Carpet Colonics

Okay. The burger thing worked. So let’s try the next issue.

For the next three days, Sparky and I are doing some heavy duty Spring Cleaning, budget talks and vacation planning. I have lists and lists of lists. We are busier than a skeeter in a nudist camp.

This morning we’ve been doing our phone work which includes, but is not limited to, finding a steam cleaner of rugs.

The rug I need cleaned is a wool Ikea rug I use in the cleaning room to catch the cat litter that dirty cat paws track all over my hardwood floors without. Back in December, when Sparky and I were in America, Cleo expressed her displeasure of our absence by pissing all over it. Our friend, who was house sitting and not familiar with Cleo’s antics, had no idea why the room stunk so badly. For three weeks, cat piss sat unattended. I have since attended to it, but it needs a good steam clean. It was about 199.00€. Too expensive to toss and replace.

Once, in a previous life, I worked for a steam cleaning company. I am more than familiar with the varied processes that Americans use to clean their rugs. I know all about the magic stick – the moisture detector that they use to convince you to use an enzyme additive for the low, low price of $49.99. I know about chemical cleaners and the residue that is left on the object to be cleaned and the sales pitch that it is healthier and better for your fabrics (not true). I know all the way that rug cleaners in America try to rip you off and how they actually help. I also know that most carpet cleaners, like movers, have police records a mile long. And I know that steam cleaning is the high colonic of carpet care.

I want my rug to have an enema. Apparently no one in Germany does this. Of the six rug cleaners we’ve called (actually Sparky called) everyone one of them says they know about steam cleaning, but no one knows of anyone who does this. One lady says she’ll wash our rug by hand in 30°C water and that she does not recommend steam for wool, as it will shrink. Well, yes and no. If you know how to do it, it is perfectly safe. Like anal sex, don’t force it and everything should be fine.

There is the homeopathic remedy: Shake a salt in a closed container 100,000 times then sprinkle conservatively (the shaking increases the intensity of the salt, be careful) and vacuum. Then there is the spiritualist way of just hovering above the rug and asking it to cleanse itself. The hausfrau method of beating the rug like a dead horse will not remove the odors, but then maybe I just need to learn to love the smell.

Of course, the rug is German. It might just not want to change.

So I’ve called my interior designer. She sold us our living room rug. Let me tell you, this firm is all about customer service. They bend over backwards to help us. However, they told us to call Ikea because all wool is different and they don’t want to “lean out of the window” regarding carpet care.

Argh. So, if anyone knows what steam cleaning is called in German – maybe its not a literal translation, Dampfreinigung, please let me know.

Feed Me.

I need a real burger. One like I had in Hannover, but I can’t actually go to Hannover, so I need one here in the Boweltown area.

I looked it up on Google and surprisingly found J’s write up about my cheeseburgers.

Well, I don’t want to make it. I want to eat it. I have a weird thing going on with my sense of smell right now so the idea of actually making it, makes me a little sick.

Anyone know of a good burger place in the Rhine/Main area. The good thing about having a car is that I can drive far and wide for a burger.

Pet Peeve #245786

When an Avril Lavigne song can accurately reflect your current emotional state. And you’re 33.

Diamonds, Boobs, Truman and Clive - What else could a girl want?

Yesterday was Cinema Sunday. Very nice, very nice indeed. However, I am so over the Australian brunch thing. Next weekend, we have to find a different brunch place.

We met up with J and Cookie. Cookie is known as “B” on J’s blog, but her nickname is Cookie and Cookie fits her to a T. So, even though she hates it, Cookie it is.

So, not only was it Cinema Sunday, it was Verkaufsoffener Sonntag in Frankfurt. Yes, you heard me. Most of the shops were open. My fingers were itching to sign a credit card receipt. Sadly, Tiffany and Co. was closed. Sparky wasn’t so sad. I pressed my face to the bulletproof glass and saw many sparklies. I even knocked and asked them to open up, but no one was home. I made due with a Starbucks coffee.

One the way back we passed this mannequin.
Now, the thing that struck me was that this lady has the most perfect boobs. Please note she’s not even wearing a bra! How does one get heft and perk without a bra?? We walked by this store multiple times and I just could not stop staring. Seriously, I know she’s plastic, but I think it’s a small price to pay to have those sweater kittens. I tried to imagine a world where those were mine and let me tell you It. Is. A. Great. Place.

On a less envious note, Capote and The Inside Man were great. Capote was fabulous and can’t imagine that Phillip Seymour Hoffman could have NOT gotten an Oscar. He was great. Inside Man – great heist flick. I am always up for a good heist.

I’m starting to get over Denzel. He’s starting to become a Hugh Grant where every character he plays is actually the same character on a different day. When was the last time he played something other than a cop or do-gooder? Man on Fire was fabu, but everything else lacks that sparkle. I can see the actor behind his characters and I don’t like my actors that way. Give me a real good illusion. Lie to me, I like it. That’s why I pay the big money, right?

On a sour note, the Turm has replaced their candy supplier. What does this mean in the great scope of Cinema Sunday? NO Swedish Fish. It’s really the only reason to go to the Turm other than current movies in English. I suppose its just another disappointment on the long road of life.

If only I could find a Swedish fish provider on my own, I could go to the movies and eat my fish too. With luck and strategy like that I could rule the world. AAAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAH.

I have to go work out now.

Great Things About Germany #3**

At any given time, in any given part of this country, if you flip radio stations you will find one of these songs playing. Guaranteed.

1. The Final Countdown - Europe
2. Down Under - Men At Work
3. Africa - Toto

** I don't have a great thing #1 or #2, but I'm sure they exist.

Water - Nature's Crack

Last night I was talking to Sparky. I had mentioned that I’m drinking new mineral water and that I just can’t seem to get enough of it. It’s so good. I’ve drunk almost a case in a week, by myself. I wondered if it had crack in it or something because I just can’t stop drinking.

Now that would be a selling point. Water with crack. I think I’d prefer water with speed, but crack’ll do.

Sparky, bursting my crack water bubble, suggested that it might have a high sodium content which would make me thirsty and thusly create my junkie-like tendency.

No, no I said. I checked and its only 28 grams per liter.

Hmm. 28grams? Am I a freakin’ mermaid or something? Twenty-eight grams of sodium per liter is like saltwater.

Turns out I read the label wrong and while its 28 mg per liter its more than double the sodium of our normal brand. No wonder I like this one better. That other stuff is crap.

So I read up on it. Now I don’t have heart problems and unfortunately I cannot blame bloatiness on water retention, so I figured the sodium levels in my mineral water really didn’t matter. Well it can, but that’s not my point. This water is within healthy limits. I SAID, this water is within healthy limits!

The point is, my water has crack in it and I love it. I’ve always wanted to be a junkie but without the Whitney Houston look, you know. (That girl is a “Say No to Drugs” campaign all by herself. Whitney before, Whitney after. You choose.)

Along the same lines, have you noticed that the water from the bathroom tap always tastes better than that from the kitchen tap? I think it’s the toothpaste. Man, can’t get enough of that bathroom tap water when I’m brushing my teeth.

I think I might be developing a problem.

Cross Dressing Goats

If you haven’t noticed, Gilbert, my escape goat, is wearing a bikini. Do not ask me how that happened. I do not know. It got a little sunny out and all hell breaks loose in Goatland. However, I learned something new about him. He’s not afraid to cross dress.

Gilbert and I go way back.

An escape goat is a special kind of goat. Not everyone has one. Most Expats do. I mean, how else did you end up so far away from what you know? How else do we find the courage to move into lands and countries we know only from word of mouth or books or pictures in National Geographic.

By definition, an escape goat is just that. He helps you leave one place for another; one situation for another. He leads you sometimes, makes sure you have sure footing and other times holds you back a bit, slows you down so you don’t get too damaged. He never says don’t go, he says go cautiously and let me help you.

And he’ll always take the blame. That’s the best part. Why did you end up in Morocco? Well, my escape goat just had to check out the monkeys there. You know how it is with escape goats, can’t stop ‘em?

I don’t know the story of your escape goat, but I can tell you what I know of Gilbert.

Gilbert is really old. He’s extremely wise and rather chatty at times. He mostly coughs when he’s not so thrilled with the direction we’re taking. You know that annoying “this is going to be trouble but I’m not going to say anything because you obviously know best” cough.

When Gilbert raises his voice, I’ve learned to listen. He’s usually right.

He tells me nothing of his upbringing or where he came from. I’ve asked. He tells me its not important. He tells me only my journey is important. He tells me he’s been there from the very beginning. This important with escape goats. They must know your history, your story, why you are the way you are. See, escape goats need to know what path to lead you on or from and only by being there from your beginning can they know this.

He’s always been there. He tried to soften my landing when I learned to jump from my crib. He helped me learn to walk. I wasn’t holding my mother’s fingers as I made my first steps; it was Gilbert’s tail.

He was there on my first day of kindergarten. After I burned myself on the car cigarette lighter in a feeble attempt to be so injured I had to stay home, my mom kissed me goodbye and Gilbert gently nudged me into my classroom. He sat by the door and waited patiently for our recesses.

I had to drag Gilbert to college. He wanted to go at a slower pace, he told me to slow down. God only knows where I’d be if he hadn’t drug his hooves a bit. Then when things started to go really wrong and I couldn’t find my way back, Gilbert carried me home.

He pushed my ass out the door for job interviews, dates and sometimes even if I just needed to go to the grocery store.

Gilbert made sure I made it home from many “morning-afters” and never once judged my walk of shame. He even wore slippers so his hooves wouldn’t clip clop so loud.

He literally showed me the path to Germany, placing one hoof in front of the other so I didn’t fall and break a leg. He’d take me back to the States in a second if I asked him.

He knows the way, even when I don’t.

He is such a caring and giving, if not stubborn, goat.

And all this time I had no idea.

You go, Gilbert!

The Power of Three Will Set You Free if by free you mean not getting dressed and eating ice cream all day.

No time to blog.

Watching Charmed, Fourth season. Not as good as third. Rose McGowan sucks and I hate her lips. Shannen rocked, but now she’s dead – in the series. Sad.

Is ice cream for breakfast really a bad way to start your day? Because I'm thinking its way better than that sausage and brötchen thing.

Jeff/Mim: It’s all about the power of three. THE POWER OF THREE!!!

Yes, Virgina, there really is a Sun.

Today is gorgeous. It’s a non-complainy, thank-god-the-sun-is-out, Germany-might-not-be-so-bad kind of day.

I had a breakfast date, worked out, burned over 1000 calories, went grocery shopping, dropped off dry cleaning and picked up prescriptions. I waved to my neighbors and talked with the pharmacist for a while.

I actually know people in this little village. And people were friendly. German people. The lady at the checkout counter actually smiled and asked if I found everything okay. When I responded in German, she switched to English, smile still intact, and asked why I would leave wonderful America for Deutschland. I think people are in such good spirits that no one can hold it in. All these anal retentive Deutschers are just glowing with the first sign of sun in decades.

It was so warm I opened all the car windows to feel the fresh air. The crocus’ are in bloom and the sun is shining. Yes, I know, hard to believe, sun in Germany, but I swear its true. It’s so warm; I could see bare legs and sandals in the near future. And it was 4° C.

So what does this mean? Has my blood thinned with the extreme cold of the last few months? Have I been so sun deprived that I’ll take even the smallest bit of sunshine and eat it up like a hungry orphan? Yes, as a matter of fact. I’m learning to be sun greedy.

I almost went for a joy ride in the convertible, but I didn’t want to jinx anything. As both cars are working right now, one must be very careful not to attract the attention of Mechanikus, the god of automobile repair. He’s good friends with Asphalta, the goddess of road trips. Add a conversation with Ironus, the god of irony, and my joyride could end in disaster. Markus is away for a while on business and I really don’t want to deal with car trouble while he’s gone.

So lets here it for spring.

I found a great coffee house really close to my house. This makes me extremely happy as I cannot make a decent cup of coffee to save my life. Recently I’ve started to up my consumption and finding this place will do wonders for my energy levels. Not to mention lightening the old wallet. Thank god there’s not a Starbucks around here or I’d have to get a job to pay for it. Stripping just doesn’t pay like it used to. Damn economy…

Go to Mausi’s blog and look at her flowers and have a good day.

Girl Talk

Its Back!!!! Blogger, those scat fetishists, is still messing around with HeisseScheisse, but for the most part its back up.

Happy weekend.

I took a solo trip up to Hannover this weekend. For those expat women out there, I got to spend the day sitting on my ass, drinking coffee and chatting up a storm with a girlfriend. If you’re like me, its been ages, AGES since you had a face to face conversation with a woman you can connect with. And it was fantastic. As J says, we talked our lips off.

So, needless to say, I had a fabu time with Mausi on Saturday.

I was scared about taking the train by myself. I feel like such a baby, but my German is functional at best. I’ve never taken the train in Germany before, well once to Oktoberfest, but Sparky navigated. I had no idea how to find my wagen, platz etc… If there had been a jumper or a canceled train, I might have been in a bit of trouble. I also like to know what the routine is, you know, before I stand at the end of the checkout counter waiting for my groceries to be bagged by non-existent baggers, if you catch my drift. I just wanted to know what to do and how to do it.

Sparky walked me through it in the morning and Mausi made sure I got on correctly in the evening. I felt very protected. It was really nice.

Let me tell you, Boweltown in freekin’ cold. Hannover? Colder. I’m not going to complain anymore.

Christina took me to a fabu coffee house with great lattes. We stayed there until we got hungry. Then we went to an American bar and grill. I know, shitty American, looking for a bit of home in central Europe, but whatever. I had the best California burger I’ve had since Barney’s on College Ave in Oaktown. It was so good I wanted to bring one home to Sparky. I didn’t, but I thought about it.

The train ride was totally uneventful except for the part where my skirt rode up and I flashed everyone for half the trip. "Everyone" was one particular man who made a point of walking up and down the aisle by my seat until I was uncomfortable enough to make sure my pea coat was covering my lap and legs. It wasn’t.

I don’t know why I have such problems keeping my skirt down. I swear, I have flashed half the world by now.

Anyway, I didn’t take any pictures because I needed new batteries and frankly, we were talking so much I totally forgot about it.

So, I’ve made a decision. I want to coordinate a girls’ weekend. Anyone interested?

Civil Disagreements

I’m having a disagreement with a fellow blogger.

This woman said that I had no right to judge her. I find this an interesting concept.

Regardless of whether or not either one of us is correct, the idea that someone thinks they can blog without being judged intrigues me.

Is this something we can expect as bloggers, not to be judged? Seriously, I’m asking this of anyone who reads it. Do I have the right not to be judged by the actions I write about? Do you?

In a public blog, we write about our lives, thoughts and actions. We install counters to see how many people read us and link us. We comment on other blogs and make friends with one another. All this is based on judgment, is it not? Do we not decide whom we want to lurk on, read and link to by judging who they are by what they write about it?

When you blog publicly mustn’t you assume you will be judged by what you write, how you write?

Further, when a blog has a comment section, can’t one safely assume that one day someone might have a difference of opinion AND comment? Some blogs do this on purpose to drive up readership. Not this particular woman’s, but it happens.

Most of us write about our lives, experiences and stories. Who we are colors everything that we type. However, most of us have areas of our lives and minds that we don’t share on our blogs. Why? Various reasons - personal, intimate, none of anyone’s business, because we don’t want to be judged.

Now barring abusive responses and spam, do you censor what is written? Do you want discussion? Or do you want “support” only? Maybe there should be some kind of indication that allows only smiley emoticons and love and kisses.

And really, if you can’t be a responsible pet owner, do not have pets, no matter how many kids are starving in Africa.

blogger is pissing me off already...

testing

Funny thing happened...

Error 403, that's what happened. I can't see my blog. Anyone else with the same issue?

I can publish, but no can see.

I see a conspiracy.

Spring needs to Sprung already, I'm accessorized.

In anticipation of spring, I bought a new handbag. It was the only one both sparky and I could agree on and as he carries may handbag a lot, he felt he should have a vote.

Its this one, but in green like that one. Or just go here Its cute and looks fabulous on my arm. .

For a second, I felt like a city girl again. If I could only find a good manicurist I would be in heaven.

I'm taking a trip this weekend. My first solo trip on the train. I'm kinda scared. I have no idea how I'm supposed to find my assigned seat on wagon 2. I feel like an idiot, but since sparky is not accompanying me, I'd like to know how to do everything before I'm confronted with it. Know what I mean? Well, we'll see if I make it back or if DB pushes me to jump.

I have heard rumor of a Hello Kitty store at my destination. What better to go with a new handbag than a hello kitty wallet? I can think of nothing.

Sparky's week in Hell

Sparky has been in hell. Honey-do hell. Let me tell you, Sparky avoids household projects as if they were the black plague. He is a master of manipulation when it comes to escaping situations that might include a screwdriver or preclude polishing. Try as he might, we spent the last week emptying our pantry/laundry room/I-don’t-know-where-to-put-it-so-I’ll-stuff-it-in-here room.

We emptied it because we needed more shelving to store all the crap that gets shoved in there. It was a freekin’ mess. The cats could barely find the litter box and all the cleaning supplies were falling off the shelves when the washer ran.

This all started because the washer leaked. I had to clean up the water-damaged hardwood and thus slyly started on this project that I’ve been planning for some time.

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An aside.

In America, we have this. It’s not unusual. When there is an appliance that uses water, there will be drips. Yes, I know putting a washing machine on a hardwood floor is not so smart, but it has been done successfully.

In trying to find a drip pan in Germany, the most common response is NOT, “Hmm. We don’t have that, but try this…”

It’s more of the “Why does your washer leak? Why don’t use get it fixed? Why is it on hardwood? Why didn’t you think to put it on tile?” variety.

Okay. Maybe I’m just being bitchy, but those questions do not help.

I finally settled on one of those plastic car-trunk protectors after ruling out birdcage bottoms and plastic storage container lids. It works. It’s not pretty, but it will do the job.
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See, with Sparky and his magic powers to procrastinate, one has to work quietly. Once I removed stuff and left it on the counters, I figured that his OCD would kick in and he’d be so upset and he’d be chomping at the bit to go to Ikea.

But no, amazingly, he held out for almost a week. It wasn’t that his OCD deprived mind wasn’t going crazy by not polishing the surfaces; it was that he hates Ikea that much. It’s funny to watch him there. It’s like his Kryptonite. You can literally see his energy drain and his eyes glaze over. It only takes about five minutes before he comatose enough to agree to anything. If it weren’t for the cheap hotdogs, I would never get him to go.

So, not only did Sparky have to go to Ikea rather than to the gym, but the house was covered in this stuff for days. From cleaning supplies to candles and light bulbs and laundry and tools and all that stuff his mother has given us over the last three years that I have no idea how to use or if I even want to try and figure out.

I built the shelves and we spent one full day putting them in and adding extensions so as to take advantage of the 3-meter ceilings and spent the weekend sorting, tossing and putting everything away. The kitchen counter has been cleaned off and the only stuff left is the crap neither one of us knows what to do with. There’s a lot of storage space now. I even have a place for all the linens I brought with me (I can’t find 400-thread count sheets here. How barbaric!).

So, now that everything is said and done, I have one startling realization. I did all this work to make the room which holds all the cleaning supplies and washer and dryer more comfortable to be work in. I am currently in love with a cleaning supply room. Not a fabulous outfit or a pair of Manolo Blahnik Mary Janes, but a supply closet.

My mother would be so disappointed.

Dentistry, Gay Soccer Player, Pitt Bulls, The Russian Mafia and Mutti

This will be brief. I got up way too early to hit the gym before my third and final dental appointment for the stupid root canal. It’s done, finis, fertig and I feel like I’ve been in the ring with Russell Crowe for three hours. My jaw aches something fierce. I go back at the end of March so he can look at the rest of what used to be perfect California teeth. I’m really looking forward to that.

Sparky told me today that he was the guy who gave his soccer team members massages during the game. If I hadn’t made him promise he wasn’t gay before we got married, I might be a little worried.

The hotel where we had our German wedding celebration is turning into a whorehouse. I thought that was appropriate and fun. In the future, I can point it out and say, “Oh look, that’s were we celebrated our wedding in Germany. We had such a good time. Mutti organized the whole thing.” Mutti’s not so thrilled. She’s worried about the Russian Mafia and pit bulls, she and the other 600 Hausfraus that live there.

If I walk five kilometers in the morning, do I actually have to move for the rest of the day?

Frankenstein has nothin' on me

I can no longer drive in Germany. For at least a month. See, I finally bit the bullet and applied for a German license. It’s a rather involved process that ended with this prissy unfriendly girl taking my beloved California license. Beloved because it had a great picture and a listed weight of 150 pounds. It was in fact the license I had in college. Sniff sniff.

Last week I took my Erste Hilfe class. The class was taught in Deutsch. I was really impressed with my ability to understand the instructor. It only took me three hours and a very nice man from Ghana before I understood that Sauerstoff was in fact oxygen and not vomit. An important yet easily misunderstood concept when dealing with first aid.

I can apply a compress bandage, lift a man out of a car, position an unconscious person in such a way as to keep the airway open (this is where the misunderstanding occurred), and practice re-animation. Yep, if you’re dead, I can bring you back. Put me up there with Count Frankenstein. Americans call it CPR, but give the Krauts some credit. Re-animation sounds so cool, I might just hang around old people just to give it a whirl.

I have practice with the compress bandages. As a kid I wanted a broken leg so I could have a cast. Casts were awesome. Unfortunately, my attempts to break my legs by jumping off the roof were thwarted when my dad came home early one night. His car turned the corner on my tenth jump. The only thing damaged was my ass after the beating I got for scaring the poop out of him.

I blame my failure on the copious amounts of milk my parents poured down my throat, the fascists.

They got me a medical kit soon after, complete with ACE bandages and crutches. I spent HOURS wrapping and re-wrapping body parts. So if you’re bleeding profusely, I’m your man.

With that course complete, my eye test taken, picture procured and fahrschule found, I’m set to learn how to drive… after driving for more than 18 years, three of which have been in Germany.

The fahrschule instructor asked me if there was anything he should know about me. I told him I liked pina coladas and getting caught in the rain. He looked at me, straight german faced, for the longest 15 seconds of my life as he processed what I said. I swear, the room was so quiet I could hear a cat bell in the distance.

“Oh, like the song. Ha ha. No, I mean do you have fear?” he said so completely deadpanned I thought him a comic genius until I realized it wasn’t comedy.

So many responses, so little time. These lessons are going to be fun!