HeisseScheisse

I'm Moving Because Blogger Currently Sucks Ass and I'm a Fairweather Blogger

2007-03-29T18:39:00.000+02:00

I'm sick to death of blogger.

I'm moving to this place.

And as soon as I can figure it out, I'm moving to this place.

I would do it all in one swoop, but I'm a moron when it comes to my own site and sparky will not have time for weeks. I have no idea how to import from blogger to Wordpress without going to a Wordpress blog. and I have no idea what a PHP CURL is. I stopped perming my hair ages ago.

So please bear with me and any and all advice is welcome is not agressively sought after. Snuggles!

P.S. Its so nice to have a different template. the green of this site was starting to bug me. I just have to figure out how to get Gilbert over!

Too Much Stuff to Do When All You Want is a Nap

2007-03-29T15:19:00.000+02:00

Remember when I said I was going to have a bit of a rest? I lied. This week all the repairs to our newly constructed house have started and insomnia has come to visit. I'm tired and cranky. Sparky is in Hamburg for the rest of the week and truthfully, this does not bother me. I'm dying for the alone time.

Water damage from above and faulty door frames have resulted in massive bathroom work. Its officially out of commission until possibly Friday, more likely Tuesday.

After the TV was purchased, Sparky needed the hateful cords hidden in the wall. Only after our guy cut open a four inch channel 2 feet long, did our architect come over pissed. Something about a weight bearing wall. I'm sure its not that important. Not nearly as important as hiding offensive cords, right? I have never seen that man so angry before and it really is keeping me up nights. We had no idea that it would be a problem because the same wall, different room has the same size channel cut for the same type cords for the same purpose. Did I mention he's also our neighbor?

Then the TV cabinet broke and needed to be repaired as did a kitchen cabinet. The kitchen cabinets need to be fixed by the kitchen people and the TV cabinet by the TV cabinet people who are also the new door frame people. The bedroom curtains are ready, but as they are red silk, they have to wait until all the sanding and painting is completed.

Throw in an impromptu drive to Munich and you have a pretty full week. Next person to tell me that I don't do anything all day is going to be kicked in the baby maker.

People I've seen this week, thus far:

Dry wall builder - to cut and paste dry wall into various spots
Painters - 8 am everyday this week
Electrician 1 - brain dead knuckle head
Electrician 2 - way hot, too bad I'm not a bored housewife, oh wait...
Carpenters - second set of awesome craftsmen who actually listen to Sparky when he complains of small scratches in the TV furniture. If you've ever been to our house, you will know what I'm talking about and I am truly sorry.
Brazilian waxer - I think I might be a masochist, but I'm not real sure. What do you think, Ace1?
Kitchen Installation Guys - one little cabinet thingie and all hell breaks loose.
Interior Designer - They have really cute stuff even by American standards.

Good thing I haven't had a chance to put away the air mattress because, sweetheart, that's where I'm sleeping. The one that leaks no less. I guess I'm the knuckle head.
Pictures below. I'm leaving out the waxing one for all our sakes. However, I can say that the wax place in Munich employs supermodel type waxers and its rather intimidating.

And the Construction Never Ends...

2007-03-29T15:18:00.000+02:00

Sisters

2007-03-26T21:29:00.000+02:00

After a weekend of sisters in circumstances, my sister in blood showed up. there was not a moment to spare and now I'm spent. My march has been fantastic. Lucky girl to have a trip, a girlie weekend and a sister week. However, I'm exhausted and I feel old.

I'm going to have a bit of rest now that the house is empty.

Helsinki to Tallinn with MFr

2007-03-19T16:43:00.000+01:00

I don't actually have a witty title because I am tired and blame Claire for the cocktails she made me drink

2007-03-18T22:19:00.000+01:00

I just want to thank all the wonderful women that came to the Girlie Weekend. We all come from different places, live in different places and experience our lives differently. However, what seemed to be the common thread for the weekend is that we gave up what we knew for the possibility for something better and in doing so, we’ve missed the companionship that women offer.

The days and nights were full of conversation and laughter. They were filled with language, both verbal and nonverbal. They were filled with support and validation. Not in a hippie-dippy-look-at-our-vaginas type of way, but in a very no-nonsense, direct “we rock” sort of way. Seriously, we do rock. We are some mighty fine women.

The ghetto-blaster-in-the-sky was in full force, thanks the Jessica, B and Christina. I appreciated it. All of you. It might have been at my place, but you all helped with the hosting. Thank God, because again, I am no Martha Stewart and like gabbing far too much.

Sparky REALLY appreciated the clean-up crew this morning and I mean really. He’s talked about it all afternoon. Well, I assume he talked about it because it was the last thing I heard before I fell asleep shortly after making the last HBF drop off. The sound of his voice combined with the subject matter of household cleanliness is better than Ambien any day.

You guys made it a fabulous couple of days. Thanks.

Cast of Characters 2nd Annual Girlie Weekend
Kim
Mausi
Jessica
Chrisitna G.
Brigit
Penny, not a blogger and has a wicked sense of humor
Ann
Tatiana
Claire
Christina W. - not a blogger but I wish she would.
Maria

Finnish Vodka and Estonian Dreams

2007-03-15T10:28:00.000+01:00

Here is the next post. Bullet point-ish because tomorrow is the beginning of the girlie weekend and I am running around preparing and cooking.

We went on a trip last week. Sparky and me and a mystery friend MF(er). Three planes and a ferry in five days. It was hard and fast, just the way I like it. It was fabulous. I have two new countries and have officially left my siblings in the dust, country count wise. However, the MF(er) kicks my ass without even trying.

We hit Stockholm, Helsinki and Tallinn. The MF(er) coined the term “Jen Blockers” for earphones. I think my brother can relate. Hell, anyone in the same room with me for longer than 10 minutes can relate.

Stockholm: Gorgeous, friendly, they have Cat Walk Shampoo and I almost knocked over a 400 year old ship when taking a picture.

Helsinki: Colder than a witch’s tit. Great ambience for a really cold spy city. I hear the Finnish all carry knives. Saunas are my new best friend. And give me reindeer carpaccio, liver pate and a vodka cranberry ANY day.

Tallinn: Tallinn was my favorite. This requires another post. It was super fast but so full. We met the most beautiful people. Tina – intelligent, mysterious; the kind of lady that keeps you wanting to know more. I think we all left with a little crush. Her guy was fascinating, animated and hysterical. I haven’t had such a good time in years. And let me tell you, they must have some VERY good bras in Estonia. That’s were I’m going next time I need one. Sparky was more impressed with the legs. And the rum. Oh my, the rum. MF(er) and I were still “Happy” boarding the plane the next morning. He was less happy. It was more of a Britney Spears except he was wearing panties. Oh and the snow! It snowed a really great snow. I had to go to Estonia to get snow this year. See how great our hosts were?

We got back Sunday morning and it took me until Tuesday morning to recover. I’m getting old as MF(er) kept telling me. However old I am, I got to recover in bed, while he had to recover at work. Ha.

So enough for now. Girls, can’t wait to see you. Those who couldn’t make it, we’ll do another next year or before if someone else wants to host. I’m so not Martha and haven’t figured out how to pull things together drunk. And I need the chef juice.

Cat Pissing Husbands

2007-03-05T08:19:00.001+01:00

I have a problem. And I’m not quite sure how to approach it at this point. See, baring domestic violence, I’m about to go fucking mad.

It’s about one bite, one sip and it’s about one dish.

One bite left in the ice cream carton. One sip left in crystal light pitcher. One bowl left in the sink.

Sounds like a little problem, huh? Well, its not. It’s a big problem and it’s driving me crazy and there is nothing I can do. I feel there might be a little passive aggressive aggression here, like when Cleo would pick out my favorite pair of jeans to piss on if I had been gone too long.

I can’t tell you how many times, I was sitting in my car, late to wherever it was I had to be, only to smell cat piss and have to go back and change. Cat piss is one of those scents that doesn’t ever really wash out or off. And it worked. Cleo got a ton of attention out of it. Usually it would start with a “CLEO!!!!!” as I ran back inside to change. She would just sit there, under the bed, out of arms reach (she was a very smart cat), content that I was back in the house and I swear I could see her smile, just a little.

Now, Cleo was the best cat in the world, but she didn’t have opposable thumbs, a feature that could have enabled her to rule the world. She wasn’t magic (well she was, but in a different way). She didn’t pull my jeans out of the closet with her razor sharp claws. She’s sniff out my jeans on the floor. My jeans were always on the floor. Most of my clothes were on the floor or in my handbag. I was single and I could do whatever I wanted with my stuff. My shoes were always by the door or artistically stepped out of as I walked down my hall. There were days that I would completely undress as I walked in the door, leaving my entire outfit on the floor one piece at a time. Those were the days, man. Being able to find my shoes or bra because it was in the exact place I left it.

But as I’ve married and live with someone who is driven nuts by this habit, I have changed, stifled my natural tendencies to organize my belongings horizontally. Why? Because I love my partner and want to make his life as comfortable as possible so we can live in communal bliss.

So when I asked said partner to finish off the ice cream so that when I see the container sitting there in the freezer and think that perhaps I might be treated to more than the tiny little bit, and there’s not and I’m sad. You know what he said? He said, “Hmm. Tough.”

What????? Tough? Tough is not smelling the cat piss until you’re at work and your co-workers start wrinkling their noses. Tough is not a response to finish the damn ice cream you perverse knucklehead.

And the bowl, the bowl! He eats; he takes it into the kitchen and leaves it on or in the sink. Then he starts polishing the shiny surfaces around the sink. WTF? He is compelled by a nasty case of OCD to clean the kitchen counters and metal parts and at the same time he can leave a bowl in the sink. With an empty dishwasher. Why can’t he just stick in the dishwasher? Why? Why do I always find one bowl and one spoon in my sink?

Because, and I’m going to say it, he’s used to his mother doing his dishes.

Argh. I’m going out of my mind and there just so many times I can wish him “kindness and many causes for kindness”* before my head explodes.

He’s gone today and I am tempted to throw my entire unmentionables drawer around the house. Strew bras all over our tree lamps and leave a trail of Vickie’s through the bathroom.

But you know what? It wouldn’t bother him. It wouldn’t register in his brain at all. OCD is his autopilot. He’d just pick it all up and shove it somewhere out of sight and I’d be out of panties. I’d ask him where he’d put it all and he’d have absolutely no memory of picking it up. I’d spend then next hour looking and I’d find everything in the freezer, right next to an empty ice cream container.

*In an attempt to lower my stress level, not flip out at the world and encourage kindness, I’m attempting to stop calling bad drivers and Krauts cows or morons. I’m trying to smile when I want to scowl and I’m wishing people kindness and many causes for kindness rather than telling them they need to get their ass/cart/car/child/dog/bike out of my way before I knock them down. I’m inviting peace and love and kindness into my life and let me tell you, its fucking killing me. Kindness

American Thighs

2007-03-01T22:23:00.000+01:00

When in Rome, do as the Romans. So when in Fucking, do as the Fuckers?

Let me tell you, we did our best.

What would happen to Jen...

2007-03-01T07:22:00.000+01:00

if Sparky ever kicked the bucket.

Well, if blogger actually deigned to function there would be a picture of a woman with 91 cats in a 2 bedroom apartment in the Ukraine. If sparky kicks it, i think I'll move to the Ukraine. I hear the Ukraine is strong.
91 Cats
In other news, we,(Sparky,I and brave mystery friend), leave for a mystery trip for five days. I can't tell you where because its spy related and I don't want to jeopordize my contacts.

P.S. I hate blogger and this new beta thing sucks ass. Wish me luck trying to put together wordpress. Maybe then I can publish a picture and have it stick. Damn blogger.

The Birth of Sog

2007-02-28T10:24:00.000+01:00

It was a cold and starry night 33 years ago today, when a certain woman went into labor. Sylvia Brown had predicted it via a vision of a woman in a ravine underwater with a yellow house nearby. Uri Geller felt the signs as his spoons bent all by themselves, for real this time. Jonathan Edwards was told by his dead aunt that the rumors were true. God was going to be a father and it was happening that night. Motsog (Mother of the son of God) and God, rushed to the local hospital, which, in this village, it was no more than a stable except without all the cute animals.

She screamed and cried because we all know that childbirth is supposed to hurt. I think she was probably something of a wuss, because I hear childbirth doesn’t hurt all that much. Getting scratched on the foot by a cat hurts, but childbirth, I hear is a breeze.

Such a breeze in fact that this woman’s child, hereby known as the Sog (son of god), decided he actually liked it inside that deep warm cave and didn’t really want to come out. He was to turn out to be something of a wuss too, not wanting to “Take on the Day” in the real world, but to sleep and possibly suck his thumb forever.

However, being the Son of God, his place was here with the rest of mortals and the pleasant hospital staff, dirty fingers and all, used a suction device to pull out our reluctant Sog. Attached to his head, they turned on the device and the next thing you know, out he plopped.

Sog, pissed, wet and cold, demanded to talk to the man in charge using a number of various languages to no avail. The pleasant hospital staff was unfortunately not educated in the ancient languages Sog used to communicate and was thus rudely slapped down on a cold table, measured and cleaned, fingers and toes counted and decided he was a pretty healthy little thing if you didn’t count the now cone-shaped skull.

His mother and God decided he was good enough to take home. Not even the cone-shaped noggin could condemn Sog to the Spartan cliffs.

Years went by and Sog was loved and cherished, as was his due. When he’d do something wrong, his parents would cluck, concerned that their boy, Sog, was perhaps not as perfect as they had thought. However, they blamed themselves and gave him more love and devotion. Sog grew up knowing he was a SoG so therefore entitled to whatever he wanted, as long as he didn’t kill people to get it. He also had a big penis. No mortal man could ask for more.

Sog grew up and became an adult. Like the Sog before him, he left his homeland to wander, learn and find promiscuous women in other cultures. He, like Sog I, productively worked with his hands.

Eventually he landed in Babylon by the Bay, a place of great temptation.

Here in BbtB, he met the counterpart to his newly found religion, capitalism. This particular promiscuous woman of a different culture (Pwoadc) had met many Sogs, and was not impressed. However, she liked his caboose and his company. So she stuck around for a while.

Eventually, it was time for him to return to his homeland, with the knowledge he had gained in his travels, and teach the uneducated massed about this thing called capitalism.

He asked Pwoadc to follow him and help him teach the poor kraut youth about this thing called capitalism and like all religious founders, to make money hawking his beliefs. He would offer her shelter, the protection of his name and all the sausage she could eat. Pwoadc decided this was the way of the righteous (not to mention her fondness for sausage) and followed. What a girl does for a nice caboose and the promise of sausage.

As of yet, there is no end to this story. Sog and Pwoadc are living well, if not happily together. In true partnership fashion, they are committed to furthering capitalism. He makes the money and she in turn negotiates to put it back into the economy. They have hung upon many of crosses (most of their own making), but as of yet have not needed to be resurrected. Sylvia Brown says that resurrection will be necessary in a couple of years and Uri Geller has not called back.

Happy Birthday, Sparky. I love you, you SOG.

Girlfriends and coffee, what else do you need?

2007-02-21T12:43:00.000+01:00

Anyone who knows me knows I need coffee. When I was working, I needed it injected. Now that I’m not, a nice cup in the morning is all that’s required.

Anyone who knows me also knows I make a lousy cup of coffee. Just terrible. I don’t know why, I don’t know how, but I always manage to royally fuck it up. It’s so bad Sparky won’t even drink it. I’ve tried machines and filters. I’ve tried French presses and Italian make-it-on-the-stove thingies. Nothing works. My step-mom, in effort to figure this out, walked me through the process and sent me articles that blamed the bean. Let me tell you, it’s not the bean.

Anyone who knows Sparky knows how difficult it is to add anything to the pristine clutter-free loft, regardless of how useful or necessary. I begged for an espresso machine. Sparky approved only the ultra high end machines whose price would take me years to justify. I simply did not have that kind of time. The less expensive ones were just not in Sparky’s aesthetic. As a newly married couple, that still mattered to me thus I hung myself on the cross of the coffeeless.

That was until my very good friend von Tauber bought me one.

I admired hers for years. Literally, years. (It seems so strange that its years because we met a couple of months after I moved here and its still weird to think I’ve been here for years.)

So last year, for my birthday, von Tauber bought me my machine. This might have been because I kept inviting myself over to indulge in a cup of really, really good coffee or it could have been because she is the epitome of a girlfriend.

She tried to teach me to make coffee. When that failed, she was always there with a cup or two waiting when I’d visit. Mostly, she understood what its like to 1. Need something so bad and 2. Negotiate with a spouse. She was even witness to an espresso machine negotiation gone bad.

So like the sister she’s become, she bought it for me, ended the debate and every morning I say little thank you as I sip my fresh and delicious cuppa joe. And for that I am forever grateful. This cup’s for you, lady!

Now, go look at her new site. She just vamped it up and out and it’s awesome. And I wrote the guest perspective this week.

Murderers and Handbags

2007-02-18T18:33:00.000+01:00

My laptop is dead. Tot. Kaput. Finito. Gone from this world. I managed to transfer most of my files, except for my bookmarks and of course, my PSTs (outlook files) and half my music.

I broadcast from our media server, which has become my wet nurse until I get a new laptop.

Where’s Sparky, you ask? He was using your laptop for almost a year. How can he work if the laptop is dead? Really good questions.

The day MY laptop died, he got a Mac PowerBook.

What is he doing as I curse this mammoth “mini” tower with the sucky keyboard and massive speaker system that must be installed so I can use my headphones because for some unknown reason it doesn’t have a headphone jack?

He’s smiling and admiring the fish tank screen saver on his new machine. He’s spouting on and on about how great his new machine is. Blah, blah, blah. What is he doing as I’m on my back messing around with the millions of cords needed for this machine to function? He’s smiling dreamily and typing away.

Enough bitching for now. Don’t get me wrong, I’m going to bitch more about this later. That Sparky moved on after he killed my poor baby laptop is not a subject I can just let go. He’s a murderer, I tell you, a murderer! But it is perhaps getting old, so I will move on in my writing and suffer privately.

Now I need your help. Since I’ve lost my PST until next week sometime when I’m hoping the Useless Guy computer repair shop can retrieve my hard drive, I don’t have any of my old e-mail or contacts, which means I don’t have your e-mail address. Coordinating the Girlie weekend is difficult without e-mail addresses. Can you please resend your last e-mails so I have both the information and your addresses?

On to a meme that Traveller One tagged me with. The Handbag meme. This is pretty appropriate considering I just picked out my new handbag a couple of days ago. I’ll pick it up in a few days.

Kim talks about how her husband won’t go into her handbag to save his life. Well, I have the opposite problem. To me my handbag is a private area. I organize it in a special way (not at all) and only I know what’s in there. Sparky has absolutely NO problem invading this private space and I have been actively trying to break him of this habit. I too carry his wallet, phone and keys. He feels that this act automatically gives him access to the handbag domain. It doesn’t.

I graciously accept his items in exchange for his occasional handbag carrying duties. This is why I consult him when picking out a handbag. I only purchase one we both like because he ends up carrying it. This makes us even.

Here it is. My green Furla. And it’s stuffed.

This is what’s in it:
Keys
Gloves – cold hands, warm heart
My calendar – because I hate technology
My notebook with favorite pens and a mechanical pencil to write in my calendar
Tide stick – because I always make a mess
Hufnagel tickets – claim ticket for a couple of other handbags that are being repaired
LipGlosses – Am I too old to wear gloss? In shades: Lovechild, Spirited and Moonstone
Face Lotion - in a teeny tiny container
Picture Holder – My brother got it for me in Vegas and it holds a couple of pictures and a lotto ticket
Passport
MP3 player – never leave home without it
Wallet
Cell phone
Starbucks mints
Hand lotion – my hands are always dry
Splenda
Kleenex
Tampex
Migraine tablets
Make-up bag

I think that’s enough for now. Especially since this keyboard doesn’t feel very good and the keys are all different from my old keyboard and I hate it. I’m going to go bitch to Sparky about it. He’s not quite repentant enough for my taste. I want blood.

Blue Screen is Such an Ugly Color

2007-02-13T17:31:00.000+01:00

My laptop is doing its death dance. I've been blue screened twice today. Tomorrow the computer guys are coming to the house to repair our WiFi and I hope to have the desktop up and running again. Until then, my e-mail (and everything else) is shot. If you have e-mailed me regarding girls weekend etc, I'm not ignoring you, I swear. Outlook crashes eerything right now. I blame Sparky, but then I blame Sparky for everything.

Hope to be back tomorrow.

It's going to be expensive

2007-02-09T11:24:00.000+01:00

It arrived. And its arrival has started a process that anyone who knows Sparky will understand was extremely hard to begin.

I am furnishing our loft.

Yep. I said it. And I mean it. I had a meeting this morning with our designer to pick out curtains and tables and sofa and rugs and pillows and duvets and all sorts of warmth for this mausoleum.

None of it will have a polished surface and all of it will be gorgeous and warm and inviting. I’m going to throw in a ton of candles for good measure.

What arrived, you ask, to start this manic spree? My chair. The chair that fits none of Sparky’s requirements for a chair. Meaning it’s comfortable with rounded corners and soft fabric. He, the chair, is inviting and warm and I can’t wait to sit and read a book in his arms.

I fell in love with Chairy (a new name to come) last June. He is a beautiful stone gray microfiber suede. He’s firm yet cozy. He’s big and he loves my butt and my toes as I dig them into the cracks when I sit on my feet.

Three years ago I moved in to our place. I had only a blow-up mattress and a conviction that if I lived with Sparky’s mother for another night, I would be on the next plane out of Germany. Oh and I had a working toilet. That was it.

September the previous year, Sparky and I walked in Ligne Roset and picked out a few pieces for when the construction was finished. This took days of negotiation and a few in store heated debates. We haven’t added to those few pieces.

Oh I have, but only in the most temporary Ikea sense. I bought a dining table one day for 89 euros because I was sick of not have a table. I added 19 euro chairs because I was sick of using my Aeron chair in the dining room. I bought bookcases out of desperation and a TV stand because I was sick of the milk crate Sparky refers to as high art.

My dad calls it minimalist. Sparky calls it heaven. I call it hell wrapped up in a pretty package. Our designer loves it. But I have to live in it. As Sparky is gone more than not, the museum look is on its way out.

Hell, I might even get another cat. I’m feeling a little crazy today, drunk on the power of one chair and silk samples.

Girlie Weekend Date Decided

2007-02-07T12:54:00.000+01:00

Its official.

March 16, 17, 18.

Let me know if you can make it. My e-mail is jen(at)heissescheisse(dot)com. If you need more details to decide, drop me a note.

Dixie, Dixie, Dixie: Next year we'll work around your schedule. I want to do it before it gets to hot and buggy. I am a wilted flower of femininity when it gets hot and not very much fun.

Christina/Mausi: I'm counting you in. Sparky will be so happy.

Christina/AEinD: We are baby friendly and all you would have to do is sit your pregnant butt down and perhaps lift the glass to your lips. I'm sure James can put together a really long straw if that is too much work. We are nothing if not accomadating.

Heather - You are officially signed up. And we'll have to do something for St. Patty's.

Maria - You are close enough to come for the day if you'd like a little break from The Boy.

Amy and Kim - Book your tickets and come on over for the weekend.

Jul - Just do it. Its loads of fun.

ET - Perhaps you are free that weekend? I can make it worth your while.

Operational System Not Found

2007-02-07T08:29:00.000+01:00

It started with a doorbell. At 8:30 am. Sparky was gone and I wasn’t expecting my liebhaber until much later. Like after I put on a bra or used a toothbrush.

It was my neighbor/architect/guy who knows how to fix everything broken. He was accompanied by a Biologist Dan, come to check my timbers.

Aside to clarify: Right before I left for SF in Dec, we discovered water damage in our bathroom due to an unfortunate lack of experience in drain cleaning by our upstairs neighbor’s girlfriend or daughter resulting in our ceiling (his sub-flooring) becoming the receptacle for vast amounts of water.

After many weeks of drying out, I came back to find a big hole in my bathroom ceiling with a beautiful garden of mold growing happily in the warm recesses of 400 year old timber. After asking if the blooming black stuff was mold I was told no, that citric acid was sprayed to prevent mold. I was however looking directly at it, making eye contact if you will and was thus not convinced that this wasn’t mold. In vague German terms, the citric acid explanation means “I don’t really know, but I’m going to say no until I get a biologist here and I’m not going to tell you I’m doing this until I show up at you house at 8am unannounced.”

Up on the big ladder, Bio Dan sighed, Ja-ed and nodded in a resigned way that my rudimentary German could not differentiate typical run of the mill German melancholy from “It looks like poisonous mold and this is going to cost a lot and cause a lot of trouble and we should just ignore it for a few years or until they die of mycotoxin poisoning.

They were talking really fast and I just couldn’t keep up. Bio Dan took a couple of samples and sighed, shook his head and looked really grim. As an expat with the language skills of a three year old, I depend heavily on body language. Bio Dan’s bod was communicating a long mold battle and construction work. The actual English language communicated they’d get back to me. Then they left leaving me with my over active imagination and absolutely no access to the Internet.

Why no Internet? Because the night before I came home to find my laptop communicating with me from the dead. It said: “Operational System Not Found”

Beautiful words to be sure. Right up there with “Darling, I know we’ve been married for three years, but I’ve discovered I’m gay.”

After Bio Dan left, I went back to the carcass of my laptop to see if I could start it up. Because I am a complete moron, I had not backed ANYTHING up for like, I don’t know, years.

Letters, pictures, writings. Losing my hard drive would be like having a fire. I’d lose the last three years. Then there’s the crap that Sparky has on here. Taxes, work stuff, e-mail. Our calendar and address book and all the everyday stuff that you don’t know you need until you can’t access it. Oh and then there was that little folder cleverly named a clever little name that screamed “Open me!” that might have contained photo items that I would not particularly like to share with the computer repair guys or anyone on the face of the earth. I can’t begin to describe the terror I felt, hoping that if the machine cooled down, I could get in and make some backup copies and clean up that which needed to be cleaned. Really, this was more than not wearing clean underwear and getting in a car accident. This was like wearing nothing but S&M gear and getting in a car accident and having your Sicilian father be the first person on the scene.

My cell phone chose to ring at that moment. I picked it up and my fingers, finding no purpose without their beloved keyboard, opened before I had it half way to my ear, thus dropping my beautiful spy phone directly into my half-empty cup of coffee.

Cell phones don’t like coffee as much as I do. Really. No matter how much they beg, do not give in. The spy phone works again, but it took a few days to dry out. I still have trouble with the hearing part. I don’t look nearly as cool and spy like saying things like “WHAT? I can’t hear you? Can you repeat that bit of about the top secret spy stuff?”

This phone problem became a bigger problem when I brought my laptop into the computer guys. With Sparky in whatever part of Germany he was in, namely not in Boweltown, I needed him to communicate to the man behind the counter, herby known as The Useless Guy, exactly how much of an emergency it was that this particular laptop was down and that we needed it back ASAP. ASAP does not mean 10 days. I mean, what would Jack Bauer do if if Chloe couldn't get access for 10 days? And I am just as important to national security as Jack Bauer (Thank you, Hamish, for passing on the 24 addiction. It's like crack, man.)

Again, my language skills must have hampered my communication because this guy could not stop smiling. You know that smile of incomprehension, the one that indicates way too long of a stay in the birth canal. And this was way before he had seen those pictures.

Using the spy phone to call Sparky yielded nothing. Coffee soaked chip or what I don’t know. My speed dial connected me over and over again to a man totally NOT Sparky.

All I have to say is that it is a really good thing it was a man the phone connected to because with the way my day was going, had it been a woman, I might not have been very understanding. I might have jumped to conclusions because jumping to conclusions is my favorite form of exercise, especially when everything seems to be going wrong. And I had already been to the gym, so I was warmed up and limber enough to jump far and wide.

The day just got worse from there. The destruction part ended around 8 pm with the dropping of a brand-new-never-been-used MAC eye shadow and having it shatter into a million powder pieces. Mim – It was Sable and I totally feel your pain. It must be a really soft color.

The week did not improve and ended with a bang. Not the fun kind. The flu kind. I was totally sick Friday, Saturday and Sunday. I thought I was better enough to go with Sparky to Munich on Monday. Truthfully, I wasn’t but I had a coffee date with Schokolade Mädchen and did not want to cancel.

She and I talked for hours, literally. She’s fabu and backed up my belief that I haven’t met a blogger I haven’t liked. But then again, I don’t usually meet up with bloggers I don’t think I’ll like. In my usual habit of not writing about my real life visits with cyber people, I’ll leave it at that.

I can only hope I didn’t pass my bug on to her because the rest of the week was a blur of fever and delusions. At one point with my fever was over 102°F, I thought I was going to die and Scrunchy was going to eat my face before Sparky got back from his business trips.

When Sparky did come home, it was to fall feverishly into bed beside me, both of us down for the count. And I mean down. I haven’t been that sick since I was hospitalized with a super cool meningitis/pneumonia combo in college.

This is where the mold comes into play. This super-bug combined all the worst bug symptoms from the stomach flu and bronchitis to strep throat and sinus infection and it did not follow the three-three-three pattern. Three days coming on, three days sick and three days getting better. Nope. It was Sudden Onset with a good seven days of sickness hell. So obviously it had to be toxic mold, right? I didn’t have more than my imagination to back up my conclusions because I still didn’t have my computer. And let me tell you, my imagination is a powerful, powerful thing. If only I could use it for good.

It wasn’t toxic mold. I got the call yesterday. Our mold is harmless.

I got my computer back, 10 days after I brought it in with the instructions that it will die again soon, but should get me through the next couple of weeks. I didn’t lose any data and have since backed up all my stuff. (All incriminating photos have been deleted, but I’m still not going back into that shop ever again.)

Sparky on the other hand, can’t stop reading What Would Tyler Durden Do long enough to back his stuff up. The only way I can even touch this machine when he’s home is to read Edna St. Vincent Millay poetry out loud until he can’t stand it anymore.

So that’s where I’ve been in a nutshell. A really big nutshell. I am spending my day returning e-mails etc… The girls’ weekend will proceed now that I know I won’t poison anyone with toxic mold.

Tsunami Hits Boweltown

2007-01-26T06:11:00.000+01:00

This is the IT department from the Heisse Scheisse Corp. informing all stockholders that the main server has been wiped out by the great boweltown tsunami and will be down for 3-5 days. We are very sorry for the inconvenience.

Every computer in Jens house has crashed. This is her loving brother explaining the ungodly like silence. Things should be up by Tuesday but by then she should have some much backed up in her head she might have brain damage.

Ugg-lies

2007-01-23T06:30:00.000+01:00

Taking Sparky to the train station at 5:30 in the morning makes me think of one thing.

I'm REALLY grateful that my brother keeps me in Uggs because it is damn cold out and my toesies would freeze.

Now I just need an Ugg for my nose.

Girls Weekend

2007-01-22T18:27:00.000+01:00

What is it?
The Girls Weekend is a small low-key weekend for girls only.

Who can go?
Girls. Only. Expat or German, we don’t discriminate as long as you don’t mind the expats bashing your fatherland occasionally. Oh and Sparky, who plays our Butler for the weekend. Please refer to him as James. Extra credit for a British accent.
No kids (unless they are in utero) or husbands. I have nothing against either, but its called “The Girls Weekend” for a reason

What do you do?
Nothing. We don’t do more than move from room-to-room to eat, drink and talk. Lots of talking, lots and lots of talking. We don’t go sight seeing. We don’t really leave the house. .

When is it?
Well that depends. I’m shooting for March. One of those weekends that works for the women who want to go.
I’m offering a two-night stay for those brave enough to endure two day of doing nothing or for those traveling from a longer distance that want to make the most of the weekend. Last year everyone came in Saturday afternoon and left Sunday afternoon and for me it didn’t seem like long enough. However, I don’t have kids waiting/needing me and my husband was here so that might be different for you. The option is open.

Where is it?
My place in Boweltown. Boweltown is almost in the center of Germany, by Frankfurt (not Frankfurt-Hahn). I’ll e-mail you more specific information, but I’d rather not put that kind of stuff out here for the masses.

Why at your place?
Because I have a big place, no kids, a butler (Sparky), and I’ve offered. If you’d like to host it, please feel free!

Does it cost anything?
Just your train ticket and the hotel costs if you want to stay at the hotel-like place down the street. You are of course welcome to stay at my place. We have two inflatable queen size beds, one sofa, one chaise, part of a carpeted floor and a ton of hardwood floor.

Are you a serial killer or something of that nature?
No, but I’m not sure I’d be real honest about it if I was. I do come with references. Plenty of expats (and other people) know me in real life and I will give you all my real info so loved ones can come searching if need be. Also, I’m very happy to share my “how to avoid a serial killer” expertise.

Is it fun?
Well, that depends on your idea of fun. We eat a lot. I’ll make sangria and cosmos (plus loads of other good drinkie things) if you are into the drinking thing. I have plenty for the non-drinkie drinkers. And we do a LOT of talking. I’ve found that expat women, especially women who miss girlfriends and talking to people face-to-face have a lot to say. So again, we talk a lot. And to answer the question, I have loads of fun.

What do I wear?
Dude. It’s so low-key. I think last year Mausi and I didn’t change out of our yoga pants until it was time to go.

My husband/wife/boyfriend/girlfriend/mother/father/preacher man is really worried about me staying with strangers. Any suggestions?
Yes. Down the street is a hotel-like establishment. Last year, Claire stayed there for exactly this reason. Sparky provides transportation to and fro, if needed. Will provide details if you e-mail me.

If I take a train, how do I get to your place?
Sparky can/will pick you up at the nearest train station. You are welcome to take a taxi, walk or fly if you prefer.

How will I know its Sparky and not some freak picking me up at the train station?
One, Sparky’s picture is ALL over this blog, you should be able to recognize him.
Two, this year he will be wearing a Lady Bug Apron for the Pick-up in case you don’t recognize his face.

Well, I’d love to go, but I have to run 6 miles every morning, can I do this there?
Of course. There are trails all over our backyard. We have a large backyard. We also have protected areas that are trail covered as well. Please do not expect me to join you.

Anything Else I Should Know?
I have two cats. One of them is really allergic-y to those who are allergic to cats. Mausi took some sort of wonder drug last year and seemed to be fine. Scrunchy and Kiska are scaredy cats and don’t usually come out when strangers are here. If you are afraid of cats, have no fear.

Any and all conversations are confidential unless otherwise noted at time of conversation. What happens in Boweltown on Girls Weekend, Stays in Boweltown on Girls Weekend, meaning you are free to talk about whatever you want without risk of Internet gossip reports unless of course it involves serial killers or ass. Obviously, my sangria recipe is included in this confidentiality agreement.

I have a filthy mouth so I will most definitely be using language inappropriate for children under 18. I think last year the topic of ass came up. If you are a bit on the Victorian side, just be forewarned. Please come, but don’t be afraid if they come up.

Let me know if you are coming and have food allergies so I don’t inadvertently kill you. I make mostly finger food and stuff that’s easy to prepare beforehand so I can spend as much time talking and as little time cooking. Last year it was nachos, quesadillas, and panninis for lunch/dinner. Pillsbury (pop in the oven) croissants and rolls and teas, coffee, and juice.sort of thing for breakfast.

Okay, ladies, I think I’ve covered it. Let me know if you have any other questions. If you’re interested, let me know what dates you’re available and we’ll take it from there.

Brotherly Love

2007-01-22T15:36:00.000+01:00

In my Inbox this morning from Jeffy. If we lived closer to each other, no doubt I would wake up one morning to 37 trees in my yard.

ALLENTOWN, Pa. - When Carol Lopez let her Labrador retriever out for the morning the dog had an unusual number of tree trunks to attend to. Surrounding her aboveground backyard pool Lopez found 37 used Christmas trees.

"I had just woke up and boom, they're there and that's it," Lopez said Thursday.

Whoever put the trees there apparently took their time, neatly organizing and standing the trees upright.

Lopez said she called Allentown police, and an officer told her to call the city to have the trees removed. A city employee told her husband to drag the trees out of the backyard and they would be picked up free of charge, she said.

Lopez said she didn't know how someone climbed a tall wooden fence surrounding the yard, or got all the trees over it.

"People just don't have anything better to do," Lopez said. "That's someone who had time on their hands." ---------------------------
Copyright 2007 AP

Mother-in-Law, Oven Mitts and my Dad

2007-01-21T10:34:00.001+01:00

“Congratulations, Jennifer! For cleaning your house so spotlessly, you’ve become a big winner. Bob, tell her what she’s won!”

“Well Jennifer, for cleaning so tirelessly, for never getting bored of the mind-numbing organization and surviving on only a few hours sleep at a time, for not ripping the remote out of your beloved’s hand as he channel surfed all eff-ing night, you’ve won an afternoon with your mother-in-law! You are one lucky Hausfrau!”

“Oh, Bob. That is just fantastic. Thank you! Thank You! Thank You!” she giggled manically, laughter echoing in the hallways as she lost all hold on reality.

Last night Sparky and I had another one of our cleaning fits. For me it’s really this sleepless state of mind. The night before last, the term MF-er was muttered every hour until about 3 am when I finally quit fighting it and instructed Sparky to stop flipping the channels, put on Gilmore Girls and go to EFF-ING SLEEP. No sooner did the opening credits start to roll then Sparky started to snore and I was up for the rest of the EFF-ING night.

Gilmore Girls is Sparky’s Ambien. Me? I need the real deal.

When I’m like this, I need to do something and since Mim still hasn’t taught me to knit, I organize. Sleep deprivation is a lot like being high for me, except nothing seems as funny. I lack that creativity that makes one think that peanut butter is proof there is a god and if I’m not careful, anxiety comes for a visit so I have to stay busy as a form of self preservation.

For Sparky, this binge might have more to do with the delivery and installation of our new TV. What started out as MY insistance that we get a small, inexpensive TV for the bedroom with a sleep timer turned into a 42” HDTV plasma and an appointment with our wall/painter man to skillfully hide all the cords inside the wall. (You know the wall that was just repaired in the room that was just repainted in October. Its okay, though, because our painter will just take of it when he comes to repair the bathroom ceiling due to water damage from our upstairs neighbor.)

Anyway, this bout of cleanliness prompted Sparky to invite Mutti-lein over. Our house is clean, therefore I have nothing to fear as the schlumf American daughter-in-law.

This prompted me to bake the coffee cake we will have this afternoon. Mutti brings the coffee and I make the cake. (My coffee sucks but my cobbler rules.)

In the process of making this coffee cake I had to use my new oven mitts, which got me thinking about my dad.

There is no one happier that I have learned to cook than my dad. It might be because the first meal I made him, scrambled eggs, had to be sipped through a straw and he’s hoping never to have to repeat that experience.

My dad can cook, but he doesn’t because my step-mom is something of a gourmet. My sister can cook, my step-dad can cook and even my brother can cook. My mom couldn’t. Her philosophy was why waste the time and patience when you could just marry a man who enjoyed cooking. I totally agreed with this. Until I moved to Germany, my claim to fame was being able to cook anything that took seven minutes or less.

I can make a mean Mac and cheese. The secret being keeping it on the stove to stir in the powdered cheese. That way the cheese dissolves better. You must eat it before it gets cold, though. I can microwave with the best of them evidenced by the 7-second ice cream hit. Seven seconds softens, but doesn’t melt, one pint of chunky ice cream perfectly.

My attempts at “real” cooking were mediocre at best. However, I have always had one true blue fan. My dad. He has eaten everything I ever made for him, no matter how disgusting.

I once attempted spanakopita (my ambition hindered only by my complete lack of skill) as an appetizer for Thanksgiving. My cold, greasy, white lumps bared no resemblance to spanakopita save for I called it spanakopita. My step-mom didn’t even flinch. She greeted me and my offering warmly and even set it on the sideboard with the rest of the appetizers.

My dad was the only one brave enough to try it. He ate two pieces and told me it was delicious.

The next year, they requested that I bring mixed nuts.

Upon my move to Krautland and the subsequent change of my name, I started to cook more. As Leonardo’s Mac and Cheese is not readily available at Aldi, Rewe or Kaufland, I had to actually learn to cook. I mean from scratch, using a cookbook.

No one was more encouraging than my dad.

I was 7, my dad gave me my first cookbook. I was 19 when I got my second. This was prompted by 27 phone calls one Thanksgiving that ended with an unstuffed-gizzard/organ-bag-intact cold turkey and gravy the consistency of concrete and burgers from MacDonald’s. He still loves to tell that story.

This last trip home was the week after my third successful Thanksgiving. Like a real cook, I had the burns to prove it. My dad, however, was horrified by a particularly bad burn on the inside of my forearm.

The funny part of this is that I’ve had burns from spent ammo cartridges ricocheting down my blouse. I’ve slammed my thumb in the hammer of a gun so hard as to have my thumbnail fall off. I have caught the tender skin between my thumb and forefinger in the slide of a 9mm that bled profusely and let me tell you that hurt like a son of a bitch. His response? He told me to, and I quote, “Man up, Jennifer! Man up.” How does a burn from the oven send him in to protective mode i don't know.

To that end, my dad bought me oven mitts. Thirteen inch oven mitts that cover my arms up to the elbows. I feel like that 6 year old when I wear these because they are so big. I also feel loved and protected even though my dad is 6000 miles away.

This morning as I was safely pulling out my coffee cake, (a recipe my step-mom gave me,) I thought about him. Later, I used my fingers to pluck chocolate croissants off the cookie sheet and burned the back of my hand on the oven door.

A New York Times Trifecta

2007-01-19T13:27:00.000+01:00

What Shamu Taught Me About a Happy Marriage

Ladies, I'm going to try this out and let you know. Granted Sparky is not an American Husband, but I think it can work with a Kraut. What do you think?

(I'm looking beyond my intense dislike of Orcas by leaving the author's title. If you have ever seen The Blue Planet, you will never think of Shamu as a sweet trainable whale again. Killer whales are up there with the Swiss as far as I'm concerned.)

If you don't like that article, there's this one: Help, I’m Surrounded by Jerks

And if that one doesn't do it for you, try this one: 51% of Women Are Now Living Without Spouse...

Master of my Own Domestic Pain

2007-01-18T15:55:00.000+01:00

'Member when I said jet lag was over? Well Jet Lag reads my blog and decided it was too soon to be over him and kicked our asses with a vengeance. I’ve been getting up early and cleaning the house, I mean really cleaning from bathroom cupboards to closets to my desk area which is where everything ends up as its one of the few areas I can take off Sparky’s hand for getting too touchy feely with my stuff.

I’m doing every single brain dead chore I can think of in my stupor. The problem is Sparky. Jet Lag knows he’s the weak link. He loves to nap and has no self-discipline against the call of the freshly made snuggly bed. I can actually fall asleep around midnight. As I only usually need 6 hours, max, I’d be in pretty good shape by now. Sparky can’t. Even though he’s back at work, even though he’s had to be "on" since the day after we got back, come midnight, he’s wide awake and very talkative. Those damn naps. As soon as I pass that magic “I can sleep” window, I’m up until the wee hours.

Last night it was an improvement, only 4 am as opposed to 6 am. Then I was up to take The Talking Man to the train station at 8 am. That's his superhero power. He foils the bad guys by talking them into a stupor in the middle of the night.

New Topic sans Seque

I need a waxing place. You know, hair removal via wax. I can’t find one and I want it. So if anyone knows of a place in any of the following cities, I’m there frequently enough to satisfy some of my masochistic needs: Hamburg, Berlin, Frankfurt, or Düsseldorf. Or any of the surrounding areas. Please. I’ve tried the home waxing thing and I’m here to tell you, not only does it not work; its more than my very high tolerance for pain can bear. I can do the front of my calves and that’s about it. To add insult to injury, I end up walking around for days sticking to things one does not want to stick to.

Also, if anyone knows of a place I can get a mani/pedi in these areas, I would offer lunch, a mani/pedi and a whole lot of girl talk in gratitude. I’m not talking about the medical kind for old ladies with icky feet. I’m talking about the nice footbath, foot rub and color application, perhaps a paraffin treatment. Something so I don’t become one of those old ladies needing a medical foot treatment.

Please.

I do not go into that dark night of hausfrau grooming gently.

Okay, as my brain is really refusing to work correctly, I’ll go back to cleaning out my laundry room.

P.S. I’m going to start organizing that Girls weekend. Please let me know if you’re interested. Chris-AEinD, I can count you in, right?

P.S.S. The kitty pic is by Anne Arkham. She doesn't seem to be currently writing, but she's really funny. Anne Arkham

My Brother is a Better Man

2007-01-14T17:57:00.000+01:00

My brother left a ton of clothing at my step-dad’s house. Jeff is skinnier and taller than Sparky, but because Sparky is more muscley and shorter, they end up about the same size. (Living with Markus may have skewed my idea of what a grown man looks like, but my brother reminds me of a grown up nine year old). Sparky ended up with a ton of new clothes that Jeff left behind

As I was packing up to leave, Jeff went back over all the great finds Sparky snagged. He started to get a little sad that the fantastic Kenneth Cole slacks were leaving, as were a few great sweaters. I explained that giving a German nice clothes was like feeding the hungry. It didn’t really hurt him and it was doing the world a great favor.

However, I am not as nice as Jeff.

I have a ton of clothing in American size 26/28 or 3X-4X. As I have lost two Kylies or one Hamish since last year, they don’t fit anymore. I have cashmere and 2 new pairs of jeans, a few sweaters and some blouses. Everything is in great condition.

So, as I don’t want to donate cashmere to a Kraut, if there is anyone who could use this stuff, let me know and I’ll send it along.

Starring Sleep Deprivation as Mother's Little Helper

2007-01-14T12:43:00.000+01:00

Jet lag is O-vah. Finally.

Yesterday Sparky and I headed off to Strasbourg to pick up the elusive toilet seat, an éclair and a quiche. Having been up since 3 am, it was relatively easy to start off at 7 am.

On our way back, we went TV shopping, had lunch with a very tired Hamish (also suffering), picked up the newly purchased TV, went home and cleaned and organized and vacuumed in some sort of speed-like fugue until midnight when the magic spell broke and we both dropped like the dead into our well made bed in our clean, clean room.

Phew. All that crap that somehow ends up in my suitcase has found a home. Even the gag gifts we got in our Christmas stockings.

So now it’s back to the regularly scheduled program.

The cats really missed us. I mean REALLY missed us. Scrunchy, who was named Zorro for our entire vacation because Mutti, who generously cared for our Christmas orphans, could not remember his name, has not left my side. Kiska, who was named Munzele, follows us around begging for touches and loves. She ate so much she looks like she swallowed an American football. Scrunchy resembles Tony Soprano he ate so much. And boy did Mutti love them.

I’m up and dressed and ready to go. I’m wearing my new GBF cashmere sweater, my new skinny jeans and my new j.crew slippers. I feel so preppy and peppy. Shaun lost a ton of weight and gave me his old cashmere, which I feel is only appropriate since he was the one to introduce me to cashmere.

I have to go ride this energy wave as there is still a ton left to do and god only knows how long it will last and this post sucks.

Side of the Road

2007-01-10T21:07:00.000+01:00

So I’m back and we hit the tarmac running. We arrived at SFO on Monday morning to check in for a flight that we were scheduled to take Sunday. I wrote it down wrong on all three of my calendars and being the one that organized our lives, Sparky assumed I was on top of it.

When our plane took off on Sunday, I was blissfully unaware, sitting with my brother, dad and step-mom (Sparky, of course) playing a board game and anticipating the baked ziti that was scenting up the joint.

Monday, well, we flew standby and managed to get seats across from each other and since flying standby, they throw your luggage in last, we got our luggage first in Frankfurt.

Picked up the cats and in my jet lag high, decided to unpack everything immediately. Halfway through, I crashed and now the house is covered from wall to wall with stuff.

Sparky is on his way to Hamburg for the rest of the week. Talk about an abrupt stop to a wickedly good time.

I’ll probably not write about my first two weeks as I was unchaperoned and any/ all things I say can and will be used against me. Lets just say it was the best two weeks I’ve had in at least five years. There might have been a karaoke moment, but alas, that was wiped from the camera.

I was waxed, buffed, coiffed, manicured and pedicured until I remembered who I was. I shopped until I could see her in the mirror. I had a few cigarettes and a few more cocktails until I wit and humor joined me. And I laughed and smiled and played and laughed some more. Language came back to me as did joy.

I discovered that I drive much better when I can flip people off.

I was free in a way I never knew I couldn’t be. Does that make sense?

Sparky came out and we reconnected. He’s been working so much and traveling all the time we barely recognized each other save for my disillusionment and his exhaustion. Seven days of rediscovering each other in the place we discovered each other. It was necessary and wonderful.

My dad took us shooting and whereas Jeff kicked my ass, I kicked Sparky’s. It felt good to be good at something again.

Mim came home from school and the whirlwind continued.

Why is there never enough time in California and endless amounts in Germany?

Coming back was/is hard this time. However, I have a plan and that plan includes, drumroll please… a job. Yes, this lady of leisure needs something to do and people to do it with. I know, I know. But let me just say, this leisure gig isn’t all its cracked up to be.

More on that later. I have to go hang up clothes and make lists.

Oh and in case you missed just how magical a time I had in SF, I ate everything I wanted, denied myself nothing, worked out halfheartedly and still lost fifteen pounds. See what I mean. Magic.

Dinner at my GBF's house. All photos courtesy of The Buglet who is not in any photos because he was too busy taking the photos.

2007-01-10T20:45:00.000+01:00

Dad and Stepmom; my competition for Parental Love; Sweet sister Mim; Sparky and I up on Twin Peaks

2007-01-10T20:42:00.000+01:00

Cayucos, CA: A freakin' long drive from anywhere, but it was beautiful as only a cali beach can.

2007-01-10T20:07:00.000+01:00

Jeff's Roommate

2007-01-10T20:05:00.000+01:00

Mt Diablo

2007-01-10T20:03:00.000+01:00

siblings can only hold a pose for so long before they start fighting

2007-01-10T20:02:00.000+01:00

Christmas Morning

2007-01-10T19:55:00.000+01:00

Guess where Jeff is?

2006-12-08T15:33:00.000+01:00

Heaven

2006-12-08T15:31:00.000+01:00

Cool

2006-12-08T15:25:00.000+01:00

Breakfast with Barney

2006-12-08T15:23:00.000+01:00

City Hair

2006-12-07T14:23:00.000+01:00

Do you remember the first time you fell in love? The giddy happiness of anticipation at seeing that person, at the idea the feelings might be mutual? The confidence that is gained by the knowledge that someone other than your mother thinks you might be pretty cool so you start to feel pretty cool and that coolness is reflected in the way you walk and hold your head and most off all in the smile that is never far from your lips.

Well, that is what being back in SF is like for me. It’s the first time all over again and I haven’t felt this happy in a long, long time. I can’t remember the last time I smiled all day, from wake up to jet-lagged sleep.

The sky is bluer than blue, the weather gorgeous. I found pants that fit and five pairs of really cute shoes. I found my dream blouse and some great earrings. I had my hair done and I feel as if I can be seen again. I have city hair again and it feels so good. I have washed away the soccer mom look.

I had a Starbucks latte, nonfat. Did I say nonfat because I meant nonfat. The Barista seemed to know what nonfat milk was. Not so in Starbucks in other countries that shall not be named. And I used Splenda which Starbucks provided for my convenience. Did you hear that? I said it. Con-ven-ience. I ordered a BLT from Specialties which took me all day to eat because I’m in love, baby and we all know that one cannot eat more than air when one is in love.

I had a two-hour lunch with my dad on a patio that was heated by the sun. You know that big orangey thing in the sky? Well it still exists and let me tell you, it's warm. I had an Anchor Steam beer with an old friend and the beer was great and the conversation better.

I’ve had bad Chinese food, good Mexican, hot guac from Trader Joe’s. I had my usual pasta from Fuzio’s and iced tea is offered everywhere.

I goofed off with my brother and even threw in a wrestling match which he lost because he has spaghetti arms. I laughed so hard in Long’s Drug store I was crying.

A kid gave up his seat to me on Bart yesterday, right before it got crowded. It might have been because of my city hair or the smile I just can’t seem to lose. Or he was just a nice kid whose mother raised him right.

Now I know that this will end sadly, if not badly. I know that these last few days are not indicative of what life would be like if I moved back. I am sleeping on my brother’s sofa and driving my step-dad’s jacked-up-four-wheel-drive truck (I’m listing to hip hop in it and feel like a bad ass). I would have to provide my own if I moved back

But, like a girl in love, I am so not going to think about that. I’m just going to wear my new skinny jeans that are getting looser by the day, toss my city hair around as I giggle and strut my way through the Bay Area in three inch heels that are so easy to walk in because of a thing called a Concrete Sidewalk.

And in the last six days, other than falling in love and finding the perfect clothes, I found me again and I’m happy.

Running in Socks

2006-11-29T06:58:00.001+01:00

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

2006-11-17T17:10:00.000+01:00

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

2006-11-15T17:13:00.000+01:00

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

2006-11-10T15:42:00.000+01:00

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

2006-11-08T06:13:00.000+01:00

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

2006-11-05T09:05:00.000+01:00

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

2006-11-03T07:18:00.000+01:00

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.

Changing Time

2006-10-26T16:24:00.000+02:00

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

2006-10-14T13:06:00.000+02:00

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.

******************************************
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.

Correction, Vassili Zaitsev

2006-10-13T01:32:00.000+02:00

Lets set the record straight. My sister and I have been very competitive for approximately our whole freakin lives. Up until the point when she moved to Deutcherville, she and I were very comparable shots. The first time she came home, and we went back to the range was a very quiet time for Jennifer. She had to TRY to be a good sport and tell me that I was a better shot, but it was apparent it was killing her softly. Now? Now you ask? Now I could out shoot her one handed and with the gun sideways, which is NOT how I shoot.

My gun of choice is the Kimber .45. Its got the kick, the clip, and the hit. Its a beautiful piece of metal that my sister is still unaware of. I rival my fathers prowess with this weapon. Its scary. That picture down there, is taken after one shot with my .45 at 25 yds. I had to take a step back, snap a picture with my camera phone, and enjoy that one for a minute before going back for more.

The only reason Jennifer likes the Calico is because, one, it has a Huge scope on it, that with her coke bottle glasses brings the target about 2.6 inches away from the barrel. Two, it shoots .22's, which as anyone who has ever shot anything before knows it kicks like a pellet guns. And three, the 100 round mag means she can sit at a chair ALL DAY LONG and blast away without having to do the real work involved in recreational shooting.

In closing I would just like to say, Jennifer, I love you with all my heart. I am so glad you have picked up blogging again, I see your fan base growing. But sista, as much as I know it burns your narrow ass, you will never be a better shot than me. And the important thing is WE both know this.

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

2006-10-11T18:21:00.000+02:00

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

2006-10-09T16:22:00.000+02:00

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

2006-10-07T11:59:00.000+02:00

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!

2006-10-06T21:13:00.000+02:00

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

2006-10-03T20:21:00.000+02:00

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?

Massana's New Deal

2006-09-23T16:42:00.000+02:00

So this is the new deal.

I’m on my way back up to the surface. I am keeping myself busy and it all started with J gently kicking my ass to come up for air. The following is what is going on in bullet points.

I found out that my recent weight loss has my bod in turmoil. No matter how many talks I have with it, it doesn’t seem to believe we are not at war and we are not being starved hence it has gone on strike, halting production of all hormones. No testosterone, no estrogen. I have nothing, nada, zilch. This is very good news because I can add those things until my body stops striking and it means I’m not crazy. A little estrogen goes a long way, let me tell you. Germany might suck, but it sucks even harder without hormones!

When my doctor was describing this, Sparky thought it might be a good idea if she prescribed testosterone for me along with all the girl stuff. He was very concerned that I not lose muscle mass as he is really hoping I turn into Jay Cutler in one of his homoerotic fantasies. As that is NOT my goal and I’m a girl, I’m sticking with the girl stuff for now. God knows I don't need anymore chin hair.

The sun has come out in Krautland. Not the humid sticky hotness that makes me want to peel my skin off, but really nice Indian summer sun. Perfect convertible weather. And as I just got my car back from the shop where it sat for months, I can enjoy the sun at 100 mph.

I am NOT taking a German class this year. I’ll wait until spring to stuff cotton balls into my mouth.

I went to my book group and felt smart again. All of the women are German and all of them are so nice and welcomed me with open minds and great senses of humor.

My nosey neighbor finally got up the nerve to ask about my weight loss and I got to say, straight faced, “Cocaine.” I love that! Apparently he didn’t believe me and later asked Sparky.

I am re-committing to blogging as it really does give me an outlet. The WonderTwins have been relentless in their harassment. If i don't blog more, Jeff won't let me sleep on his sofa for the entire month of December. Sparky is redesigning the template as we speak and I expect to have a new look in a week, if he can find the time between work travel.

I have spent a lot of time with Von Tauber and her kids. As soon as those hormones are back in shape, I think the vessel might be ready.

Sparky is getting a new computer which means I no longer have to share mine. I don’t need to explain the multitude of benefits to having my own computer back. I mean, really, my e-mail relationship with Robbie has been stalled because Sparky and I share and inbox and any e-mail from Mr. Williams would be immediately noticed or deleted as spam. I can’t let Sparky know that I am the one teaching poor Robbie about real love and how to feel real love and I hear his tour isn’t what it could be because he and I aren’t communicating like we should be and he too blames Sparky. Sparky really needs to get his own machine before the Asia leg is cancelled. It's for the good of the world.

To the left, under the “Know This” section, I am keeping a list of good things. It might be small now, but I am sure it will grow. Right? This was J’s idea and the more I thought about it, the more I liked it because there are some good things here. Right? And again, thank you for all your support. It really blew me away. I had no idea. Thank you.

Sparky's High

2006-09-23T10:53:00.000+02:00

What do you get when you combine a double espresso with an OCD afflicted husband? Really clean windows in half the time.

Everyday Angels

2006-09-10T14:16:00.000+02:00

I want to tell you a story. Now, before I go on, let me preface this. I am a practical woman by nature. I don’t get all wrapped up in new age-y stuff and even though I believe in fairies, I try to keep my whimsy to a minimum. This story is about angels. Not in the usual wings and Della Reese type angel, but normal people who do something nice or extraordinary. These are just regular people who help out at times when the smallest act of kindness is miraculous in its long-term effect.

There was a time in my life when I was at my end, when I was just too overwhelmed, too alone. I was 21. I was very, very poor, living in a suburban ghetto and working a shitty, low paying job 1.5 hours away from where I lived.

I was in the middle of a great depression. It lasted about three years and in that period of time I became mildly agoraphobic. I went to work and I came home. I didn’t have enough money for a phone or a TV. I didn’t have money for food or gas or anything that wasn’t rent related. I saw no one. I read books and smoked cigarettes. I did have Cleo. She was a brand new kitten and my saving grace a million times over, but this story isn’t about her.

It’s about a man I met once who changed my life, saved my life.

At the time things were really, really bad. I had no idea when I left fresh-faced for the university that I had the potential to completely fuck up my life, but that’s what I did. Fully and completely. I’m not a half-assed kind of person. It’s all or nothing. I went for broke and man, did I succeed. I had left the university, cold turkey, after a friend’s suicide. My friends, my boyfriend, my stuff, everything. I just walked away with what could fit in my car with false promises to return.

Contact with my family was strained or non-existent. My mother’s cancer had just metastasized. I had been arrested, kicked out, crashed my car and been beaten up. I was miserable, angry and totally self-sabotaging. One-step forward, three-steps back kind of girl.

On this particular day I added flat broke. I thought I could get to work with the gas I had in the tank. I figured I’d borrow $10 to get back home, but I didn’t have bridge toll. I needed a buck. The buck that broke the camel’s back.

That was it. I didn’t even have a dollar to my name. Sitting in traffic, watching my gas gauge, every failure, every mistake, and every fuck up piled up in my head. I never said or thought the word suicide. I thought I would just start over; end the misery for me and everyone I loved that I had hurt. That was my thought for the day.

I had no idea what was going to happen at the tollgate. I didn’t have the money. I found 40 cents in the seat cushion. I saw a dime on the passenger side floor. As I leaned over to pick it up and the traffic slowed. As I came back up, the car in front of me was stopped and I slammed on my brakes praying I wasn’t going to hit it.

I didn’t. It was close, but I didn’t hit him.

The car pulled over to the side of the road anyway.

I followed and got out, defensive and angry.

“I didn’t hit you!” I was pissed. Anger was the only thing keeping me going day to day. I was used to legitimate accusations and disappointment from people. I had to take that because I was a fuck-up. It was too much to ask me to take unfair accusations.

The man was really calm. He spoke softly and gently, which is odd in itself because we were on the side of the Highway 24 and traffic on the other side of the barrier was fast.

“I know. I know. Its okay. Your bumper fell off and I didn’t want you to run over it.”

I looked at the front of my car and sure enough, the bumper was held 2 inched off the ground by electrical wires. Okay. This was a ‘87 Cutlass Supreme. An Oldsmobile. I had not damaged it (yet). It just fell off.

“Oh.” I said and started to pull off the wires and pick up my massive steel bumper.

The man didn’t say anything for a minute.

“What were you doing? You weren’t paying attention.” He asked, nicely. There was no accusation in his voice and accusation was the only tone I had heard in a long time.

I mumbled something about change and bridge toll. I apologized for almost hitting him as I stuck the bumper in the back of my car.

This man, who I almost hit and then yelled at, pulled out his wallet and gave me 10 bucks.

“Be careful.” He said smiling kindly. He held my hand for a moment longer than necessary as he pushed the bill into my fist.

Then he got in his car and drove away, leaving me standing on the side of the freeway.

I don’t know if I took more from that encounter than was intended, but here is what it did for me. It gave me hope, an indelible hope that to this day prevents me from giving up on anyone, especially myself. It started me thinking again. His money got me across the bridge and home again. His act changed my life forever.

I call this guy an angel. I don’t believe in god. I have spirituality, but its more a vague concept. I’d like to say there was a white light surrounding him like Roma Downey at the end of an episode of “Touched by an Angel”, but there wasn’t. He was just a guy who must have seen something in me. And in seeing that in me, I was able to see that in myself.

That was the beginning of the end of that part of my life. I found a therapist, got on medication and slowly fixed that which was broken. By the time I was 25, life was infinitely better.

The reason I wanted to tell this story is because well, I have been feeling down. Not a deep dark depression, but like I said in my last post, down. (This is where it gets difficult for me. I don’t do sappy really well.)

I just want to thank you. Your comments and e-mails have really touched me. You made me feel better. I don’t always respond to comments because, believe it or not, I have a shy streak.

So to that end… Thank you, my angels on the Internet. You are more important than you can imagine.

A Long-Winded Rant... with props to the Universe who didn't take this opportunity to kick me while I'm down

2006-09-08T18:57:00.000+02:00

So I’ve been gone for a bit. What’s the deal, you ask? Depression. It stops me from being able to communicate in any form. It stops me from leaving the house, from leaving the bedroom and as I have absolutely no reason to get out of bed (work, for example) except to feed the cats, days have a way of passing without notice.

Not to say that I haven’t done anything. I have.

Sparky took me for a romantic birthday on the Rhine with a stay at my favorite castle. This time we stayed in the Chamber of the Seven Virgins. Every room in that place is exquisite. It was how I was meant to live. When I said that to Sparky the next morning as we dined with a full silver set and the best breakfast I have ever had, he choked on his hot chocolate.

**** I had a fabu party. A BBQ. It rained, poured and eventually the hail put out the briquettes. So we did it indoors and von Tauber’s hubby saved the day by making the burgers in the oven.

**** Sparky and I went to Liechtenstein and I collected another country my siblings will never collect. Liechtenstein has by far, the best flag of any country world over. It’s so pretty and regal. In real life the blue looks more like purple.

**** We drove through Switzerland on the way and took a gondola ride up the side of an alp (singular for Alps). This particular alp was littered with rabid cows pretending to graze and kamakaze horse flies. We even stumbled upon two escape goats and a mini donkey.

It was amazing. One can’t really appreciate exactly how steep those Alps are without tying to get down the side of one. Halfway down, I had to walk backwards because my legs got too shaky. And I even though the cow did not attack like I thought he would, I knew he knew I knew he wanted to, but he just didn’t want to have to walk back up the damn mountain. I was too much trouble and really, he had more fun with no effort watching me watch him and maneuver the mountainside and cow patties.

I really do live a charmed life in some regards. Comparatively, I have nothing to complain about except that I live in a country I really don’t like, dealing with a culture that confounds me. The more I figure out, the less I know. Dealing with assholes on a daily basis and having to scrounge up enough courage to go out into this Deutscher world that is really not all that warm and fuzzy and friendly and nice. I miss random acts of kindness that Americans can be counted on to perform. Its like Germans are too fucking stingy to give away a random act of kindness, yet they depend on the kindness of others.

I avoid my nosey neighbors because they are constantly asking me when I’m going to learn the language, what did I buy at the store, where am I going? Then tell me its been ages since they've seen me, where have I been? I swear to god, I’m going to go freakin’ postal on the next German who asks me or tells me that I need to learn the language. Really.

"Wow, I have never heard that before. I mean, it would never occur to me on my own. Thanks, that a really good idea. If it weren’t for you, I might never learn this frustrating, spit filled, monotone way of communicating that is considered an actual language. I was wrong, Germans are capable of random acts of kindness."

I miss my family, I miss my language and I miss the ease that comes with actually understanding every word that is said automatically. I miss understanding the cultural mores and folkways as second nature. I miss my country and the independence I had. I miss my name and I hate how Frau is constantly put in front of my married name. I’m just Jen or Jennifer or to my family Jenny. I do not want the Frau. You can keep the Frau.

I miss not having to defend my weight, my clothes, my car. I miss people being happy for you when things are good. I miss common sense and personal space and people who move their grocery carts out of the middle of the god-damn aisle because they know they are not the only fucking person in the world. And to that effect I miss smokers smoking in guilty pleasure, knowing that at any moment a non-smoker can read them the riot act unapologetically because smoking really a filthy habit. I used to smoke. There are two kinds. The kind that is aware of other people, smokers and non-smokers alike and the rude assholes who don’t give a shit as along as they can smoke in every hospital, gym, day care center and café. I’m sick of smelling like smoke.

I need to feed my spirit right now. It has been force-fed a diet of German verbs, manners and fashion taste for the last three years and frankly, I’d rather eat flax seed for a month.

See the thing is, this expat shit is really pissing me off. The longer I stay here the less I like Germany. I’m here because my heart is here and my heart has a mother that I would never allow to be abandoned. So to that effect, we are here for the long run. And that long run, recently, looks really, really long.

So I just shut up and hole up and my natural tendency towards depression takes it from there.

What happened today to break my silence?

Sparky needed a ride to the train station and my cat needed to go to the vet. I forced myself to get up and get out, one foot in front of the other. And from there the universe gave me the gentle nudge I needed. The scale was kind in solid “try-it-three-times-to-make-sure” numbers. The jeans I was hesitant to put on after the wash/dry shrinkage effect fit and are actually loose. My eye-make up went on perfectly, both eyes even. My hair worked with just a brush through and the blouse I put on, not expecting it to work, worked. And my extra courage leopard print bra was clean and could be worn under said blouse. I felt almost pretty leaving the house.

I took the cat to the vet for her allergy shot. (I hope someone sees the irony in a cat needing an allergy shot.) I got in and out in five minutes without waiting the hour I usually wait.

I went to my Dr. for my B12 shot. Again, no waiting. And the nice nurse did it. The one that speaks English without the lecture about the merits of learning German.

I got my nails done without forcing myself to workout first. I work out constantly and I hate it and I use getting my nails done as a sort of reward. Well, today I said fuck it. I parked in the gym lot and walked right past it. I got a whiff of stinking non-deodorant wearing-cigarette-smoking-IN-the-gym assholes on my way to Nail and Spa USA and got myself a mani/pedi in a spa chair, American style, by a Vietnamese woman from Santa Barbara.

How is that for a boon from the gods?

I need to get the hell out of dodge and back to the states so I can remember how frustrating life there can be too. At this point it really is the land of milk and honey and streets made of gold or at least filled with shoe stores that actually have cute shoes that don’t have Adidas stripes or are the color of putty. I would kill for a kitten heel Mary Jane and a smooth sidewalk to wear them on. Cobblestones are cute for like 2 weeks then they’re just a broken ankle waiting to happen.

And as you can see, once the damn breaks, you just can’t shut me up.

And thanks Dorian D. for asking. Sometimes that's all a person needs.

gratuitious cat photo

We're Gonna Party Like its My Birthday...

2006-08-17T22:18:00.000+02:00

Because it is.

My birthday is next week. Von Tauber's was last week. I am hosting a joint birthday BBQ on Sunday, August 27th from around noon until whenever. You are hereby cordially invited if you follow the following rules:

1. Speak only English.*
2. Do not call it a grill party. Its a BBQ or even grilling out, but not a grill party.
3. Bring one dish to share unless you are Hamish. Hamish gets a free pass because he's Hamish and i'm still not sure if he's going to show up. (J's got the chips so figure something else out.)

So you and your significant other/family/babies/small children/large children are very welcome. Dogs, not so welcome. If it rains we'll be inside and the cats/Sparky will flip out if there is a dog. They are liable to flip out anyway, but to prevent Sparky's head from exploding, its best if puppies stay home.

Otherwise, come on over to Boweltown. Its kinda like a mini blogger meet up. There will proably be a few actual KAKs**, but they have been instructed that during the party, they will be in an American territory so there for they should learn the language.

If you train it, James, our trusty driver will pick up and drop off. Either the Darmstadt Hauptbahnhof or the Eberstadt station.

Email me and I'll give you details.

*german can be used if used in a proper mocking tone.
** KAK= krazy ass Kraut

Time Traveling and Cat Claws

2006-08-12T20:26:00.000+02:00

I just finished The Time Traveler's Wife and oh my god, I can barely see through the tears. Kim from Stepping Stones recommended it and I picked it up one day at Hugendubel.

It is so good and so heartbreaking I can barely stand it. Sniff, sniff.

I picked up Scrunchy/Fin (we call him Scrunchy these days because his nose scrunches up when he frequently bites the hand that feeds him) the cat to cuddle and wipe my face on and what do you suppose he did? Yep, he wacked my with a paw and almost blinded me, the damn cat. He not exactly a cuddly cat.

We just got back from a few days in Hamburg. Exciting it was not, but we had some delicious meals and I saw Sparky's office for the first time. It's a nice place filled with freakin' kids. I swear, no one there is older than 25 and as my birthday is around the corner I felt rather uh... old? Beautiful girls in high heels and stylish boys. It is an advertising firm after all. I thought about how to look less dowdy, but if I go in there with high heels, I'd be trying way too hard not to mention the next outfit would be traction as I've never learned to walk more than five feet in heels. The closet to the bedroom I about all I can manage while looking remotely sexy. I should hurry up and have a kid to accessorize my soccer mom look.

It was odd to see Sparky's other life, to realize he has another world separate from me even if its only for a few days every month. We spend so much time together that when he leaves, I don't really think about where he's going just that I can leave my panties on the floor for three days and my shoes will be exactly where I left them. And then I pick him up from the train station and it business as usual.

To see that he has this whole other place to go to talk and interact and eat fabu janpanese whenever he wants kinda tripped me out.

Aside from that, its business as usual around here.

In the fantastic news aisle, my sister's scans all came back clean and she set for SUNI in two weeks. Yahoo and good for you little sister. You worked hard for this.

I gotta go clip some cat claws before I'm bloodied again. Scrunchy is rather attached to those claws and he loves it when they grow sharp enough to climb the curtains. I, however, like to keep my skin, eyeballs and clothing in one piece. Wish me luck.

A Clockwork Orange approach to Cardio Training

2006-08-09T14:47:00.000+02:00

So, you all know where I am spending my days. On the treadmill. At my gym, like most gyms, there are like ten TVs in a row so you can watch/listen to just about anything to help distract you from the pain cardio equipment inflicts. I usually do the MTV/VIVA thing and mix in my MP3 player when both are on an ad break.
I was doing my thing, walking faster and harder and at a steeper incline (because the flipside to losing weight is that you don’t burn as many calories as you did when you were a bigger, less fit person and I have to say, I find this totally unfair). I was listening/watching MTV when on a nearby set this show called ClipMix came on. I wasn’t listening to it, just watching occasionally. Bullet for my Valentine was blasting in through my ear canals when on ClipMix this man dressed in white, complete with white hat with ears, is shown crawling across a prairie. He seemed to be calling prairie dogs using this white tail-like thing. And the prairie dogs were responding. Three or four stood up to see what he was up to, looking at each other for more input.

I started to think about some study I read about how prairie dogs have a language that this group was studying and how they hoped to use that to study other animal languages. My mind wandered to how smart they must be and how they look so smart and regal standing up the way they were. Like a cuddly favorite uncle or grandfather.

On the TVs the guy was crawling closer and closer and Bullet was screaming about tears and guilt. I was in a good forget-I’m-in pain-zone. The man crawling was about 20 feet from these cute little prairie dogs when he pulled out a bullet, stuck in a .22 rifle you couldn't see because he was crawling through prairie grass and prepared to shoot.

WTF?

I wasn’t listening to the program, granted, but unless these little guys were wanted for serial murder, I can’t imagine why there would be a program about a guy dressed as a white prairie dog crawling around the prairie shooting unsuspecting prairie dogs. I was horrified and there was nowhere I could go. I was on a god-damned treadmill with 38 minutes left. I felt like Alex in A Clockwork Orange, stuck watching the horrible violence that was about to befall those cute little guys when they cut back to the smiling pair of show hosts. I never saw the actual shooting, but it was implied and tears actually sprang to my eyes.

I’m going to let you in on a little secret. I am a total and complete wuss when it comes to animals. There is a whole Blue Planet disc I can’t watch because of some really mean Orcas. It’s that whole karma thing. As kids, my siblings and I were pretty callous when it came to animals. Now I'm hypersenstive.

So that being said, I was stuck on a treadmill with the prairie dog killer right there next to my MTV. After the ad break Clip Mix switched to kangaroos and koala bears. Much more my speed. The baby koalas were clutching stuffed animals and being very cute and koala like. Little kids were encouraged to pet and hold the koala holding the stuffed animal. It was all very sweet and cuddly. And foolishly, I let down my guard. Koalas do that to a person.

As soon as the koalas left the screen, camel racing stepped up. Then camel fighting. With the owners kicking and punching the camels. Then it switched to sharks and tortoises locked up in rudimentary pens on beaches for tourists to play with and pick up and take photos holding. That it segued into this shark chasing pitbull. He would jump off a small boat and chase the small sharks up to the beach then tear them open and eat parts of it. And I couldn't look away.

The worst part was that Ghetto Blaster in the Sky**. MTV seemed to play songs that were horrifyingly appropriate.

Bullet for my Valentine – Tears Crash - Prairie dog death by rifle
Katie Medula – Nine Million Bicycles - Koalas and stuffed animals, including little kids
Linkin Park – Numb - Camel fights
Eminem –some new song I don’t know yet, but the lyrics were appropriate - Tortoise torture
Robbie Williams – Come undone - Pit bull/shark attack

I was so engrossed in this drama, I didn’t notice that I was on my cool down, my hour and some was done. I didn’t even notice when Sparky walked up to me and tapped my shoulder. As my adrenaline spiked, I screamed, tripped and almost fell of the damn machine.

Seriously, I have never had such a complete cardio workout. I think I need to go watch some Gilmore Girls.

**The GBitS is the soundtrack to our lives. Like having a relationship discussion with the radio playing and all the songs that are played have some sort of connection to your relationship. Or breaking up with someone and "your" song comes on. That sort of thing. GBitS is operated by Ironus, the god of Irony, and his minions.

A Gift and A Curse

2006-08-08T07:16:00.000+02:00

I meant what I said about having a one-track mind. Not an interesting blog does it make.

This morning, however, I had other things on my mind, like mental health. I don’t understand is how a simple little storm in the dark of night can turn what I consider a very rational person into a quivering neurotic?

Woken at 5 am with the crack of thunder, I did the serial-killer-in-the-thunderstorm dance again.

All the lights go on in the house. I make sure all the cats are in the house and not on the balconies. I walk the entire loft making sure its safe and not harboring said serial killer. Then I pace for a while. Eventually I go back to bed where Sparky sleeps soundly. I toss and turn, eyes wide open. I watch the flashes of light in the windows waiting for any suspicious movement or shadow.

I have no idea what is wrong with Sparky. Nothing wakes him. Nothing. Well, I should say he wakes briefly, tells me to go back to sleep and then he’s off again to Sleepyland. If only.

I wanted to call my brother. Timing was good, its distracting and he has a job interview tomorrow, but talking on the phone is not a good idea in a thunderstorm.

My usual security team are freaking useless without Cleo. Kiska will stay in the same room, but god forbid you touch her. She really just likes to be admired from afar. However, she is midnight black and moves in the shadows in such a way that if you didn’t know it was her, one might think it was the Woogyman. And that damn redheaded cat. He comes in for a snuggle and bolts the moment something scary happens, like when a lightening strike in a nearby tree shakes the house. And it’s not just a run for cover. It’s a claws-to-the-chest leap into the semi-darkness as if the devil were on his tail, which at that point I totally believe. And believe me when I say I really do not need to add to my list of scary supernatural evil in the middle of a thunderstorm.

I was not made for thunderstorms. Seriously. I like my storms rageful and dramatic as the next person. The pissant milquetoast drizzle we seem to get throughout the year is just annoying. Give me some wind and a good hard rain any day. However, when the pissant drizzle is accompanied by lightening that always strikes in the forest around my house and not, say five miles off the coast, making the sky very pretty far away, I get a little sketchy.

So that being said, the storm has now passed and the sun is up and the rain vapor has almost vanished. My vigil is over and I think I’ll go back to bed.

You know, on the other hand, without my vigilance, this place would be a haven for all those serial killers/evil ghosts stuck in a storm. Good thing Sparky has me.

Book Thieves

2006-08-03T15:10:00.000+02:00

As I was power walking my way to the 5 kilometer mark today, I day dreamed about the rest of the day. A list of chores and my new book. My new book. Sitting on the corner of the bed, just waiting for me to open the cover and stretch the binding. It is the latest in the series and I could just imagine dropping back into the life of a really bad bonds bailswoman and all her antics. Thinking about this book took me to my targeted time without even thinking about how many minutes I had left to walk or would I make it to my kilometer goal.

I dropped Sparky off at the train station early this morning, grocery shopped and picked up new cat litter. I was the first in the door at the gym and spent a good three hours torturing myself there. I find it funny that I have to have limbs that feel like jelly to eventually feel like steel. I am really opposed to the “Make It Burn” philosophy of the work out. I’m doing it, isn’t that punishment enough? Why does it have to hurt too? (See, my one-track mind)

Anyway, I got home, put the groceries away, cleaned up a bit and made my lunch. I did everything I needed to do before finding my book, delaying gratification to make it that much better. I could read a chapter or two guilt-free. I looked on the corner of the bed. The book pile was still there, but my new book was not. There was the book I thought I would read next and two books I had already finished, but my new book was gone.

I looked under the bed. Not there. I looked under the sheets and pillows. Not there, either. That’s when it hit me.

Rewind to 6 am.

Alarm goes off. Sparky gets up to shower and shave. As he dresses I slowly open my eyes and snuggle the cat. I get up at precisely 10 minutes before we need to leave for the train station. I dress, brush my teeth and am ready to head out.

Sparky says a lot of things in this time but one comment stands out now

“While you were sleeping, I packed my bag.”

Fast forward to present

Phone in hand, Sparky on the line
“Do you know where the Janet Evanovich is?” she says accusingly.
“Uh… in my bag?” he says wondering if he should have admitted guilt.
“You stole my book while I was sleeping, you thief!”
“I stole nothing. I have a long train ride. I needed something to read.”

I won’t go into how the rest of that conversation went for fear of incriminating myself. Let’s just say that after I make the bed and do all the laundry today, I will have found some vengeance and it might include his side of the bed and kitty litter and will have no idea how it got there.

Those darn cats, I’m telling you…

Did you hear? I think she has a drug problem, but man, is she skinny.

2006-08-02T18:33:00.000+02:00

Okay, Okay.... Leave it to a little brother to know how to get me out of my retreat. Jeez Louize. Bringing up all sorts of shit, Jeffrey. Fine, I’m back. Put all the skeletons back into the walk-in closet before they get a mind to unionize.

So, I’ve been gone. Last you heard of me, I was off to see the wizard and I did. He and his camera crew made sure I was healthy from top to bottom and I’m not just using a term of phrase when I say bottom. I had cameras everywhere. It was like the damn paparazzi. Sparky was there, literally in the same room. He played “I Spy” with my doctors while I was out cold with a camera down my throat and up my ass. And sadly, German doctors do not print out pictures of colonoscopies or you all would be getting a nice picture of a very pink and healthy colon.

The wizard was very nice, as was Oz. Magic was performed and even without my ruby slippers I arrived home a day early and in decent shape. I am minus a gall bladder and some other stuff. I have recovered enough to start working out again and resuming normal activities (well those that don’t involve Ben & Jerry, my favorite ménages a trois partners). My previous limited caloric intake and cardio push was to prepare for this and not some anorexic plea for help. It was all part of the bigger picture.

I did have a Nurse Helga. For real. Her name was Helga and she was very scary in that Nurse Helga sort of way. While nervously waiting for the orderly to come and take me away for surgery, she told us about her dead husband and how he was buried in the same tuxedo in which he was married. Totally creeped me out.

Now before the tabloids get any funny ideas about me and Star Jones having more in common than a gay husband, let me just tell you, no need to guess: The vast amount of weight loss is due to… drug use. Drug addiction seems to be so very glamorous.

And who could be more glamorous than the diva herself, Whitney Houston.

However, Jeff is wrong. It’s not crack. Crack is so common and you have to smoke it and I quit smoking a while ago. No, no, it’s not crack. I do like the heroin chic look. Kate Moss hasn’t done so badly since those sick days of Calvin. So I tried heroin, but I just don’t have the veins to shoot up, really and needles, yikes! So, just like Lindsay, Kate lead me to cocaine. It’s up to the coke to make me into a skinny bitch. After all, it seems to work for Lindsay and I saw Less than Zero. It looked like so much fun. Well, until the end, but I’ll stop before it gets to that point. I’m totally in control!

That is the story and I'm sticking to it.

In my recovery, I’ve done nothing but work out, drink lots of water, read celebrity gossip and obsess. I’ve had a rather one track mind which is really boring to EVERYONE except me and I certainly did not want to bore you with it.

Now, since the weather is all nice and cool and I have no desire to go outside and play, I will spend the rest of the day on this glamorous machine. Well, I will after I spend my daily three hours at the fucking gym. I still hate that place, but it seems to be my home away from home these days.

And Jeff, I suggest you spend a little more time in the gym because when I get back to SF in December I am so going to kick your ass.

CALLING ALL CARS

2006-08-01T02:42:00.000+02:00

Okay everyone, or at least everyone who is left, I'm going to need your help. It seems the intuitive and observant author of this very blog has gone missing. Everyday I, along with many others I'm sure, tune into this page to listen in on the events that are elucidated in such an amusing fashion. But for the past few weeks, I have seen nothing but guest blogs. I hate guest bloggers, especially ones that bite off the original bloggers name.

So that's it, I'm putting out an APB on Jen. If anyone knows anything about her, did she make it out of rehab okay, is she still alive, did she take her own life in a room full of padded walls, and if so how did she do it, please leave a comment. Or if you would just like to see these great blogs continue, please leave a comment. Maybe while she is begging for change to score another rock in some wi-fi equipped back alley, she will see that her fans miss her, and straighten up her life to be the next JK Rowling.

("We are the world" starts playing in back-round)

Lets all hold hands and start a "Hands Across the World" to find her.

JEN, WHERE ARE YOU!?!

Fussball Singing

2006-07-20T09:46:00.000+02:00

I told Jen I'd give her 1000 words on why the Italian Diving Team sucks, but I'm bailing for two reasons: 1) DJ Gallo is way funnier than me , and 2) 1000 words aren't nearly enough.

I'd still like to do something World Cup related for her, so I'm here to review some of the music from the games. Without links to the actual songs, which I'm too lazy to dig up, this entry is probably more useless than a Mensa application for Britney Spears. But word is bond, son. Word is bond. Without further ado* -

"Football's Coming Home" - by Three Lions
This song makes me think of a bunch of fat British guys with their shirts off doing leg kicks in a Rockettes line. I'm not sure if I've ever witnessed that event live, but it could very well be that I blocked it from memory. I'm sure the Brits couldn't be happier that the world has chosen to adopt this song, thereby tainting England's boast of being the home of football. It could be worse, though. The song could be about penalty kicks.

"Hips Don't Lie" - by Shakira
Did you ever notice that Shakira sounds deaf when she sings? Nothing against deaf people, but next time you hear one of her songs, think about it. Also, I'm tired of Shakira making overtly sexual references then claiming she didn't mean it in that way. You get a free pass once, but after your twelfth English album, you can no longer plead innocence. What's next, a song called "Strip Me Naked and Do Me From Behind," that's supposedly about overcoming shyness? To paraphrase the great Dave Chapelle, "you may not be a ho, but you're wearing the uniform."

We're German" - sung to the tune of "We're Jammin" by Bob Marley
I can't get this song out of my head. I'm walking around Frankfurt singing "We're German, we're German, we're German, we're German, we're German, we're German, we're German, we're German... and I hope you like Germans too." I'm sure nothing would please Marley more.

"Ten German Bombers"
This one is sort of like 99 bottles of beer, except instead of taking one down and passing it around, they are getting shot down by the RAF (Royal Air Force). The Germans counter with aggressive flag-waving, although I think they lose on this one (again).

"Wish You Were English" - sung to the tune of "Guantamera"
Continuing on the theme of quiet humility.

"Ein Miro Klose" - also sung to the tune of "Guantamera"
Miroslav Klose, star of the German team and leading goal-scorer in the World Cup, is a Fussball Gott, according to another song I heard. He's also Polish.

"Love Generation" - by Bob Sinclair
This song must have been played at least once every 15 minutes during the entire month of June. In case you don't know it by name (consider yourself lucky), it's that song with all the whistling. I'm nothing if not a master of description.

"You All Live in a Convict Colony" - sung to the tune of "Yellow Submarine" by The Beatles
Aimed at Australians. I never actually heard this one being sung, but my brother told me about it and I thought it was mildly amusing.

"Oleeee, ole, ole, oleeeee... USAAAA, USAAAA" - by Hamish
I made this one up, but I'm hoping it'll catch on by the next world cup. I'm also copyrighting it, so don't get any ideas.

You may have noticed this list is dominated by English and German songs, mostly because I can understand little else. That's unfortunate because the Ukrainian songs are awesome, and I assume they all translate (roughly) to: The Ukraine is STRONG!

-Hamish, head writer and lead singer of Hamishblog.com

*That may be the first time "Word is bond" was followed by "Without further ado." I keeps it gangsta.

Collectors of Countries

2006-07-18T20:55:00.000+02:00

We the Wondertwins and Jennifer have a "friendly" competition; we collect countries. The rules for our competition have been up for debate for some time now, and the Wondertwins decided to settle this once and for all. The rules are as follows:

1. One must stay within a country's borders for at least 24 consecutive hours.

2. If one has traditional food of that country, 2 consecutive hours are all that is required within the country borders.

3. If one is assaulted and permanently scared in a foreign country that person automatically gets that country once scar is verified by other siblings.

4. A two country bonus will be awarded for anyone who is killed in a foreign country (bonus will be awarded to reincarnated soul upon verification that soul belongs to dead sibling).

STIPULATIONS

1. Airplanes and airports are neutral territory and therefore do not count as time spent in any country.

2. Rules are retroactive as of Jan 1, 2006.

3. Rules may be amended only by majority vote of the three siblings.

Comments are welcome from impartial readers.

Asses

2006-07-18T12:29:00.000+02:00

Following on with Jen's subject of asses, I'd like to throw in my 2 cents. No, I won't be posting a photo of my ass.

Germans seem to have a thing about asses.

The past form of the verb 'essen' is 'ass' (but with that funny B thing).

Theres a town on the Rhein called Assmannshausen (Ass Man's House?). Lets not forget the photo of the Ass Team that I took last year at a baseball game in Bonn. What's up with all the asses?

Spontaneous Smiles

2006-07-11T09:12:00.000+02:00

This photo prompted a self-realization this morning: I don’t smile enough.

It’s not something you think about as you chore through daily life and deal with all its ups and downs but when your husband and kids tell you that you don’t smile enough, you have to stop for a moment and face the music and then question, why?

I don’t know why. It’s probably the same reason you may not know why if you fall under the same category. I suppose life just gets too hectic to stop and taste the cherries (no puns intended there). As I’m approaching my 35th birthday, LOTS of things are running through my mind. When I turned 29 I thought life was over but then I remembered my mom telling me that the thirties were the best years in life: you still look good, you’re as thin as you’ll ever be from that point on, there’s no wrinkles yet and you gain maturity.

I had a huge blowout for my 30th, then one year later faced a marital separation which ultimately led to my expat adventures, a new marriage and now a new baby. Wow! How life takes you on these wild adventures I’ll never fully understand but I feel like the last five years just blew past me like the harsh winds in a desert storm. My eyes are still recovering from the grains of sand that flew in them and only now am I beginning to see clearly.

I have mixed emotions about this upcoming birthday. First, in my naive 20-something thought patterns, I thought I was going to be and do everything I ever wanted by the time I was 25. That’s a laugh…now that I know better. When it didn’t all happen I decided to not put a time limit on it because by that time I smartened up enough to know that things never turn out as you plan. So, is spontaneity the spice of life?

On a spontaneous whim I decided to give Germany a try. Though life hasn’t been very spontaneous since, that one move prompted a life I had always wanted but never thought I’d get. There were aspects missing in that dream I got but then I realized that I never got specific enough to get exactly what I wanted so with such generalizations like, I want to live in Europe and I want my daughter to grow up with a European education and blah, blah, blah, I actually did get exactly what I wanted. I got the first two exactly as I wanted but then the rest of life swirled in an odd way in order for me to get there.

So here I am facing the ten-year mark of when I thought I’d reach a certain place in my life and I can’t help but wonder if living life with naivety is wrong. Sometimes when we know the true difficulty of something before we begin we tend to shy away from actually trying to achieve it. Back in my early years as a waitress in a diner full of 65+ retirees, many of my dreams were shot down by their “words of wisdom” and advice warning me that usually dreams don’t come true because life slaps us down too hard and too often.

They called that diner “God’s Waiting Room” for a reason. I think back now and see that as they ate their bacon and eggs, complaining about politics and bugging me whether or not their coffee was really decaffeinated, their dreams were gone and not because they were old but because they had given up. With a mindset like that, I might as well shoot myself now.

So here’s a toast to all those individuals who consciously choose to smile, dream and try because life is meant to be the adventure that leads to the destination and not the other way around. Had I figured out this shit at 25 I might have had ten years of more happiness, fun, spontaneity and wild memories. But as mom said, the thirties are your best years, enjoy them. I intend to.

Smile because before you know it, you’ll need dentures! And I have a great smile. So do you.

Namaste, Tatiana von Tauber

Love Hurts

2006-07-11T03:57:00.000+02:00

Well, Since my sister is in rehab right now, I figured I would tell a story about a defining moment my sister created that forever changed my life for the better. A few things you have to understand about the relationship we have, while growing up we did nothing but fight and scheme on each other. As we got older we started growing closer and when our mother died, there was a while when we felt we were all that each other had. Another effect Mom's departure had on me was that I started a cycle of heavy drinking and partying, a downward spiral I would not come out of for a few years.

One instance while black-out, belligerently inebriated, a friend and I decided to go for a drive to get more alcohol. I'll skip the details of the night, but the end result was me, spinning out in my truck and hitting a row of parked cars. Little damage was done to the parked cars, but the whole side of my truck was trashed. Being drunk, young, and not wanting to deal with this situation I left the scene and some how made it to my girlfriends house. The only thing I know that can make a horrible hang over worse, is having a horrible hang over, a thrashed truck, and trying to piece together what the hell happened last night.

Still not wanting to deal with the situation I stayed out of that town for a while hoping it would all pass over and take care of itself in time. So I spent the next few days with a pain in my stomach. Its that sick feeling you get when you know you have to do something you don't want to, so you try not to think about and pretend it doesn't exist. Then I get the call.

"hello?" I answer

"Jeff, what is going on?" Sis asks

"What do you mean?" I say, still pretending like that pain isn't there

"Two sheriffs just came to my house asking where you are, they said you involved in a felony hit-and-run, and they needed you to turn yourself in and take care of this."

At this point my face turns pale, that ill feeling in my stomach I was ignoring is now raging through-out my chest and heart. A few things flash threw my mind, the one that sticks out is my future as a felon. I now realize that I can't live a "normal" life. I now have to live the life of a criminal. I can't get a real job, I'm going to have to steal and fence for a living and probably never come out of the bottle again so that I will never have to deal with myself again. All this, after I get out after 3 years good behavior. I see myself tied to my truck, my once cherry low rider now dented and nauseating truck, for the rest of my life. I sleep there, live out of there, everything. Our fate, intertwined. We spun out of control together only to emerge a faint glow of the thing we were before, it will become the symbol of when I hit bottom and never resurfaced. I'll be another deadbeat brother/son/nephew/father?.. In time, probably. All of that in the forward half of a blink, the back half was dedicated to my response.

I came clean. I told here everything, cried, then told her more. "You see how that feels?" She explained "That is how close you were, that is where you are headed if you keep this up. The cops didn't come, your friend called me and told me what happened."

I'm still shaking at this point

"We need to see what we are going to do about this and straighten your life out." I still get chills.

After that conversation I began the task of crawling upward to the world of responsibility and adulthood. I'm not going to say there weren't a couple more stumbles along the way, there were for sure. Though, seven years later I am proud of the person I have become, but never as happy as when my sis, my guiding light, tells me that she is proud of me.

To this day, any new friends I meet have to meet my sister before I'll let them into my inner circle. I just hope I can be the sturdy rock for my little sister like my older sister was for me.

I love you Jen.

Sharing in National Pride

2006-07-08T23:24:00.000+02:00

As a German resident, I feel it is my duty to congratulate the hell out of the Germans. Job well done on the World Cup! Wait til mt daughter finds out in the morning. She'll be as loud and excited as the stadium in Stuttgart is now. CONGRATULATIONS DEUTSCHLAND!

Mood for Erotic Cake

2006-07-07T10:55:00.000+02:00

I really need more sex in my life. It dawned on me this morning that the lack of post-baby sex has really dampened my creative spirit, to say the least. I’ve been staring at a blank screen for hours trying to find enticement from the depths of my unmotivated mind. It could be the baby, though. I tried my mood at creativity today but all Squeaky does is grunt and squeak and makes these noises that disturb my erotic creative flow. If I had a penis, it’d be shriveled.

I bet Jen and Sparky don't have this problem. Maybe what I need is a babysitter, and then I could have my cake and eat it too, if you know what I mean :-) How long did Jen say she would be gone?

- tatiana, guest blogger

Von Tauber Chronicles: Meet Tatiana

2006-07-06T08:11:00.000+02:00

THIS should be fun. A guest blogger. On MY blog, I’m very positive and try to send out that “life is great” attitude. But on Jenny’s blog, I’m going to let out my sarcastic, complaining self. At least for today because today is a good complaining day.

First off, Germany lost their World Cup chance. This shouldn’t bother me because I am neither German nor Italian, but it does. I’m Czech by default, American by parent’s choice and international by personal preference. Don’t label me. I don’t like it.

Second, the German school system is great except for one thing: their damn schedule. It changes on a dime and I’m lucky to get a 24-hour notice that my daughter will be home either early or late from school. Never mind the doctor or personal appointments I need to suddenly cancel. Today my daughter is late. I suppose I got a notice telling me about it but I’m still learning German, so who knows. This normally wouldn’t be a problem except that I’ve cancelled and rescheduled three times in a row with this particular doctor. The only thing that should keep her okay with all my unexpected changes is that for the past two years she’s made a small fortune off my daughter’s eczema.

Third, it’s hot. F-N hot. Being a 20+ year resident of South Florida (God, that makes me sound old) it would be reasonable to think that heat would be something that my body would accept if not be used to. W R O N G !

I hate heat, weather heat that is. I hate it more when I’m stuck in an attic apartment with no air conditioner. The only way a true Floridian can survive in palm tree heaven is with air-conditioning because otherwise it would be like living in swampland and the inhabitants would become mosquito food. Even with five fans blowing in the apartment here, I’m sweating and annoyed and aggravated and I just can’t create like this. All I can do is bitch…and it’s nice that I can do it on Jenny’s blog.

Did I mention I hate heat? I’ve got to move to the Alps.

Fourth, I’m struggling with a 3 month old who seems to have nipple confusion or maybe it’s nipple preference. Simply put, my nipples are too much work for her little mouth to express milk and she is leaning toward the artificial kind. This would be okay if I didn’t have such guilt issues of weaning her off the breast so soon. I lasted 9 months with my first daughter and hoped to last at least 6 with this one. But noooooOOOOooo! Little Aries Squeaky over here likes it her way and that way is the ease of the artificial nipple flow. Breasts are no longer in.

I tried to think of a fifth complaint but realized that if I have to think too hard about it, I don’t have one. So, if this is all I have to bitch about, life’s not that bad. Today, that is.

Oh, let me introduce myself. I’m Tatiana. Jen and I met at a writer’s workshop several years ago in Frankfurt. Both of us arrived on our personal expat adventure in Germany at relatively the same time and I think we were both hungry for familiar backgrounds, strong coffee, packs of cigarettes and English conversation. Who knew we’d end up best friends?

A lot has changed in three years. For one, both of us quit smoking. And for intelligent women who just happen to be writers and see eye to eye on just enough issues to love each other and disagree on just enough issues to fuel the nervous twitch of a cigarette need, that is something for both of us to be proud of. But, I’ll have to admit, the thought of becoming a ‘social smoker’ has days when it’s appealing. Too bad I’m a commitment individual. When I start something I try keep doing it and make it a habit.

The next thing on our agenda is weight loss. Jen has her personal program ready and in the works and I’m determined to loose this extra baby weight by my 35th birthday, in five weeks. Fifteen to 20 American pounds in five weeks. Is this possible? Will Jenny beat me and loose more than I?

Stay tuned to find out. Cause, like I said, I’m a commitment kind of person. And I’m committed to have skinny sex first!
I bid you well, Tatiana von Tauber

Kick-a-Boo Joy Juice

2006-07-05T06:18:00.000+02:00

Today is my three-year anniversary in Germany. I actually had to count on my fingers to figure that out because it feels like I've been here forever. Okay, i even did the math wrong and my dad had to correct me. I haven’t had time to reflect on what I’ve learned, where I’ve been and all that jazz because coincidently, today I’m taking another trip. I think this trip will be just as life changing as moving to Germany. And I don’t have to learn another language.

I don’t like to jinx things, so I’ll tell you all about it when I get back. I will say it includes some kick-a-boo joy juice, cameras, robots and the Wizard of Oz or rather the man behind the curtain.

In my absence, a couple of people will be guest posting. Von Tauber, the mother of TwinkleToes will be here. She’s more of a sexy voice than I am. Check out her photos. They’re not work safe, but they are gorgeous. Hamish and J as well, I hope. They’ll post as they have time. My brother and sister might do a joint post, which worries me to no end because I will not be able to do a thing about it. WonderTwins, watch your selves.

Sparky will come in with the requisite Kylie post. I’ve tried to dissuade Sparky’s obsession by explaining that Kylie is really Kyle in drag. Danii Minogue is really pissed because her brother is a better woman than she is thus the extensive amount of plastic surgery. Then I feel really bad because of the breast cancer thing and shut up. So count on Kylie’s Ass while I’m gone.

Actually, there might be more updates while I’m gone then there have been in the last few weeks.

On a different note… Check out Dropping Knowledge. It’s an organized forum to collect questions that actual people from around the world, not politicians, have in regards to the world. After the collection process is over, they will analyze the questions and form NGOs to address some of the questions. The idea is that we as individuals in this global community CAN have impact, that our voice matters, we CAN make a difference. It’s a cool idea and deserves some attention.

See you soon (I hope!)

His Hips Don't Lie

2006-07-03T11:58:00.000+02:00

Conversation between Sparky and I.

Sparky: “This song really makes me move my head.”

Jen: “Move your head? Isn’t it supposed to make you move your hips or your feet?”

Sparky: “I’m a white guy. We dance from the neck up.”

Ass like a Cadillac

2006-06-26T20:59:00.000+02:00

Things are a bit busy at Chez Roder these days. Some things I can talk about and some I can’t. This year’s focus has been health and Sparky and I are getting healthy. As Sparky is light years ahead of me in the health department, I’m working hard at catching up.

I can tell you that I have been walking 8-9 kilometers a day 5-6 days a week and have gained a kilo.

I can tell you that I have been working out for over two hours a day and have gained a kilo.

I can tell you that I am consuming less than 1000 calories a day and have gained a kilo.

I can tell you that if I wake up tomorrow and the scale says I still have that kilo it says I’ve gained, we will need a new scale.

I can tell you that looking for a picture of a scale to use here, I found only pictures of happy women on scales. I have never known a woman to be particularly happy on a scale. Ever.

I can tell you that I have the world’s slowest metabolism and in a famine I would do pretty well given how uh… efficient my body is at storing energy… on my ass. I have the efficiency of a Prius with the ass of a Cadillac.

I can tell you I’m in kitten withdrawal. I no longer have Cleo to curl up with for an afternoon nap and my nose gets cold. Neither of the other two cats like to snuggle except in the morning when its all about tongue and whiskers to greet the morning light. I am really not a fan of rough tongue in the morning.

I can tell you birds have decided to nest on our back balcony thus annoying the cats and me simultaneously as they hop out of reach and sing their annoying morning song.

I can tell you my tendencies towards hoarding kittens are stifled when I find my roses dug up by the sweet Fin. Why he can’t dig up the ugly geraniums, I don not know. He’s even figured out how to move the pebbles I’ve placed all around the roots. I swear that cat is hiding opposable thumbs somewhere.

I can tell you that I actually enjoy soccer/football a lot more than American football and think it’s a much safer sport, but those pansy-ass players cry at the drop of a hat. If I see one more player cry for his mama because he got tripped and skinned his poor widdle knee… well, I’m just going to make fun of them over and over again.

I can tell you that the Italians are pretty happy in Darmstadt. In fact I think there are more Italians here than Germans. I have never seen Germans storm the streets like the Italians over a win. Then again, these are Germans we’re talking about. Street storming is a repressed genetic ability.

I can tell you my kitchenware has expanded to include the Kitchen-Aid blender I’ve been eyeing for years and had only the briefest of in-store disagreement with Sparky over the color. I wanted red and he wanted chrome (another freaking shinny surface for him to obsessively polish – like I’m going to agree to that!) so we settled on black. This is fine as my new pots and pans are red.

I can tell you that my sister is NOT coming to visit because she can’t find her passport, the rat.

I can tell you that my brother arranges awesome bachelor parties. So awesome that sometimes the groom doesn’t get to go if he wants to actually get married.

I can tell you that Von Tauber has the sweetest kids in the world. TwinkleToes is just awesome, like I’ve said before. And her latest addition, Squeakster, is the best baby I have ever been around. She is the baby Sparky needs to be around next year when we seriously start thinking about a family.

I can tell you that Sparky has been so busy that our cars are filthy. I can’t even tell the color of my car its been so long since its been washed. I was even the last one to wash it. Car Washing is Sparky’s preferred form of meditation. It’s the wax on, wax off thing that he can do for hours and not think of anything else.

I was actually a little bit ashamed to drive Gracie (my car) so filthy in the land of squeaky-clean. The last time I felt this way was when I had to valet park my ‘87 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme with the smashed-in front end and the window that didn’t work. I thought those days were long behind me.

I can tell you that I haven’t had a moment on the computer in over a week because the sweet Sparky is working like mad. The man has more clients than time these days and we are still on the one computer system, which oddly enough gives us more time together talking rather than sitting across from each other sending e-mails. I think we might keep it this way at least until I get pissy about it again.

I can tell you that next week I will be gone for at least seven days and am looking for some guest bloggers because I will be in no condition to blog for probably a couple of weeks and Sparky is probably going to put up some Kylie pictures and I will be in no condition to kick his ass.

I can’t tell you where I’m going but I can tell you it has nothing to do with rehab or babies. And Vernon, I swear, of all things to remember, lactation???

Well, it might have something to do with rehab. I always wanted to be a junkie and man, Sparky can score some fine Colombian. Sparky makes all my dreams come true.

Chester...

2006-06-15T09:32:00.000+02:00

One of the many cultural references I have had to teach Sparky was the molester van, how to watch for, avoid and/or listen for muffled cries for help when walking by one. He thinks I'm paranoid and delusional.

My brother sent this to me yesterday and I think illustrates my point, although I maintain that molester vans tend to be white rather than red.

Just call me Granny

2006-06-14T20:41:00.000+02:00

I'm old.

When renting the latest Stargate Atlantis tonight a young girl asked me to buy her and her girlfriend beer. She said that the video store guy would only sell it to her if they were 14 and they were only 12.

My immediate reaction was "God, no. You are far, far too young to be drinking." She just shrugged and walked away. I was shocked that such a young girl was experimenting with alcohol. SHOCKED!

On the way home, I remembered that when I was 12 I took a wine cooler from the fridge and drank it with a girlfriend watching Porky's Revenge at the local theater. We got some guy to buy us tickets and I spent the whole movie thinking my mother was going to come barreling down the aisle and haul my ass home.

Later in the day I caught myself peeking out the window to spy on my neighbors. Granted there was a big fight between the Turkish importer of Deutsch flags and his helpers, but I was totally hausfrau-ing it by standing to the side of the window and watching for a LONG time.

Then I lectured my sister on not wearing a helmet when she rode a Vespa in a parking lot. Everyone knows that parking lots are the most dangerous place to ride Vespas.

Then I quizzed my brother on why he doesn't have a girlfriend.

Then I heard the neighbor kids screaming outside and got up to give them a dirty look . There were no kids outside. It was Markus watching Hostel.

I think I'm in desperate need of some Jell-O shots and cigarettes.

Does It Snow in Scandinavia?

2006-06-11T15:37:00.000+02:00

Before I say anything else, I want to thank you all for your comments and support. This hit me out of nowhere. We thought it was her back that was giving her the trouble. There’s some kraut expression that grief shared is lighter than grief felt alone and I’ve always thought that was bubkes. But its not. There is a value to other people having felt the same thing. Cleo was one of those special cats that was more Spirit than cat and she saved me more than once. She is missed terribly.

It’s time for something less depressing don’t you think?

I cleaned the house from top to bottom yesterday and even mopped. I never mop. I hire someone to mop and only then every six months or when Sparky’s mother comes to visit. I did some gardening and I fixed the slow drain in the shower. I have no housework to do anymore. I could organize more, but when you live with Markus, organization becomes less of a goal and more of a sign of mental illness. I need to keep a little chaos to keep his OCD in check.

Well, let me tell you about Scandinavia. I’ll just do bullet points (without bullets because I don't know how to do those in blogger and I don't have the patience to figure it out right now) of relevant observations if you don’t mind.

Scandinavia in General

We think it might snow there in the winter, but we’re not really sure.

Denmark, Sweden and Norway all have their own currency. Let me clarify: There is the Danish Krone, the Swedish Krone and the Norwegian Krone. The Danish win for the prettiest coins because they have hearts and crowns.

Burger King accepts Visa.

It is a seriously slow driving region with a max speed limit of 110 km.

Smoke free restaurants. Less smoking in general. Very cool.

I have never before seen so many blondes in my life and I used to live in California.

Denmark

Totally cool, clean and the widest streets I’ve seen since Salt Lake City. I don’t know how they’ve done that since they are one of the oldest cities in Europe and a Harbor city, but that’s how it is and it’s beautiful.

Copenhagen is expensive, but you can still get a Cola Light/Diet Coke for less than six Euros, unlike Paris.

I would totally take kids to this city. Lots to do including Tivoli – Europe’s oldest amusement park. It has rides and an arcade and was Disney’s inspiration for Disneyland.

A great hotel – Hotel 27. It’s being newly renovated and Sparky and I were the first to stay in room 275. I have never stayed in a more friendly and helpful and happy hotel in Europe as a whole or frankly, anywhere. These people were awesome and… it was a smoke free hotel. No smoking, anywhere. Free wireless access and awesome brunch with requisite bakery good, the Danish.

The Danish (the people, not the bakery good) really know their design. I mean it when I say it is a gorgeous city. I’ve never seen such beautiful furniture and architecture without the balance of crap. They have the yin of beauty without the yang. I think Germany took the yang.

Sweden

Beautiful. Simply beautiful.

There are no Swedish Fish in Sweden. Are Swedish Fish the bastard candy of Sweden? Do they get exported so as to never to defile the candy section of a Swedish gas station? They had pukey wein berries, but no fish.

There really are Ikeas in Sweden. It’s not just an export.

Speaking of Ikea, every town we passed seemed to be the name of a table or lamp in the Ikea catalog. I wonder if they knew that when they named the towns?

Rea seems to be the Swedish word for Sale. I seem to have a nose for sales.

The Swedish language seems to be a lot like German, but in disguise. They sound similar when you say them out loud, but look very different.

A hamburgare is a traditional Swedish meal and varies greatly from Hamburgers. It’s a flattened Köttbullar, made from breadcrumbs soaked in milk and a meat mixture. Traditional and tasty. Yummy.

Norway

Warmer than Germany, bluer sky and better sunset/sunrise.

My favorite landscape of the three. It looks like the rocky part in “The Never Ending Story”. I kept expecting a rock man to sit up and say “Slooooow dooooown, you are driving tooooooo faaaaaaast”.

The Norwegians are freekin’ serious about driving slow. We hit a max of 90 km/h and every other kilometer had a radar camera. They do warn you, though. “Radar control ahead” seems to be a sort of Babelfish. It’s understandable in any language.

Fjords are freekin’ amazing.

I like Norway because you can wear your sunglasses at night and not look like a poser because you really actually need your sunglasses at night. Thank God for Corey Hart.

Oslo looks like Sausalito without the view of San Francisco. It even has a bridge that looks like the Golden Gate, but its small and white.

Everyone was partying and the streets were full of people. The hotel where we stopped and asked for directions was so busy that it added to the surrealism of sunlight at midnight making you feel like it was early evening.

The hookers in Oslo wore tight jeans and not the traditional hooker wear. It was odd.

I’m going back as soon as I can. Oslo felt like an awesome place to be. Hamish, I think you’d like this city and suggest you go over the summer. We thought of you and Calvin there and not because of the hookers.

The air there is like nothing I have ever breathed before. It felt like a gift, pure in a way I never knew pure could be. Even on the Autobahn. It was addictive and I couldn’t get enough.

In general, Sparky and I learned a few things.

I am never allowed to give directions, either from the map I’m reading wrong or from my gut. I’m always wrong and I’m never right. In fact, I am so totally wrong that if you always do the opposite from my “gut” reaction, you will never get lost. Ever.

Sparky always follows my directions even though he knows I’m going to be wrong because I apparently get all pissy when he doesn’t follow my directions. This is a double positive for Sparky because once my directions get us lost I have to apologize for the bad info AND he doesn’t get yelled at for not listening to me.

Somehow, if Sparky gets us lost in any city in the world, we end up on Hooker Row. Not the red-light district, per se, but where the girls are lined up on corners and using cell phones to call or text whomever. This, for some reason, is unsettling.

Sparky can drive a BMW 540i and use less than 10 liters per 100 km. This is the main reason I am not allowed to drive his car. I cannot and the car tells on me via its onboard computer. Stupid computer.

Traveling without maps in first world countries in Scandinavia works out just fine if you know your cities. I’m still not going to chance it in the rest of the world.

My best friend in the world

2006-06-07T17:23:00.000+02:00

My sweetest, most beloved Cleo died yesterday. I really don’t know how to express my sorrow and grief. She came into my life 12 years ago when I was 21 and had been my right hand through it all and it was a lot. She was the most loyal and loving being in my life, ever.

I wish I had something funny to say, a dead cat joke or something, but I just don’t.

I love you, my girl.

2006-06-07T17:22:00.000+02:00

The girl had gams. A total Leg Show model

2006-06-07T17:21:00.001+02:00

She really did not like being disturbed while she was sleeping

2006-06-07T17:20:00.000+02:00

Cleo and Kiska

2006-06-07T17:19:00.000+02:00

in her favorite place, well favorite place minus the kitten

2006-06-07T17:14:00.000+02:00

cleo

Öresund, Kattegat and Skagerrak Oh My!

2006-06-05T18:53:00.000+02:00

My brother, sister and I are rather competitive with each other. We compete with everything from getting our seatbelts on in the car first, getting out of the car and touching the front door first to who can get to the bathroom first and effectively bar the sibling with the direst need from entering. We are a ruthless bunch. However, one type of competition cannot be measured by speed, talent or cleverness. It is the acquisition of countries.

This type of collection started when Jeff and I were young with bodies of water. Mostly pools, ponds, streams and lakes. By collect I mean which of the latter he would fall into, with or without help. Thus Jeff learned to swim when he was quite young. I cannot correctly remember the number of duck poop laden ponds he fell into, but it was quite high. This is also the origination of Jeff's unhealthy fear of ducks.

Now that we are older and Jeff can very effectively avoid my push, the bodies of water are no longer fun. Now we collect countries.

The rules are simple and differ from those of collecting states. For countries, one must eat in the actual country. The Great Manitoba Debate of 2006 settled the airport issue. You must leave airport ground completely and have a meal prepared in said country. Layovers in airports DO NOT COUNT.

That’s it. That’s the rule.

Now, one would think living in Europe, I might prevail in this contest; There are so many countries within spitting distance. But alas, no. Miranda caught the travel bug early. Trips abroad with her dad and her children’s chorus have given her a four-country lead. She toured Europe before I had a passport. She’s collected Australia and New Zealand and those two countries, my friend, are hard to collect indeed.

Jeff, well, Jeff is afraid to fly so his country count is rather low. He does, however, have Sweden which neither Miranda nor I have. It’s the jewel in his crown.

Well, that was until Friday. Last Friday, Sparky and I drove across the 8km bridge/tunnel from Copenhagen to Malmö, Sweden. We got gas and picked up some cookies and coffee. Thus I ate in the country.

Before I go on with the story, I must tell you a little something about Sparky. Sparky is the kind of husband that encourages his wife and supports her in all her efforts. Sometimes Sparky’s support rolls over his wife and crushes whatever will she might have into smithereens. Sometimes it can be overwhelming. Sometimes it’s just the thing a girl needs.

Sitting there with coffee and cookies, Sparky thinks. He thinks about the number of countries I have. He thinks about which countries are close by. He thinks and thinks and thinks. He is not a bear of little brain.

What did this thinking produce? Norway.

Sparky suggested we drive to Oslo, Norway. We were in Sweden so Oslo should only be 200km away. (By the way, its not. It’s a long ass freekin’ drive. Remember, we were map free.)

So we did it. We drove to Oslo. That’s right. We DROVE to Oslo, Norway. We stayed an hour and turned around and drove home. It was awesome. We even saw the polar day, which means that it never got dark. Ever. To compare this road trip with a drug trip is not without validity. Most of the time it felt surreal. We were like the British Empire, the sun never set upon our skin.

There was a moment where we thought we could drive to the Artic Circle. It would have been so cool to drive that far north, be so high on the globe, to be farther north than either one of us thought. We had only an Schuler atlas published in 1986 to gauge how far the Artic Circle was from Oslo and in that book it didn’t look so far. We contemplated it for a good hour.

Being a former college student, I know how quickly a good trip can go bad. Driving to the Artic Circle sounded like a really cool idea, but could in fact be the tipping point into the badlands. So we settled for Oslo. Yeah, settled for Oslo.

By the time we got home Saturday evening, we were wrecked and exhilarated. And filthy. Did I mention that we drove straight through, sleeping briefly at rest stops? It took 7 hours from Malmö to Oslo. It took 19.5 hours to drive from Oslo to Boweltown, including 2 sleep stops totaling 6 hours. To do the math, we drove 26.5 hours total in a 32-hour period.

We thought we could take a ferry from Oslo to Kiel and we could have, but it was a 23-hour ferry ride. Sparky had work he needed to finish so we opted for the drive. I brushed my teeth at a rest stop in Sweden on the way back, but that was it.

The best thing about this trip is that Sparky and I NEVER ran out of things to talk about. I don’t know anyone with whom I can travel better. We didn’t fight or disagree once. Even when he said I had monkey arms like Pete Sampras. Dude, does he know how to complement a woman or what? He tried to take it back, tried to say he said something similar, but not quite the same, but you know once those words are out of your mouth, you can never pull them back. Monkey arms… I suppose that was better than wide ass, I mean, white ass, very white ass.

This week I’ll post more about our stay in Copenhagen and our trip. Copenhagen is expensive, but gorgeous. The Swedish language is just German in disguise and Norway is pure heaven. Seriously, the most gorgeous country I have ever driven through. And believe it or not, Oslo is one happening city. Everyone was partying and really, really drunk.

And I pooped. In every country.

Eating a Dane

2006-06-02T09:10:00.000+02:00

I am currently in Denmark, eating a Danish which is very different from a Dane.

Our Prague trip didn’t work out so we went north WITHOUT a map and without a book and we’ve landed very nicely in Copenhagen. How’s that for spontaneous. I stopped all the spontaneity when Sparky suggested a Hostel which he tried to get me to believe actually meant something different in Danish. Dude, the guy thinks I’m an idiot. I know my hostels from my four stars. I’m a freakin’ Peter Gabriel song. It’s Copenhagen for the day and Sweden for a little snack before we head back to Boweltown and the Deer Hunters.

That’s right, Jeff. I’m collecting Sweden today. Take that Biatch.

Our hotel has free wireless access so I am literally eating my Danish and posting. How cool is that. I am running out of battery power so I’ll make this quick.

The whole point of this post is to rile my little brother. More on how this works and why tomorrow.

Love,

Jen and Sparky

No Chance In Hell

2006-05-30T14:28:00.000+02:00

It’s a game show. I’m sitting in a chair and the host is across from me.

“So Jennifer, you are from the San Francisco Bay Area. You worked in the financial district for a securities firm. You consider yourself a bona fide city girl. You claim that marriage is not a priority, as you like to play the field. You prefer your men big and stupid. Your drink of choice is vodka on the rocks with a Marlboro Light or a triple espresso with a Marlboro Light. Your idea of a perfect day is a hard day at the office followed by a late night barhopping. You consider more than four hours sleep per night a waste of time. Are you ready to play “Not a Chance in Hell”?

“Yes, Bob, I am. I’m a girl who knows what she wants and how to get there. I have goals, Bob, and not much gets in my way. I’m pretty sure I’m going to clean up here.”

“Okay, for all you viewers at home, let’s recap. We are going to give Jennifer three scenarios of her future in three years. Jennifer will pick the future she deems least likely. After she chooses, we’ll use our superscope and find out, what exactly the future has in store for our contestant. If Jennifer’s choice is the least likely, she will win One Million Dollars. If her choice is somewhat likely, she will win $250,000 dollars. If her choice is actually her future, she wins a whirl in our “Machine of Future Forgetfulness”** to ensure that this future Jennifer is safe.”

“Jennifer, are you ready?”

“Yes, Bob. I’m ready.”

“Okay, here we go…Scenario One.”

On the screen, Jennifer is sitting alone in a dark office. She’s wearing headphones to help her concentrate as she types furiously at a keyboard. The phone rings. It’s her daughter’s nanny wondering when she’s coming home. A glance at the clock shows its 9:30 pm and the nanny wants to go home. Jennifer closes down her computer and heads back to the modest home she purchased right after her daughter was conceived via the sperm bank. Jennifer wanted a smart kid and the men she had been dating were not that bright. Jennifer enters the house, tired and worn from the long day, pets her cat Cleo and kisses her daughter’s sleeping head.

“So Jennifer, do you find this scenario likely?”

“Yes, Bob. I can see that happening. My employer has really good benefits for children. I can imagine that.”

“Okay, let’s move on to Scenario Two.”

On the screen, Jennifer is sitting alone in a dark office. She’s wearing headphones to help her concentrate as she types furiously at a keyboard. The phone rings. It’s a co-worker at a nearby bar. She says the place is swarming with hot guys and the drinks are flowing. Jennifer closes down her computer, retouches her make-up and fluffs her hair. In the elevator she unbuttons one more button on her blouse. Later, after a few drinks and a lot of pointless conversation, she drives to the modest home she purchased when her last stock options split. Jennifer enters the dark house, tired and worn from the long day, pets her cat Cleo and takes off her stockings and heels in the hallway.

“So, Jennifer, is this scenario likely or not?”

“More likely than the first, Bob, but it’s close. I can definitely see that happening. Its really no different from my present, except that I own my own home and that has always been a priority for me.”

“Okay, then. Let’s move on to Scenario Three.”

On the screen, Jennifer is in bed next to a snoring man. She seems to be tossing and turning. In the background there is a loud bark/honking noise. This noise repeats over and over again in different levels and seemingly by different individuals. It’s the sound of deer in mating season. Surprisingly, Jennifer seems familiar with the noise, enough to know what it is and be annoyed by the fact the deer are getting more action this week than she is. The clock reads 3 am. The alarm is set for 8 am. A Post-It on the clock reads “Breakfast with Tatiana @ 9am.” The platinum band on her left hand indicates she’s married. On the side of the bed is a book of German verbs and a German newspaper. She gets up, as the deer do not seem to be tiring, and looks out the window to see fields and forest. She walks down the dark hallway to the living room. Its big and spacious and so very clean that even in the moonlight you can see the polish and shine. She curls up on the sofa with a book and turns on a small lamp. Her cat Cleo jumps up on to her lap and the two of them cuddle until the sky turns gray with the morning light.

“Jennifer, you have seen three possible futures. Which one do you think is the least likely of happening, which is the "No Chance in Hell" future? Remember this is for One Million Dollars.”

“Bob. This is really easy. The No Chance in Hell future is the one with the nymphomaniac deer. One, I didn’t know deer made noise, ever. Two, I would never live where I could hear deer, even if they do make noise. Three, I did not see a diamond on that ring finger and I would never marry without a diamond. Four, the house was super clean and anyone who knows me, knows that I’m not filthy, but I hate to dust and polish. Five, it was implied that I was intending to sleep for far more than four hours. Six, the note said breakfast with some girl. I never eat breakfast and 9 am is midday for me. I wouldn’t have time. Bob, Scenario Three is so outrageous, I can’t believe your writers put it in there.” Laughter and mirth sprinkle the audience.

“Is that your final decision, Jennifer? Are you so sure of your future that you could not imagine yourself in Scenario Three?”

“Yes, Bob. I’m sure.” She says smugly.

“Harold, tell Jennifer what she has won.”

“Well, Bob, Jennifer’s future is not what she thinks it is. It IS Scenario Three. In the near future she leaves her job at the Securities firm, moves to Germany, marries a German and lives in a house that is not only pristinely clean, but also in the middle of a forest. She gets stuck behind tractors and slows for chickens as well as waking to fornicating deer in the night. Jennifer trades in her vodka on the rocks and Marlborough’s for three-hour workouts at the gym and protein shakes. Her husband bought a loft for them as opposed to a diamond and HE does the dusting and polishing. Because Jennifer no longer has to work, she has time to sleep seven to eight hours a night and her body thanks her for it. As does her cat Cleo who still takes her pillow in the night. Jennifer now has time for coffee dates at small, quiet neighborhood cafés with her girlfriend. Jennifer learns to cook and speak German.

Bob, Jennifer has won a ride in our Machine of Future Forgetfulness...

*************************
The whole point of this post is the fornicating deer. I think they were making deer porn last night because it was just ridiculous. It was at that point that if they had been human you would have pounded on the wall and told them to give it a rest already. The porn part is because I heard at least four different honks from different parts of the forest.

These deer were going for some sort of record and it was KILLING me. Even the cats started to put their little heads under pillows. That’s how loud these guys were.

I’ve lived in a dorm. I’ve lived with slutty girls. I WAS a slutty girl. I’ve lived in apartments with tissue paper for walls; I’ve lived with guys. I have never been woken in the night by anyone human to the same effect as these deer.

Who would have thunk?

**If you’ve ever watched Charmed, you’ll understand that you need to forget the future if you’ve seen it to make sure you don’t alter stuff that would lead to a different future UNLESS you need to alter the present to save to world from total destruction or save a sister from dying by the demon Shax. This is also true if you travel to into the future.

GOAL!

2006-05-22T23:31:00.000+02:00

Our downstairs neighbors have been importing German Flags from Turkey to sell and distribute for the World Cup. They have been using our Hof as a psuedo-storage area. This weekend it rained and stormed pretty hard and the bottom of these boxes got wet. Christina and Lisa even mentioned it when we were staring out at the hail (IN MAY!!!).

This is what happens when the bottom of a seriously large stack of boxes gets wet.

Girls Gone Wild without Joe Francis

2006-05-22T05:48:00.000+02:00

Today I was like the freakin’ U.S. Army. I got more done before 9 am… I know the commercial says 6 am, but come freekin’ on. That’s just too early these days.

Dropped Sparky off for a Hamburg headed train at 6 am, worked out, walked 5 km (on a treadmill), picked up the dry cleaning, bottled water, printer cartridges and four movies. Phew. Then I took a really long nap as I watched Dr. Dolittle 3. I don’t want to hear about it. I like movies with talking animals.

Then I noticed a nice puke stain from Ms. Cleo. She is super sick right now and I have no idea what to do about it. She’s on medicine and I have an appointment tomorrow morning with the Vet, but I am very, very worried. The whole chose between your husband and cat thing is not something we bring up in this house because it tends to hurt Sparky’s feelings, so you can imagine my level of anxiety over Cleo right now.

What else, what else. I know there was something else I wanted to write about, but it just left my brain. Have you noticed the more German you learn, the less English words you can remember? No? Maybe it’s just me.

Oh, I know… Last weekend. Yes, yes. That was it. Did anyone mention the pillow fights in babydolls (I was going to add a picture here, but I could only find naked ones. Sorry.) Or the sudsing each other up in the shower? No? No Sorority House antics mentioned? Well, maybe because they didn't happen, pervert.

Well, what can I add to our society of mutual admiration? I can say that if you weren’t there, you were talked about. Yes, you. And you. And you. If you are on any of our blog rolls you were talked about. Yep. Next time you need to be there to make sure we’re all being nice.

It was mostly of the “ Oh, I wish Ginnie had been able to make it.” or “What will it take to get Belinda to an event because she seems so cool?” or “B seems like a hoot.” variety.

I was so happy with the last minute spontaneous decisions of Claire and Lisa to just jump on that train and hope for the best. And Mausi, I can’t tell you how great she is because there are way to many people singing her praises to hear my voice, but I’m singing along, not just mouthing the words. She’s freekin’ awesome.

Mausi – Thanks for helping make the birthday cake that you didn’t get to eat. It was delish. I was so sad when Sparky took you away and there sat the little cake. It seems like there is never enough time, doesn’t it?

Lisa – I just want to say, I’m glad you were armed and I appreciate you telling me. It saved me a lot of blood. I was going to try to that whole “sell you to slave traders” thing, but once I knew you could cut me, I decided to call it all off. On a serious note. It takes a lot to jump on that train and meet people. Some people can do it with ease, but for others it’s really not that easy and Lisa, you did it and it was awesome. Thanks for taking that chance and I hope you do it again. Scrunchy told me he wanted to play with you last night, but you were gone and he was sad.

Claire – Tell the German he has Lisa to thank for your safety. Man, if she weren’t armed we would have gotten a REALLY good price for you. Money almost changed hands. And I did see the “hidden” microphone. I know you work for the NSA, but its okay. As long as you didn’t see the documents documenting our money laundering scam in the Caymans, I think we’re still good.

Sparky – Sparky was awesome. He did everything and allowed me to enjoy my ladies. He drove, he cleaned, he fetched, he smiled, he joked around and he never once complained about anything. Even when he wanted to pass out from exhaustion, he stayed up waiting for our next desire. You rock, husband. Oh except for your propensity to bring up silicon horse cock. Thank god for Tom Cruise because I have no idea how you could work that in to the conversation with out him. Because, you know, Tom Cruise Loves Horse CockOh and to answer your question, it’s $140.00. Those furries, man, they know how to accessorize.

All and all, it was awesome. We needed more time. I mean, really. Get four women who are starved for female conversation and we’d really need a week or two to run out of stuff to talk about. There is no substitute for face time.

Next time I think we should get a manicurist to come over and treat us all. You would never know it by looking out my window, but it is towards the end of May and I would like to wear sandals.

So ladies, shall we start to plan the next one? When kids are back in school and all our holidays have been taken and we’re glum again? I do not mind hosting again. It was a pleasure.

All right, I have to go watch my Queen Latifah movie and snuggle with Cleo. Later Gators…

And Let the Gossip Begin...

2006-05-20T07:23:00.000+02:00

Its girlie weekend, girls. And yes, Mausi, you still count as a girl.

Lisa will be here first, with Christina a close second. Claire comes in a bit later, just as the sangria is ready to drink actually. Ginnie will be here in spirit, I am told. Miranda should have been here, but she’s not. I would have been so happy to see my little sister. Sniff, Sniff (Hey mim, that’s as much internet guilt as I can manage)

Cleo is looking forward to sleeping on Christina’s bed. You know how it is with cats and allergy sufferers. Kiska will be traumatized and spend the weekend under the bed. It will be interesting to see how Fin reacts. Eventually, he’ll come out and play.

Sparky will be going by the names Jaaames all weekend, but only if it is said in a British accent. Otherwise he’ll not respond. He is playing driver, butler and errand boy all weekend when he’s not actually trying to get work done and his obsessive visits to the gym. He’s really happy.

J will be sneaking in for lunch tomorrow. He and Sparky and I are going to the “Theata, dahling” later in Sunday evening. Talk about a full weekend.

I’m off to find heavy juice oranges and whip up a frittata.

Later, gators.

There is Truth in Advertising

2006-05-18T17:29:00.000+02:00

Gorgeous Germany. Busty Bavaria. Homoerotic Hessen.

This is a Public Service Announcement for all those living outside Germany. Bavarian Beer wenches can be tempted to do ANYTHING for a weizen, even make-out with their hot girlfriends.

Seriously, all the women in Germany look like this. I know, I know, the stereotypical shot-put thrower is what usually comes to mind when you think of German women, the mean aunt in Mathilda. This is not true. In fact, Germany has the most beautiful and sexually adventurous women in the world. Forget Switzerland, they’re beautiful, but charge you a fortune in jewels or rare artwork then send you on your way. In Germany, it will only cost you a beer.

These ads are all over my city right now. I know sex and advertising and all that jazz, but man, I can’t look away. I swear the brunette is about to French the blond.

You might think they are Lesbian Bavarian Beer wenches, but they aren't really lesbians. They just make-out with each other for their boyfriends. Its really all about the bratwurst for these girls. And the weizen. Don't forget the weizen.

These are the girls you meet at Oktoberfest. Really. I swear.

To Cleanse the Palate

2006-05-16T19:59:00.000+02:00

This is for you, Lisa and Nuala.

2006-05-16T19:57:00.001+02:00

2006-05-16T19:57:00.000+02:00

Locker Rooms and Starfish

2006-05-15T19:15:00.000+02:00

How have I gotten to the age of 33 without hearing the term “Squish Mitten“? Thank you, Bloodhound Gang. I would have linked urbandictionary.com, but the definition there is just over the top. I’m sure you can figure it out.

Now, on a totally different topic, go say Happy Birthday to Hamish. He said nothing about his birthday on Sat when we were drinking to J in Koblenz. For that, he will certainly get a “Hamish Fagerstrom, I know you’re in there!” early one Sunday morning when he’s not off globetrotting. It’s best if I don’t know exactly where you live.

Sparky is working like crazy and I have the comp for exactly twenty minutes as he takes a potty break.

I’m on a five days a week workout schedule and I have to say, it is really killing me. Sparky keeps telling me that working out is good for you, but he has yet to prove that point.

Today, these two very slender, very cute Asian chicks snagged the shower stalls. If you don’t snag these stalls, it’s the women’s prison showers for you. I work out early specifically so I can get a shower stall. The shower part of the work out is the carrot to the leg lift/treadmill stick.

I was tearing off my sweaty clothes trying to get to the shower before them. It was all slow motion. I couldn’t get my shirt over my head fast enough as the girls walked calmly towards the stalls. I tripped over my flip-flops and dropped my towel, but they got there first, damn twigs.

These two girls I’m sure were not aware of the rules or they would have left one stall for me. Shower stalls are reserved for women who have something they don’t want to share with the rest of the population and my name is on the top of that list. Slender Asian chicks with skin like lotus blossoms and charming giggles do NOT fall into this category.

I was about to show these two ladies exactly how similar the Fitness Company shower room is to a women’s prison when one of them left. I don’t know why we bothered. I was still sweaty when I left and the girls smelled like mothballs.

In other locker room news, one of the Trainers came out of the showers around the same time I did. I was nervous because I totally shave my legs there and you’re really not supposed to do that (another reason for the privacy afforded by the shower stall). I don’t know why, but I was slightly worried she might see the small nick on the back of my knee and call the shower police to examine my shower bag. She would find not one, but two razors (a backup) and throw me out. Only the guilty spend so much time worrying about such small details. And I had no idea when I walked out of the shower with my Japanese flag on the back of my knee that before the morning was over, Miss Trainer and I would become so familiar.

I’m not too modest a person. Bodies are bodies and I’ve spent enough time examining my own for flaws that I can make myself feel better in 2 seconds by picking out the flaws in others. The point being, I keep my towel wrapped as I do my toilette and if others want to be naked, I really don’t have a problem.

Except when you blow your hair dry. Especially if you WORK there.

There I was minding my own business, bent over with the dryer all up in my roots. I was clothed and even had my shoes on. I swung up during the final cold shot moment (I need the extra volume) only to be greeted by the 2006 Miss Buckeye.

The woman did not have enough flesh on her ass to hide anything. Oh and I do mean anything. I looked around to see if there was a video shoot that I might have inadvertently walked into, but no. It was just me, the Asian chicks and the porn star.

My second thought was that I must be getting old, because that was just over the top. I’ve seen a number of chocolate starfishes and I have to say, the circumstances were very different. Even when the word casual could be connected with such a sighting, it was never quite like this.

So I kinda don’t know where we stand now. Do I just pretend it never happened? Do I smile and act casual? Am I expected to buy her a drink? More importantly, will she still validate my parking? Update: Sparky seems to think that you might not realize that I saw this woman's ass hole, her chocolate starfish. So lt me clarify. I saw it all, people, i saw it all.

Girls Weekend...

2006-05-09T17:50:00.000+02:00

is still on. So here are the details.

When:
Saturday May 20th and Sunday May 21.
If you only want to come for one day, make it Saturday May 20th.
You decide how long you want to stay. Christina is spending the night and I have one more blow up mattress and a sofa if anyone else wants to spend the night. If you don’t want to take advantage of the luxurious blowup mattress, there is an inn in the area.

Where:
My place in Darmstadt. E-mail me for info.

What:
A girlie weekend. Good food, drinks, coffee provided one of you can make it because I make lousy coffee. I make a mean sangria and a fabu Cosmo. Lots of girl talk and possibly a BBQ if the weather is decent.

What to know:
1. In case you are a serial killer and have never read this blog, I have cats. That’s plural as in three and they are all shedding. If you are allergic to cats, take medication. Otherwise your running nose and watery eyes will give you away.

2. There will be plenty of laughs. If you don’t like to laugh, stay home. Or come and we'll teach you how.

3. If you do spend the night, I promise bras will not be frozen, but I can’t promise that the old hand in warm water trick won’t be attempted.

4. Sparky and I can shuttle to and from the bahnhof. I’m a better driver, but Sparky can get you there faster.

5. Also, at the same time, J is coming down for the Save Sparky bike ride. Yes, I know, J and a bike, hard to believe. So if you want to bring a significant other, we do have babysitting available.

Be there or be square.

Rabbit holes and big girl underpants

2006-05-08T11:53:00.000+02:00

I fell down the rabbit hole, but I’ve finally put on my big girl underpants and re-joined the world.

I’d like to blame it on expatitis. When my head hurts too much to think in German, speak in German, to deal with the KAKs (Krazy-Ass Krauts), and too much is finally too much and my overload button gets pushed over and over like I’m a slow elevator. Then Sleep takes a hike and insomnia stops by for a chat and like a nosey neighbor overstays his welcome as if he were ever actually invited in for tea. But then Insomnia becomes my best friend because he’s quieter than dream-filled Sleep.

One of the reasons I knew Sparky might be the guy for me was because when he was around I could sleep, heavy, dreamless, deep. This was when my choice of self-medication was constant movement. Work early, stay out late, never stop, never stop, never stop.

Truthfully, its more likely just slightly fucked up brain chemistry mixed with a bit of hormonal imbalances. Thank god my Dad’s genes diluted my mom’s genetic mess. Thanks Mom for marrying outside the family tree (this is not necessarily a given on that side of the family).

I dropped Sparky off at the train this morning at 6:30. He’s been working like a madman lately. He left me the laptop and today is the first time I’ve touched it in ages. This sharing thing is getting really old, really fast. I think there might be a new laptop in our future.

After the drop off, I headed to the gym for the first time in weeks. Alone and without coercion. I was there before the place opened and stood outside waiting with 20 other people who looked liked they do this regularly. I had ample opportunity to turn tail and head on home, but those big girl pants, man, they make you do big girl things like take control again. I know, exercise is supposed to make you feel better, helps fight depression yada yada yada, but getting out the door seems to be my problem.

So, with this newfound energy, I will be returning comments and e-mails all day without sharing the comp and without interruption. This is good because I have a lot of google da Vinci code quests to catch up on. And celeb gossip. I wonder what that man lovin’ Tom Cruise is up to these days.

Planned Spontaneity

2006-04-25T16:21:00.000+02:00

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

2006-04-21T17:23:00.000+02:00

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…