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

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

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...

 

 

 

 

Sisters

 

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

 

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

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

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

  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

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...

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

  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?

 

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

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

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

  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

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

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

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

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

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.