HeisseScheisse

So luck might not change anytime soon, but I’m moving on.

After the espresso machine broke, I figured out how to make coffee with a french press.  This might not seem like a big deal, but I have a serious history with seriously bad coffee.  But I took off those training wheels, put on my big girl panties and conquered the french press.

Then I took those same big girl panties off for a photo shoot with Tat last weekend.  A publisher requested that she do some photos using real women and not models for a book thingie.  I am nothing if not real.  A little odd at first, but it was fun and her photos are gorgeous.  I don’t even recognize myself.

I left for Paris right after.  Paris was GORGEOUS. All the poppies were out and the sky was a perfect blue the whole three days I was there.  Not a riot in sight and we traded the tear gas for warm spring breezes.  I ate snails and crepes and quiche and gelato and pretty much everything that sounded good.  We walked all day, everyday and I ended up a couple of kilos lighter.  Not too shabby. By the time I left I could even say merci and au revoir without sounding like a total poseur.

I’m back from Hamburg for good now.  We took the final load from the house on Saturday morning.

Ollie’s stitches are out and he’s walking a bit better. Sparky calls him Three and a Half, I call him Hop-a-long.  He’s getting there, the little guy.  I have to say, he was pretty much a snuggle cat before and now he’s even more snuggly and loving.  It could definitely be worse.

I leave for Barcelona on Wednesday night.  I’m very much looking forward to this trip with my sister.  I plan on tiring her out with Gaudi, Gaudi and more Gaudi.  And the sun and the beach and the Med because redheads love the sun. And the sangria.  And the paella.  Dude.  We had better walk alot.

If I had no luck at all…

I have had the worst luck in the last few weeks. I’ve had nothing to write about because it has been so bad, I can’t even find humor in it. Yes, the girl who can find humor in a dead mother can’t find a joke to save her life.

A short glum list:

• Ollie had to have a second surgery and is thus confined to a playpen for a longer period of time (his bad luck)
• I lost my diamond anniversary bracelet
• I spent a day with my mother-in-law
• Killed a phone with the simple touch of my hand
• Chipped our granite counter-top opening a cheap bottle of wine
• Two words - Root canal
• My hair is now a color in between cat piss yellow and 80s skater bronze (you know, those dark haired guys who bleached only the bangs but badly so it came out a orangey brassy bronzey color)
• Fertility drugs are kicking my ass
• Thought I was out of Hamburg, moved everything back… I’ll be driving up again on Sunday.

Trust me, the rest is worse. I don’t want to depress you. Let’s just say that I should forget about fertility drugs and just try it the old fashion way because it is so not the right time to have a kid that Ironus would definitely choose this month to drop a kid in to the House of Flying Cats. Not one, but three, all at the same time with two mouths each.

I will go to Paris next week. For a whole 1.5 days. All of which will be spent in a conference.

Why?

Because sometimes bodies do not do what is expected of them, thus forcing the cognitive part of said body to reschedule all other tasks to fly a day late at great expense to catch up with the other body necessary to not completely waste 500 euros worth of injections. Hopefully, Sparky and I can avoid being tear gassed like we were on our honeymoon. (No, it wasn’t S/M gone awry, it was an omen a riot we inadvertently walked into.)

I looked up Luck on Wikipedia and it made me want to kick my computer in the head. I, however, do not currently have the funds to replace this machine so its safe for now.

I’m going to go throw salt around. I’ll probably just get it in my eye or an open wound, but it’s better than just leaving things to the universe, right?

For some reason I want a note from my mom today, to see her hand writing and know she was thinking about me.

Ollie actually broke his hip.  I felt like something was wrong.  Sparky thought I was over-reacting by driving him home to see our vet, the third since his midnight flight.   I wasn’t.  The first vet took the x-ray from the wrong angle.  The second vet figured he was fine because he was walking.  The third, our regular vet figured it out, x-rayed him right and because of the location of the splintered break suggested a fourth vet for surgery.

Ollie had surgery last week.  He’s in a playpen for the next six weeks. (I find it ironic that the first piece of baby furniture I have, courtesy of Tat, is being used for cat rehab.) Four vets, one surgeon, one metal plate, five small pins, and over a grand later, Ollie is healing, but not very well.  He needs physical therapy.

Now, not only do I have a cat that is allergic to cats, but I have a cat that goes to physical therapy.  Next thing you know, Scrunchy is going to request a Freudian analyst to discuss his separation anxiety due to early kittenhood abandonment and having no idea who he really is because he never even knew his father’s name.

In related new, Sparky is going to London without me this weekend because I must care for Ollie.  I am horribly jealous.  I’ve never been to London.

In non-cat related news, my work project is coming to an end.  May 1st I’ll be back in Boweltown. I love Hamburg and my co-workers, but I miss my other life. I miss my dryer and my garbage disposal and my new curtains and my gym and my manicurist, my best friend and my vet (not necessarily in that order).  I miss my old routine.

So, unemployed, I’m planning on travelling in May.  I have a date in Paris, but a certain cat might cancel that trip. First London and now possibly Paris.  Thanks, cat.  Good thing I love that fuzzy butt of yours.

I had planned a solo trip to Barcelona, Andorra, Portugal and Ireland.  Then I remembered that I am on a baby making cycle. Oh yeah, that.  Thanks, ovaries.

Try making travel plans around a fertility calendar.  It’s awesome.

Then to make matters worse, I realized that my ass looks exactly like my 60 year old father’s when I wear sweatpants. I asked Sparky if maybe I was being silly.  His response?

“Oh My GOD.  It does.  I think I just lost my hard-on for a year.”

Great.  Note to self: Get Sparky response training.  I really don’t care about his hard-on (except for baby-making reasons).  This is what I needed to hear:

No Jen, of course not.  In fact, now that you mention it, I find a remarkable resemblance to Angelina Jolie’s ass.

Lie to me.  Really.

Now for some personals:

Mim: Get off my blogging ass. I’ll call you this weekend about Barca after I coordinate my fertility calendar, business meetings, Sparky’s calendar and travel plans.  Its like a 3-d chess game.

Jami: I can’t come in June because of baby-making plans. Come here.  Travel with me in Europe.

Dad:  What are we doing for your sixtieth? I need to know.

Jeff:  If you don’t call me you rat bastard, I will hunt your skinny white ass down!

I just got back from the second vet appointment in 15 hours.

You know, I think its going to take more than a nice set of pearls and a twinset to make a mother out of me. If can’t keep a cat from taking a header off our third floor balcony, what the hell am I doing thinking about kids.

I wrote this maudlin piece earlier, reliving all the guilt I felt coursing through my veins (along with that lovely cortisol which I blame for making me look ten years older in six months) last night and today, but it began to bore me.

Olli took a walk on a ledge via the balcony and fell. I didn’t know until Scrunchy alerted me Lassie style. I’m not even exaggerating. Scrunchy is either a really good big brother or didn’t want to miss out on any of that butt licking he and Olli seem to symbiotically enjoy.

Scrunchy wailed and herded me towards the window with cat fur extensions in place. His fur totally could have been an early Tina Turner wig.

We found Ollie outside and three floors from where he was supposed to be.

A late night trip to the vet and an x-ray later, he had no internal bleeding or broken bones. However, because the vet was wearing a Dr. Frankenstein-like white smock, I wasn’t so willing to say Olli was fine. Thirty meters is a long way for a little guy. And this Dr. was a little suspicious to me.

I stayed home today to make sure, spoon feeding Olli my pasta sauce because he likes that more than Wiskas Fish medley.

And I freaked out some more. I got a referral to a good vet (as opposed to Zee-Docktor of Anatomy and your-cat-ist-fine. Jeest-leeve-heem-vivf-me. Whaaaa-haaa-haaa-guy from last night.)

The good vet told me that Olli had a concussion, a bruised chin, bruised sternum, ribs and all four paws. He said that Olli probably had one hell of a headache, but he wasn’t in danger of curling up in a corner and dying the way I was imagining it. In other words, the cat is really freakin’ lucky.

Two pain shots later and an appointment for tomorrow, I was out the door.

I called Tat this morning to commiserate. I think she let’s me talk about my cats as if they were kids because she feels guilty for being able to pro-create so easily. Tat says one day “Hey, I think I want another kid.” She thinks about if for one more day and BAM! She’s knocked up. So I take advantage of that guilt by talking about Olli, Scrunchy and Kiska as if I’m about to sign them up for soccer practice.

Turns out, while I was up every hour, face pressed to the hardwood floor making sure Olli was still breathing, she was up with her two-year old. The kid thanked her for the diaper change and said “Bye” when she wanted to go to sleep.

Maybe I’ve got the night shit down, I just need to work on keeping them from sharp objects and high places.

I put on my pearl earrings and my black twinset. Paired with my gray knee length swirly skirt and straight long hair brushed out, I look very conservative, hopefully a bit maternal. As in all things, I must accessorize appropriately.

I wanted to make a good impression. It’s not everyday a girl gets to meet with her fertility specialist. One never knows if he makes a decision on who should or should not be a mom depending on what she looks like. I tried to exude a nice, professional if not humorous air. As if I want a kid, but I’m not biting my nails and I am certainly not one of those obsessive women in the forums I’ve lurked on trying to glean bits of info on the real life effects of the drugs that have been prescribed.

I’ve been kind of quiet over here on Heisse Scheisse for the last long while, but that does not mean life has been quiet by any means.

I’ve had to make a lot of decisions lately that are have a zero “Do-Over” tolerance. One of those decisions came about when my beloved OB/Gyn said “Jen, its now or never. I can’t promise to keep the baby maker healthy for much longer. Please go talk to Dr. Lovely Eyes.”

Today’s news was not great. Apparently with my medical history, hormone history and age, Dr. LE is not quite sure how much time I have left. He prefers to start with IVF in four months if the injectables don’t work by then.

“Well, Jennifer. With your history, the use of Drug G will give you an 85% chance of twins. You need to be okay with this possibility before we continue.”

“You know, I am okay with that. I consider having only one child child/societal abuse* and since I might have only one shot at this, I’d like to make it as efficient as possible. If we could go ahead and schedule twins and a C-section with a tummy tuck, I think we’re good. Time is a limited commodity, and all.”

I was only sort of joking and I think he caught that because there were crickets after that mouthful.

So I had the full battery of tests and picked up a prescription for an injectable drug to be started on my next cycle.

Hmm. Well. Okay then.

This has come not out of the blue, but on the top of relationship decisions which lead to whether or not I stay in Germany and for how long decisions, which lead to employment decisions which lead back to baby decisions.

I knew this day was coming. I have been struggling with the multitude for quite sometime. My general attitude has been to let go and let the gods decide. I can’t leave for a while anyway so let’s let this decision go for a while. Since I’m here, I might as well do this. Since I’m doing this I can wait on that.

Am I being vague? Yes, I am. Do I want to go further into this line of thought? Not really. I don’t want to go into it privately, with friends, with a therapist or in my head, let alone on paper, or Internet paper as the case may be.

However, is taking a fertility drug really letting the gods decide? I’m making a conscious choice. One that will have everlasting effects on all the other decisions I haven’t wanted to make. So what am I doing? Exactly, what do you think you are doing, Ms. M? Making decisions by proxy? Letting circumstances decide your future?

Or is it faced with the reality that I might not have a family ever because I’ve put it off for so long by not making the right choice when I should have, I’m panicking and making the only decision of which I am sure? I want kids. I want a family. When all is said and done, regardless of what continent I live on and who is in my life, I really do want children.

So all those decisions and what has resulted? A trip to the babymaker extrodinaire. We’ll see where I am in a few months. Otherwise I’m just goose stepping to the rhythm.

However, if I become one of those crazy hormonal women with little tags that say “Go, Spermy Go!”, I give you permission to kick my ass.

*Before I go into how only children tend to be a bit on the selfish side and only know how to share because they get to, to show how generous they can be, not because they HAVE to and all that entails, let me just say I know a few only children and that might not give me the right to judge them all, but I gives me the right to judge enough to know I do not want to do that to society at large. And as god as my witness I will not share my drink, so don’t ask. (Obviously the oldest child, here.)

And my relationship with my siblings is such that I would want my child to have a chance to experience the same. Also, “only” children have the sole responsibility for aging parents and I think this is awful. No one should have to deal with that alone.

Please add 9 and 6.

Now add 15.

In the real world, this is too much math for my liking.

I was the insolent teenager who voiced the words “I’ll never need this in the real world!” because I was going to be an English or Psychology major and there was no way in hell I would ever surround myself with numbers?

Yeah.

Well, I’m sitting here trying to figure out an overhead percentage in order to figure out a pricing model.  If I lost you with the the overhead percentage thing, well, you are not alone.

Oh yeah, and I’m doing it in German.

I need this:  Der Zuschlagsprozentsatz

I am currently lost in a forest of word problems.  And in this case there is no answer in the back of the book to make sure I’m doing my math correctly.

Now, why do I need word problems when all I need is a few different numbers that require simple checkbook math to calculate.  Well, that, my friend is a different problem.

Hamish, where are you when I need you.  Oh yeah, business school, you rat bastard.

Ace, I think I might need you to check my pricing.

Mr. Hilton, my algebra teacher who was also the girls basketball coach and taught algebra in terms of basketball, must be laughing his ass off.

I hate math.

Mushy Heizung

Definition: Car seat heating

English translation: Pussy Heater

Alternate phrases: Mushy Toaster
Eier Heizung/Toaster (Egg Heater) referencing testicles

Thank you, Lena.

Talking about my mom at lunch one day…

Me: My mom loved fairies.
GBF: Well, then she would have loved me!

*********

Wearing my new wide legged, cropped pants…

Me: Do I look like a fat girl trying to be stylish?
GBF: No Sweetie, you look like a stylish fat girl.

*********

GBF: Well, look who’s calling the pot a kitchen implement of colour!

*********

GBF: If the pump fits and the handbag matches…

*********

Telephone Marketer: Hello, may I speak to the lady of the house?
GBF: Honey, I’m as close as you’re ever gonna get.

**********

I met Shaun five days after my mom died, the first day of the new me and the first day of my new life.

It started off like every other day of my life with spilled coffee and a jacket with sun faded stripes that I hadn’t noticed before the coffee spill. Right after meeting my new supervisor, I met Shaun, wide smile and mischievous intelligence in his gorgeous eyes.

I was so not fashionable, hiding my girth in large flower print blouses and long black mumus that were the only options for women over a certain size. (I still don’t understand that. Why large prints? As if being fat is not punishment enough.) Just coming out of a long period of depression and self-imposed isolation, I was not at my best. But Shaun was that person. You know, that one person who sees through the crap and makes a difference that you cannot imagine, mired in that tarpit of depression.

All I can say is Shaun saw through the glum, picked my ass up and gave me strength and confidence to move on up, Jeffersons style.

He introduced me to non-mainstream pop culture, real friendship and self-esteem. Not to mention music, books, movies and food I would never been exposed to if not for him. You cannot blame him for my penchant for celebrity gossip, although you can blame him for my unique brand of cattiness.

He also introduced me to truffles and cashmere, the bastard. My life bank account has never been the same since.

He is the essence of loyalty and royalty. We share the same sun sign and as Leos, we rule in harmony rather than cutting each other down.

He walked by my side into Neiman Marcus’ even though my hose had a huge run and my lipstick made my teeth look yellow. Later he helped me pick out a much better colour.

He drove my ass up to yoga and laughed with me when I almost smothered myself with my more than ample bosom.

He picked my hung-over ass up in his big 4 wheel drive truck, wearing his Golden Gate Wrestling t-shirt and drove around searching for the house where I had left my favourite sweater earlier that morning during a particularly shameful walk of shame. (It was a key element to my wardrobe, okay!) He was prepared to go up to the house and retrieve said sweater, had I been able to find the house. That is the kind of friend Shaun is. I think he was also a bit curious to meet the men of that house, but that is a different story, for a very different sort of blog. (A blog my father doesn’t read, perhaps.)

He offered his laundry room when I was poor and didn’t have one quarter, let alone six for a single load. He gave me his house when he was out of town and encouraged me to invite people over which I did many, many times.

When he brown-bagged lunch, he’d bring me one too. You know the typical brown bag lunch… Coq au Vin, Tahitian Sea Bass in parchment paper. Things as ordinary as that. I mean, it was only slightly better than the Taco Bell down the street so I did him the favour of not turning it down. EVER!

I, on the other hand, lent him my clothes for drag night, walked his dogs and laughed at all his jokes.

Shaun is my more than my gay boyfriend. He is a lifeline. We might not talk for a couple of months, but it never matters. We pick up where we left off as if time were imposed construct.

And now he is blogging.

Enjoy his writing. He is better than I am, by far and he never, ever makes a spelling error. I cannot even tell you how many e-mails he would return to me all tarted up in red, instructing me on spelling and grammar. He’s ruthless.

He’s new to this blogging world, but we are better for it. Go give him some time and a bit of encouragement although I have to say, a little goes a long way with him. God only knows what we’re getting into!

*************

Here are the links to some posts that include GBF.

Original Gay Boyfriend Post, 2005

Dinner at Whit’s End (the name of his estate) , 2006

Brussel Sprouts , 2006

It’s practically FREE!

Kegels

Okay.  Enough people have e-mailed me about this that I think I should come clean.

Boweltown is not the real name of my city.  It’s the rough translation from the German name into English. Darm=Bowel, Stadt=City (poetic license to change it to town)

It’s funny name, Darmstadt.  Darm…  Stadt… Darm.  Stadt…   (Stars… Hollow…  Stars…  Hollow…)

At first I started using darm in place of damn, but it didn’t catch on and people thought there was something seriously wrong with my digestive system.

Then I translated it in conversation for my sister.  We thought it was funny. Another facet of the whole poop culture that I found myself immersed in.  And I needed a code word for where I lived because I was anonymous at that point. Lo and behold it worked with HeisseScheisse.

I’m not so anonymous anymore.  Everyone knows who I am and most know where I live and have seen my sex toys, soo..

Once more for the record.

I live in Darmstadt.  Or my loft is in Darmstadt. Currently, I’m living in Hamburg.  No need to translate that.