Taaa Daaa

Sparky spent all day making this new and improved template.  Isn’t he the best husband in the world?

The goat…  the goat is an escape goat.  I’ll write more on him later, but all of us ex-pats have one.  Its what pulled us along from the comfort/discomfort of our native cities and countries.  Sometimes they had to pull hard to get us to move and sometimes they just had to show us where to step.  In any case, we can always blame our escape goat for leading us where we are today.

So, I hope you enjoy the new look.  

And a big Hip Hip Hurray for Sparky and his magic.

fixed??

well, thanks to Prairie Girl, I got that stupid navbar fixed. I added the wordwrap thing and i hope all is well. From Firefox, everything looks splendid. but then again, from Firefox, everything looks splendid.

Nation of Procrasti

So, I took the test. I’ll find out if I move on to GKII Monday. I totally effed up the “may I can I, should I”-part. The rules don’t translate to my brain very well. The whole „möchten, mögen, dürften, können“-thing.

I totally understand wollen (to want). I got that Dooown. I aced plurals: 2 Busse, 4 Kinder. I aced the conjugation part too. I so know how to conjugate.

I did make a mistake in the essay part. I meant to say “Ich muss meine Katzen füttern.” In English, “I must feed my cats.”

What I wrote is “Ich muss meine Katzen fressen.”

Apparently in German, I said, “I must eat my cats”, but the word fressen is used when animals eat. I added a dimension of barbaric savagery. Like I eat my cats raw and tear them apart with my sharp teeth.

Flash forward: Me on my hands and knees, head bent low. Poor Cleo with her innards ripped apart, blood and guts all over my face, grunting, slurping, growling from deep in my throat. The other two cats, looking on in horror, wonder if Cleo pissed outside the box again.

So at this point, I’m wondering if I should admit my mistake to my teachers or boldly stand in defense.

“Yes, I savagely eat my cats. It keeps me from savagely eating people, like Deutsch teachers who don’t pass me to the next level.”

So, more on the cat eater Monday.

Now, some business to discuss.

I updated my links via Blogroll. I had failed to do this for so long that a lot of new favorites had been ignored. I hadn’t signed up for Blogroll, so adding links was a total chore.

So, browse and enjoy. If your link isn’t there and you want it there, email me. If your link is there and you don’t want it there, email me.

Next Item: I want to update this blog. I’m tired of this old template and would like a new one. Other than Blogger, where can I find something pretty?

This is called procrastination.

I have NaNoWriMo starting Tuesday and I’m so behind in my research and outlines. I got up early to do stuff and so far I’ve made a cup of coffee, found the first cup physically smaller than my dirty favorite cup. Washed favorite, and cleaned the kitchen because it was impossible to find a single mug without cleaning the kitchen. I threw in a load of laundry and cleaned the cat box. I fed and watered the cats. The cats are now sleeping comfortably on our heated window seats. I called my sister. Talked to her for a while. Then researched cashmere sweaters. Christmas is coming. Miranda has decided to try cashmere for the very first time. I’m so proud.

I did my blogroll and cleaned up my desk. I changed my clothes because I needed the warm sweat pants as opposed to the warmish sweat pants. Added a sweater, removed the sweater. Put on one pair of slippers, remembered they were my midwinter slippers to be saved until my current pair stink so bad that I need a new pair. I suffer from slipper stink. Well, I don’t suffer, Sparky suffers. I try to mitigate long-term odor with a mid-winter switch.

I opened my word file, read a paragraph then wrote this blog entry. Its now 9 am and I’ve been up since 5 am. I write better in the dark when I can’t see or hear distractions. Now its light and the day has begun and I’ve done nothing. I’m going to go now before this becomes long and boring.

I think the red room needs dusting…

Brought to you by the letter S

I’m 33 years old. I’ve known my ABCs since I was three. I write daily, I read constantly. I’ve edited. I’ve gone to college. I’ve worked in the banking industry. I look down my nose at those who move their lips while reading.

Why can I not remember that R comes before S without singing the alphabet song.

I think its because S is the superior letter. Really, R has nothing on S and I guess in my mind S should therefore come before R. This does not mean that I think all the letters before R are better than S. This is an R/S only thing.

This is really making my German/English dictionary usage difficult. And my classmates are getting tired of the noise. Abcdefg hijkelemenopee qurs… The tune does not work in german, either.

I have a test on Friday that I need to pass in order to move on to the next level. Therefore, blogging time is in short supply this week.

Bloggers meet up was really fun. Green Haddock and his wife are wonderful hosts. Christina is as sweet in person as she is in type. And J, well, J is either the nicest man I've ever met or a serial killer. He's that charming and disarming.

Those who missed it really missed out. I mean really missed out. All the bloggers that showed up received 1000€. Now aren’t your really sad you didn’t get up early?

German Lesson for the day: (Graffiti found in Marburg) Mein Boppes beliebt jungfrau = My bum stays virginal.

RatBoy and Trekking in Switzerland

Sent to me by an old friend, M. It might take a little while to load, but its worth it. (My friend M is not ratboy. It's in the clip.)

RatBoy

M is also looking for some info. He wants to go trekking in Switzerland. As my trekking experience is limited to the word Star and Convention, I was hoping someone out there would have some info for him. Trails or cool places. He's a seasoned traveller, ex-expat and an experienced trekker. It's Switz or Chile and as I'd like to see him, I'm hoping for Switz.

Leek, the new red meat

Okay, before I go on, I need to preface this cooking spree I seem to be on.

Because I’m incredibly lazy and I liked the idea, I talked Sparky into signing up for an organic veggie/fruit/cheese delivery thing. A lady in my Hausfrau book group does it and recommended it. Sparky complains that I never make veggies. This is true. I cook like a single girl thrown into the task of cooking for two. For some reason, cake for breakfast is not his idea of a balanced meal. Ice cream is apparently not appropriate either and with Take-Out a completely different animal from that at home, I cook a main entrée. Sometimes, I throw in a Caesar Salat with store bought dressing.

Store bought ready-made salad is a VAST improvement for a girl who grew up eating SpaghettiO’s out of the can because her mother couldn’t be bothered to put them in a pan and heat them up. This was okay for me. I liked it as long as she didn’t get the type with meatballs. Uncooked, those meatballs left a fatty film on the roof of my mouth. I still prefer my SpaghettiO’s room temp.

So in that vein, I suggested that this veggie delivery thing would force me to cook more green stuff. It would be delivered and therefore I would cook it.

I get these ideas based wholly on my need to accessorize. I can kick ass in Deutsch School if I have the cute binder, graph paper, cool pens, mechanical pencil in pink and a hello kitty pink bubble gum eraser. When I got my car, a convertible, I needed a matching scarf to wear wrapped around my head like an old school film star (in reality, its more Isadora Duncan). Sure, I could cook great veggie dishes, but in order to do this, I need delivered organic veggies.

Sold! He ordered it and last Friday, our GemüseKiste was delivered. Oh boy. I had no idea what I was getting myself into. We got a sample kiste with cheeses and veggies and a couple of apples thrown in.

The organic cheeses were delicious. And the apples lasted about 3 minutes. The veggies… well, the veggies were types I had barely heard of in passing, let alone had any idea how to cook. I did not get, as I thought, a few normal, everyday type of veggies like brokkoli, zucchini, and eggplant. I got endive, parsnips, carrots, leeks, and collard greens.

What is a parsnip? I looked it up and it sounded like it could be a great new addition to my veggie repertoire. I made veggie bundles with leeks, carrots, parsnips and shallots tied with green onions. They were good, but parsnips have an initial taste that reminds me of urine, so I won’t eat anymore of those.

Endive looks like I can just throw it in a salat, but no, I cannot. They require soaking and onions minced and oil and vinegar and salt and pepper. I have to make the oil and vinegar thing from scratch.

Collard greens? I had these in North Carolina made with gobs of lard, I’m sure, but there is no way I’m cooking with lard. My ass is big enough without throwing lard in to my grocery cart. Its one thing when you don’t see how it’s made. It’s a horse of a different color if I have to make it myself.

So, with more veggies than my massive imported American fridge could store, Sparky called my bluff and demanded I cook every single thing delivered.

Hence my journey through the land of cookbooks began.

Dedicated in calling Sparky’s bluff in calling my bluff, I bought more veggies at the Wochende Markt. Well, one can’t make a meal out of parsnips, collards and carrots… I needed more stuff to make the stuff I have edible. Tonight we are having roasted zucchini, eggplant, carrots, parsnips, brokkoli and green onions over rice.

Markus wanted my special hamburgers. Hahahhahahahaaa. I got him, Mr. I-work-out-and-need-my-protein-why-don’t-you-make-veggie-man.

And this afternoon, I used the leeks in a little experiment that was delish. It’s gone now so he’ll just have to remember what that one bite tasted like when he comes home for his rice and veggie plate.

It all started with those damn leeks. I had something like 10 good-sized leeks. What do you do with 10 leeks? Make soup? I don’t have a blender or food processor to puree stuff. I do have a mixer, but that does nothing for leek soup. I can chop so chop I did. I made a leek quiche thingie.

I love quiche. I cannot/do not know how to make a piecrust.

When I first moved here and wanted to make it, I looked all over Aldi and Kaufland for ready-made piecrusts in the little tin pie plate to no avail. I even asked in a Bäckerei if I could buy one. I would have paid 20€ for a piecrust. The woman thought I was mad and shushed me out the door.

That was the end of my attempt to make quiche. I just wait until we go to Strasbourg and pick some up there.

I know, I give up too easily sometimes, but there is no freakin’ way I’m making my own piecrust. For some reason I feel like piecrust is the only thing keeping me from full membership to the Hausfraus-R-Us Association. As I’m a founding member of the Ladies of Leisure League, making piecrust is simply unacceptable.

So anyway, I had a ton of leeks and their time was running out. I had to do something as Sparky was keeping his eyes on the veggies, just waiting for them to go bad so he could win this battle of the GemüseKiste and curse his American veggie-wasting wife. So with the idea of a leek quiche in my head, I stopped by Minimal. There, under the ready-made pastas, was pastry dough. Ready-made pastry dough in Germany is like Lunchables for Americans. Only the working or divorced mothers must use ready-made. Or those mothers who don’t really care what their kids eat and feed them cold SpaghettiO’s.

Genetic memory kicked in and I cleverly bought the ready-made strudel pastry, stuck it in a gratin dish and went to town with my own ingenious leek thingie recipe.

It was delish and it’s gone and after school tomorrow I’m picking up 10 more leeks and making it again. After tonight’s veggie fest, I will have used all the veggies and wasted NOTHING!

Take that, Sparky!

Bris(ket)

I made brisket today. My first ever. It smells really good and the potatoes and carrots look delish. But Markus keeps calling it the Bris.

One would think, as a euro guy, he might be more, I don't know, less eager to use that word.

An hour later....

It WAS delish but it was supposed to be an all day meal with leftovers and its now history. All I have is a full belly and a dirty pot to testify to how I spent my morning. I think I need a nap before I tackle my 6 hours of german homework.

a day later...

Here's the recipe: I got it from The New Basics Cookbook by Julee Rosso and Sheila Lukins.

I added way more carrots and garlic because i like carrots and garlic. I also added about 8 well-washed large potatoes chunked up with the skin left on. The flour part was cool because it made a gravy all by itself at the end.

Nach Waxman's Brisket of Beef

1 first-cut brisket of beef - 5-6 pounds
1 to 2 teaspoons unbleached all-purpose flour
Coarsely ground black pepper, to taste
1/4 corn oil
8 onions, thickly sliced and separated into rings
2 tablespoons tomato paste
1-1/2 teaspoons coarse (kosher) salt 2 cloves garlic, quartered
1 carrot, peeled
Preheat oven to 375 F
Trim the brisket of most of its fat, and dust it very lightly
with flour. Sprinkle with pepper.
Heat the oil in a large heavy flameproof casserole.
Add the brisket, and brown on both sides over medium-high heat
until some crisp spots appear on the surface.
Transfer the brisket to a dish.
Keeping the heat medium high, add the onions to the casserole
and stir, scraping up the brown particles left from the meat.
Cook until the onions have softened and developed
a handsome brown color, 10 to 15 minutes.
Remove the casserole from the heat, and place the brisket, along with
any juices that have accumulated, on top of the onions. Spread the
tomato paste over the brisket as if you were icing a cake. Sprinkle
with pepper and the coarse salt. Add the garlic and carrot, and cover
tightly. Place the casserole on the middle rack in the oven, and bake
for 1-1/2 hours.

Remove the casserole from the oven, and transfer the meat to a
carving board. Cut it into 1/8 - 1/4 inch-thick slices. Return the
slices to the pot, overlapping them at an angle so that you can see a
bit of the top edge of each slice (in effect ressembling the brisket,
slightly slanted). Correct the seasoning if necessary, and if absolutely
necessary add 2 or 3 teaspoons of water to the casserole.
Cover, and return the casserole to the oven. Cook until the meat
is brown and fork-tender, 1-3/4 to 2 hours longer.
Slice the carrot, and transfer the roast, onions and carrot slices
to a heated platter. Serve at once.

Sparky and Fin

All Thumbs

I have short thumbs. I think of them as petite. If thumbs had clothes, I could shop in the petite department and that would be hot. Add a bit of coke and some boots and I have the Kate Moss of thumbs. While they’re small, they are perfectly formed and are a favorite amongst my digits.

This is what my short thumbs say about me, according to the very specific science of palmistry.

Short Thumb- Such persons do not work with their own mind instead do so at the influence of others. Emotions have prominent place in their lives than intelligence. They take special interest in poetry, painting or music.

Flexible and Supple Thumb- A person with such a thumb is much interested in amassing wealth and is capable of adjusting according to circumstances.

Acute- Angled Thumb- Thumbs which make an acute angle at the joint with the index finger come under this category. The lengths of such thumbs are comparatively smaller and look clumsy. Such thumbs are classed as of evil quality. Persons with this kind of thumb are frustrated throughout their lives. They are very lazy. They do not complete any work. They remain in bad habits with lavish spending. They are less interested in religion and are more inclined towards ghosts, spirits and the like. They are always attracted towards the other women in life.

Wow, its like it was written just for me.

In order to hide this faulty evil quality, one might decide to cut off such telling phalanges. According to the site, one should be careful when contemplating thumbocide.

According to medical sciences, no harm is done for the individual if the four figners are cut off. But if the thumb is torn and there is profuse bleeding then the person might go insane and even results in his death.

This site was slightly nicer in terms of short thumbs. I’m simply a weak person capable of spending lavish amounts of money.

Huh, I think I’ll stick with Tarot cards.

Motivation = Coffee

If I had known about coffee in college, there is a whole class of drugs I might never have tried.

If I do homework alone, do I have to pretend to be motivated? Its like I need someone to be there to prove that I'm motivated. If its just me, forget it, there's no need for the ruse. I'm tired and I've been dreaming in deutsch. Yesterday, after class, Sparky and I went to the gym. I found myself counting in deutsch automatically.

Sparky is out of town again and I have no one but the farting phantom to check my homework.

Mim is in Chemo and I’m about to call her. There’s there something just not right with hearing the word pediatrics connected to the word chemotherapy. It's a heart pain.

Fin is currently using my leg (clothed) as a ladder and Cleo is using my arms for pillows. I'm a total doormat for these cats. I'll be giving up my real pillow for Cleo in a few minutes when I hit the sack. Doesn't matter tonight. I never sleep well when Sparky is gone.

I’m putting off studying my verbs. I’m totally unmotivated. I offered to help Sweet Cheeks with her work today. I have no idea what I was thinking. She's been quiet since the broken arm. We’ll see how it progresses. That weird dude picked her up again. He’s so creepy. The secret agent in me wants to find out who he "really" is. The scaredy cat in me (the rational part) tells me to leave it alone and not get involved. The creepy dude is really creepy. So much so I wouldn't dare attempt a secret photo to show you how creepy creepy can be. I'm so not smooth nor subtle. He'd cut me for sure.

Mutti Sonntag and Poop

Yesterday afternoon was Mutti Sonntag. Sparky and I went to see our Mutti yesterday afternoon. Now, Mutti and I have had our issues, but for the last year or so, we’ve become fast friends. Sundays used to torture me, but now I just enjoy the coffee, cake and subsequent meal. She always makes something delish that I just can’t stop eating.

We walk to the cemetery towards the end of our visit to say hello to Mutti’s parent and Sparky’s dad. This was a weird thing for me. I think I’ve been to my mom’s grave once outside of her funeral. I feel like I think about her ever single day, I certainly don’t need to stand above the ground she’s buried in. It was a horrible day, a horrible event and a horrible, horrible, horrible “feeling” memory. I don’t want to remember that, I don’t want to revisit.

Mutti visits almost everyday. She changes the plants with the seasons. She talks to her late husband daily and gets comfort from the space. It makes her feel good when Sparky and I pop around to say hi. So we did.

It could have been just a normal day, just a normal walk, but I discovered something right out of the door.

Hedgehog poop. Who knew Hedgehogs pooped?

Yes, yes, every animal has to poop, but I figured it’d be more like rat poop or bunny poop. Small pellets found in small spaces kinda poop. But no, it is in fact a big poop resembling a mix between cat poop and fish poop. At first you might blame it on the neighbors cat not remembering that cats like to dig and bury. Then it might be some errant ankle-biting dog. The pile is small so it rules out that pesky German Shepard, but the poop itself is tubular, like a fish, not pinched off like a puppy.

It flabbergasted me, I just had never thought of hedgehogs as the squat and leave it type of animal and here was a big (for a hedgehog) pile of poop. Amazing.

I’m a girl form Cali.forn.ya. We don’t have hedgehogs. The first time I saw one roll across the street I thought that was how they moved. It was charming. Then I found out they only roll when scared. I related. Then I saw a mama and some babies walking down the side of one of the fields. At 33 years old, to get excited by new animals that are as common as squirrels is just ridiculous I know, but man, I gotta love the hedgehog.

So, I hereby christen October 9th “The Day of The Hedgehog".

Oh and October 7th was the anniversary of Sparky and my first date. He was weird, but hot. I had plans to use him like a Kleenex. He had other plans. We’ll never figure out just who caught whom, but at this point it so doesn’t matter. I’m committed to Sparkle Motion.

Spring cleaning...uh, Herbst Putz

Putting away all the summer clothes and pullin’ out the cashmere. Yippee. The fog that settled in the night is still resting peacefully for the day. The forest is barely visible and the meadows are covered in dew. Greens, grays and an occasional glimpse of red surround our house. The birds have finally adjusted their volume to background level. Listening to Katie Melua with candles burning throughout the house. Coffee is actually decent and breakfast was delish. Laundry in the laundry room scents the house with the combination of Tide, Clorox for colors and Downey. The cats all sleep peacefully throughout the house in their respective places, the windowsill, the cat stand in the corner and on my arm as I write this.

All is right in the world.

Panties Not Required

My first week is of class is over. It was so fun, just like Mausi said. I really like it. I’m surprised for a number of reasons.

I think it was algebra and Mr. Hilton that ruined me. From the first day, I had no idea what the Mr. Hilton was talking about. He’d stand up in the front of class and talk and write stuff up on the board and I NEVER understood it. I would try to decipher it on my own, try to remember formulas by rote with no actual comprehension. Algebra became the crocodile to my Captain Hook. Everyday, I would find myself standing up front of the class, piece of chalk in hand, classmates silent behind me as I attempted to illustrate another incomprehensible formula. Mr. Hilton thought the daily humiliation might jumpstart my ability to understand. Mr. Hilton was also the Basketball coach. This method worked in improving jump shots, why not Algebra?

Wake up 20 years later. I’m living in a country where they speak math all day. Every family event, every neighborhood BBQ, every single waking experience is another day in math class. I am once again illiterate, standing in front of the room. No wonder I’m such an anti-social hermit.

Back to the class. Its great. The teachers are nice and the students are nice, too. Best of all, I know enough German that I understand the teachers. I understand what they say with actual comprehension. I make mistakes, but I understand what happened when corrected. It’s so liberating. I feel like the Frankenstein monster in some way. I keep waiting for someone to shout, “Its ALIVE, IT’S ALIVE!!!”

On that note, let me tell you about my classmates. The first day we didn’t do a whole lot. There was lots of paperwork and admin stuff so I had some time to figure them all out.

Bernard. He’s in his middle to late 40’s. Very closely cut hair, kinda balding. The pronounced brow bone and smallish eyes give him a sinister aura. He smiles a lot so the sinister has a soft kindness. You know, bait kindness. Makes you believe he’s kind, throws off your guard and then BAM, he’s a serial killer.

His lips are old man lips. You know, where the lip skin has faded to the same color and texture as the rest of his face and the only way you know he has lips is because he wets them continuously with a whitish tongue and the spittle shines in the fluorescent classroom light. Bernard smiles, but I can’t help but to feel a bit skeevish when I smile back. In the course of the class we find out that Bernard lives in a hospital. That’s when I figure it out. He’s a child molester. You know how Germany is, all liberal and stuff. This guy is out learning German as part of the catch and release policy of crime and punishment here in Krautland. I’m totally convinced.

In my head I’m putting B’s face into all the stories I’ve read, the stories I’ve heard. Then I find out he’s from Poland and he’s ledig (single for all my non-German friends). AHA! A man in his late forties who is not married and looks like a child molester is definitely going on my “persons of interest list”. He has no kids, no girlfriend, no boyfriend, (we asked questions of each other and it came up, she says shrugging her shoulders). And then he says, “Ich bin ein Priester.” Did I call it or what?

I’m keeping my eye on him.

Naimja was in my class for one day, she moved on to GKII. She’s from Kosovo. I thought she was going to stab me when I asked her name. I’m sure she’s a nice person, but she’s really scary. I almost handed over my lunch money when she asked me the time.

Manal is from Palestine. She seems like a very nice lady. However, her determination to be from Palestine has really fucked up our conversation teacher. He keeps insisting that Palestine is not a country and she cannot be from Palestine. He says that Israel is country. She can be from Israel. It might just be me, but if Manal wants to be from Palestine, I’d let her. This might just be one of those things, as a teacher/human, you just let go. PLO, buddy, PLO.

Then there’s Mércia, Ester, Hatun, Sonia, Stephani. All members of Ladies of Leisure League (I hate that hausfrau title). I like them and we chat in Deutsch and in English.

There are two women from Somalia. They keep to themselves. The Hijab covers most of their face and they never make eye contact, even when asking a question. They are related, cousins I think. I’m sure they are fellow secret agents. I certainly won’t be the one to blow their cover.

There is one older English dude named Darrell. He reminds me of an old co-worker (British with similar disdainful attitudes, height and narrow eyes). I’ve projected those feelings on to Darrell who, obviously, couldn’t care less. He skips class frequently.

Last, but certainly not least is Anna/Anya or Sweet Cheeks, as I affectionately call her. She walked into class with a fitted black leather jacket, creamy(ed) pink satin pants and platform sandals with Rhinestone. We all know I’m a friend of the Rhinestone, but girls, this is not the 80’s, its 9 am and not a strip joint. Her outfit was so over the top, I thought she was a tranny.

She’s not real fun. When it’s her turn, the teacher spends 30 minutes explaining what he just spent thirty minutes explaining. Algebra has made me sympathetic. And I’m sure the incessant click of her pen is hard to hear over. It might be the gum smacking, but I’m betting on the pen clicking. Click, click, click, smack, click, smack, pop.

I feel sorry for her. In class, we found out she doesn’t have a Mother, a Father, any siblings or a job. She does have a few friends. One picked her up after class. An older man who drives an expensive BMW cabrio. I think it’s her Onkel.

Those pants! I’m obsessed. I’m surprised I did anything at all that day because I was so interested in her pants. Satin… a thin, pink satin without underwear. When she took off her jacket, the pants rode so low; any sort of undergarment would have been visible or at least the string part at the top.

I was fascinated. Were they machine washable? How long could she go before a stain was visible? Were they silk and “breathable” or a nasty man made fabric that while letting go of stains, tends to retain odors. She didn’t appear to have the greatest of hygiene. Her pale blond hair had been rinsed black and pulled back in low stringy ponytail. I tried to peek at her fingernails to see if she washed her hands, but she has magenta acrylic talons. What lies beneath those nails is as much a secret as how she keeps satin pants clean. I imagined sitting next to her for several hours would probably be more of a sensory experience than one would have thought. There was bound to be moisture in the temple of her womanhood and those pants would hold back nothing. It’s a class full of women and a priest. We’re all gonna know that scent.

The class started to get warm, twelve people of various cultural backgrounds, stuck in a really small room. Our teacher wanted to open the window, but Sweet Cheeks claimed she was too cold. Well, who wouldn’t be in a crop hoodie, satin pants and rhinestone platform sandals? I’m sure her navel ring was cold against her toned, tanned abs. As the rest of us sat there, pink from the body heat of twelve strangers and an overactive radiator, she sat just sitting there, smiling, juices simmering. I was hoping it was more of a crock-pot type of simmer as opposed to a pressure cooker.

I wanted to tell her to wear some clothes and she wouldn’t be so cold, but I didn’t want her to cut me or show up at my house like Birthday Girl meets Head of the Class.

For Jillby, German word combos.

Kirsche Kirche = Cherry Church. Churches with red neon hearts in the window and 100€ sacramental wodka.

Böse Möse = Evil pussy (not as in cat)

Kraut Braut = german Bride

School Days

Today I start my German class.

It’s funny because last night I talked to one of my oldest friends from High school. I haven’t spoken to her since high school, but we’ve been exchanging emails for a couple of months. Our 15-year high school reunion was in September and the girl (now woman) who arranged the whole thing sent out a contact list.

Now I have to say, high school was not my best period. For some reason I decided I would look great with bangs and a really bad perm. When the perm fell out, I decided crimping was the way to go. Crimping? What was I thinking?

I’m sure it was because I couldn’t see right. My saucer sized red acrylic glasses might have had something to do with it. It might have been the gleam of my braces competing with the copious amount of rhinestones on my denim jacket or my sweaters or my t-shirts. I was big into rhinestones. This does not bode well for my wardrobe as an old woman. I’m sure I’ll be one of those festive sweater wearing old ladies, a good-taste-forgotten-with-time kind of old lady

Anyway, Darline was a fabulous friend through the whole thing. UNTIL SHE MOVED!

She and I gabbed forever last night and it was like we just picked up where we left off, talking about classmates and who was a total whore and who was dating whom. Except now, it’s who married who and how many kids do they have and was rehab involved and she had a baby gurgling in the background.

The reason this is appropriate is that I have the same amount of anxiety for this class that I had for all of high school. College was fabulous and I never had such anxiety. It might be because other than a random math class I NEVER passed in college, I loved my college classes. I never felt the pressure of having to pass a class or the big hatchet in the sky would fall and split me apart as I stood screaming beneath it, watching and waiting for my demise. I definitely felt like that in high school.

I took German in high school before I switched to Spanish because I just couldn’t get it. I’ve tried to learn German on my own as an adult. I know all my body parts, fruit and numbers. I have no idea what three-year-old children say to me, but how many times a day do I talk to a three year old.

I really want to learn German. I really want to be able to communicate with more than hand gestures. I really want to go home at Christmas and have a complete conversation with Markus in German in front of the Wonder twins so they have no idea what I’m saying. I really want to speak better than my stepfather who also took German in high school and retained everything.

So on that note, I’m off to my class. And I’m taking my lucky feather.

An American Heathen in Deutschland

I think we have a ghost.

Markus won’t take me seriously. We live in a 346-year-old mill at the base of Castle Frankenstein. We have a Nazi generator in the basement from WWII when “shoes” were made here. Who knows what kind of stuff happened.

Before we moved in, I cleansed the place with a smudge stick and a little spell. During construction, Markus and I did our best to infuse love and goodness in to the walls, floor and even marked it as ours (don’t ask). I didn’t want any old spirit to get confused. So, after two years, I guess we need a booster, a ghost booster.

Why do I think we have a ghost? Phantom farts.

At first we blamed each other. Now we have these pockets of stinky air when we’re alone, without cats or each other. I might lie to myself about the size of my ass or my keen knowledge of the esoteric, but it’s kinda useless to lie about flatulence.

Can it be the cats? Cleo maybe. She’s my familiar, a little older and she eats everything I eat. She demands bites (checking for poison). I can imagine stinky Cleo farts, but she’s usually in other places when the stink hits. Cleo’s job of holding down the furniture is all-consuming. If she doesn’t hold down the window seat or the bed, they might float away.

Then there’s my superhero ability. I can identify farts to their owners. I know, what a sucky power. I liken it to a superior sense of smell. And these spots of stink do not smell like any physical occupant of the house. They are much too vile and odoriferous for any of us, even after an Indian meal.

One of the reasons I have cats is that they are really good at notifying one of the supernatural. Cleo is especially good. When I was single, she used to hiss at my front door minutes before someone I did not want to see would show up. It was uncanny. Cleo has always been protective. And that apartment was haunted. Totally and unquestionably haunted. All my light switch covers would come unscrewed at the same time and cupboard doors would open and shut, but it was just an annoyance, not malevolent.

I digress.

A few nights ago, I woke up twice to the smell. It was so bad it woke me up. I first thought it was bad breath. Markus’ or mine. Markus was turned away from me. The smell was so strong, it couldn’t have been from a Sparky turned towards the wall.

Cleo and the other cats weren’t even in the room. And that’s odd too. Usually Cleo sleeps on my pillow or between my legs. Fin was nowhere to be found either. Kiska might have been in the room, but it was dark and she’s black. She’s also the Helen Keller of cats and notices nothing.

I thought it might be MY breath. Can your own breath wake you up? IS there a way of breathing so that what you can’t normally smell in your breath suddenly becomes apparent? Could I wake myself up with my own bad breath? Is it like snoring?

The smell went away quickly, but woke me up just enough to register it was the same scent a few hours later.

What do I do when I wake up the next morning? I research it. I google bad smells and ghosts. And I totally and utterly freak myself out. I’m not even letting Sparky go to the gym today because I’m sure the ghost will show up now that I’m planning on barring him from the house.

Where is my ghost-sensing cat during all of this? Why does she not save me from my terror by indicating something is going on? Well, I have an answer to that too. She’s pretty bitter these days. With Fin the Flying Terror Machine chewing on her head and sleeping on her back, she might just let me suffer. Sometimes she just stands facing the corner by the front door and I freak out completely. I wish I had never seen that stupid Blair witch movie.

So today, I’m house cleaning. I’ll use my smudge stick and ban negativity from the house. The only problem is when I do my front door. I have to stand in the doorway with a burning bush. I’m sure my Catholic neighbors will be thrilled with the scent of sage wafting throughout the stairwell. I’ll just explain the situation. I’m sure it will make them all feel much better.