Changing Time

I still don’t know.

Wasn’t last weekend supposed to be a time change weekend?

First I thought it was supposed to be Saturday night so when we woke up, we’d have Sunday to adjust. Then I couldn’t fall asleep. I watched the ticking of the clock (my clocks don’t actually tick) until I fell into an exhausted sleep at 4:15 am. At 5 am, my really sweet and considerate brother called. No one was dead. No accidents. He just wanted to talk and the more he drinks the less he cares about time.

Then it didn’t happen, the time change.

I couldn’t figure out if Sparky was gas lighting me or if I really just had no idea what was going on. All the clocks were the same time and I figured, Sparky would not know to change the clock in my car, but then I couldn’t remember if I had changed the clock in my car because she has been in the shop continuously since spring. So I spent Sunday in a state of confusion that I still haven’t broken free of.

I love autumn in Germany. I know I said I liked something in Germany. Hard to believe. But I do. I love the changing of the seasons, especially saying goodbye to summer. I hate summer here. Summer is really only to be enjoyed at a beach house in Laguna. Ahh, the memories of a pampered youth. Autumn in Germany is just gorgeous. I’m amazed every day.

The changing of seasons is something that, living in SF, I never really noticed until I moved here. The constant movement of time, seasons marking that change and a new poignant awareness of the seasons of my life. Maybe it’s just my age.

If I were J, I’d say today is perfect bike riding weather. Since I have no intention of putting my ass on a bike seat, I will say its perfect convertible/cabrio weather. Gloves and a scarf and a nip in the air. It would be perfect if my car weren’t always in the shop.

I spent the last two weeks in Hamburg and Sparky has had the comp. Still a one comp household. He’s currently in Hamburg. I couldn’t bear another week in a hotel or making small talk with his office. They’re very nice people, but they’re his co-workers and I don’t think I can realistically talk about, well the stuff that pops into my head. I have to censor my thoughts since there isn’t a checkpoint between thought and speech.

I have a question for you. What is more boring than an overweight woman trying to lose weight? I have an answer for you. NOTHING! My day revolves around scales and gyms and how many carbs I’ve consumed as opposed to how much protein, around rote repetition and walking in the same spot for the same amount of time (thank god for the Scissor Sisters.). Bor-ring! I have a goal and I’m working very hard towards it. Unfortunately, part of the price is a rice cake life when I crave savory and spice.

Scrunchy the cat has stopped talking to me. He’s actually actively avoiding me right now. Apparently he doesn’t like the conversation or the attention. Kiska has been searching the house for Sparky, squeaking and searching. When she finally realizes that he’s not there, she curls up on his side of the bed and waits. She too, feels the emptiness when Sparky’s gone.

I’m going to do a little internet shopping to fill the void. (That should get him home fast!)

********Update: Go here to find out the correct dates for time changes.

The Loss of Weight Loss

I have no pants.

I’ve developed a new stride that Sparky calls the “Shuffle ‘n Pull”. The shuffle and pull is the only way I have of not exposing my ass as my pants fall down when I walk. Shuffle a little, pull a lot. Shuffle a little, pull a lot. I feel like a goddamned rap star. I have to choose my panties carefully in the morning as, inevitably, they will be on show at some point in the day.

Last winter I had no pants because nothing fit in the opposite direction and I froze in my summer weight cropped pants. Now? Well, I don’t want to buy anything until I go home at Christmas.

Skirts? Nope. It used to be that my hips kept everything up, but they’ve shrunk so everything falls down. The tights I have bag at my ankles and knees. Its really, really attractive.

I have no boobs. What was triple is now singular and not even of the same letter. The one area of my bod I was perfectly happy with has vanished into the night. Sadly, I now know why people use push-up bras. Scrunchy, the Hurray-for-Boobies-cat mourns the loss of his favorite pillow.

I can however, wear my knee boots. The boots I bought a year ago and couldn’t wear because my calves were too fat (“Bobbie Christina, You’re too Fat to wear that Hat!”). I’m not sure if boots and panties are really the look I’m going for, though, especially with the estrogen patch sticky stuff on my hip. (I have no hormones.)

A weird side effect is that people talk to me more now. People are friendlier, more open. I haven’t changed. I’m still the same agoraphobic misanthropist minus the T&A. And yet, people are more responsive. Even the occasional Deutscher will smile.

Maybe it’s the shuffle ‘n pull. It’s really attractive.


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Before you start hating me, this is not the ranting of an anorexic complaining that a size zero is just too big. I’m about 24 sizes away from that and I’ve already lost at least one Kylie. I get to bitch.

Shooting Is The Most Fun A Girl Can Have Without Taking Her Clothes Off

I’m in Hamburg this week with Sparky and I have soo much to talk about. Unfortunately it is all about his office. As he told his co-workers about this blog, I am censored from writing about it. I’m so sad because there is so much I could dish on. It’s killing me, really.

On the upside, I am currently ensconced in a corner of the office with Internet access, the new Killers and Panic! At the Disco. PATD has the best song titles.

Anyway…

Since the last post was about my dad, I figured I’d give him one more shot.

I’ve mentioned it before: My dad likes to shoot guns. He only kills paper and then only what he can eat. No target goes to waste. When I met Sparky, he knew about guns but was pretty much against them. He saw no reason that anyone should own guns. He was a peaceful eurofag, the polar opposite of my dad. Then my dad took him shooting.

I have never seen Sparky happier than when he’s shooting a big caliber gun. The funny thing was how different all our (Jeffy, Sparky and I) shooting styles are. My dad is a hardcore gun user. He can’t even see all the way down his lane, yet he can do the happy face thing. He’s awesome. He’s not someone to piss off when holding a gun.

My dad has a friend, Marty, who shoots with him. These are two guys you want in your corner when Armageddon hits. These men are the toughest men I know. They both have colorful pasts. That they’re both alive is really due to their resourcefulness, tough-as-nails steel core and luck. They go on weekend retreats where they do nothing but eat red meat and shoot. Apparently they don’t bathe either. Another reason it’s a “Men Only” weekend.

At one point, Marty lived next door to my dad. They had wanted to put in a type of security system where each would have a panic button installed that when pushed, would ring at the other’s place. Once pushed, the owner of the respective house should fall to the floor, as the other would come over shooting. Anything over three feet would be blown away.

Marty and my dad really liked this idea. Their wives, however, nixed this idea. Something about not wanting their homes shot up and children and cats.

My step-mom does not shoot. She refuses to touch a gun. Truthfully, that’s okay for the rest of us. One more person at the gun range would be too much. We’re usually fighting over who gets to shoot the fun ones.

We all have our favorites. Mine is a certain sniper rifle that when taken apart can fit in my handbag. It appeals to my spy fantasy. I can use it and pack it up in less than a minute. It has a 100 round hex clip for those days I need just a bit longer. After the rifle, I prefer a 9mm Beretta. I can shoot it without closing my eyes. It’s just a little too big, but not so much it hurts. I can reload in seconds. After a good hour session with the Beretta, I walk out of the range sore and exhausted, yet surprisingly energized. And there is nothing like the smell of gunpowder and oil on fingertips. (Tip: Do not wear v-necks, scoop necks or anything remotely low cut to the range. Ejected shells leave nasty burn marks and the rules state that no one is allowed to complain of pain in the range. Jeffy bloodied the skin between his thumb and finger when it got in the way of the hammer. He wasn't even allowed to close his eyes in pain. So burns from shells falling into cleavage are not acceptable.)

I have no idea what type of gun Jeff shoots. When we go to the range, there is usually so much competition as to who is the better shot (I am), I don’t notice what he’s shooting. I DO know he likes them big and loud with a bigger butt. Or rather, grip. You need a bigger grip with bigger calibers. He seems to have learned his technique from those gangbanger movies. He’s always shooting fast and sideways. Hot-doggin is another term for Jeff’s style. My dad is always yelling at him to shoot straight and have respect for the gun, but boys will be boys. And Jeff gets bored fast. As soon as the clip is empty, he moves on to whichever gun is already loaded and is ready to go. See, as much as Jeff loves to shoot, he hates the finger work that is necessary to keep a gun loaded. He says it hurts his thumbs to reload a tight clip. (He listens to rap.)

Sparky, on the other hand, loves the finger work. He’s got it down to a science. He’s almost as good as I am, but my hands are smaller. I can manipulate lead more easily.

Sparky prefers the .44 mag. He’s something of a size queen. He always chooses the biggest and the loudest. Truthfully, he’s the only one strong enough with enough endurance to shoot a gun of that size. Just watching him go to town, emptying the clip, reloading and emptying the clip again leaves me breathless. Sparky likes to use guns others have used first. He likes them warm to the touch. He seems to think that previous use distributes the gun oil evenly. He suggests that this type of warm-up lubricates the barrel, allowing for a faster, more accurate bullet. One day of shooting is enough to tide him over for weeks. He keeps reliving the experience, talking about it, smiling about it. And it’s no wonder. He probably shoots more lead than the rest of us combined.

Come Christmas, Sparky and I will be at Jackson Arms with my dad and Jeffy. Jeffy and I will have our annual “I’m better than you” contest which I will win and then we’ll go out for beers and burgers. And I cannot wait.

Joseph the Gnome

Once upon a time, long ago, a woman heard a knock on the door. She opened it up and much to her surprise stood Joseph the Gnome.

Wait a minute. That’s not quite how it went.

Once upon a time, long ago, a woman heard a knock on the door. She opened it up and much to her surprise there stood a strange man that looked somehow familiar. She asked what he wanted and she was shocked to hear the stranger call her by her nickname, Kate. She looked harder at the stranger. He said he was there to pick up her son.

She searched her memory for forgotten bargains. Was there an agreement with the devil and fiddle? Had she made promises involving straw into gold? Should she just shout out “Rumpelstiltskin?” She was lost as to why this stranger would want her son and she would be damned if she was going to hand him over.

“Uh, Sir, the sign says “No Solicitors”. Thanks.” She said as she started to close the door.

“Kate. It’s me Joe. Come on.”

And that is how my dad introduced his beard for the first time and was thus referred to Joseph the Gnome by my mother for long after. My dad might have taken this personally. Well, actually, he did. What he was not aware of, however, was that my mother was spending her days with a two year old and David the Gnome, a favorite cartoon and was probably the only cultural reference she had for a man with a beard at that moment.

The beard is something of a controversy in our house. Everyone loves it. His wife, his kids, his friends, his clients, everyone but my dad. My dad hates it. Or rather, hated it. He kept it going after he recovered from chemotherapy as a sort of superstitious don’t- change-anything-if-you’re-winning kind of thing.

It was attractive. He looked a little like Sean Conneryto me with the beard. The picture in my head of my dad is with this beard.

Then it happened.

A girl asked him if he wanted a senior citizen discount. That he is of AARP age is of no consolation. That he’s been looking for deals his entire life means nothing now that he can get 10% off on Tuesdays.

My dad who has always been confident, successful, popular and the life of any party, decided that his beard made him look too old and promptly shaved it off.

Then he sent me a picture.

I am horrified. To me, he looks a bit naked, a little vulnerable and totally NOT MY DAD. Seriously, it almost like I’m seeing him in his underwear. I’m not sure where to look anymore.

So, in a bid to convince him to let it grow back before I go home for Christmas, I’m putting it out there for you guys to vote on.

Do you like him with the beard or without?

A Tale of Two Hearts: A 7th Anniversary Edition

Jen:

Today is the seventh anniversary of my first date with Sparky.

We were introduced by a co-worker of mine. When I met him I was in a very special place in my life. I was uh… VERY happy being single, working hard, partying a bit harder. I had plenty of company and commitment was NOT something I was looking for.

When I met Sparky, I was blown away by his ass. Sorry, girls, but Sparky has the best ass I have seen to date. In and out of clothes. He was also something of an asshole. You know those cocky jerks that just beg to be dropped a notch or two? You know the kinda guy that your family has to hate because they really are not good for you, but maaan can they be good for you. Know what I mean… wink, wink??

Well that was Sparky. And I was smitten. Before our date I had plans for us. It didn’t include anything long-term. It didn’t include meeting my parents or even talking very much. I really just wanted to… Well, I think you probably get the picture.

So I picked him up that Saturday seven years ago for an afternoon at MoMA. We went and it was fun. I actually liked what he had to say. So we went for coffee after. We talked more. He asked me about the phases of the moon as if I, a practicing Wiccan, would not know what phase we were in. He says he just didn’t know the correct English for waxing and waning.

Then on the way back to his house, where I was to drop him off because I had other plans for the remainder of the day (I had another date), we decided to go to dinner. He had a great French seafood place. I called and cancelled my plans. (We had our wedding dinner at this place. The mussels in a white wine garlic broth are to die for.)

He wanted to change his clothes. I sat on his bed and he stripped down to his tiny bikini panties. We’re talking International Male type panties. Now, I had been around the block a time or two, but I was shocked. It was a first date, alcohol had not been procured and yet here he was stripping! I awkwardly looked around the room while casually, non-chalantly checking out the goods.

He took much longer than necessary to put those jeans on, let me tell you. That pretty much firmed up my resolve to uh… reach my goals.

We went to dinner. The food was fabulous and the waitress flirted outrageously with “The Rotter” as I was fond of calling him at the time. And not in the give me a big tip kind of way, but more of the “I want the big tip” kinda way.

A little competition always gets my blood going. I’m Italian and Irish. It really doesn’t take all that much to get my blood going.

After dinner, we got another coffee while we waited for a midnight movie. We talked for hours, laughed and had a really good time. He was still cocky, he was still kind of an asshole, but we had good friction thing going. He rubbed me the right way. Not a Genie in the Bottle kind of way, but he got my goat, his opinion about things was just so outrageously wrong, I just couldn’t get enough.

We saw our movie, “Freeway”, at The Clay. We had a great time and then I took him home. And when I say I took him home, I mean to his house where he kissed my forehead and hopped out of the car. Alone. Without me.

And I kid you not, girls. I called my cousin to let her know I wasn’t chained up in some room (a good idea for you single girls, Miranda, Anna, Sarah!! And leave a message on your own voicemail if you are going somewhere with a guy that isn’t on your schedule.) I told her that Sparky was an asshole, but I really liked him and weirdly, in a tingly way, I could actually see marrying him

Now we have broken up a thousand times and a thousand more. In fact, we broke up for good in 2002 and I sent him out of the country because I knew if he was anywhere near me, I’d be back with him in weeks and things had to change, he had to change. I moved here in 2003. The joke was on me, huh. But with us, we are rocky road type of people, extreme in our love. We gladly pay for the incredible highs with the devastating lows. We’ve had horrible, horrible fights and hurt each other immeasurably at times. But it has always been worth it. He has always stepped up to the plate. It might have to be broken over his head to see that it’s a plate he has to step up to, but he never fails to try. And I always come back.

I love you, Rotter. Thanks for the dinner and coffee.
____________________________________________________________________________________
Sparky:

For me, the most interesting part is how the whole date was pulled together. See, there was really no colleague actually “introducing” us. In fact, the only thing poor Peter had to do with the ensuing romance was leaving his phone lying around in his car, where a slightly boozed Jennifer confused it with her own. She picked it up and pressed “redial”, apparently trying to call her brother.

Guess who the person was that Peter had called before that? Right, that was me. So my cell phone rang – the Caller-ID showing that it’s my friend and gym buddy Peter. However, when I accepted the call, I was surprised to have some… ummm… HAPPY chick on the other end, asking for a guy called Jeffy. I politely explained that she must have dialed the wrong number, since “there is no Jeffy here”. And how come she shows up as my friend Peter? Mumbling something incomprehensible under her breath, she cancelled the call.

Only to ring me up a few seconds later. This time, I asked her for Peter when she asked for Jeffy. She clumsily lolled something about not being able to connect me to Peter, but asking me to introduce myself. I apparently sounded charming. Who was I? I politely declined to talk, since I was low on time. I had to finish up something for work and then I wanted to surf for porn on the Internet. Of course, I did not tell her the latter.

Shortly after I cancelled the call, the phone rang again. This time, I got angry when I picked up. “Quit calling me!”, I whined, “you’re wasting my minutes!”. Had she not been inebriated, I’m sure that would have been her first clue what a miserly, bean-counting German I was.

Fortunately, she missed the hint and was still interested in getting to know “that cell phone dude” when she sobered up. Peter made sure we met – under the guise of her knowing about interior design (a complete lie!), so she could counsel us on furnishing the loft we were looking at to make my office space. She did have some interesting ideas (a fluke, as it later turned out when we were talking about furnishing our very own loft), we agreed on a date to discuss the matter further, and the evening unfolded as described above.

You know what, Jen? Today is Saturday, just like it was seven years ago. Let’s go out and have some dinner and coffee. It’s going to be an amazing day.

I love you, cupcake.

Jen:
As it’s my blog I get the last word.

That is so not how that first conversation went. Yes, I was a bit tipsy, but I was so not charmed. And it was my phone Peter had used, not the other way around, hence my confusion as to why I couldn’t get a hold of my brother. And I do know about interior design as demonstrated by the better part of our loft, Mr. “I want an Advertiser’s kitchen, not a Lawyer’s kitchen. Wah.” xoxox

Ich bin ein Berliner!

Britwit asked why I like Berlin and as Sparky has been on this damn machine all day, I started to think about it. I lured Sparky off this damn machine by leaving contraband Nestle chocolate chips on the end of the bed and jumping into his place when he went to gather. Men and cats are really more alike than they’d admit.

So Berlin. I need to preface this post with a little insight to how I work. I have always wanted to be a spy. A real cloak and dagger spy. I love espionage and secret meetings. I love knowing things others don’t. My only problem is my inability to keep secrets. The boring stuff is no sweat, like “please don’t tell so and so such and such”. No problem. However, if its juicy, like “Jimmy is boffing Sarah, but really it’s the other way around and Jimmy has this fetish that is so bizarre and you’d never know it, (it involves ducks*). You would not believe what he wears under those J. Crew sweaters”, forget it. It’s a good thing I’m married to someone who really does not care nor remember most of what I say. This way I can “tell” my secret and not get into any trouble. Well, almost no trouble. And I do make it a point not to have any personal secrets. I’ve tried. Ten minutes later I’m blabbing it to Sparky.

I’m a disappointment to my entire family line. I am the only woman on my mother or father’s side of the family that is totally honest with my spouse. I don’t buy stuff and say it belongs to my sister. I’m not having affairs. I don’t start drinking at noon and hide the bottles. I don’t have a secret past or a love child stashed away in a boarding school in Switzerland. Really, I’ve had to become quite boring simply because I cannot lie and I cannot keep a secret. So that pretty much nixes a career as a spy.

How does this relate to Berlin? Well, my first time there was in the dead of winter, February 2004. It was colder than a witch’s tit. It was the coldest cold and the sharpest wind I have ever felt. And we arrived at night. Sparky had a conference the next day and we had to leave directly after so it was Berlin by night or not at all.

It started to snow. A drifty windy snow as we hit Checkpoint Charlie. Let me just say, I could not have planned better cold war ambience if I had tried. Other than the schwag stands, I could totally picture Post-war Berlin. We walked all over, down deserted streets and past war memorials. The streets were almost empty because the smart people had all gone inside to avoid hypothermia

Then I read the sign about how great America and her soldiers had been in World War II and everything she did for the Berliners. I felt proud and sad at the same time. Proud of what my country was capable of and sad at what she had become.

Sparky played along with the spy business (we pretended to be secret agents) and had a really great time.

It was during this play that I felt the heartbeat. San Francisco is the only city I’ve been to where I could feel its heartbeat. And more so, felt connected to that heartbeat. (I’ve never been to Manhattan.) Berlin is the second. It almost felt like coming home in a weird way, like I had been there before.

The next day, I fell in love and it had only a little bit to do with finding my favorite shampoo (MOP Glisten) that could not be located ANYWHERE in Hessen. The people were warm and friendly. It just had the feeling of a real city. Boweltown might have city status, but as a bonafide city girl, Boweltown is the biggest village in the middle of freakin nowhere.

Berlin has the best Italian food I’ve had in Germany; they used garlic! It had a breakfast place where I could get both an omelet AND potatoes. The head of the committee that had invited Sparky to speak at the conference gave us great recommendations for everything else.

And maybe it’s because Berliners have better things to do than stare at you, but I didn’t feel conspicuous there. I felt like blended in. That was nice.

I’ve been back there numerous times and haven’t even been to the museums yet. I’m always too busy walking around and sucking up the city smell. I’d take car pollution to horse shit any day, my friend. Any day. The only thing is, if I lived there, I think I’d be pretty tired of all the memorials and monuments that go up. They’re everywhere.

Anyway, that’s the gist of it. I told Sparky that if we ever divorce and there are kids in the picture and I had to stay in Germany, I’d move to Berlin. He can visit them there.

There you go, Britwit. I hope that answered your question. Please remember, I don’t live there, I just get to visit and that bitter, bitter cold that is fun for me is really, really cold. Dress warmly. *Stephanie Plum reference - Jimmy and Cousin Vinnie have a lot in common. Names have been changed to protect me.

PB&J *Guest Post by Sparky*

Dear Readers,

This is Sparky. Unfortunately Jen can't make a Blog post. I have been hogging her computer all day long for the upcoming redesign of her Blog, which will include fancy-schmancy stuff like picture archives.

However, I thought I'd quickly tell you about the best thing she brought into my life (next to my favorite cat, Kiska): It's peanut butter jelly sandwiches. Being a typical German, I first found the very idea of eating peanut butter quite disgusting.

But man, am I glad today that I tried.

How, without the strengthening that PB&Js give me, would I be able to hog Jen's computer all day long and post classics like this one into her Blog that everybody has known since at least 5 years?