Running in Socks

I was racing around last night packing my goodies suitcase when a wall came to my rescue. Socks, polished hardwood floors, arms full of jam jars. If not for that wall, who knows what chaos could have ensued.

I don’t understand why, after months of anticipation, I waited until the week before I leave to do any sort of preparation. I’m racing around. I’m even making lists while working out. It’s crazy. And Sparky is out of town until tomorrow and I leave Friday so I’m making lists and notes for his solo stay and poop scooping duties. One would think he’d know how to scoop the poop by now, but no.

So to catch up… (ellipse brought to you by the letter Hamish)

Bonn: Tons of fun. Lots of new people. I tried to mingle enough to get to know them, but there just wasn’t enough time to satisfy my curiosity.

Sparky got to see Mausi and Sparky looooves Mausi, an Internet crush I totally support.

J is a superb host and tour guide. I say he decides where we go every year. Not that he has to tour guide us every time, but he’s got great ideas.

I talked way too much and hopefully didn’t offend anyone. I was also a tad bit bossy. I know, totally outside my normal behavior pattern. I think my first report card in Kindergarten said I was very energetic and bossy. The teacher actually used the word bossy. She didn’t even couch it in “has leadership qualities” or something similar. Some things never change.

Amsterdam: Sparky and I made a day/night trip to A’dam. It was lovely and a city we need to go back to when I’m not flipping out about the sheer number of people and Bikes. I felt like I was in a game of Frogger trying to cross the narrow alleyways.

I also ate a traditional meal. It only took two hours of walking around to find a place that served traditional food, but it was worth it. I think I’ve caught up on Mim’s country count and at this point Jeffy is so far behind, I should stop making videos of my meals with the word "Bitches" in it.

Thanksgiving: was phenomenal. The turkey was christened Rhianna this year. Our first female. The reason? She was young, luscious, juicy and a total bitch. She didn’t thaw in time, despite my timely removal from the freezer. I had to give her a bath every thirty minutes until she thawed out. I think she said something about Jay-Z coming to kick my ass, but by that time, she was brined and stuffed and I was on the phone with Beyoncé.

Scrunchy tried to get in on the action. He likes to sit on the glass in the kitchen when I cook and wait for me to turn my back so he can lick stuff. He lost his perch rights when he stuck his head into Rhianna's nether regions. And yes, I did wash her again.

Rhianna live up to her name and even though there was a momentary panic with the temp (I forgot to convert 165°F to Celsius and couldn’t understand what was taking the bird so long to cook), she was so juicy it looked like I had sprayed her with glycerin for a photo shoot.

Then I dropped the apple pie. Sparky scooped it up and ate it, but the rest of us, Hamish, J and I, declined. Cat hair.

Five burns (three major) and only one cut later, dinner was done. Sparky took the guys to the train station and then finished cleaning up the kitchen wearing only my apron. That was a highlight.

Which brings us to the present.

I finished all my Christmas shopping yesterday. All of it. Thank you Visa and thank you Internet. Most packages will arrive wrapped. This means more play time in SF.

I am now off to the gym. It’s possible to lose 20 pounds in three days, right?

P.S. Blogger is sucking ass this morning. I can't get this thing published and I got to get going.

The Meetup

Yes, Sparky and I are going. I am much better with only the hint of a snotty nose. And that has never stopped me from having fun. If you need directions or info you can e-mail me up until 7am tomorrow. After that, we are off with a small stop to pick up Hamish Fagerstrom and coffee.

J is already there scouting out appropriate places and basically loving the fact that he's out of his town for a few days.

If you're not going, just know this... we will be talking about you. Them's the rules.

So, be there or be square people and if you're ears start burning, there's a reason!

Sickie

I’m sick. I got sick last week on the way to Hamburg and while the worst is over, I’m still down and out. I was Mis. Er. Able. And when I’m miserable, I like to share. Poor Sparky. Really.

Note to self: Next time you are dog sick, do NOT play “Cut off nose to spite face”. While the “F*** You” accompanied by the middle finger and slamming of the door as you walked out into the freezing city of Hamburg with only a vague idea of where to go was sufficiently dramatic, and you are terrific at dramatic exits, it will not make a difference to anyone save that lovely bug residing in your head/chest. That lovely bug loves the freezing rain especially when you’re only wearing a corduroy jacket with a skirt and tee shirt. I won’t go into details to protect the innocent (me!) and the guilty (Sparky, of course!) but needless to say, I was cranky and Sparky had to, god forbid, work.

The night before, when we arrived in Hamburg, our hotel arrangements were completely screwed up. I almost commited violence upon the head of the hotel clerk when she told us the hotel no longer had rooms regardless of our standing weekly reservation. Did I mention it was midnight and raining? It was actually when she said she had no idea what we should do and with a bored shrug of her shoulders continued to talk on the phone to a friend about some TV program and her next cigarette break that I became Emily Gilmore and suggested that she not quit her day job because obviously night clerking was not where her talents lay. Did I mention that my witty commentary on her lack of skill did not help us AT ALL.

Yeah, I was quite the charmer on that trip.

So yesterday, after attempting normal life function on Monday and failing, I stayed down, covered up by a big fluffy blanket with the company of two cats and a husband. Sparky worked all day, sitting next to me, while I watched every single pre-teen princess movie available on Premiere. It was a good day. I knew I was still sick when Princess Diaries 2 got me all teary eyed because the script was just so deep. Not a Hillary Duff fan, so A Cinderella Story didn’t do much, but Sleepover with Alexa Vega was pretty good. Actually, any movie with a crown (except The Prince and I) is okay in my book.

Sparky not only did not debate the merits of pre-teen princess movies, he encouraged the watching and snuggled my stuffy nose when I, in my pre-teen mode said the best gift I could ever get from him was a bag of kittens and then went on to describe the type of velvet the bag should be made out of and how many kittens make up a bag of kittens (3-4 because anymore than that is just craziness). He gently put the kibosh on any ideas that I might, even if we won the lotto, receive a bag of kittens, but encouraged the thought as the Robitussen started to work.

I felt asleep dreaming of kittens. It was nice.



Not as cute as kittens, but much more realistic… Its crab season in San Francisco. Just in time for my arrival.

Traumatic Bonding

Today is Jeffy’s birthday. At least that’s what he and I maintain. We’re not really sure. My dad claims it’s the 11th. My dad says he was there so he should know. Every year since I can remember, my dad has claimed the 11th is the day his son was born. As our mother, who was there also, is not in a position to argue this point, we can only go with the birth certificate. My dad has however, been adding a year to our ages since we could remember. This year Jeff’s 29, but he might as well be 30 because that’s what my dad is saying.

“Hey Jeff, how does it feel to be getting old? Thirty, eh?” My dad might not be the best source of info.

Sadly, with this confusion, Jeff will never obtain an accurate astrology chart.

I don’t want to take credit that I’m not due, but Jeff was born because I asked for a baby brother when I was four. As an only child at the time, I tended to get what I wanted. That and my mom just happened to get knocked up around that time.

I have to say, Jeff is one of the two best gifts my parents ever gave me. We fought like cats and dogs growing up, our physical fights legendary. I have a scar on my leg from his cowboy boots kicking me repeatedly in the same place and he has a scar on his cheek (much, much smaller than the scar on my leg) from a doorknob I just happen have directed in his direction, but we were loyal and united in the face of adversity.

That holds true even today. I’m 34 and when I get around my brother I can’t help but to pinch him. He does the same. Never, ever put us in the backseat of a car together. Those invisible lines always get crossed and we all know what happens if you don’t stay on you own side of the invisible line.

I have so many heart-warming stories, so many poignant moments with my brother I can’t figure out which one paints the picture he deserves. Like when he listened to Journey for more than 6 hours in a small a/c-less truck because I wanted to share Journey with him by analyzing the lyrics in relation to our lives and what it meant in terms of reincarnation (Uh, there might have been some sort of uh… mood enhancer for that discussion).

Or when as a little boy he was so happy when my mom told him she was re-marrying because the burden of “take care of your Mother” was just too much for his little pale shoulders.

Or how our little cousin loved Jeff so much he drew freckles on his arms so he’d look more like Jeffy.

Or how he makes me laugh non-stop even when denying me a bite of his ice cream (Give me a Bite!!). Or how he might get pissed off at me, but he never holds a grudge. Or how he secretly loves me waking him up with the Wakey-Uppy song. Or how he was there with our sister for her chemo days, re-arranging his schedule and his life to make sure she was never alone. Or how he keeps so much inside, you just want to hug all the hurt out of him because he just so precious and dear.

Or how he punches really hard and how to never ever let him pin you down to do that spit thing because he always, always lets the loogy go. Or how he’s afraid of ducks and geese and spiders, but not much else.

Or how he simply understands me and my motivations and most of the time we can communicate without the use of words. Or how he was worried about accepting his promotion because of the new schedule and he didn’t know how we were going to have our weekly phone call.

Or how… Or how…

There are just too many wonderful things about that little brother of mine.

I guess all I want to say is that I love you, little brother. I’m very glad you were born and am thinking about you.

And yes, you are one year closer to thirty and as its right around the corner, let me tell you, your liver might not be as resilient as it was, but life gets far, far better.

******** I'm in Hamburg today. Come back tomorrow for baby pictures. He was a cute little kid.

Meatheads

Give me a break. Are people turning into pansies or it just me?

Read this: No Grunting

I really hate the gym. Really. Truly.

I pay more to go to a gym that isn't as much of a meat market/musclehead hangout as others in the area. That being said, it's still a gym and believe it or not, there is gym like behavior.

Sparky is a weight lifter. He squats and bench presses more than any human really should aspire to. When lifting that much weight, a grunt is just going to slip out. Sometimes even a fart. I cringe when I hear Sparky grunt because i know he's lifting an obscene amount of iron. I look over and make sure someone is spotting him. If not, I run over and make sure he doesn't drop it on his meathead. But unless he moves that obscene amount of weight, he doesn't get stronger or more muscley which is his goal. It's why he goes to the gym.

Next thing you know, they'll ban sweat. Really, get a life, people.

50% Anticipation

Tickets are booked. I’m going home.

I’m leaving at the beginning of December and Sparky joins me a couple of weeks later. My sister will still be in school until right before Christmas. My brother and father work (obviously).

Do you know what this means? It means an open schedule. It means that I am a free woman. It means no familial obligations. It means I decide what I want to do from a purely egocentric perspective. It means lunch with my old friends; it means afternoons at the gun range, it means shopping. It means I get to have conversations with the woman I was before I left.

As most of us Expats know, trips home are often jam-packed with things you have to do, things you want to do, people you have to see and people you want to see. Most of the time, I’m so busy that I don’t get to sit back, relax and enjoy. Add Christmas and life becomes so busy that I need a vacation after our vacation.

Not this time. This time I have two weeks free in my favorite city in the world. I have free time to do all those things. I can follow my own schedule without having to cajole and harass others into following it too. I no longer have to wait on anyone. I can just Go, Gadget, Go!

I fell asleep last night dreaming of all that I’m going to do. There are categories: Personal Pampering, Shopping, Friends, Time with Dad, Time with Jeffy.

The last time I had some alone time with my GBF was last year for two hours at a coffee shop down the street from where I was staying. I want more time or at least more occasions. I miss him.

I want a day of beauty. I want a leg/bikini wax. I want a mud bath and massage. I want my hair done without conversation by someone who won’t leave me with Midwestern hair.

I want the ease of communication my brother and I have, the non-stop laughter and the sibling companionship. I maintain that no one, no parent, no spouse, no lover, no friend knows you as well as a sibling and if you’re lucky there is nothing like the friendship you can have with a sibling.

I want to go see a movie alone and leave before the credits are over because I really don’t care if there’s an Easter egg at the end.

I want that silence that comes with being alone and very, very comfortable in your own skin; the silence that you don’t have to explain and the 1,000-mile stares that aren’t interrupted.

I think this might be my last chance. I have plans for next year that will make this my last hurrah, so to speak. The last time I can ever really be that unencumbered again. And I guess I have to figure out in these two weeks if I’m okay with that.

Before I moved here, I was rather independent. Since moving here I am less so. It’s a complicated turn of events that I think some of you understand. I hope so because I have no words to explain.

I can only try to understand it. You move and marry, change your name and the price you pay comes from a place you never knew was vulnerable. A place, a space you thought was safe, so integral that you couldn’t possibly part with it. You’d gladly pay from other resources, but that’s not how it works. I guess if it didn’t hurt, it wouldn’t be worth it? After the deal is done, you hope and pray that it was worth the price. Or you think everything is copasetic and then one day you realize the illusion you thought was reality has faded and you are left with a reality you had no idea you were purchasing.

So to that effect, I have to weeks to re-charge. And boy, let me tell you, its coming just in time.

Learned Helplessness

Let me preface this story with another story.

I was 13 and standing on one of those swim team jumpy things. The race was about to start and I knew without a doubt that I was so not going to win. I wasn’t even going to be close to winning my heat. I was standing there, chubby in my team suit, swim cap and goggles, just resigned to the fact that although I liked swimming and I was a decent swimmer, I was just too fat to wear that hat and no matter how hard I swam, I wasn’t going to win.

My 13-year-old self made a commitment right then and there. I was never going to compete in anything I wasn’t sure I could win. End of story. If I wasn’t sure I could win, forget it.

See, I’m a competitive person. Not one of those successful competitive people. The other type. You know, the type who don’t usually win, but the competition in their blood ultimately drives them insane and those who love them crazy. I wanted to win one freakin’ heat in my career as a competitive swimmer, but I was not willing to do more than attend swim practice everyday for two hours.

Seriously, my parents really encouraged competitiveness from the cradle. Jeff and I are in our thirties and we still compete in ridiculous ways. It started with our mother’s love, of course, and continued on to who could get their seat belt on first or get the good chair or, god forbid, the bathroom first. When I lose this particular competition, I pee my pants. (I have a Pavlovian bladder, okay?) This makes it particularly important and I will trip, stab or maim Jeff to get there first.

See, that was a good segue. I will do anything to win in the ridiculously trivial ways I allow myself to compete. This brings us to board games.

I love board games. However, unless the other players are under 10, I cheat like an Republican on Capitol Hill. (I like kids and it’s pretty hard to cheat at Chutes 'N Ladders or Candyland and I kick ass in Uno so there is really no reason to cheat. Yeah!)

Last year, Sparky and I attempted to play Monopoly. Well, we played, but I was winning by the fourth round and Sparky just didn’t want to play anymore. He said it was clear I was going to kick his ass so he declared me the winner and we started over.

Now, one would think, given my personality defect, I would take this gladly, but no. I made such a big deal about how the game could turn and he was just giving up and really, giving up was so easy to do and I wanted to play.

See, Sparky is a competitive person too. He’s more of the successful variety. He never, ever thinks he can lose. His ego is built in direct opposition to mine(insert Freudian mother theories here.) So I am used to him kicking my ass in most things. Not that I give him an inch because there is a bigger competition at stake and its one that I will not lose, damn it.

Anyway, back to the monopoly game. I gave him such shit about quitting just because I happened to be winning. This lasted for days, was referenced in jokes for months. I was ruthless. And considering I was only winning because I had hidden $100 bills in my tampon box in the bathroom before we played and literally could not lose unless my last name was Hammer, I was really pretty horrible. Sparky had no idea that I am not to be trusted in a board game. He has since learned. We moved on and left the game scene alone for about a year. Until last weekend.

We brought out Risk. I can kick ass at Risk when I play against anyone in my family. Then again, my family isn’t all that good at strategic thinking. It’s the one trait I have developed to be the one-eyed queen among the blind. We all have coping methods and mine was in the form of the debate team. I book learned logic and there is not one family member I can’t argue into a puddle of goo. Not that it helps in the long run. It’s hard to keep them on track even with diagrams.

Seriously, my family is really entertaining in that Running with Scissors kind of way. They are passionate and interesting, but the price for that entertainment factor is common sense, logic and forward thinking. I wasn’t raised with common logic. It was more of a random association creative logic.

However, when it comes to strategy, Sparky, Chief Strategic Officer, is a genius. Seriously. And I don’t usually put the name Sparky in the same sentence as genius for obvious competitive reasons.

So, back to the game. Two rounds later, with absolutely no opportunity to cheat, I was done, I no longer wanted to play. Sparky was going to cream me and had already taken over Australia. I was losing my hold over North America and could see Africa falling in the next round.

The first time he won one of my armies, he shouted “Yes!” I’m talking seriously loud. I read him the riot act about not rubbing my nose in it and being a good winner. In the very next turn I won one of his armies and damn me if I didn’t yell out, even louder, “Yes! Got you sucker!”

That was the last time I won an army.

With my shameful Monopoly behavior in the forefront of my mind, I did not know how to get out of the game. I mean seriously, it had only been two rounds. I didn’t like risking my men. I know the game is called Risk, but risk to me is ordering a different meal at a favorite restaurant, not giving up continents.

Sparky, in his generous I-always-win-so-it-doesn’t-matter way, saw that I was in a situation and let me off easy. He really does know me and after I said the words, “I don’t want to play anymore because you’re going to kick my ass” let me off the hook. He laughed and hugged me and was pretty much just horribly good-natured about the whole thing, which of course made me an even worse loser because he was such a gracious winner. Fucker. See what I mean with the stratagy thing?

So, having said that, the moral of this story is that von Tauber has three kids (one infant and an eight-year-old all the time and a seven-year-old on the weekends), a husband, no dishwasher or microwave, she’s in school studying Psychology and Philosophy and has signed up for NaNoWriMo which she successfully finished last year. I’ll be damned if I’m not going to finish this year.

Wish me luck.