‘Perfect’ State of Mind

This morning I was one of those girls. One of those girls who gets massages and facials and has the perfect outfit with the perfect shoes and the most perfect handbag.  The kind of girl whose quiet confidence and contentedness has nothing to do with being perfect because she doesn’t know any other way of being.  Okay, maybe not that last part, but the first part for sure.

This morning I found myself at the Olympus club here in Hamburg. Found might not be the right word. I begged and pleaded with Sparky. Then I begged some more. I pleaded and made logical arguments that justified said expense.  Then I remembered i actually finished a job and was getting paid by people who have to pay me and not because they love me.

An aside: I don’t know why I had to beg for it in the first place. You would think he’d be jumping at the chance to put me in that type of mood. After a massage I am so pliable, so agreeable, he could suggest a gang bang and I’d be like “Sure, baby, Whatever you want. Shall I wear the five inch heels?”

Before the massage I did the sauna thing using the full immersion method. This isn’t a language program, it’s jumping into a deep pool of icy water after 15 minutes in the sauna, then going back into the sauna and then jumping back into the icy pool.

I moved on after my polar bear impression to the waiting area where Stefan, my massage therapist greeted me. I like deep tissue massages. It has to hurt. Not many people are strong enough, but Stefan’s grip boded well. Let me tell you, the man knows how to make it hurt. It was fabulous.

After the 90 minute massage, I was like jelly. Its like really great sex without the work. Honestly, I was debating whether or not a massage is the female equivilant to going to a prosititute. It wasn’t erotic, but it could have been. The noises made by clientele are similar. I mean, the lights were off and my eyes were closed and it felt so good and Stefan was doing things to me that I could never get Sparky to do and there was no need to talk, no need to do more han say what felt good and what didn’t and that paying for it thing really absolves me of any responsibility. Honestly, you need to be schooled in the art of massage and no matter what good intentions Sparky might have, there is no way he’d be thrilled with with the idea of 90 minutes of oily fingers.

After Stefan finished doing me up right, I showered, did my hair and makeup. It was like magic. Everything worked perfectly. My hair looked great as did my outfit. I walked out of the spa feeling like one of those perfect women. (Seriously, the secret is in the handbag. A good handbag covers a lot of sins.)

I didn’t just feel the part, I really looked it. I was even walking in my black, pointy, 3.5 inch heels perfectly. I looked hot.

Then I went to lunch. I have this thing about eating with real silverware. I like it. A lot. I want a real meal with real service and people seeing to my every need.  I don’t want to touch my water bottle to refill my glass. I want someone to put my napkin in my lap and ask if there is anything else I need so I can say “No, thank you.” because nothing else needs to be done, they think of it all.   This happens rarely.   Sparky calls me his Luxury Bitch. And you know what? As long as I get it, he can call me what ever he wants.

So there I am, my tandori chicken over a bed of mango risotto and my chocolate sorbet over raspberry cream with a lime sauce a fading memory, content in my aloneness, and enjoying the day. The waiter is very solitious after many qustions about a woman dining alone. I swore after the fifth question that I was indeed, dining alone and that I did not need a table in the corner and no one was going to join me and I did not have a room at this particular hotel.  I came for the food and the service and the spa was downstairs.
I finish, pay my bill and walk out, all perfect and serene. I’m looking over the crowd, all content in my perfectness when my perfect heel on my perfect shoe slids out from under me and sends me careening down the five steps from the dais. You know that part of the restaurant that is above the rest of the place. You know, where everyone in the restaurant can see you in your perfect heels fall down those steps and that perfect handbag clocks you in the face as you go down.

It was beautiful. A perfect end to a perfect morning at the spa. This is as close to perfect as I will ever be with Ironus on the job.

I blamed my shoes. So what do we do when we have shoes that make us fall? We buy new shoes.

Snap.

Habib

I still don’t have Speedy, my fabulous new computer, up and running. Its a delightful combo of a defective machine, improperly installed OS meets inherent Vista problems meets a notebook shop that is as unhelpful as anywhere here in Germany. Let’s just say, if I hear the phrase “Use your recovery disc again” one more time, I will toss this laptop through the bulletproof window of said computer shop.

One of the negative aspects of not having Speedy is Habib. Habib is lonely.

Who is Habib? Habib is a carved stone elephant brought to me by a Mystery Friend(MF(r)) who had visited Thailand. And what he, Habib, represents to me, I think, is lost in most souvenir experiences.

MF(r) had a fabu time in Southeast Asia. I won’t go into details about his trip except to say that the first two words he used to describe it was “soul cleansing.” His trip, his story.

We met soon after he came back and he told me all about it. He gave me colorful descriptions that carried me to these locales as he spoke. He’s something of a word smith and his details were vivid – so vivid, I can still feel the heat of the day, the weight of the water and the lightness of his spirit. Then when our conversation about his trip was coming to an end, he handed me Habib.

I was touched. Not only because I got a really cool little elephant, but because this little trinket symbolized this great trip of his and in someway he thoughtfully shared this experience with me via an item.

I think its this idea that gets lost, at times, with the materialistic nature Americans (I can only speak for my culture) have cultivated.

Every time I look at Habib, I think about the trip and what it meant to him. Last Friday, on the phone with Sony for the fourth time that day after faxing in my proof of purchase, losing my patience and pulling out my hair, I saw Habib sitting there, a peaceful little elephant. I took what he represented and calmed down. A little reminder to change my perspective.

I think of water fights and rivers and underground caves and well behaved children. I’ve never been to these places, but I can travel there via his stories.

Now Habib tells me he was bought in bulk, but this doesn’t matter. This token is like a letter. Once that letter is written and handed off to either the postman or to a friend, it is no longer yours to decide its meaning. It is given with a specific idea in mind, but it is up to the recipient to decide what to do with it. It is no longer in the giver’s domain; it is given away hopefully to a compatible home, but <i>given away</i> in any case.

(This is where things could actually take a turn in the “I won’t be ignored, Dan!” way. Be careful to whom you give your words.)

So now Habib sits as a symbol of peace on my desk waiting for his ironically named friend. Until then, the cat has decided to befriend him and I’m not quite sure Habib is excited about that.

However, what matters is that he is now sitting on my desk, a symbol of an exhilarating trip and good friendship.

I Just Want to be Fucking Entertained

I’ll be in Hamburg Wednesday, Thursday and Friday of this week. If you’re there and want to meet up for coffee, drop me a line.

And as for the title of this post, its not like I would just sit there and wait for you to talk. Most of the time I just can’t shut up, so really, I’d be entertaining you while you just sit there bored out of your mind, trying to get a word in edgewise.

Sounds like fun, huh.

An Interview. Alt Title: A long post my brother will not read unless there is a Cliff Notes Version

Carol asked me the following questions. Dixie had asked Carol her questions. If you would like me to ask you questions, leave me a comment to that effect or send me an e-mail. I’m gone all day today, but will get back to you with the questions tomorrow, fur shur, baby.

So here I go.

1.) What 5 things do you miss most about San Francisco and the Bay Area? (You know I HAD to ask that one!)

• My family. I miss them like crazy. I can’t tell you how many times a day I wish my brother and I were hanging out, bullshitting. No one knows me better and there are some days I just want to be understood without having to preface everything. I miss having lunch with my dad. I miss the humor. I never laugh like I laugh with my family. Its soul deep. I’m a girl that needs to laugh. A Lot.

• My hairstylist, John. Enough said.

• The Ocean. Lived by it all my life. Spent summers in Laguna Beach growing up. I learned to swim before I could walk and there is nothing that gets me more excited than that moment when I step out of the car and smell the warm sand and the salty air, just knowing that in a few minutes, I’ll be in that water, riding those waves and getting sunburnt.

Granted, San Francisco beaches are not quite the same as the ones in southern California, but that salty air, the waves and the sheer power of the ocean calms my soul. Its cliché, but true.

• And that leads to seafood. I love seafood. Try getting seafood in the middle of Germany. Im. Poss. Ible. Nothing like going to the wharf and picking up some cracked crab and eating it right there with the salty sour smell of the marina water, the honking of the sea lions and being amazed at this gorgeous city I call home.

• And lastly the sky. In the Bay Area, its really high and an incredible blue. I know that sounds crazy, “the sky is the same height everywhere,” but no, it isn’t. The cloud layer here is very low. Clouds in SF are high, high, so high you could never reach them in a million years. And so fast you have point out the cloud shapes fast because they are on their way east, pronto.

Here? Well, the clouds are not really high achievers. They mostly mope around. I feel a bit claustrophobic.

My GBF once told me that the San Francisco sky was a blue one couldn’t find anywhere else. He was right. It was the closest in Tuscany. I could live in Tuscany, I suppose.

2.) Given the choice of anyone in the world, who would you want as a dinner guest? As a close friend? As a lover? (Permission granted for this question…!)

• Dinner Guest: My brother. I really miss him. And I wouldn’t have to entertain or worry that my dishes are chipped and I could totally relax. And I’d have the added bonus that he would sit with me while I cooked, watching to make sure I didn’t add any sort of laxative as I am wont to do when cooking for him.

• Close friend: Tori Amos – Dude, I don’t want to even hear about it. I love her music and she is one of the few artists that I like more the more I know about her personally. She pulls from everywhere, be it art, religion, politics, panties, relationships. I’d love to have someone that well read and traveled in my group of friends. I would hope it would push me to do more, experience more, delve deeper into stuff rather than giving life a superficial wax over.

• Lover: This is harder than it might sound. I have a top five list that I’m allowed to sleep with if it ever came up and try as I might, its really hard to hook up with either Robbie Williams or Angelina Jolie. Vin Diesel is not interested in girls and no matter how deep my voice can go, my tits and twat give me away. But in reality, that’s not what I’m looking for in a lover these days.

If I were going to look outside my current lover, I’d look for something similar. I’ve had enough sex to know I’m not interested in the one-night stand anymore. It would have to be someone honorable, capable, smart and of course dominant. And someone I could trust enough to let go with, to disconnect from all the crap in my head and in my day.

There is really only one person who fits this bill. David Palmer.

3.) Tell me about your most memorable dream.

I don’t have nice dreams, generally speaking. Sorry. This might be a little, well I don’t know. There aren’t any rainbows or unicorns.

I was walking up the stairs to an attic. The stairs were old and creaky. Lots of cobwebs and dirt. As I was walking up, rats were running down. I felt really uneasy, like I was in danger.

Once I got up to the actual attic, it was dim, but not dark. There were no windows and I couldn’t see a light source so that I could see was very odd. There was stuff all over the place, trunks and dolls and lampshades. Attic clutter that didn’t look out of place. What was odd, was a life-sized Jesus on the crucifix thing.

The Jesus was true to life except that there were deep holes where his eyes were supposed to be. Hollow, unfathomable depths of holes. For some reason I called him Baby Jesus in my head, even though he was the size of a large man. As I walked closer towards it, I noticed that his head was bleeding under his crown of thorns. Real blood trickling down his face.

I looked away for a second and out of the corner of my eye, I thought he, the Baby Jesus moved. So I looked back. It was at that moment that he flew off the cross with a growling scream to get me. And by get me, I mean consume me.

This is the most memorable because of the sheer terror I felt and the malice that emanated from the Baby Jesus. The thing is I’m not religious at all. This dream had nothing to do with religion. Its one of the only dreams I’ve had that I couldn’t quite figure out for myself, given when I had it and what was going on at the time. I can look back and say oh, it was probably this and this and that, but at the time, none of those things felt like they fit.

4.) If you could wake up tomorrow having gained one ability or quality, what would it be?

So barring superhero qualities (I’d like to fly) and bodily functions (I’d like to never have to pee again) I would love the ability to let go. Believe it or not, I’m something of a control freak combined with a need for perfection. If things/me/loved ones aren’t perfect, I push for more. Its exhausting, to me and everyone around me.

This is a multi-step process that requires sub-abilities. (Am I cheating?) I would like the ability to trust easily enough to not have to do everything myself which would lead to the ability to let others do things their way WITHOUT doing it my way AND it would be okay; the world wouldn’t explode and neither would my head.

I would like the ability to not care what people think about me or if I have so-and-so’s approval. This is my motivation for being perfect. I would like to have the confidence that I need to not be perfect and make sure everything else is perfect. The worst part is, I’m never good enough. I’m not one of those lucky people who succeed at everything they do. I’m the opposite. I have to work so hard to be mediocre that this quest for perfection is really insane. I end up beating myself up over what I could have should have done better. I would like the ability to turn off that voice in my head, let go and enjoy what I do have without the “but, it could be better”.

5.) Describe the most significant “fork in the road” of your life.

Oh. Well, I’ve had a couple. Most were around the same time. I guess I wasn’t listening to the universe or something, because I had a lot of crap happen between 21 and 25 when I finally got my life on the right track. My everyday Angel guy made the biggest impact as I’m still alive thanks to him. I guess the one that made the biggest difference to who and where I am now happened right after my “everyday angel ” experience.

I was working at a moving company. It was a shit job making nothing and working with shit people. Most movers are convicts. No joke. And it might start with small things like burglary and drugs, but I did not know one mover who hadn’t been convicted of at least one violent crime. By movers I mean the guys actually handling your furniture and packing your panties into boxes. And I worked in the office of one of these companies.

My boss smoked three packs a day, in the office. The coffee was more of a hint at liquid, but that’s the way it needed to be. The people in this office were lifers. They had worked in the Industry since they got jobs at 18 or 19. It’s a hard industry. Hard work, hard people. There was a guy who worked there, on the tucks, who had been in prison for 9 months for killing his mother-in-law with a broomstick.

I’m telling you, these were hard, hard people. I wasn’t.

There was woman who worked there with me. She was 45 and looked about 75. She smoked a pack a day. She had had an abusive husband whose fists removed many of her teeth. She had dropped out of high school and never learned to drive so the guys in the office would have to pick her up and take her home. Whatever life had handed her, she was not a nice person.

I was 23 or 24. I walked in one morning and sighed. The air was smoky and the coffee burnt and the movers stunk of body odor. I had to push past them, because they all crowded by the door waiting for paperwork. The day before I had been the subject of a wager – whether or not I wore underwear. It was great. I really enjoyed that. So pushing past these guys was a game for them and more than just “not something I wanted to do”.

I knew I didn’t want to be here in 20 years, but I didn’t think I was qualified or really, good enough, for anything else. The warehouseman asked me what was wrong. I told him I didn’t want to work in the moving industry all my life. He just laughed and laughed. He looked over at me and said, “Honey, you ain’t going anywhere. Once you’re in, you’re in. Look at Viola.”

And I did. I did not want to be that woman. I did not want to be who I was at that moment, sitting in a dirty dingy office in a warehouse giving paperwork to guys who would as soon hurt me as help me in other circumstances.

I looked at Viola, with her hard lined face and her dead eyes and listened to her cackle when Bob told her a joke, exposing her roomy gums. They were laughing at my idea that I could get out. They were laughing at me.

It was that moment that I decided I was going to get out no matter what. I don’t know what I looked like in real life, but in my head, my chin went up a couple of notches and my royal blood* took over and I just decided I was out.

The next day I spoke to my Step-mom. She told me what computer skills I would need and where I could take classes to learn them. She gave me a ton of help with my meager resume and advice about financial district interviews.

I took on a few odd jobs to pay for the classes. One was cleaning the bathrooms at my office and let me tell you, if there was nothing more to push me out of there, cleaning toilets used by truckers did it.

I finished my classes and made interviews at temp agencies. I got a temp job working for Bank of America that lead to a real job which lead to another job at the investment banc.

And the bonus to that story… I floss religiously. I never, ever want to be Viola.

Speedy is blue and so am I

Picked up my new laptop yesterday along with all the periphrials. I was too tired to put him together last night because you know, when you get new stuff you really just want to play around and get it all funked out the way you like it.

I also have this project due and i am I currently stealing time on Sparky’s machine with no access to the files, I need this machine.

So I got up at 5 am. Made my cup of joe and to celebrate, added my last packet of Swiss Miss sugar free hot chocolate. I made sure I was dressed, hair combed, yesterday’s make-up removed. I wanted to look good to introduce myself and Habib* to Speedy.

I had my list of software I needed to install to make him workable. I had all the drivers and discs prepared. I can’t wait to start using my Photoshop CS which I’ve been waiting to install on this new machine. And even though Microsoft is an evil empire, I was looking forward to my new 2007 Office suite.

I prepared my desk, including a thorough cleaning and dusting. I Endusted the whole place until the sweet smell of orange wafted through the room. Once everything was prepared, I pulled him out.

I read all the intiall instructions last night so I’d know how to properly turn him on, make recovery discs etc…

I pushed the “Power” button and waited. The first screen welcomed me and asked that I wait while it prepared the files as it was the first power-on. I live in Germany, I’ve learned how to wait.

And I waited, excited and delighted, anticipation gathering at all the stuff I could finally do again.

And… And…

It blue screened.

I just turned it on. Nothing else. Hit power and waited.

At 9am, I headed back down to the adoption agency. They seemed to think it was a badly installed OS. Really? No shit, huh.

They’ll take a look, recover the bad OS and call me back. I’m not real familiar with recovering bad OSs, but perhaps that’s not the best idea. I want a whole new machine because contrary to my anthropomorphic tendencies, I don’t think I should adopt a computer that is fucked up from the initial power on. I’ve heard about the Ghost in the Machine and this ghost is blue and I want nothing to do with him. In this case, the nature will always undermine the nurture.
However, this is Germany. Once you take that puppy out of the store, they’re going to replace everything piecemeal until the whole thing is replaced and about 26 days are wasted.

Better life through technology, right?

Bugger.

*I’ll introduce Habib tomorrow. He has a story.

Sun is a good thing

Great weekend, huh.

Sun is good for the soul. I can honestly say, when the sun is shining and its not too hot and it cools down at night, I actually like Germany. Especially with this new green of the trees and everything in bloom. Love it.

I wish I had some smell-o-vision on this here site because there is not even a hint of horse shit in the air. Its all sweet blossoms and grass and jasmine.

Speedy is due to be delivered tomorrow and I can’t wait to take him outside in the sun with a cup of coffee and some head phones. Speedy even has a new friend. I’ll introduce him tomorrow.

Until then, I’m stuck indoors, like the rest of you with real jobs, finishing this project.

Enjoy your day.

Things My Sainted Mother Said

Today is my mother’s birthday. When I lived in SF, I’d have a party or go out to drinks with my friends and we’d toast every drink to Kate.

Today is no different. If you are so inclined, give a toast to an incredibly humorous, intelligent, crazy/passionate lady whose children never got the chance to explore her depths.

And in that vein, today marks the first “Things My Sainted Mother Said” post. Bits of wisdom she has shared with me pre- and posthumously. Most were said in person, some have been channeled. So, here we go:

1. Two things you shouldn’t fuck up. One is your credit and the other is your kids.

2. Before you file for divorce, buy that new sofa.

3. Guilt is a useless emotion. Let it go and move on.

So, here’s to you, Kate. You did a good job with your kids and we love you like mad.

Love,

Jen

Better auf Deutsch

A few things.

You know when you wake up happy from a dream that might have included a visit from Gerard Butler that you’re going to have a good day. (Dude, it was a GREAT dream. I had the best dream hangover all day.) Add a fabulous cup of coffee and hair that looks fantastic the moment your head comes off the pillow and jesus christ, its going to be a one hell of a good day. So good in fact, you wonder what bad thing is going to happen because people don’t just wake up still giggly from flirting with the new addition to the top five list and have good hair and a good cup of coffee without paying for it later, right? Right.

Well, I have yet to pay for it. I figured I’d put it out there so Ironus* doesn’t get the idea that I allowed that day to make me feel secure in my world in anyway at all.

Just so you know, Ironus, I’m well aware that you’ll take payment in kind, but could you wait awhile because I’m really digging this streak. And I promise, when you hit me out of the blue next time, to remember that you allowed this really fantastic week.

On to other stuff.

This loft is my Everest. Once one thing is done another pops up. Had a visit from my boyfriend the hot electrician. Sadly, wiring problems are over, for now.

New problem? A brand new TV that turns on all by itself, whenever it feels the need, like at 3 am. I’ve seen White Noise and this does not make me happy. It freaks me out all the fucking time. I keep waiting for the shrieking to start or at least a good poltergeist/clown encounter. God, my brain is a scary scary place.

Anyway, this new problem will require another visit to the HiFi Profi Store which will enable Sparky to visit the secret room where they take men to show the latest and greatest in Hi-Def technology. I kid you not. It is a secret room in the lower level through various other rooms where they have the 65 inch full HD/blu ray set up. I’ve even seen a box of tissues sitting next to the leather sofa (placed strategically to get the optimum sound). Men come out looking a happy and a little dazed. This room does not have a WAF** thus they take men in alone.

There is a new member of the family on the way. I’m calling him, tentatively, Speedy. No, I’m not knocked up.

Speedy is my new laptop. He was ordered and waranteed up yesterday. He’s free from all problems(except those inherent in Vista and that evil empire called Microsoft) for three years. He’s getting his own new CORDED mouse because I hate those cordless pieces of shite. And a cover and a slip to stick between the keys and the screen when he’s closed because we all know panties are a good idea. I don’t want him to be known as the Paris Hilton of laptops. And he’s 17 inches because we all know I’m a size queen, I like ‘em big. And he’s black and silver and sexy. Delivery tentatively scheduled next week sometime. I can’t wait.

After foolishly reading Sparky’s copy of Muscles and Fitness, hoping to laugh and point at the meatheads and their steroided physiques, I unwittingly changed my weight lifting habits. I sadly digested some of the M&F food for thought. I will not be able to walk tomorrow. There is distinct muscle separation in my leg muscles. That I know what muscle separation is and that it is a desired goal of weight lifting is yet another symptom of Stockholm Syndrome. Please send Dorritos, cookie dough and a chick flick ASAP.

I’m also working right now. (Yes, actual work, Jeffrey for which I get paid in real Euros rather than hidden stashes of monopoly money.) Writing copy for a website that is not owned by anyone who loves me. And because they don’t love me in that way, they are expecting it to be done by Monday which means I have a LOT of work to do.

Lastly, I have found a phrase that is so much better in German than in English. What do you think?

Pofalte. Its “ass crack” in English. I like pofalte. So much in fact I considered putting it on my names list from which I pull to name things like computers, chairs and cats. It passes The Back Porch Test***.

Say it a couple of times. It has a ring.

*Ironus is the God of Irony. He rules my days and my night.

**WAF = Wife Approval Factor

***The Back Porch Test is a test to see how a name fits if you stand on the back porch and call out “Pofalte (insert name here), its dinner time!”

Happy Easter

This is one of the many songs my lyrical father taught me as a child. This was one of the two that got me in trouble at pre-school. This was was much easier to explain than Scotch Whiskey, Scotch Whiskey.

Here comes Peter Cotton Tail

Hopping down the Bunny trail

Crippled!

Hipity Clomp, Hipity Clomp

Easter’s on it’s way.

Hope you all have a fully functional Easter. A live rendition
And I can walk in those shoes. I’m hopping!

Kegels. Separate from the herd.

My GBF once said that The Kegels were a Texas-based family with close connections to The Neiman and Marcus families. They’re not.

When I saw this sign, I thought Germans were very liberal indeed if not a little whacked. I mean really, Kegels are not like yoga. You don’t really need that much instruction, right? And really, isn’t it kind of gross to have an underground cellar full of women all sitting around doing Kegels and loving their vaginas? And its not like you need that much concentration. You can do other stuff while doing your Kegels, like knitting or watching TV or writing a blog post about Kegels.

It was only after a lengthy discussion, in which I would not allow Sparky to comment until I was done ranting, did I find out that a KegelKeller, was not a underground room of hairy, hippie, La Leche ladies doing vaginal exercises, but rather a bowling alley.

And you know what? I was disappointed.