and pretend you know how to use it.”

In fact, it was discovered in the scrolls at Nag Hamidi, that it wasn’t because Eve ate the apple that they were thrown out of the garden. It was the presence of Adam’s one eyed-monster. Cover up indeed. Don’t scare the animals. The little pope was God’s first failure.

Doodles are just unappealing. I mean, yes, there are some nice ones, but when Mr. Sad Sack is just hanging around, the appendage itself is rather unfortunate looking. It certainly doesn’t make me want to get to know it any better. And I’ve been a friend of the schwanz for years.

I really don’t mind women naked at the beach. It’s still unnerving on some level, but I can understand the advantage of swimming topless. It’s not often the twins get a lift. In the water, my boobs could pass for those of a young sexy water nymph. In the water, I’m Hugh Hefner material. Out of the water it’s a completely different story. But men don’t even get that benefit. Mr. Droopy shrinks back into the body as if he’s ashamed. And he should be.

Germans seem so proud of their packages. I guess having fought with France for centuries, they found one area of superiority and therefore want to show it off. It explains why they wear such tight jeans. Markus seems to think that penis size has a direct correlation to confidence. The bigger the schwanz, the bigger the ego. Did I mention I married a narcissist?

So word to the wise, if traveling in Germany and you want to go swimming, wear sunglasses. You might lose an eye.

Cat Laxatives and Duct Tape

My brother Jeff and I lived together on and off for years. Off more so now that I’m married and living 6000 miles away. But after our mom died, we kind of drifted in the same direction. Or as he puts it, I ripped him from the life he was leading in favor of mine.

We were living in a very, very small in-law apartment in San Francisco with only a sheet turned curtain separating our personal living space. We had fought about something and I had tried to slam the sheet. I think he called me a bitch. I just remember being really pissed off. So to feel better, the following night, I put cat laxative in his pasta. Then told him after he ate it. Now, cat laxatives won’t kill you. It won’t even hurt you. And as he’s always constipated, it might have even helped him. He obviously didn’t taste a thing. I guess it’s the thought that counts.

He was rather upset by the news. I had been doing some cooking since we were both too poor to eat out. I guess it threw a whole new slant on my cooking, which I believe was part of the point.

A few days went by and I figured he and I were all happy again. Jeff was working a late shift that day and wouldn’t be home until after I went to bed. I came home from work with take out looking forward to some personal time.

Now, to understand the deviousness of Jeff’s response, you need to know something. I have a weird Pavlovian reaction to arriving home. Once I can see my front door, I have to pee. Immediately. Its always been that way from the time I walked home from school as a five year old and didn’t quite make it to now where I can barely make it. This German habit of taking shoes off before entering the living space has totally thrown off my internal timer, btw. I don’t know why this is, it just is.

So with this pee instinct, I tore open my front door and leaped into the bathroom, skirt up, panties down and fell straight into toilet water. The toilet seat was not left in the up position, as is par for the living with Jeff course, but rather removed altogether. The seat was off the toilet and nowhere in site.

I looked around and found only a note duct taped to the mirror. It said something along the lines of “Remember the Pasta? Let’s play a game called find the toilet seat.” Jeff with duct tape is a very, very bad thing. It’s like Bush with an agenda; a lot of power and no self control.

Jeff took the toilet seat. Now that should have been enough, right? I had a wet ass and would have had to sit on the cold porcelain until he deigned to give it back. I figured I’d have to beg and pled and beg until he had to take an Italian toilet break himself where the seat will magically appear, but no. Jeff had to take it to the next level.

He went crazy with duct tape. He taped everything. He taped my remote control after he removed the batteries and taped those to the front. He taped my phone. He taped my favorite ice cream spoon. He taped the cans of cat food. He taped my nail files and tweezers. He taped my make-up and hair dryer. He taped anything and everything that I might use on a daily basis. He taped items of a more personal nature if you understand my meaning and last but not least, he taped a stuffed cat I had and put a note on it with the name of my favorite cat.

Three hours later, after removing all the duct tape I could find, I was watching TV on my bed and eating the now cold chinese. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted it; the toilet seat. Duct taped to the ceiling above the sofa.

Out of all the roommates I’ve had over the years, I always thought Jeff was the easiest to live with. Even with the bitching, messiness and duct tape. Markus once asked Jeff how he lived with me. Jeff said he had a lot of patience, a high pain threshold and a lot of chocolate ice cream.

Huh. Guess I set my bar too low.


Duct Tape King in the Red Rum 

Mr. Hallorann. What is in Room 237?

I was reading this book, The Ice Queen, by Alice Hoffman and I found my new natural disaster. By the way, it’s not such a hot book. Her earlier work was way better. Try Practical Magic and don’t think that stupid Nicole Kidman movie was even remotely like the book.

I was going to write all about the dangers of lightning, but my fish-like attention span has moved on. Don’t get me wrong; lightning IS this season’s tsunami. I mean, really, the chance of being hit by lightning in your lifetime is 1/3000 (if you live to be 80).

But as the skies are blue and lightning seems to be far away, I’ll wait until it rains to worry.

So Markus and I work in the same room in our house, the red room. We call it the red room because it’s red. And it’s also a play off The Shining(this freaks me out when I’m alone at night). We recently moved our desks together and now sit across from each other. This has good aspects and bad aspects. One the good side, I see his handsome sweet face all day. On the bad side I can smell his feet all day.

News Break:

We just had a lightning storm blow over as I sat here. See what I mean about jinxing things. I let down my guard and lo and behold, lightning. THERE WAS NO WARNING! I could have been fried at my desk. Eminem would have been the last thing I heard. Our house is right smack in the middle of a meadow, next to a river surrounded by forest. Our house is the largest object in a wide-open space. We’re doomed.

Lightning can literally hit out of the blue. It can strike up to ten miles away from any rain cloud. It can hit when you’re talking on the phone, washing dishes, doing laundry, and bathing. Anywhere. It IS the underrated killer.

It can hit you in your car. Convertibles are the worst kind of car to be in when there is a lightning storm. I drive a big ole convertible. It’s like a great big blue lightning rod. And tires do not save you in a car.

And my sister is going to college in upstate NY. I hear there are tons of lightning storms out there. So now I don’t have just serial killers and drunk drivers to worry about, she could be hit by lightning and that fabulous brain of hers would be all scrambled. Not to mention the twitches.

I have to go now. My hair is starting to static.

Unemployment: a tough row to ho

Germany is the place to be if you're unemployed. Free health care, 6 weeks vacation, decent unemployment and welfare and discount hookers.

Lightning: The Underrated Killer

I think I have Parkinson’s disease. Last month I thought I was having a stroke. I kept Markus up all night talking because I was sure I was going to have a stroke in the middle of the night and for some reason thought if he and I just stayed up all night, Death would pass me by. Markus didn’t mind talking to me so much, but when I went off birth control because of increased risk, HE almost stroked out.

Then I caught a really nasty cold and my aunt told me it was a sign of pregnancy. Then my back hurt and it became an ectopic pregnancy. Then I thought it was kidney stones.

I broke my pinky toe (for real) the night before we left for Tuscany last summer. We all know that all a doctor does is tape it to the other one and send you home. So I taped it up and walked all over Italia. It still hurt when I got back so I figured I had some sort of torn ligament and my toe would need to be amputated because I didn’t get prompt medical attention.

My cousin had stomach cancer at 16. Well, she had stomach cancer until her doctor told her he would have to stick a camera up her bum to find out. Then she had lupus. I think leukemia and sickle cell anemia were in there somewhere.

My aunt had lupus, breast cancer, a stroke and an aneurysm for good measure.

Let me clarify here. I have none of these diseases and no rabbits have died. My aunt and my cousin are in decent physical health and have never suffered the above. Jury is still out on our mental health.

Markus was unaware of this quirk until the night he stayed up talking me off the stroke ledge. One would think he’d have a clue as I lugged the John Hopkins Medical encyclopedia all the way across the globe. I’m no longer allowed to read that book. I’m also forbidden from visiting Web MD.

Markus and my sister say its hypochondria. But is it? I think I’m way too clever than to fall into that illness. It’s for amateurs.

I call it hyperawareness. It’s like jinxing. We keep illness at bay by assuming we already have it. The flip side of that is that we actually invite illness by assuming we already have it, a self-fulfilling prophecy. It’s this paradox of superstition that keeps us knee deep in desk references.

This flawless logic seemed to skip my brother and sister. Maybe it’s an exposure thing. I’ve had way more exposure to my mother’s side of the family then they have. Is mental instability communicable? Or is it irrefutable logic.

So, in that vein, I’ve added Web MD to my list of links. Let me know if there is anything cool and deadly. I’ll make the symptoms fit, at least for a week or so. That is if I live long enough.

Did you know lightning can hit you in your house? It can go through your windows. It can get you through your phone. Could be me, but is not.