Gay Boyfriends

Every girl should have one.

SB wasn't my boyfriend as he already had a fabulous man in his life, but he was certainly the most loyal friend I ever had. I cannot tell you how much he supported me for years. One time he even allowed me to accompany him to Neiman Marcus with bad lipstick and ruined hose. I wouldn't even let my sister into that store without the proper attire. SB surely loved me. Then he picked out a lipstick that was much better. What more could a girl ask for in a friend. I miss you SB.

The killer slowly raises the axe…

0300

I woke drowsily, the humidity and heat penetrating my slumber.
BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAM.
The house shook and the cats ran for cover and I screamed until Markus woke up.

Last night was the worst thunderstorm I have ever experienced. I was sure our little house (five stories high) would be toast. The doors were open because of the heat so the sound of cracking thunder RIGHT ABOVE our house was deafening. I have honestly never been so afraid of a natural phenomenon. Earthquakes are nothing to me. Lightning is so unpredictable and violent.

The worst part about this storm is that it set off my hair trigger panic/fear button. First was the fear of lightning itself. Gotta let that one go, right? Sure, when its sunny and clear out I have no problem in agreeing that fear of lightning is probably irrational even though the chances are 1 in 3000 you’ll be hit if you live to be 80. Sure, I can let it go until it WAKES ME UP IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FREAKIN’ NIGHT!

I was sure, with our metal doors open, the lightning was going to just blast in and kill us. I had to shut the door, but didn’t want to go near the window for a couple of reasons. One, I didn’t want to touch metal or be near an opening with the GD storm in our backyard, literally. And two, I was wearing a very cute nightgown, lawn cotton, empire waist, satin ribbon, thin straps and mid-thigh in length. It’s really the perfect attire in which to be killed. And not by lightning.

Ever notice how many killers come out during a lightning storm, both corporeal and non-corporeal. Ever seen Poltergeist? Tell me that tree/Indian face did not freak you out. You know how it goes; girl goes to window and looks out at the brilliant storm. The face of a psycho killer from hell is illuminated when the lightning lights up the sky. Screams do not help our girl as the killer slowly stalks her, husband asleep, cats hiding. She runs into the living room only to see another killer or the same killer, she doesn’t know, on the balcony, illuminated by the sky yet again. The violent clapping of clouds emphasizes the violent end she will face. Every window now has a face. Only the bathroom seems safe until the lights flicker and Bloody Mary laughs from the mirror. Out the door she runs, into the rainy night. Rain pours all over our heroine as she runs and runs until she trips, her nightgown torn and muddy, her ankle broken, tears mixing with the rain. The killer slowly raises the axe…

So, you can see how I spent last night. I fell asleep around 4:30 when the sky lightened with the dawn.

I really ought to be medicated.

Somthun amatta wich you?

You know, we’ve had great weather… until I opened my big fat mouth.

When I say great weather, I don’t mean sunny skies and soaring temps. I do not mean the type of weather that is perfect for bike rides and strolls along a lake.

I think great weather is cool, overcast and rainy. Did I move to the right country or wha? And that’s what we had until two night ago. Sparky and I were gettin all snuggly two nights ago, the door open and a nice cold breeze drifting over my face. We started fighting for the duvet because it was really cold. The first nice summer since I’ve been here.

I mentioned something about not wanting to put the comforter in a cover because the moment I did, I knew the weather would change and I wanted it to hold until I left for the land of A/C and environmental waste.

BOOM. The very next day, BAM, sunny and hot. F**k! Now i have to walk around with a fan tied to my ass just to keep cool.

On another note, Sparky and I just watched 2 episodes of the Sopranos and I can’t get the jersey accent outta my head. Even my body language is starting to resemble Tony. I could never be a Jersey wife. In my head, I’m all Tony. I’m something of a pussy when it comes to beating people up in reality. In my head, not so much ofa problem. I swear, I musta been an Italian ina past life or somthun cause I’m really getting’ inta the whole theng.

Don’t make me do it, Carm.

I love goats

I asked Sparky to wear these and he said no. I think a husband should indulge his wife occasionally, don’t you?


a party in your pants 

I'm off to find my way through Mannheim today. More tomorrow chickadees.

Consequences for Pissing Outside the Box

For the 4th time this week.


From this to... 

This. Say Hello, Cleo! 

Speedy Gonzales

Markus lost his license for 4 weeks for going too fast near München earlier this year. That means I'm chauffeur extraordinaire. It's usually a good idea anyway because I'm the better driver. He's the better parker. By that I mean he parks without getting parking tickets. I can park with the best of them, I just usually choose places that have the potential to be real spaces. I call it creative parking. He and his army of polizei call it illegal. Germans and their specific specifications.

However, getting up at 6 am to take him to the train without a coffee stop is just mean. Really, here I am, hauling my ass outta bed at an ungodly hour, driving his sorry ass to the train in Frankfurt so he doesn't have to sit with the bullies on the Darmstadt train and I get NO coffee. Its cruel, really.

On the way home my eyes were crossing and I missed my exit and ended up at the airport. I think my auto pilot is still set for San Francisco.

Anyway, Sparky is gone and I have a day of peace and quiet to nap clean.

My Father Is Not For Your Consumption

So this week was my father’s birthday. Jeff and I usually compete for the better present when we’re not going in together to get the old man something nice. This year we got him a helicopter ride over San Francisco that he seemed to like. So Jeff and I are still his two favorite kids. Cats not withstanding.

The ride came as an epiphany during an episode of Magnum P.I. Magnum always reminds me of my dad. When he was younger, my dad resembled him. He had the shirt, the ‘stache, the jeans, the belt and the white Nikes. For a long time, even the short shorts. According to women of the time, my dad was a hottie. According to women today, my dad is a hottie. And really, this is horrifying.

It’s a hard concept to digest, that your father is attractive to women. And this before he opens his mouth. He is so much more when he starts talking. A characteristic my brother inherited. The two of them can work a room of rabid feminists into puddles of giggles and womanly desire.

The first time I noticed women scoping my dad, I was 12. He had taken my brother and me to Embarcadero Center to eat and people watch, one of our favorite pastimes. The three of us were walking and this woman totally checked him out. The up and down lingering glance, that slight smile as she reached eye level, completed with the head turn as we walked passed. I was livid.

My dad would remember better, but I think I gave her a dirty look with a head turn of my own. He’s my dad. Jeez Louise. Do not check out dads’ when their kids are present.

As my dad got older he started to look more like Sean Connery. I kid you not. This is not just some fluff to make my dad feel better, as you will see in a moment. My dad bears a striking resemblance even though he’s Italian and Sean is Scottish. It’s the eyes and the beard. It could also be the slightly misogynistic undercurrent. Women can sense this. And they EAT. IT. UP.

When I lived in SF, my dad and I would have monthly lunches downtown. He would wait for me in the lobby of whatever building I was working in and we would walk to one of our regular restaurants. And every time, some chick in a business suit would turn her head and watch my dad walk. I mean, yes, he looks decent in a suit, but isn’t there some sort of decorum policy that should be enforced?

One afternoon, when we were meeting for one of our lunches, I got off the elevator with a co-worker. We’ll call her Geri. A woman in her low-50s, single after a bad divorce. And all of a sudden, she was nudging me to introduce her to this man who had just kissed my cheek. My dad, on his cell, had motioned for me to wait a moment.

Geri took the opportunity to ask if he was my boyfriend.

“Uh, no. He’s my dad.”
“Your Dad? Why, he’s not old enough? Really? Introduce me. He’s totally dreamy.”

Dreamy? Did she just describe my dad as dreamy? DREAMY?!? WTF?

My dad got off the phone and hugged me. I introduced Geri as a co-worker and tugged my dad out the revolving door before Geri could pounce.

You know how single women after 45 pounce. It’s the same pounce as single 25 year olds, but with shorter hair, coral lipstick, saggy cleavage and support hose. It’s that forty and frosted desperation pounce. Why did Geri think I should introduce Daddy? Because he wasn’t wearing a ring.

All single women look one place to see if a man is available. The ring finger. If he’s married, the ring will be there in gold or platinum. If he’s in a serious relationship it might be silver or titanium. Regardless, it’s the first place a woman looks. No ring, all systems go.

My dad has proven to be a tad bit difficult with the ring thing. For his own superstitious reasons (he says), he refuses to wear his wedding band. Now this has been a sore point between father and daughter for years. I hate women asking me if my dad is available. I hate defending his honor with dirty looks and bar room brawls. If he’d just wear the damn ring, all this could be avoided. Women would still look at him like he was the next best thing to Hershey’s chocolate, but they would keep some distance.

Yes, there are those women out there who see a ring and the object of their affection becomes even more thrilling, but my dad can handle those ladies. And those ladies do not come on to him when his daughter is standing there. And really, that’s all I care about.

This doesn’t bother my step-mom at all. My dad’s not a cheater; he’s not a flirt. He makes no effort in that direction at all. I would say it’s my Italian blood, but K is Italian too. And Portuguese. One would think she’d mind, but no. I’m the only one who objects to my father’s objectification.

Anyway, thinking about this has me all riled up again. Happy Birthday, Dad. And wear your god damned ring, will you?

Cranky Pants

Okay, I took a little break. I just didn't feel like touching my laptop. At all. I didn’t even look at my e-mail.

What did I do?

I watched the second half of the charmed second season. (I feel gypped.)
I watched a Magnum P.I. DVD set. (I love the short shorts on Magnum)
I ordered a helicopter ride for my Dad’s birthday. (Inspired by Magnum)
I read Harry Potter in a day. (It was just okay)
I read Stephanie Plum, eleven on top in a few hours (funnier than her last few)
I re-read A Complicated Kindness (3rd time and i still cry at the end)
I went to a book group (Felt all smart and educated. Hard to do in germany)
I ate Greek food. (not bad, but it's not Mexican.)
I went shopping at an American Army base. (Went overboard on reading materials)
I introduced Sparky to Raspberry Zingers. (He giggled upon eating one.)
I taught a class. (Singular.)
I bought a bottle of absinthe for my dad. (hope the customs officals aren't reading)
I bought a comforter for my sister. (the only way she should keep warm in NY)
I shuttled Markus to and from the gym without a single workout for myself. (All Right!)
Took both cats to the vet… AGAIN! (Kiska has to have daily shots which i have to give her)
I got the washing machine fixed and have yet to do a single load. (It aint't going anywhere)
I cleaned the cat piss off the floor of the cathouse twice. (CLEO!!!)
I napped. (Reading is a tough job)
I made a big pot of pasta because I didn’t want to cook. (Ate like a pig)
I made meatballs the size of my fist. (I was too lazy to make more, smaller.)
I made choc. chip cookie dough. (Then decided it was too much work to make the cookies.)
I ate choc. chip cookie dough.(Until I got sick.)
I drove fast and wasted gas. (It was fun and pissed sparky off)

Sparky would deny this, but I’ve been something of a cranky pants for the last few days. I think we are all better for the lack of posts.

Dead Database

I have a complaint. I think obituaries should be required to list cause of death. I mean really, why else are they there? The people who want to go to the funeral will know when and where. Those of us who read them for informational purposes, don’t read them to find out where there might be a good party to crash. Personally, I read them to find out if I’m in that death zone. You know, that age where people start dying of heart attacks rather than frat hazings and DUIs.

Maybe it’s that I don’t know the reason behind obituaries. The usual obit, if you are just regular Joe Schmo includes your name and age, all the people who have survived you, the time and place of your funeral and comment about flowers and/or donations. Here is an example of the information i want, but i want it on normal people, not just the famous. Everyone should be famous in death.

Name and age is good. It gives you an idea of with whom you’re dealing. The older people always make me happy. Sarah Schumacher, 89. Sarah had a long life. She had her chance to make a good one or a bad one. She wasn’t cheated. If there was some sort of dementia involved, it could even be a celebration. Aunt Sarah finally moved on. Go aunt Sarah. Let us know how Uncle Bob is and good luck with the reincarnation plans.

My age range is important. I really want to know why Ashley, 32, died Wednesday. I mean, I really want to know. Was it cancer, heart attack, abusive husband? Was it suicide, childbirth, car accident, chickenpox? Why do people my age die? Oh sure, I could look up statistics, but they rarely list the one offs, like struck by lightning, slipped off the countertop reaching for a can of beans or accidentally fell onto a knife in the dishwasher. Tip for the day: Always place the knives with sharp part down. If it’s someone my age, I want to know. Am I in the dead zone yet? Do a have a few more years?

Anyone under 18, that’s sad. Name and age don’t quite cut it. Was it car accident, health issues, suicide? Why do 15 year olds die? I would like to take that opportunity to learn from tragedy and worry for the 15 year olds I know. Add to my personal database of things to worry about and/or prevent. For example, there was a girl I knew who died right out of high school. She fell off a horse. Another girl fell off a motorcycle. This was a clue not to “ride” things. Helmets did not help in either case.

Occasionally you’ll see cause of death listed. Sometimes you can glean it from the donations part. In lieu of flowers, please make donations to the Women’s Cancer Resource Center, American Heart Association, AIDs Center, ALS Foundation etc.… This is nice. It’s subtle. I can work with this. There is the appropriate amount of respect for the dead and the warning for the living. I know to get mammograms, eat better, and use condoms. How do I learn from the dead if they do not tell me what to watch out for?

I don’t understand the survived by part. It’s your day. You did all the work, why does every Tom, Dick and Harry in your family tree get to be listed. I can understand your wife and kids, maybe a parent, but siblings and extended family?

This is all relative to the age of the deceased. There are different rules for the under 18 crowd. Most siblings are friends. The emotional abuse inflicted on each other has yet to mature. Extended family is still invited to birthday parties and holidays. Death is just cruel under the 18 line.

When you’re 89, that niece you never liked because of her tendencies to hurt small animals and set fires, why is she in there? If you’re 69, the brother you haven’t spoken to in 40 years since he stole your boyfriend does not need to be included. Back off, Bud. Wait your turn. It’ll come, don’t worry. Just don’t be thinking you get to piggyback on mine.

So that being said, here’s mine:

Jennifer X, 99, died Tuesday in her sleep of old age despite years of anxiety. She is survived by Cleo, her cat of 78 years. Everyone else is dead or unimportant regardless of what they say. In lieu of flowers, spend your money on something pretty. The ashes will be tossed Thursday. Casual attire in gray is recommended in case of high winds.

Whatever Happened to Baby Jen?

I’m officially no longer J Massana.

My brother and I no longer have the same initials. When they called me to pick up my amended passport, it took me a minute to register that it was me they were calling. I was in fact Mrs.XXX. I don’t really like being a Mrs.XXX, I like Ms. Massana. I like the way it rolls off my tongue. Thousands of women disappear every day when they take their husband’s name. I never wanted to be one of them. Alas…

We’ve been married for a while, but I made excuses for oh… a year and a half as to why I couldn’t change my name. First, it was that I needed a new passport so I would need a new picture. To get a new picture I would need a better hairstyle. Then I needed to lose weight before I got a new picture because the old picture was cute and I didn’t want a new ugly picture. Then it was that the US issues new passports with chips. I didn’t want to be chipped.

Now, since I have to register permanently and stop pussy footing around with temporary extensions, I had to bite the bullet. And they just added the data to my old chipless, good pictured passport.

If there were a “von” somewhere in Markus’ name, I might have changed it earlier. A “von Blank” is way cooler than Massana. Otherwise, Massana is way cooler than anything German. Markus claims that the German government frowns upon adding a von where there was never a von to begin with. I say we buck the system and just start telling people our new name. He says no and since he’s the husband and I’m simply chattel, I don’t have a choice, a voice, the option.

Anyway it’s over and done. Should I mourn the loss of Jennifer Massana or should I celebrate my newfound identity as someone’s wife?

Markus sent me this to help me with my transition.

I Like Bukkake**

Ever get a song stuck in your head? Ever have someone stick that song in your head and be unable to get it out?

I went grocery shopping tonight and unwittingly sang this little ditty throughout the store. Up and down the aisles I sang it, audiably, to myself. In the dairy section that was so crowded I had to push my way to the cheeses. In the meat section were there was a traffic jam of carts. In the produce section as i felt up the melons.

It was only when markus corrected my version of "I love bukkake" to "I like bukkake" did i realize what i was doing.

Thanks Sparky. Thanks a lot.

And BTW, I do NOT like Bukkake.

The Vessel Has A Gag Reflex

Monkey Baby 
“How’s the vessel?” Asks my aunt Rachel every time I talk to her.

The vessel is my uterus. Being a married chick of a certain age, this is not an uncommon question. The vessel is fine. Still unoccupied, thank the stars. Rachel has been asking about the vessel for years now, trying to get me to eat greens even during those time where pregnancy was so NOT the goal, in preparation for the day when the vessel would be leased out.

Now, I’ve always wanted to be a wealthy matriarch. You know, that old woman that will never die and hold the purse strings to a huge fortune with ne’er do well son-in-laws and powerful daughters. You know, Barbara Taylor Bradford style. I want my grandkids to love/hate me for my iron fist and steel-trap mind. The problem is that I’m not always sure I want kids. And as Markus’ lovechildren are still in hiding, if I don’t have my own, it’s so long skinflint granny.

I love kids. I love those sweet, sleeping babies, the giggles of toddlers and the quickness of older kids. I also love being able to write/read all day, travel at the drop of the hat, quickly run errands and sleep. I love the quiet of our house. And the cleanliness. If poop plays a part of my day, scooping it out of a box is preferable.

Yesterday, Strasbourg got replaced with the Frankfurt Zoo. Seeing as we were the day guardians of a seven-year-old, architecture and long walks through an old city might not be the best way to entertain Twinkle Toes. The fresh fish and quiche would not have been as exciting to Miss “Keep Me Entertated”.

So we nixed éclairs for fruit loops and headed off to the zoo.

Babies were everywhere and I wanted to take them all home, so cute and cuddly. Markus had to remind me that we had no way to care for them and the authorities might have a problem with me stealing babies. I wanted them all. The baby monkeys, seals and otters. The baby giraffe, goats and ponies. Even some baby turtles or the baby hippo. I did not, however, want to touch a human baby. The vessel wandered through my body, searching for escape, still not ready for occupancy.

Twinkle Toes was awesome. There are some really shitty kids out there; TT is not one of them. She’s great. Smart and kind. Hard to find in a lot of kids. She’d move out of the way to let others see the animals; she’d look around to make sure she wasn’t in the way of someone else. She was better than most of those shitty parents.

So, why did the vessel turn heel and run? The zoo was like a movie with fast cuts: Every turn of my head I saw the toddlers and their stiffened tantrums, the five year olds with red screaming faces, a three year old hitting his mother in the face repeatedly. It was the older brats that played with all the interactive exhibits, incessantly screaming and spinning the spinning parts not letting anyone else have a turn while the parents just stood stupidly in front of other exhibits preventing people from enjoying more than their screaming prodigy.

I love kids. Really. Yesterday, I was so happy that Markus and I could devote our time to an angel. And I was so happy that her parents came and picked her up. I was so happy when I realized that I have two books to read before Tuesday and that I could conceivably do it because I have no other obligations… like kids. Markus can fend for himself. Protein shakes and pudding and he can eat for a year. No spills except when I stepped into the tuna water I left out for the cats.

I read blogs like ELB and Zulieka with a weird sort of curiosity. I read Dooce and decide, uh, no thanks. As a chick of a certain age, I’m privy to all the horrors of pregnancy and childbirth. As a “civilized” human, I leave most animal behaviors to the bathroom. And bedroom. There was a certain period of time in college where I thought defecation was too animal-like; I wanted to find a different way of going about it. A certain mind-altering substance might have exacerbated my skeevishness at the time, but I don’t like bodily functions. The idea of pregnancy weirds me out completely. “Enemy Mine” cured me of the need to be pregnant.

Yesterday, I saw this fish. His mouth full of what appeared to be a fine steel wool. His eyes bulged and his mouth couldn’t close. I thought he was dying. I wanted to find a zoo guy to help remove the stuff from the poor fishie’s mouth. Well, I would have committed infanticide. He was a mouthbreeder, incubating the eggs in his mouth. Now, that’s how people should have babies. If Markus had to hold an embryo in his mouth for the entire gestation period, I wouldn’t have to explain why I don’t have kids. I could say; “The vessel is fine. He just can’t stop swallowing.”

My New Friend, Jiminy

A cricket landed on my car today and Jiminy brought me luck. I accidentally got a job, found a potential new friend, my Amazon shipment arrived with The Killers CD I’ve been lusting after and two new books. Last but not lease, Charmed - Season Two came out AND was in stock at Media Markt.

In the spirit of learning Deutsch, I e-mailed a school to find out about classes and cost. The return e-mail asked if I knew anyone who could teach English. I offered, they accepted and I start teaching at a larger corporation next week. A few hours a week should keep me in mani/pedis and handbags. However, Deutsch lessons will be with a school who does not hire people off the interent with no experience.

The bonus is… I met my new boyfriend. Well, I’m not sure if he’s a boyfriend yet, but we definitely clicked. I have high hopes and a bit of a crush. I have dreams of shopping and cocktails. Honestly, he’s the first gay man I’ve met living here. I keep meeting men who have potential and then they turn out to be just your typical straight eurofag. So disappointing. Then there are the guys that hit on Markus at the gym, but since they’re hitting on my husband and I could crush their little Twinkie asses with my thumb, they don’t count.

My books arrived in time for me to read before I meet with my book clubs. As I skipped the last book, it would be in bad form if I skipped this one even though it’s boring. Then a great one that the Lit club reads. I don not understand why the hausfraus are checking off the classics from their lists. Hausfrau duties are boring enough without adding all’s quiet on the western front or lord of the flies.

Charmed is a guilty pleasure. Leave it alone.

Then I found out that while I'm in the City by the Bay, a very good friend will visit from the East Coast. I cannot wait to see her sorry ass as its been way too long.

Tomorrow, I’m off to eat éclairs with the French in Strasbourg, my favorite euro city outside of Berlin. The weather is just like I like it, rainy and cold. It’s wonderful. I look much better in cashmere than tank tops with sweat dripping down my face.

With everything going so right, something bad should happen, right? Maybe the universe is making everything so great right now because I’m going to die tomorrow and I’ve been a good enough person that I should enjoy my last days on earth. Or maybe something will happen to Markus, the cats, and family back home. That call I’ve been waiting for informing me my brother was in an accident will come through or my sister really will be sold into white slavery. She’s on tour in Italy right now, singing her little heart out. Excuse me; I have to go think of all the bad stuff that could happen in order for it not to happen. See how complicated good luck is?

anger and sorrow

London

Hitler was a Great Man

My brother, aka Treasure, was the apple of my mother’s eye. His red hair, sparkling blue eyes and sweet personality could charm her into anything. Growing up, I would kick and scream and argue my way into the world, fighting parental injustice with a loud voice and the slamming of doors. Jeff, smarter and more easygoing from the gate, would smile and nod and agree to whatever terms my parents would set. Then he’d do exactly what he wanted to do, on his terms. If they coincided with my parents, then okay, if not, he’d cajole my mother until she giggled with maternal pride in her young son. His baby blues could always convince our sainted mother of his innocence, his boyish rapscallion behavior found charming rather than troublesome. Jeff could get away with anything.

My brother’s first glimpse of trouble came in the form of a report for his 4th grade class. He was to write about Hitler. A little heavy for the 4th grade, in my book, but who am I to question the California school system? Jeff gathered encyclopedias and library books to help him with the report. It was the first report that he did not have help in writing. Most of the time our mother would go over everything and make sure we lived up to her standards. I can only assume that the reason for this slip up was the earlier arrival of my redheaded, blue-eyed sister. My mother had a 14-year-old hormonal teenager (me), two ten-year-old boys (my brother and stepbrother) and a newborn. It’s safe to say she was overwhelmed. Jeff, on his own, wrote the report and turned it in unseen by parental eyes.

A week later my mother got a phone call. It was Jeff’s teacher, Bunny Parrott. She wanted to schedule a parent teacher conference to discuss my brother’s recent work. Puzzled but not concerned, my mother set the appointment.

An aside: Why, if your parents named you Bunny, would you take the married name of Parrott? And why do elementary teachers have such boffo names? Jeff also had teachers named Ms. Jelly and Mrs. Schnauzer. I had a Mrs. Lipschitz.

The day came and I babysat while my brother and mother headed off to the conference. When they got back, my mother’s treasure was sent directly to his room “To think about what he had done.”

As it turns out, left to his own devices, Jeff wrote a kicker of a report. His teacher, a nice moral Mormon, started the coolly polite conversation by making sure my mother knew she was trying not to stand in judgment of our family’s belief system. Mrs. Parrott explained she had waited a few days before calling my mom, unsure on how to proceed with the sticky subject of white supremacy and anti-Semitism. Mrs. Parrott wanted to make sure my mother was aware of my brother’s views and while our family had the right to believe anything we wanted, some things would not be tolerated at a public school.

My mother was confused. Did this teacher think that because Jeff was so pale we might be interested in joining some sort of organization? Were we being recruited by an elementary teacher to join the local suburban branch of the KKK? My mother thought it might have something to do with those crazy Mormons. She opened her mouth to say something when Mrs. Parrott handed her Jeff’s report. She read the first line, written in my brother’s chicken scratch scrawl.

“Hitler was a great man.”

The rest of the report told of the horrors of World War II and ended with the same thesis statement indicating Hitler’s greatness. A synopsis clearly copied from a book with some facts in a different style thrown in the middle. My brother had plagiarized and plagiarized badly. In order for the report to fit in with report he wrote on some other historical figure, he started it out the same. Lincoln was a great man and he guessed Hitler was, too.

My mother tried to explain to Mrs. Parrott that she hadn’t read the report. The trials of four kids did not seem to impress Mrs. Parrott, the mother of seven. My mother apologized profusely and stumbled over explanations. In a feeble attempt to illustrate our family’s stance on racism, my mother told a story about father calling my brother and me half-breeds because we were half Italian. She mentioned how our Irish-German coloring stood out against our last name. She forgot to include the part about our father’s pride in being full-blooded Italian. She forgot to say, “We are not racists.” My mother made matters worse as she attempted to clarify our belief system. I’m sure she looked over at her sweet son, with his summer buzz cut red hair and pale freckled skin in horror. She promised Jeff’s teacher that it would never happen again and quickly left.

On the way home, Jeff explained that he hadn’t actually read what he wrote, he just copied it from the library book he’d checked out. He managed to write the entire report without comprehending a single word.

Treasure was sent directly to his room, grounded from video games, TV and GI Joes for 2 weeks.

With that report, Jeff’s halo tarnished for the first time in his 9 years on earth. As I watched my favorite show on TV during Jeff’s cartoon time, in my opinion, that day, Hitler was a great man.

Dämpfen des Gases

Mein Mann wird nicht mehr erlaubt, burritos zu essen. Er und Cleo haben viel im Common. Er hielt mich waches gestern Abend mit seinen tödlichen Dämpf Wind. Das US-Regierung hat gefragt, daß er bei den Gefangenen in Gitmo hilft. Einige Fortschr1tte auf und ab den Flur der prisionzellen würden die Insurgents haben zuzulassen, daß Schuld und alle sie der Folterung entgehen konnten. Christina Aguillera und rasende Hunde haben nichts auf intestinaler Fläche meines Manns.

I wanted to say:
My husband is no longer allowed to eat burritos. He and Cleo have much in common. He kept me awake last night with his deadly wind. The US government has asked that he help with the prisoners in Gitmo. A few strides up and down the corridor of prision cells would have the insurgents admitting guilt and anything they could to escape the torture. Christina Aguillera and rabid dogs have nothing on my husband's intestinal tract.

Feline Eyes are Watching You

Meine Katze ist auf einer Diät. Cleo betrachtet mich mit den böse Augen und erklärt mir mit ihrem Blick des Ekels, den sie keine das einzige ist, das Kalorien schneiden muß. Wenn nur sie warten würde, bis ich mit der Eiscreme fertig, würde ich sie nicht so persönlich nehmen.

Aus irgendeinem Grund produziert diese Diät sehr scharfe Blähung. Während ich in der Dunkelheit sitze, dieses Stück schreibend, treiben ihre tötlich Gerüche in Richtung zu meiner Nase. Zuerst dachte ich, daß es ein Geist war. Es ist eine bessere Erklärung für den Geruch. Sie und ich sind allein und ich bin fast positive sein nicht ich.

Let me sleep, biatch 

This is what I wanted to say:
My cat is on a diet. Cleo looks at me with evil eyes, telling me with her look of disgust that she is no the only one that needs to cut calories. If only she would wait until I was done with the ice cream, I wouldn’t take it so personally.

For some reason, this diet produces very pungent flatulence. As I sit in the dark, writing this piece, her smelly odors drift towards my nose. At first I thought it was a ghost. It’s a better explanation for the odor. She and I are alone and I’m almost positive it’s not me.

Scheisse

I had no idea it was language week. I just read about it in In Actual Fact and Mausi. How appropriate.

Tomorrow I will try it.

Wow, take a couple of days off the computer and all sorts of things happen.

Scarlett Nicht Mehr

I’ve been here 2 years now. Technically, I left on the 4th of July, America’s Independence Day. I arrived on the 5th of July, the Totestag of Sparky’s father. In celebration and sorrow, I was born to Europe.

What have I done with my time here? What have I accomplished with my time? Friends and family back home ask all the time. Well, I learned to cook. I learned that the Polish do not like to be called Pollacks. I learned that while Schmuck is jewelry, Schmucker is not a jeweler, but rather a brand of beer. I learned how to navigate a grocery store, hardware store, pet store and dry cleaners, illiterate. I learned the fine art of diplomacy and mother-in-laws. I learned how to self-soothe because friends and family were more than a car-ride away. I learned that my family could be just fine without my daily interference. I learned that life does, indeed, go on without me.

I learned how to drive in the rain. I learned how to drive in the snow. I learned how to drive over 100mph and not die. I learned that einbahnstrasse was not a sign pointing towards the autobahn, but rather a one-way street. I learned how to dye my own hair and then learned that my natural color is just fine. I built a house. Well, I was on site for the building of our house. And thus, I learned to be patient and talk softly. I put together a household from scratch.

I learned to love German food. I learned to live without garlic in my Italian food. I was able to wean myself off of seafood, Mexican food, decent Chinese food, bagels and Starbucks Lattes and not lose a pound of flesh. I learned that my way of doing things is not the only way things can be done, confirming its just the only way they can be done correctly. I learned to appreciate the low cloud ceiling and forget the clear blue miles high San Francisco sky. Well, maybe not that.

And I learned how to let go of what I held most dear for the possibility of something greater.

But what does that all mean in the practical Deutsch scheme of things. Not a whole lot. See, in that time I did not learn Deutsch. I can’t go much farther here without it. I understand a great deal and I can communicate with my mother-in-law and drunkards just fine. Children under two understand me perfectly. I cannot, however, speak. In my head, I construct elaborate sentences, practicing what I want to say over and over, only to fall mute when the time to speak comes around. The patience and understanding of Markus’s friends and family has worn thin, rightly so.

In California, some demand that the Mexican immigrants speak English. Well, I’m the Mexican now. I’m in your country. I need to learn your language. I need to learn your way. If I’m to matriculate, integrate, assimilate, I must learn how to speak this language without spitting.

In San Francisco, I was smart, capable and independant. Without language, all that goes out the window along with self-esteem and confidence. Life without language is intimidating and it’s crippling. I don’t do well intimidated. And I do worse dependant on others. Only Scarlett can depend on the kindness of strangers gracefully. To that end, the next year will be devoted to learning Deutsch.

Gutenmorgen, meine Freunde. Ich bin im Begriff, Ihre Sprache zu schlachten.

Glib American held for Murder

The Victim 

Darmstadt, Germany, Rueders

An American woman is being held responsible for the death of a pint of Ben & Jerry's ice cream left in her care. The pint had been left in the custody of Ms. M when her husband left for the gym. Upon return, the man discovered the corpse.

Authorities have the woman in custody. Witnesses are said to have overheard the American planning the murder over her husband’s protests shortly after purchase. The woman, citing her American citizenship, pled the Fifth Amendment and asked for a representative from the American Consulate.

After purchasing two extremely expensive pints of Vermont’s best ice cream at the local video store, the woman and her husband drove home and settled both pints in the freezer for use later that night. The husband left for approximately 2.5 hours. When he came home, he discovered the empty, dead pint on the counter top and chocolate covering his wife’s lips and t-shirt.

Witnesses at the video store state that the woman looked a little crazed as she ravaged the Ben & Jerry’s ice cream display. One clerk heard her say “Anything with chocolate. Or cookie dough. I don’t care, it’s not going to last long!” The local police are contemplating conspiracy charges against the video store.

“Yeah, I saw her. She must have been jonesing. She pushed an elderly couple down trying to get to the freezer case. You know how those addicts can be. And she was talking to herself too. Saying stuff like “Men can lick my ass.” and something about fish food. I just tried to keep my distance.” Stated one video store employee.

“You know how those junkies are. They get a taste for the Vermont cream and they are never the same again. I hear about on the news all the time. It’s a shame, she was so young.” Said the older woman who had been pushed aside by Ms. M on her way to the freezer case.

In a statement for the press, Ms. M’s husband asked the public for understanding during this trying time. He asked that the public not be so glib as to think that hysteria could be treated with chocolate. Following Tom Cruise’s lead, he urged the public to learn more about the urban legend of hormonal fluctuations. An apparent expert after reading a Scientologist pamphlet, the woman’s husband suggested vitamins rather than chocolate to ease emotional upsets.

Ms. M’s husband was subsequently slaughtered in a futile attempt to prevent copycat killings by stocking freezer cases in the surrounding area with multi-vitamins. There are no witnesses to his murder despite the crowd of glib, arrogant women present.