Brussels Sprouts

Now that we’re done with poop for a while, I have a recipe I need to share.

My GBF’s boyfriend, D, made this for Sparky and I while we were in SF. It is so fabulous, I can’t even tell you.

D makes fabulous food. My GBF makes fabulous food too. When he and I worked together, he’d bring lunch for me sometimes. We’re talking coc au vin and fish baked in parchment paper. So you can imagine, if that was what I got for lunch, dinner was like hitting the power lotto.

AN ASIDE: Why has no one told me about tegut... Fantastic fish and the closest thing to an American grocery store in Deutschland. I'm pissed it took me so long to find it. We had the best halibut on Sunday night. You all should be jealous.

Anyway, I don’t have a picture because I haven’t made it yet, but try it. Even if you don’t like Brussels sprouts, this recipe is a winner. I’m not sure where he got it, but the recipe below is written from his memory.

Brussels Sprouts Hash with Pancetta
serves 4

2 Tbs butter
4 slices pancetta (5mm thick, 0.1kg? *)
2 shallots, finely chopped
20 Brussels sprouts, trimmed and sliced cross-wise (parallel with base) 1/8-inch thick.
salt to taste (I don't think I salted-the pancetta is kinda salty)

Coarsely chop the pancetta (1-inch pieces). Warm the butter in a fry pan over medium heat. Add the pancetta and stir for 1 minute. Reduce heat to medium low. Add the shallots and cook slowly, stirring often, until the shallots are translucent.

Return the heat to medium (or medium high), add the sliced Brussels sprouts and cook, stirring regularly, until they're done (tender but not mushy - still a bit of bite). I really don't have a clear idea of how long this takes, but it's somewhere between 4 and 10 minutes, I'm guessing.

You want to hear some crackle when the sprouts cook -- like a good stir-fry. If they cook too slowly or too cool they'll be soggy, but if it's too hot they'll burn. I guess once the sprouts are in you'll want to turn the heat to medium high, hover around the stove, stir every 30 or 60 second or so, and adjust the heat so this rhythm makes sense. It's a high maintenance finish, so for best effect (which I did not fully achieve) everything else should be done or easy to finish before serving. Not to worry, the pancetta covers all manner of preparation mis-steps.

To: Jeff RE: volting

Email from my brother:

I just wanted you to see the lovely little things that our sister leaves for the rest of the household.

I just love corresponding with my family. I feel like I'm right there, you know? And thanks to technology and my bad taste, you can be right there too.

EDIT: Poop has been removed due to popular demand. Please contact me if you would like a copy.

Book Group Politics

I have a small problem. I belong to two book groups. One I dearly love and one I hate with a passion. This problem is with the bad/hausfrau group.

I found the groups through a woman, Polly, whose husband worked out at my gym. He and I would talk politics during our cardio hour and manage to avoid said cardio. He eventually told me about his wife’s book groups. She, with meeting me only once, invited me to these book groups. That was nice, she didn’t have to do it. At the time I was desperate for some independance from Sparky and this seemed right up my ally.

Out of the two groups, Polly was friendlier with the hausfrau group than the Lit Circle. I love the Lit Circle. It’s all German women who teach English and other foreign languages and are interested in reading modern Lit in the original language. We read Contemporary North American fiction. Last year was John Irving, David Sedaris, Alice Hoffman, and John Updike. Get my drift? It’s fun and interesting and I look forward to it immensely. The leader researches every author and book and we actually discuss the books. I learn so much even though I’ve read the books previously.

The hausfrau group is the polar opposite. It’s lead by an American woman with a great big “suffer” stick up her bum. Two of the women are British and contrary to my experience with the British, quite aloof and humorless. They might actually have a sense of humor in a different situation. The other woman is from India and she is a kick in the pants. She and I get along well. Lorraine, who introduced me, did so in a very uh… ungracious manner. I think this is from where our (the group’s and mine) personal disconnect stems.

Looking for a phone number of one of the women, I stumbled upon the posts where Polly initially asked if I could join. It wasn’t very nice and she rather bluntly questioned my “self-proclaimed reader status.” She and I went to one hausfrau meeting together and then she moved back to America, leaving me to get to know the other women on my own.

Not usually a problem for me. I’m rather outgoing and like to talk and get to know people. But these women said not a word to me for the first four meetings. Then I offered to have a meeting at my house. And they spoke. The leader did not like my choice of books. I have been here three years. I shipped three boxes of books I simply could not live without. Every other book I have acquired here. I have 10 bookshelves two and three books deep. There was not one book there she “approved” of. Give it a rest, Becky, there had to be one.

So, one meeting I suggested A Complicated Kindnessby Miriam Toews. She’s a Canadian Mennonite and the book was so fabulous I re-read it three times in a row. I recommended this book after we read Graham Greene’s The Power and The Glory, an exhausting book if there ever was one.

Anyway, we read the Toews book and the leader HATED it. She didn’t understand the ending, she didn’t understand the Mennonite connection, she didn’t understand any of the subplots and she just found it “Not suited to her taste in literature.”

Wow… okay then. She took control again and suggested the next book we read. All Quiet on the Western Front. Holy shit, Batman. Just poke my eyes with forks, but do not make me read that book again.

Now I like to suffer when I read, don’t get me wrong. I have a whole collection of tortured women books that my GBF and I would pass back and forth. In fact, there is a whole lot of suffering in the Toews book, but do not give me a book about poor teenage boys falling bloodily in battle. I know it’s a good book. I read it. I had to, in my ninth grade English class. Didn’t we all? Why, then, must we re-visit?? Why don’t we just hit Lord of the Flies while we’re at it?

Seriously, I would rather watch Das Boot, then re-read that book.

So I mentioned that maybe we should move on to something a bit lighter.

The response? Silence. I heard some crickets and possibly a cat bell in the distance.

That was the last time I actively engaged in this group. I’ve read the books; I’ve gone to the meetings. I’ve kept quiet and now I just don’t want to go anymore.

I want to quit, but I don’t want to leave on a sour note. I want to be morally superior. Also, it’s a small circle of expats where I live and I don’t want to be the ungrateful American who read and ran.

So, I need a nicely worded exit email.

I thought about saying that our taste in books varies too greatly to bridge the gap, but that “self-proclaimed reader” still pisses me off. Who else proclaims you a reader? Your mama? Because if that’s the case, then I’m in trouble because if my mama had to tell those biddies I’m a reader, they are getting a whole lot more than they bargained for. They would not be happy to have her sit in their living room for a cup of tea (they don’t drink coffee).

This where I think I’m going.

Thanks for letting me join your reading group. I have appreciated your generosity and hospitality. At this time, I just don’t have the time to commit to the group.
Thank you.
Jen
Self Proclaimed Reader

So my question, why does this bother me so much? Seriously, it’s three women I don’t even like, but they made me feel so second rate. And yet I can’t just tell them to fuck off like I would anyone else (and do frequently). I have to be nice and I worry about the wording so much as I write a post about it.

Well I am hereby telling them to fuck off. But if any of you have a nice way of wording that, please let me know.

UPDATE: Snow is my friend

Feeling guilty over missing school, I grabbed my coffee and went out into the cold. As I was brushing and scraping my windows, my neighbor got stuck trying to cross our bridge. He warned me of glatt ice, took one look at my tires and suggested I get a different car for snow driving. Apparently, a certain German-made auto is built for speed, not snow.

He got over the bridge, but had to be pushed by the garbage men off our private drive. Good thing it was trash day or he’d still be there.

“Well, hell.” I thought, “I’m already dressed and out here, might as well give it a shot.”

I belted in, turned on the radio, secured my cuppa joe and put it in reverse.

Nothin’. Nothin’ but spinning wheels. Glatt ice under the wheels. Rats!

I called Sparky, he ordered me to stay home and not try and dig myself out.

Now, I never mentioned digging myself out. I had/have no desire to go to school today. There was no way I was digging anything but the nice view from INSIDE.

So I called the school, let them know and now I have my free day.

I went for a little walk because it was so beautiful. Then it started to really come down and the wind picked up. I took some pictures, but I’m not a very good photographer. I need Prairie Girl to really do it justice.

I am so happy to be home today. I feel like I’ve gotten one over on the man.

I love the snow.

The horse meadows. At the time this picture was taken, all the horsies were still in the barn.

The bridge and drive. The road goes up to them yonder trees. Its all icy and snowy. I know because i walked up there to see if my neighbor made it out or ended up in a ditch.

The view from my desk before sunrise.

The car.

Boots, courtesy of my brother. They keep my toesies very, very warm

Snow

I complained of blue skies and not a flake of snow on James' blog. Literally within 10 minutes of that complaint, the skies turned dark and down it came. I love getting what I ask for.

So now it’s a winter wonderland around the mill, the forest and fields covered with a thick blanket of fluffy white stuff. Later the horses will wander in those snow cover fields and it will remind me of a painting. It times like these I love living here.

In San Francisco, I never experienced the quiet that accompanies snow. I feel so bundled and safe, wrapped in it arms. Well, that is, I feel safe while I’m inside or walking in it or throwing snowballs at sparky. I never tire of snowball throwing.

However, driving is a different thing all together. Last night, in the middle of the snowfall, I had to pick up Sparky from the train station. I figured if I followed the main streets, they would have been salted/cleared. They were not.

My car, Gracie, has winter tires. She’s heavy. I can drive it in the snow with only a little trepidation. She’s also in the shop. My car really likes our mechanic. I think she’d like to run away from home and live there. The mechanic won’t allow that because then he’d have to pay for her and she’s a total luxury bitch. A better mistress than wife.

Sparky’s car, Lexi (short for Alexis because at first we couldn’t figure out if she was male or female and didn’t want to give her a complex) is our workhorse. For some god damned reason she doesn’t have her winter shoes on. Our mechanic was supposed to deliver Gracie while we were in Cali and pick up Lexi and install her winter tires. This sounds like fantastic service I know, but we’re tight with our mechanic. We spend so much time with him, delivering one car and picking up the other that at this point, that I’m surprised he hasn’t just moved in with us. In fact, if he moved in with us, it might offset some of the cost of keeping two ridiculously temperamental cars.

So, with Sparky traveling via train all over the country, I’m left with a summer tire shod car. Let me tell you, summer tires + rear wheel drive + summer tires = a nice slalom experience, one not recommended by our insurance company. Lexi has some sort of ability to automatically correct fishtailing. This is nice, but unnerving. Not to mention her taking over brake control. She’s kind of controlling now that I think of it. No wonder Markus loves her so much.

I sent Sparky off to the train station in a taxi because the roads would not have been kind. He’s in Munich today. He was in Hamburg yesterday and Nuremberg earlier this week. This man gets around.

It’s supposed to snow all morning and I would like to enjoy it. God knows it will probably be the last snow of the season. I move to Germany, all excited with the prospect of winter snow only to live in the “balmy” part of Deutschland. “We only get a little snow each year. Ist wunderbar, ja!” my neighbor says to me. Wunderbar?

I want the snow. I love the snow. Snow is new and exciting and cold and soft and fun and well, really cool for a Cali girl. And my brother bought me three pairs of Uggs for Christmas. I’m accessorized.

So this morning, I’m contemplating skipping school in favor of not driving.

Sitting with a cup of coffee and some toast, calm music in the background, cats curled up on heated window seats, clean house, toasty slipper socks and my favorite cashmere cardigan. It’s a good life and a good day.

Let's Not Play It Again, Sam

Its been great knowing you, but later Chemo. Let's make this last encounter your shining glory, your masterpiece. Let's hope that in this latest battle you're like Caesar. Even when the odds weren't great, you managed to win. We'd rather not need to hear from you again. Now please, take your nemesis and play somewhere else.

Today is my sister’s last day of chemo. Woo hoo. Let’s hope it’s the last she’ll ever need. She’s really pretty amazing about the whole thing. She learned the ins and outs of cancer early, only knowing our mother while losing her fight with breast cancer.

Mim is the bravest one of us. Jeff can’t walk across a balcony or a bridge he’s so afraid of heights. I can’t see a needle without crying and complaining bitterly, even when the needle’s destination is not my arm. Miranda? Mim took it like a champ. She even learned to give herself daily shots to keep her blood counts up. She had a port installed under her skin on her chest to make administering the chemo more convenient and safer for her heart. She lost her beautiful hair and felt crappy for six months and never complained about it. Not even when all her friends left for colleges and new experiences away from home. Experiences she should have been having. Not even when she realized her life would be put on hold for an entire year, an eternity at 18 with the world at your feet. She didn't even complain about her hair. (I would have taken total advantage of the situation, complaining my ass off and asking all family members to shave their heads in a show of solidarity.)

She just put one foot in front of the other and moved forward. And she’s been told that after chemo, hair comes back curly. She can’t wait to have the prettiest hair in the room again, complete this time with a nice wave. I never once heard her complain or ask why?

Jeff and I did. We asked why many, many times.

And what did Jeff do? He did anything and everything she needed him to do. He continued to live in the family home, with her, our step-dad and our stepbrother. He stayed to be there with her and for her. He altered his work schedule to be available to sit with her on her chemo days and sick days. They didn’t do much on those days, just sat together for the eight to ten hours it took to administer and flush. Mim was in a hospital bed with her laptop. She’d watch her movie. Jeff would watch his. They’d watch action and comic book movies together. He’d fetch her drinks and food, annoy her by keeping track of how many times she’d pee – seven was the average during chemo. Mostly, he was just there, watching out for her, fetching, teasing, and making her laugh. Their relationship is awesome. He is the quintessential protective big brother doing what he could to make sure she was taken care of. He, too, is amazing.

Don’t get me wrong, there were others supporting her. Her dad turned his world upside and managed to stay employed helping his daughter fight a battle his wife lost. Our cousin Michele filled in when Jeff or John could not be at the hospital, making sure Mim was never alone. Our grandma made sure food comfort food was always available even if she had to make it twice because the damn dog learned to lean far over the countertop for those porcupine meatballs.

Mim has excellent doctors and specifically Nurse Nancy to watch over her, take her side in any and all sibling disagreements and make sure she was as comfortable as possible as her little body was lethally poisoned in order for it to heal.

So in April, after she has gotten her strength back and auditions for the drama department in Fredonia, the same college she was supposed to go to last August, she’s coming out here. Jeff will fly out too and we’ll all head off for a siblings vacation in Ireland.

So here’s to the last day of chemo and the count down to Ireland. Way to go little sister.

Brains, Language, Space and Time

This is an interesting article on prepositions and brain functionality. I was searching for help with my temporal prepositions when I found it. Thinking of prepositions turns brain 'on' in different ways

I also need a bit of help with me relative clauses in determining, yes, the same old problem, whether its akkusativ or dativ. So any one with a clue, please let in on it!

Fire Cat

I heard a story somewhere about fire cats. When the sugar cane fields in (Insert tropical island here) needed to be burned down so the next crop could be planted, people would light a cat’s tail on fire and let them go into the fields, thus spreading the fire thoroughly and fast. (Now don’t get all PETA on me,I thought it was an Urban Legend.)

Anyway, Fin has been known as the fire cat around here because of his total disregard for fire. I can’t have lit candles anywhere he might be able to get to because he has no sense of personal safety. Let's just say I’m not the only one in the house to sniff a lit scented candle.

Well, this morning, our fire cat became a water cat.

The first clue was the swoosh, crash, bang, crash, swoosh, swoosh splat we heard. The second clue was the wet cat crouched on the kitchen rug. The third clue was the copious amount of water all over the house.

As I’ve said before, occasionally Cleo likes to pee just outside the litter box. I put one of those car trunk protector pads under the litter box to catch such accidents and have an extra so I can change them out as needed.

The current under-the-litter-box-cat-pee-protector–pad one was soaking in a Tide with Bleach solution in our bathtub because of a different kind of early morning soaking by Miss Cleo. Fin fell/jumped in. Not liking the warm soapy bath, he jumped out and ran around the house thus dispersing water like fire in a cane field.

The curious thing was Markus’ and my immediate reaction. Sparky dived for towels to save the marble floor and I scooped up Fin. I call it the test of a real cat lover versus the only-like-cats-because-they-cuddle-up-to-you FAKE cat person. He calls it a good team effort. I tell you, those ad men can really put a spin on a story.

I say a real cat person is more concerned for the cat. A Fake cat person jumps to clean up water from the marble floor with total disregard for the poor wet terrorist kitten.

I had an aunt who washed her dishes with Tide because she thought dish soap didn’t get them clean enough. Her son had chronic stomach problems because the detergent never rinsed off the dishes and he'd eat Tide with every meal. I was concerned with washing the Tide out of Fin's fur before he licked himself sick. Markus was his own form of fire cat running around and going on about marble and water on the walls and the hardwood floors.

For the first time since his Brazilian wax via the sticky rat trap episode, Fin got a bath and is now sleeping peacefully after his traumatic morning. I got 16 scratches,a wet t-shirt, a fluffy kitty and a clean bathroom floor. Markus, well, Markus is the only one still suffering. He’s still polishing non-existent water spots off the marble.

Aboot Damn Time

I don’t know if other people experience this, but for a little while after I come back from a trip back to Cali, I fall into the rabbit hole. I lose my words and transition into a kind of fugue complete with an inability to communicate effectively (in any language!). I can talk; I just can’t get my brain to translate thought into words, spoken or written. I rebound as soon as I get bored, (my inability to concentrate for long periods of times comes in handy), but my tolerance for wallowing is high. It’s not an active depression. It’s just a gnawing on my mood and my motivation and my words.

So in the last week, I’ve gone to school, but haven’t done homework. I clean up, but only the absolute minimum required. I've left shoes and clothes and scarves and shawls in every part of the house in little do-not-touch-I’ll-get-to-it-later piles. Sparky has been so busy with work, he barely notices (bodes well for the kid thing, huh). I’ve watched The Gilmore Girls Fifth Season in its entirety about 6 times.

Today I got bored with the whole thing. I had a little help from Miss Gwen Stefani. If I was a rich girl nananananaaanana…. I challenge you not to shake your booty to Hollaback Girl!

So, let me tell you about my exciting trip to Winnipeg! This is our before picture. Keep it in mind.

When we left, Sparky and I met our friend at LH. Business class did not happen, but she did get us an entire three-seat row to ourselves via a last minute cancellation. The only empty seat on the entire plane was between Sparky and me. This proved to be very handy later.

All my bags were within the weight limit. I didn’t, however, mention my new Le Creuset Utensil holder in the duffel bag I hid below the counter. That duffel was way over 8 kilos and if I added my handbag to the duffel, I had two hand carry items, both well over 8 kilos. I have my game down. I can lie to a airline employee like a champ. I have to work on Sparky. He has no idea how to play these games. I have to inform him before hand how it should go down and to let me do the talking. I'm much better at improvising truths in these situations.

As an experienced traveler, I pack my handbag specifically for the flight. In my bag I had a small cosmetic bag, a bottle of water, a sandwich, grandma’s brownies, trash magazines, a book and my trusty Nyquil. (Sparky had a sandwich too, but he ate his before we boarded.) This was going to get us through the 10-hour flight (we had a great tailwind). Once we were in flight, before the meal, I took a big shot of the cherry flavored magic juice and technically, could have been out for a good 6 hours only to wake up an hour before we landed. That's the way I envisioned it. Ah, how sweet it could have been.

I knew something was up when the pilot asked if a doctor was on-board. It was curious, but I thought nothing of it. I was 30,000 ft high with Nyquil as my co-pilot. We were doin’ just fine. I wanted to nod off to the movie, a little background noise, you know. Then the movie was cancelled and the flight attendants started running up and down the isles. A few minutes later, about 5 hours into the flight, the pilot informed us that “Due to a medical emergency, we will be detouring to the nearest airport”.

As previously established, the flight over Canada is endless. I guess, if you’re so ill you can detour an entire plane, it really is endless.

The pilot told us we were too heavy to land. I had no idea what this meant - I’ve never felt so guilty for being overweight. That newsreel in my head ran “Fat American Downs Plane over Canadian Wilderness.” I sobered up pretty fast.

Turns out he meant fuel, not the American in seat 27A. We had too much fuel to land safely. If I hadn't sobered up before, I certainly did then. Visions of fireballs danced in my head. An hour later, after polluting a forest, field, sub-division? in Manitoba with excess fuel, we started to descend. The same wordsmith of a pilot told us that we were landing in rough weather and to buckle up and hold on.

Now, before the flight initially took off, I had the required What-happens-if this-plane-crashes thought process: “Did I tell everyone I love them? Do I have any regrets? I totally could have had that piece of tiramisu. What do I say to Sparky? Will I be a woman in my next life? Can I request a different body type? What body parts will they find? How much money will my family get? Will Jeff buy a car with it? Will Mim invest in cashmere? Will I be able to contact them from the dead? Oh shit, my mom is going to kick my ass for all those dead mother jokes.” This is a required thought process in order to keep the plane from really crashing, you know.

Well, now, heavy (thank god I didn’t have that piece of tiramisu) in icy, stormy Canadian weather, we descended towards Winnipeg. Its really pretty at night, lots of spread out lights.

At approximately 4 am CET, we landed hard in Winnipeg. Obviously we made it, but even Sparky was a little worried. It was a hard landing and if you've never had one of those, well, I hope you never do. The flight scene from Final Destination was my preparation for our landing. I really should NOT see those types of movies.

They got the sick guy off and we were told only that he was holding on as they took him off. No details, no scoop. I think we were totally gypped. If we had to detour to a remote Canadian airport mid-flight, I think we’re owed a few details. But no. We got nothing. For five hours we got nothing.

We sat on the tarmac for five hours and were told repeatedly to remain seated. First, the sick guy's luggage had to be found and taken off – safety reasons I totally understand. Then, because we left the US and entered Canada, all the luggage had to be taken off and clear customs. Then, the plane had to be re-fueled. ‘Member we lost all that weight over mooses (meese, moose?) and maple leaves. Well, Winnipeg, I’m sure has a lot of great qualities and granted it was the middle of the night, but the refueling truck was awfully slow. I really wouldn’t have any idea how long refueling a 747 takes, but during that five-hour period, the pilot/attendants spoke to Peasant class exactly three times other than to tell us all to remain seated. One of those times he told us it was a slow refueling.

The last communiqué was to inform us that we needed to be de-iced, but the de-icing truck was frozen. Nice. At this time, all the kids had had enough. So had the parents who totally ignored the fact that their kids were screaming and making obnoxious nosies and jumping up and down. Then some earnest college co-ed decided it was time to spread discontent and complaininess. In her straight off the Berkeley campus rightousness she started to handout complaint cards.

In all honesty, LH could have handled it better. We could have been offered beverages during the wait, but we weren’t. The pilots and crew wanted to be out of there just as much as anyone else, so what was the use of complaining? I’d rather have enough fuel and our wings de-iced. When I defended LH in my snippy, magic juice tired tone, I had to think. Have I lived in Germany so long that I accepted this type of treatment without thought? Where was my outrage, where was my sense of injustice?

Well, it was sitting next to me in an empty seat, packed nice and neat inside my handbag. It’s called an extra seat, a bottle of Pellegrino, a ham and salami sandwich and Grandma’s brownies. Sparky and I did just fine during that lapse in customer service. It was the kids, the chick and the length of time that drove me batty. See the after pictures. There is a great video complete with screaming kids, but its too big. There might have been a few more conversations with Dr. Nyquil, but sleep jumped ship in Manitoba.

After a 17-hour flight, we made it home. The rule is, you have to eat a meal in a country to say you’ve been there. As we did not deplane, it might be a little iffy as to whether I can say I’ve been to Canada. I took a ton of pictures, we cleared customs and we ate a meal, complete with desert. Thanks, grandma!!

After pictures. I will think twice before I complain about flying over Canada again. It can be so much longer.

4400 Medium Purple Toes

I dropped an Apfelsaft bottle on my second toe last night. Straight down on to my poor toe. Today, my toe is purple and swollen. Teach me to clean up the laundry room at midnight.

Tomorrow I’ll tell you about our side trip to Canada on the way back from SF complete with pictures.

I have a lot of catching up to do tonight. Since I got home from school, I’ve been working very hard at watching all the 4400 episodes I missed while in SF. I have to go now and watch all the Mediums.

These things are very important.

Say goodnight, Gracie.

Babies, A Reality Series

This jet lag is kicking my ass. I downed a bunch of Nyquil last night so I could sleep through and this morning when SPARKY woke me up for school, I did NOT want to get up. So before I hit the sheets for a little afternoon nappy, I thought I’d share a conversation Sparky and I are having.

It’s about babies. Ok, listen, we are not having them yet. We’re still in the "talk about it" phase.

Anyway, we were lying in bed, in our clean, quiet house, talking about the realities of babies and I mentioned that mothers are so tired in the first six months that cleaning the house is the last priority. That it can be so overwhelming that even getting dressed sometimes does not happen. I was trying to emphasize how much work babies are and really hit home that cleaning house and polishing our glass counter top would take a backseat to feeding, changing diapers and sleeping.

He seems to think that I’m exaggerating. After all, HIS mother managed to keep a clean house, feed her men folk, her baby AND sleep. As he was an infant, I doubt his memory. I figure Mutti had a hook on every door of her house. She’d feed and swaddle young Sparky then hang him on the hook. He hung on this hook until he was 20 and left for school. That is the only way any house I know could survive a child without fingerprints on the walls.

So in this vein, our perspectives on the realities of babies are a bit different.

Our neighbors are about our age and have a 1 year old. He says the Bs managed to keep their house clean and Mrs. B got dressed in the morning with the baby. What didn’t register is that we did not see Mrs. B for 3 months after the baby was born AND Mrs. B’s mother and father stayed with them for those three months AND they have a housekeeper who came twice a week during that time.

If we were to have a baby, hopefully my mother would not come for a visit. I can’t imagine Sparky’s mother making me less stressed and I my position is that if we have a baby, he will be on housecleaning duty or we get a housekeeper because I promise I will not keep the house in his pristine museum-like state.

He thinks I’m kidding. I’m serious. He thinks I’m exaggerating. Am I? Can I hear from some moms out there? Christina? Library Lady?

I hear The Shining is an upbeat family film

Okay, this post is about two movies – The Family Stone and King Kong. I will be giving a few details including the ending to King Kong. If you are like I was before I saw King Kong, you will have no idea how King Kong ends. If you are like me and want to know, please keep reading. If you don’t, come back tomorrow.

Now a bit of info to help you drive this baby:

1) I tend to get very emotionally involved with movies. If it’s a sad movie, I cry. If it’s a scary movie, I’m terrified for days. I can handle action films as long as I know the endings and any/all good guy deaths. Oddly enough, psychological thrillers are pretty easy for me, well, until the next thunderstorm.

Mis-genred films are my downfall. Don’t give me a drama and call it a comedy. Don’t give me a horror flick and call it a psychological thriller. Gothika is horror. White Noise, horror as well. I cannot handle horror. EVER. My grip on reality and all… Because of this, I tend to watch a lot of comedy and princess movies.

It’s really better that way. I cried so hard in Terminator II during the nuclear war part, I tore a contact lens and my father never took me to a movie again. I had a boyfriend who walked so far ahead of my sobbing self as we left the theater after A Beautiful Life, I couldn’t find the car.

Some people look better after a god cry, all swollen lipped and kissable or tragic and waifish. I do not look like this. I look like I’ve been crying for centuries. My nose turns red immediately and my skin turns blotchy. My eyes swell like I have a peanut allergy and I'm munching a PB and J. The whites turn crimson contrasting the green irises so much the green looks radioactive. If I’m on a real tear, I hyperventilate. It isn’t pretty.

2) Now, and for the last few months, I have been on high dose hormones. This cannot be helped and it cannot be adjusted. It has caused all sorts of mood swings. Only Sparky can tell the tale of what life is REALLY like with me right now. My version is totally skewed.

So, add the two together and let’s move on with the story…

Rewind time and its back to our first week in California.

One of the things Sparky and I wanted to do while back in Cali was to see some films in English, in a big over-priced theater with a huge screen, DTS sound and for me, popcorn.

A couple of days before Christmas the twins, Sparky and I went to see The Family Stone. Why this movie and not some comedy? Because Mim and I thought this was a comedy, a romantic comedy. Mim was supposed to start her heavy duty round of chemo the day after Christmas, so she and I would not be able to go see it together later.

Sparky is an easy sell, especially for a matinee. Show me a Kraut that does not love a deal. Jeff… Well, Jeff was a more difficult sell. Mim played her chemo card and TFS it was. We promised him it was a comedy. We left out the romantic part, but figured he’d live.

As the opening credits started to roll over a flowery wallpaper background, Jeff figured something might be up. Mim and I focused his attention to Craig T. Nelson, but he knew he had been had.

Only, Mim and I didn’t know we had been had too.

TFS has a mother dying of breast cancer/her last Christmas subplot. We were totally bamboozled.

It was like a German salad. They always hide the sauerkraut underneath the green leafy part. There you go enjoying the delish lettuce when before you know it wham bam you’ve got a mouthful of pickled cabbage.

I once tricked Jeff into seeing I Am Sam. He has never forgiven me because it made him cry. A lot. He shot me the same look when the mother tells her daughter the cancer had metastasized. He was pissed. I was too busy bawling my eyes out to really feel the heat of his stare. He got me back later.

After, walking to the car, Jeff swore he would never let Mim and I choose another movie without researching it first. We had been selling Brokeback Mountain as a western buddy movie with Anne Hathaway’s tits so the first thing he did when we got home was watch the trailer. Yeah, he didn’t see that movie and our credibility was totally ruined.

Christmas came and went. Mim caught a cold and had to delay chemo for a week. That afternoon we hit King Kong.

Now, before I say anything else, let me tell you, Kong dies. I did not know this. I had hope until the very end when he fell from the building that somehow, they’d get him on a boat to go home. I thought there were all sorts of Kong sequels. Somehow, I confused Kong with Godzilla.

So after 2 hours and 50 minutes of falling in love with that sweet gorilla, they’re shooting him off the building and I’m bawling my eyes out. I tried to be quiet about it. I tried to hide behind my hair so I couldn’t see Jeff and Mim laughing at me. I tried to think of Tiffany diamonds and cashmere sweaters to remove my focus from his sad and pointless death, but nothing worked. That DTS sound funneled Kong’s last moments into my brain.

After the movie, I was not just sorrow-filled and heartbroken, I was pissed. Apparently “Everyone knows the ending to Kong” so no one found it important to tell me he dies. If I had known, I could have prepared myself better. I cried all the way home. I was hyperventilating as I switched the TV channel to America’s Funniest HomeVideos. It took two hours before I finally calmed down.

Later that night, Jeff pulled me aside before he went to bed. He put his arm around me and said, “'Member that part in the movie when Kong was on the building and he thought the sunset was beautiful and then they shot him and he fell off the building? It was sad, wasn’t it?”

Childhood Magic and Machiavelii

So, to start this tale of lies and deceit, I have to start with a little background story.

My childhood was filled with magic. I had magic carrot seeds that grew overnight. I had a baby Jesus night-light that moved when the room got dark or those magic clowns that no matter how many times I stuffed them in the linen closet, ended up right back in my room the very next day. I had memories of past lives and different mothers (that went over really well with my mom). And I had seen fairy horses; you know small little horses that fairies ride. And of course I believed in fairies…

Most of the childhood magic was demystified in my teens and early adulthood. My dad told me the real story or I forgot or I figured out that maybe I just thought the baby jesus nightlight moved because it was creepy and I always found it creepy.

Well, this story is about those fairy horses and a Machiavellian plot of Jeff’s similar to that of a Heather-Locklear-made-for-TV movie.

It all started when I was about seven. A drive to my mother’s best friend Kitty’s house in the country had my family on a long drive through the hills of the East Bay. Jeff was asleep in his car seat and my parents were in some sort of heated discussion. I was looking out the window when I saw them. A herd of the smallest, yet perfectly formed horses I had ever seen. A whole bunch of them frolicking and playing on the hillsides. By the time I got my parents’ attention, we had passed them and they had no idea what I was talking about. My dad suggested ponies, but I had ridden on ponies. Ponies were fat and slow and disgruntled. These horses looked wild and happy.

My parents thought nothing more of it and continued their conversation. Jeff slept on in his sweaty kid sleep and I thought about the horses until I got my head around it.

I had seen fairy horses. My parents couldn’t see them because they were adults. I could see them because I was a kid and fairies were known to show themselves to special kids. Satisfied with my glimpse in the magical realm of fairies, I put my special memory away and focused on the killer sheep at Kitty and Mark’s farm.

Kitty and Mark had the Orcas of the sheep world. Pearl and Ben would lie in wait looking docile and sweet, sheep-like really, until I moved near the pen. Then they would charge, ready to tear out the tongue of a human child for fun. Most of my memories of that farm include terror-induced sprints away from sheep or chickens or the piranha-like guinea pigs or the fire ant hill by the propane tank. Oh yes, the farm was filled with fun and frolic.

So life moved on and the memory of the fairy horses became more and more distant. I grew up and never thought about them again until one summer day, driving through the Sonoma hills with my brother. I was 28 at the time.

“Oh my god Jeff, do you see them? It’s the fairy horses. Oh my god, pull over Jeff, quick!”

Did Jeff pull over? No. Did Jeff see them? No. By the time I got his attention, we had passed the field and he refused to go back. He said we would see them on the way home since we had to take the same route back. Did we see them on the way back? NO.

Jeff told me they were ponies or baby horses. It’s all in the marketing, right. The moment I said fairy horse, he was gone. Jeff is a little sore about the whole horse thing anyway. We took riding lessons when we were kids and he had to ride a pony while I got to ride a full sized horse. I might have had some influence over the size of his horse. He still remains bitter over that to this day, so you can see his motivation in this gaslight.

So began the crusade. I looked mini horses up on the Internet and sent Jeff pictures. He would respond with two words – “photo shopped”. I read up about them and told Sparky about my quest. Sparky laughed and said he thought I was sweet for still believing.

Okay. Yes, I still called them fairy horses, but I did not believe that small, winged creatures rode them (maybe in the back of my mind I still did, but certainly not in conversation and certainly not in my argument that these miniature horses exist).

I watched every local parade, looking for a cart horse, I forwarded every video clip and in life’s great irony, I would see these small horses just as they turned a corner so that only the back of the cart was visible before I could get anyone to look.

Soon, the fairy horse became a family joke. If someone told a tall tale, someone else would suggest that maybe the fairy horses were there too. Fairy horses became synonymous with “big fat lie”. My sister got in on the act and my dad, too. Sparky was so already there, petting the top of my head and smiling every time I brought it up.

I know, why was it so important that someone believe me? Why didn’t I just let it go secure with my own knowledge? Well, I just don’t work that way.

In October I got on the Internet, found a Miniature Horse Association and ranches in the Bay Area. I found a guy named John in a town near where my sister lives. I actually found some great big ranches in Sonoma County, (funnily enough close to where I saw them with Jeff that first time, huh) but during my single days I uh, played my way through that county. And there might have been a party that might have included too much tequila, a guy named Trooper, an SUV, a milking stool and water main. Later, I heard that this farm had mini horses. I really didn’t want to return to the scene of that crime.

So I told John the story and he wholeheartedly encouraged me to bring the wonder twins over. I told him it was a surprise because the last time I tried to get Jeff to go to the Mini Horse show, he refused to go.

I told the twins we were going paintball shooting. Jeff was really excited. Mim was too, except she didn’t want to run or move or get hit by a paintball. She basically wanted to sit on BASE and shoot Jeff and me without retribution. Nice. I was so sad for her when it turned out to be mini horses and not paintball shooting, let me tell you.

So the day came and as we pulled up in front of John’s red and white house, Jeff figured that we might not be going paintball shooting.

Mim figured it out when John said he was going to get them out. She whispered to Jeff as we walked out behind the house. She’s a clever one.

Right there stood two miniature horses. One was 32 inches tall and the other (the male) was 36 inches. They were all bushy and furry with their winter coats.

However cute they were came in second to the look on Jeff’s face. One, he couldn’t believe I had tricked him. I’m usually a really bad liar and this ruse had taken a few with double-back lies and playing Mim off Jeff and vice verse.

Two, there was no way he could deny the mini horse. Quicksilver was right there in front of him and John, the horse guy was giving us a lecture on the breed.

Three, I had a camera.

Like a bad penny...

We’re Baack.

Hayzeus it’s been a long time. I meant to blog while in Cali, but it was non-stop action the entire time.

My back went “out” just before we left and just today it went back “in”. Even with a visit to the chiropractor, I hobbled around for three weeks. Looks like I just needed my own bed.

We got home late Friday after a very long flight. Sparky and I spent the weekend in bed, napping and watching two seasons of Gilmore Girls. We needed a vacation after our vacation.

Sparky is working in Hamburg today and I had my first day of class. I made it to level four and managed to forget everything I just spent three months learning. Tomorrow should be fun.

Speaking of German class, that chick Anya with the böse Onkel came back. I thought she was one of his new chickadees. I only saw her from behind as she jumped out of the BMW Z4 cabrio. Her thigh high boots, skin tight jeans and cropped white fur jacket confused me for a second, but once I caught a frontal view, I saw her bare stomach muscles in –4°C weather and I knew it was Anya.

I’m totally jealous. I would love to dress hooker-chic. I don’t have the body for it. I would end up looking more like trailer park/Doritos chic and that is so over.

It’s more than the body; it’s the clothes. Where does one find these clothes? I’m serious. Thigh high black boots and jeans that fit in them without ruining the thin line of her leg, where do you find these? Amazing. The cropped, white fur jacket, nothing says hooker better. This isn’t your typical sexy wear to be found in sex shops. This stuff is authentic.

Man, matched with the Wet ‘n Wild icy pink lipstick and you have a walking piece of pop culture.

Anyway, I have loads of laundry and a ton of “stuff” to put away. Where does this stuff come from and how the hell did I manage to pack it all? I think there is a stuff bug one picks up while traveling. It just keeps shitting “stuff” until you get home and put it all away. The longer you’re gone, the more it produces.

I have a million of stories to tell so this week I will post a new one everyday. We have miniature horses, polluting the Canadian wilderness, Irish coffees and washed out roads. There’s the meeting of a fellow blogger and his tall Kraut. Then there’s my gay boyfriend, coffee, cigarettes and the memory of long gone single days. Add a sister, a brother, a husband, large firearms and a loopy poodle and let me tell you, it’s a barrel of laughs.

So forgive my uninspired jet-lagged writing and come back tomorrow.