Planned Spontaneity

We’re planning a mini-break to Prague. It’s kinda of spontaneous. Meaning we’re going to go in the next few weeks and we’re taking a train (gasp!). I ordered a Green Guide and a Streetwise map today. Sparky is ready to book a hotel however he’s not allowed to actually book a hotel before I get my map and book.

Sparky is WAY more adventurous than I am. He likes to find a cheap place in the farthest corner of a city and walk and walk and walk. I like to know what we want to see, where we want to focus our small amount of time and find a hotel in the area.

The last time we did this Sparky’s way in an unknown city was our honeymoon in Paris. It sounded so romantic and sweet, walking the Parisian streets, seeing the local flavor and really experiencing the city. Oh, the naivity of youth... After the tear gas attack from the beautifully dressed French police force, we ended up walking 8.5 kilometers to our hotel through very sketchy parts of town.

Granted, part of it was sketchy because I mistook bonne année for punani and thought everyone we passed really didn't like Americans fo'shu (insert stupid American joke here), but we did actually get tear gassed and we did have to walk 8.5 kilometers from the Eifel Tower area to our hotel because the metro system, where we were gassed, was not really running.

So, before we book these days, I like to know the layout and our plans.

Sparky assured me he knew Prague. He knew Prague because Vampire was set in Prague and he played that game for days.

See what I mean. I am so not walking those streets at night.

Find your vampire name here.

Danger. Danger. Dick Cheney! *Guest Post by Sparky*

Since Jen and I are slumped with work today, we decided to update the Blog with a little signature film. I call it “Nature strikes back at Dick Cheney” – but maybe that’s just my wishful thinking. After all, it is only an unlucky Frenchman whose hunting hobby has some surprising consequences for him.

Click here or on the photo to find out what I’m talking about…

Ice Cream Cones

Today we’re off to Frankfurt with TwinkleToes. She’s 8. We met her when she was 5 and it’s amazing to see this little girl grow into this incredible person. We love spending time with her. Her mom just had a baby, like two weeks ago, so this is a perfect time to give her some TLC.

Yesterday, Sparky and I spent hours trying to figure out kid things to do. We had museums and movies and zoos and amusement parks all picked out. We were going to let her choose. You know what she wants to do? She said, and this is almost a quote, she doesn’t want to do anything that big, just spend time with us so if we could just go shopping for CDs and get an ice cream cone, she’d be happy. And this wasn’t in that passive-aggressive martyr way.

I swear, if my GBF hadn’t suggested that I not joke about kidnapping kids, I would warn her mom that TT would soon have a new last name. She is the one of the reasons Sparky and I are planning to have kids – not now, but in the future. She is the antithesis of a shitty kid.

Well, TT, the pleasure is all ours so you’re on. We’re off to Frankfurt for a bit of shopping and a movie later in the day. Ice cream cones included.

File Cabinets

This is because Sparky keeps bugging me to post. He’s got HeisseScheisse on the brain. He’s working on a new template/site for moi and wants a post. He’s trying to work in these two adorable goats that I simply must have and its not easy. Something about vertical vs. horizontal. I don’t know. I just walk over and say yes or no, green or brown, big or small. I have no idea how it all works and as he’s been at it for days, I guess it can be kind of difficult.

As I did nothing today except think about how my arm got stuck in a drawer 15 years ago and it took me four hours to get it out and how that somehow related to being in Germany and figuring things out slowly because I still can’t find a place to re-order that toilet seat cover, I don’t have much to say.

With the drawer, I finally grew weary enough to relax and accidentally pushed the drawer in. Poof my arm came out. That was after 3 hours and 59 minutes of pulling really, really hard, bruising my elbow and thinking I was going to die with my arm stuck in a four drawer solid oak file cabinet and my cats would end up eating me.

There was some connection in my brain about relaxing and not getting so wound up over the four million phone calls I made to Bonn, Italy, London and France all to no avail. Just relax, push in the drawer and the arm comes out. Just relax, blah blah blah and the toilet seat cover is ordered? I don’t know how this is going to work. I was told by customer service in Italy I might have to visit Italy and pick it up in a store in Italy as they do not ship to Germany. At the time it made my eye twitch. Now it sounds like a really good idea. Just relax, push the drawer in and vacation in Italy.

I really don’t have anything to say today.

However, I always love making fun of Nazis. Click Away for YMCA

Day Tripping: Würzburg

Don’t ask me why, but Sparky and I are kinda addicted to “Let’s Dance!”.

We were in Würzburg yesterday. The drive was pretty and we only had time to see the Residence before it started raining. The Residence and Hofkirche were impressive indeed. The gardens were awesome. I pretended I was a bored princess walking with my manservant. It was fun. I like menservants. And gardens with hedge alleys. I think I could definitely be a bored princess with a manservant in the garden.

Sorry, I got lost for a moment. Last week, we ended up watching this “Let’s Dance” thing in our hotel room in Trier. It was fun and the Swiss guy is really mean. Like I need another reason to hate the Swiss, right? Anyway, we got really involved. Involved enough that when I suggested we see a movie on our way home from Bavaria, Sparky declined because of the TV programming. I thought he meant Monk as we recently purchased the third season on DVD. Nope, he meant “Let’s Dance!”

After nearly killing us to get home in time, he and I spent the next hour and a half cheering and booing the judges. And Jürgen is so way more better than that arrogant Sandy from No Angels. And Wayne is so bonking Isabel - and with Yvonne “FAS Baby” Catterfeld looking on from the audience! For shame, Wayne. For shame! And if poor Heide doesn’t get voted off next week, I think I’ll just die because she cannot dance to save her life and looks like she just wants to crawl in a corner and really, if you can’t jerk your head around, don’t try the tango.

I don’t even like ballroom dancing, but man, I can’t stop watching. And to top off this lowbrow orgy, Upps - Die Superpannenshow, Germany’s equivalent to AFV, is on after. I can’t get enough of that shit. Give me crazy animals and dancing people falling off tables any day.

Illegal photo taken from inside the residence. Ohh, I'm soo bad...

One of many Tiepolos. This one is in the Hofkirche.

Altar in Hofkirche. This place reminded me of my FOB Italian grandmother's house. So much stuff in a small place. All of it over the top. All this place was missing was The Last Supper on velvet, but they did have it in fresco and it was done by an Italian so I suppose that counts.

This is the ceiling in the HofKirche at the Residence in Würzburg. Amazing. The whole place is frescoed and my neck hurt from staring at ceilings all afternoon. It was really impressive. And the stucco work, man. The guy who did the stucco work went crazy and let me tell you, I know why. That place is huge and no two elements could be the same. Poor schmuck. At least Tiepolo included him in the big fresco over the grand staircase. I would have taken pictures of the whole place, but inside it wasn't allowed and the docents were really bitchy about it.

From the gardens... My manservant was obviously not attening to my needs at this moment. Its so hard to find good help these days. Alas...

This is after Sparky said no to a movie and yes to "Let's Dance!"

This is for my brother. Jeff, this as close as you're going to get. A "Just-in-time" shot at the Residence.

The Road to Marx... and back.

So, last weekend I was supposed to have a little dinner party. Instead, I ate about five onions and pooped in Karl Marx’s house.

Throughout my life, my mother’s parents have been an influencing force. At five, my grandfather told me that the moment I was born I started to die. Deep thought for a five year old. I spent the next 28 years worrying about that.

At eight, thinking I needed some guidance, they encouraged me to go to church. They had recently converted from Catholicism to Mormonism. My grandfather used to be a Mason. I don’t think you can be a Mason and a Mormon, but I’m not sure. They converted their two youngest kids. At my aunt’s funeral, after her suicide, my grandfather praised the Mormon faith for saving her life and ensuring that some day he would see her again, behind the veil. I guess the part about her being dead didn't quite reach him.

Off I went, every Sunday, looking for my religion in the arms of the Mormon Church down the street. I never found it there, but after being spanked at my Baptist private school for bringing in a Mormon children’s magazine, I felt the Mormon god was far nicer than the Baptist god. The Catholic god was just boring. I mean, how many times can a kid listen to a Latin service or endure another Chicken or the Egg sermon (we only went at Easter). And as I never got the snack everyone else did (communion), the Catholic god lost my support early on.

When my parents divorced and I switched schools, I tried the Protestant youth group, TNA (Tuesday Night Alive), with a friend. When I told my Mom I wanted to go to TnA she chuckled and thought it was a fine idea. I went on one trip to LA with this group. We slept in churches and sang our little hearts out at some crystal cathedral. It was fun until I got in trouble for bringing a Ouija Board. The youth pastor asked that I not return as I had obviously not accepted Christ into my heart.

In high school I went to Friday night services with a Jewish friend. Wow, it might have been our age, but the Friday night co-ed sleepover was all about finding one’s religion in the arms of the closest person of the opposite sex when the lights went out. The Protestants might have coined TnA, but the Jews put their money where their mouth was and got to work.

After that, I gave up organized religion. The next two years I explored Sufism, Hinduism and Re-Incarnation. A friend of mine had met Meher Baba and his parents were heavily involved in the local Sufi Center.

I read Middle East poets and waxed philosophical at every turn. I started dream journals and visited new age books stores A LOT. I traveled to psychic fairs and learned how to read palms and tarot cards. And yes, this was a very difficult time for my parents.

My grandparents, realizing that I was not quite Mormon stock, chose another path for me. My grandparents were not just Mormon, they were Republican. My grandfather had a bust of Reagan in a little nook in his house. Next to it was a bowl of Jelly Bellies.

By this time I was a leading member of the speech/debate team. I was no Paris Gellar, but I could hold my own. I have always been an opinionated shit, but in my teen years, I was more. More everything. That intensity of teenage willfulness needed a direction and Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Smith had that direction.

They polished me up and took me to an event in Napa. It was at a gorgeous winery. The food was delish and the people friendly. The kids my age were really nice and the boys were gorgeous. I mean gor-ge-ous. As a boy-crazy 14 year old, this was important. Especially as these gorgeous boys were talking to me.

I was baptized into the Republican Party. I became a Young Republican. Yes, its true, this is a dark time in my human development I know, but the boys were so cute. I went with my staunchly Republican grandparents to all their Napa fundraisers. I came to believe Reagan a hero, saving me from the nuclear destruction of the Soviets and discovered that there was no better place to kiss a boy than in the middle of a vineyard.

So off I went to my meetings in my polo shirts with the collars up, Sperry Tennis shoes white and my hair all neat and shinny, playing in the vineyards and flirting with boys, sucking up doctrine like cherry-flavored jelly bellies.

An opportunity came up to travel to Washington D.C. for an “Economic Intensive”. My parents were not so interested in funding this little boondoggle. To pay for it, I gave speeches at the Lyons Club, the Rotary club and any other place that would listen to me speak about Phytoplankon: The Ocean’s Bread Bowl. It was as interesting a subject as it sounds, let me tell you.

Next thing I knew, I was in a D.C. conference room with 15 other YRs. The subject was Affirmative Action. The question was whether or not I wanted a job I was not necessarily qualified for, just because I was a girl. I answered yes, that I would take any job I wanted, regardless of why I got it if I thought I could do the job. This was apparently the wrong answer and the beginning of the end of my reign as the great white hope for my grandparents. Holy apeshit, Batman, there's a democrat in the woodpile!

My first semester in college I took philosophy, poli-sci, art-history and psychology. I was fascinated by how everything seemed to interconnect with everything else and I swear this was from scholastic wonder and had nothing to do with the vast amounts of mary jane smoked in the vicinity of my dorm room.

As a rather naive Republican, I had never really been exposed to the whole abortion debate. I didn’t have an opinion on it because I thought it was just a given, having the right to chose, like having cosmetic surgery or braces. You got to decide if you wanted to or not. I knew that there were emergency situations were it was required like getting your appendix out. For some reason that is beyond me now, I had no idea that women’s rights were in jeopardy in MY time.

When I finally understood this issue, the transformation was complete. And my motto became “As a woman, how can you be anything but a democrat?”

I called my grandparents and let them know. They took it well. They said, like religion, one needs to explore before coming back into the fold with a pure heart.

The next semester I took a course on Marx, Nietzsche and Freud. I had found my new gods, my new religion and it was in German thought meisters (a little foreshadowing?). I read the Communist Manifesto, I saw Metropolis, and I read Freud and Jung. I was still wearing my polos, but I was no longer a Republican.

I was a Marxist.

I called my grandparents and let them know. My grandfather and I debated this for a while and he ended up disowning me. I was a Commie. How could I possibly believe that drivel? How could I possibly do this to them, after all they had done for me?

Recipe for disownment
1 part argumentative skills
1 part natural aggression
1 part education
3 parts Uni studentin passion

While the passion of a college student is essential for revolutions, its not much good for anything else.

Why do I bore you with this? Well, because I went to Trier this weekend, the birthplace of Karl Marx.

Karl Marx, it turns out, had a problem affording his Bourgeois lifestyle. Engels and his Capitalist moolah supported Marx and his family for the rest of thier lives and yet they still could not live within their means. I find this hysterical considering it’s the same reason I’ve let go of my Marxist tendencies. If those Napa events taught me anything it’s that I was born to the Bourgeois and frankly, I like it here. The grass is waaaay greener.

So, you’re probably wondering where the onions and pooping come in, right?

For some reason, I had a craving for beef and onions all weekend. In Rüdesheim I had a Kellermeister steak with onions. The entire plate was covered in onions and I ate every single one. We had Chinese food for dinner in Trier, tons of onions. In Luxembourg I had a fabulous Onion Soup. I had enough onions to be safe from the yellow spotted lizard. And probably breath to slay a dragon.

toilet
Why does this matter? Well, by the time we hit Karl Marx’s house, the whole onion overdose started to catch up to me. Along with the three pots of coffee I had that morning at breakfast (our hotel had the most divine coffee). So after a two-hour tour of Marx and his contribution to the world, I needed a potty break.

As I sat there, doing my business, it occurred to me that I was pooping in Karl Marx’ birthplace. I revered this man at one time and now I’m pooping in what used to be his basement. It felt a little blasphemous, really.

So I took a picture and sent it to my brother. A little joke between siblings. That rat showed my dad and let me tell you, my dad did not find it as funny. Making him proud, the world over...

You thought Heisse Scheisse was just a blog name? Oh no, my dears, it’s a way of life…

From Germany to Rome, Part I

It’s spring. You know how I know? The goddamn birds start singing way too early in the morning. It’s not just the morning. Its all freakin’ day. And it’s every goddamn bird in the world, sitting in my backyard. They were fun in the winter. I put out little seed balls near the windows so my cats would go crazy and suck glass every time a little birdie came around. It worked. The birds quickly figured out that the giant cats could not get them and the cats never figured out that no matter how many times they did their throat clicking, they were never gonna get that bird. Cruel? Maybe. Blame the Torture Monkey.

There is a bird variety that sounds like a rusty swing or gate that keeps moving back and forth looking for a little oil on the hinges. I was going crazy yesterday. I thought it was the kids in the yard. I mean, it was driving me crazy, but I’m not old enough to start shouting out my window at kids, right? I mean, that’s going a little over board, right? So when I found out it was a bird, I felt like the cats, clicking at the window, sucking glass, dying to oil his hinge. Karma, man, it’s a bitch.

So, before I go on, I want to thank J, Hamish and Calvin for postponing our little gathering last weekend. Saturday morning I got up early for a little alone time with my best friend forever (my computer). I was in my robe, eating honey toast, preparing to write a little something and in comes Sparky, fully dressed in a nice button down shirt and slacks.

It was early and if you know Sparky he’s the 10 more minutes kind of guy. “Let me sleep just 10 more minutes.” “I need just 10 more minutes on the computer.” “We’ve got 10 more minutes before we have to leave.” So seeing him up so early and completely dressed was odd.

“Get dressed and pack a bag. We might be gone over night”, he ordered.

Whaaaa??? I was still in my 10 more minutes’ mode and here he was shoving me out of my chair and into the bedroom closet?

“We’re going on a trip and it’s a surprise. Dinner has been postponed. House is clean. Get going.”

So dress I did, pack I did and off we went. We stopped to wash the convertible because this is still planet Earth and Sparky might have gotten up early, but he can’t drive the convertible unless he can see his reflection in the hood. After the car wash, we were off.

Where? Well, Sparky named it the “From Germany to Rome” journey. We traveled along the Rhine to the Mosel River and followed the Mosel to Trier. Trier being the last outpost of the Romans. We stayed the night in Trier and the next day I added Luxembourg to my countries list.

As an aside, let me tell you, every time I saw a sign for say, Bonn, I’d say “Belinda!” or Koblenz “J!” or Düsseldorf “James!” or Aachen “Lisa!“ or Hannover “Christina!” or Kaiserslautern “Annette!” or Saarland “Lisa!” I’m a total nerd.

Along the way to Trier we stopped and ate in Rüdesheim. Rüdesheim is the nicest friendliest town. Even the houses are a friendly yellow, not the on-sale-yellow that people in my area prefer. All along the Rhine, it was sunny and blue and friendly and the water glistened and the music rocked and the car shined and Sparky smiled and my heart started to thaw. We made some purchases in Rüdesheim. Pictures to follow.

Then we drove on, top down, sunglasses and baseball cap in place. It was chilly, but the sky was that light blue. You know, practice blue. Like it had been overcast and white for so long, that it needs the practice to remember how to shine blue again. It was heaven. Gilbert was happy too. He’s been inside for too long.

So later today I will tell you about Trier. I have to run an early morning errand and wanted to post something before Sparky took over.

A very tired Sparky in his new Ratzinger shirt. This is one of the new purchases. I had to talk him into it, but come on, who doesn't want a t-shirt of a Nazi Pope. Once in a life time purchase is all I can say...

Vinyard by the Mosel

Opposite riverside village

Small riverside village

coffee break

Big Love - Computer Style

FYI:

We will be without a computer for a few days.

A few weeks ago, Sparky dropped his laptop and broke it. Kaputt. Fertig. Tot.

We’re cannibalizing his to fix my mine. I accidentally vacuumed up most of my F keys one day last year. Warning: Don’t vacuum cat hair off a laptop with a Dyson.

So for a few days, we will be without.

Without news, without blogs, without email, without The Superficial, without, without, without…

I never realized how close we were, my laptop and I. I never realized that I stroke her keys more often than I stroke my cats and that’s way more often than I stroke Sparky. I knew she was good to me, giving access to friends, family and music, but I never really “saw” how much. She’s been my primary caregiver since I moved to Germany. She’s comforted me and connected me. She even lets the cats sit on her keys without throwing too much of a fit. She is everything an expat girl could want or need.

I know it will only be for a few days, but when she comes back, Sparky and I will be sharing her. We’ll be a one-laptop family and I’m not sure if I can cope.

I mean, like, I like my bookmarks in the sidebar at all times. I like to eat honey toast and read my celeb gossip. I like to read blogs whenever I get a hankering to read blogs. I never clean out my e-mail box. Sometimes, I leave droplets of honey on my wrist rest or on my mouse. I love my mouse. She’s big and blue.

And now I’m going to have to share.

I swear that my life long insecurities started the minute my brother was born and I was forced to share my mother with a mewling infant. Am I a better person for it? Yes. Do I care? The only-children I know live carefree lives and tend to think only of their happiness. That might be nice. Only-children share because of their generous spirit not because they resentfully have to share, because it is expected. Only-children can share because they never have to give up what they want.

How about another metaphor. I’ve always been a one-on-one girl. Threesomes + have never appealed to my world order. And now that I have this type of intimacy, I’ll never go back to the willy-nilly per-hour computer relationships of the past. I know loyalty and trust. I now know commitment. I now know de-vo-tion. Try to add a third party to that mix. What do you get? Very expensive lawyers…

Understand? See you in a few days.

The Abyss – conquered *Guest Post by Sparky*

I am proud to report that I did it.

Not only did I bravely face the accumulated waste of months of my own uncontrolled “clean-ups” – I also defended my wife successfully from the plethora of spiders, Nazi Ghosts and serial killers that populate this general area. I almost got a good photo of the open-marmelade-glass-at-hotel-buffets-poisoner, but I missed him by an inch.

But back to my own problem with the waste’n’things:
There were just too many items there at once, without a logical order of what to grab first and which item to move where. It was everything I did not want to see for the last year. My eyes glazed over. It was like Ikea, minus the hot dogs.

However, without further ado: I have to say I’m done.

Here are the pictures before and after. I expect a round of applause.

The Abyss

Day Three

Well, our lists are still long. We’ve done less than I planned, but isn’t that how it always goes?

However, today, last but not least (actually its not last, but it’s the one thing that must get done in this three-days-of-hell-spree) we face the dragon. We stare down the belly of the beast. We clean the basement.

How it works around here is thus, things that Sparky does not like to see get banished. By that I mean anything and everything. From plant pots to gelb sacks that were forgotten to any sort of cardboard. Sparky hates cardboard.

After our last basement clean up, Sparky promised not to take something down that didn’t have a space. I built shelving units and made labels. All he had to do was read the labels. I know how much stuff we have and I know where it needs to go. I’m a mover’s daughter, I think spatially.

Sparky however thinks a little differently. He doesn’t care as long as he doesn’t have to see it and seeing it hurts him more than any of us can know. I mean that seriously.

Why is this Sparky’s job? Why don’t I just take the stuff down if I want it to go into the right place? This is Sparky’s thing for two reasons. One is his uncontrollable need to remove offending items immediately. He can wait a few minutes sometimes, but mostly, if it has touched his mind that the object needs to be removed from his sight, not much can delay him without his skin breaking out in hives. As its his skin that burns, I’m not usually in a big hurry, so I’d take it down much later. And two, I don’t do it because I’m afraid of our basement. If you’ve seen our basement, you understand. It’s where serial killers and Nazi ghosts hide.

So it gets tossed into the land of no return.

Well, today, we journey into that land and I hope we return.

Last august, when I was in Cali, Sparky had a list that included removing all cardboard from the basement. Surprisingly, this task was not completed. (Anyone surprised?)

So, we have over a years worth of Sparky shove in a 6x9 space. Including and not limited to, house paint, Nazi ghost, crates my artwork came in, luggage, air mattresses, broken-down cardboard, gelb sacks, serial killer, plant pots, dirt, spiders, computer boxes, dragon eggs, plastic boxes, summer tires, toilet seats, replacement parts, bats and garden tools.

If I don’t come back, please tell my family I loved them.