You are currently browsing the monthly archive for August, 2007.
I need something I can stick in my mouth.
I need it to be available anywhere and at any time. Any suggestions?
In my formative years, my mouth got me into a lot of trouble. In my later years too, but I learned to use my superpowers for good, not evil.
My first memory of the concept of death was at four. I had just eaten raw (wet) rubber cement in an effort to feel it. It felt weird on my fingers and like all things, if I couldn’t get enough of the feeling via my hands, I put it in my mouth.
My mom was driving on the 410 405 in Los Angeles and looked back to see me stick the brush applicator into my mouth. I remember her telling me to stop that I was going to die, it was bad.
Then there were the snails. I would suck them out of their shells wanting to feel them in a way I
couldn’t with my fingers. It wouldn’t have been a problem except for the snail poison. The next memory I have is the backyard hose down my throat.
I was seven years old when my mother got tired of it. A security guard at a Los Angeles museum had me by the back of my shirt.
“Ma’am. Can you please keep your child from licking the statues.”
My mom was an artist. She understood the need to experience art and she was kinda proud that she had a kid who was interested. She totally understood when I told her I couldn’t feel the marble with my fingers. Hell, she was thrilled it wasn’t something that she would have to pump out of my stomach, but she also didn’t want to have to deal with a kid who licked things constantly.
So she introduced me to pens. At first it was pencils, but I gnawed those until the paint came off in flakes and I didn’t like that. So pens it was. And pen caps. She could deal with blue lips and tongues; it wasn’t going to kill me and was much easier to explain to the neighbors.
In college, I discovered cigarettes.
I’ve quit and started up again many times. When I quit it tends to be for years. Then I have one or two and remember why I started in the first place.
If I’m not smoking, I’m looking for something else to stick in my mouth. As I’ve been an eternal diet (1+ year) I really don’t want to eat. I’d rather smoke. I don’t even want to hear it. I’d rather be a smoker.
Enter Sparky. Sparky is very health oriented and is a militant solider in his anti-smoking crusade. He’s also stuck more in the anal stage. He can’t empathize with my oral issues. I know, I know, you all hate smokers and that’s fine. Its a filthy habit and it stinks and kissing a smoker is like licking an ashtray. I know all that, but what non-smokers don’t understand is the pleasure smoking gives to the smoker. We smoke for a reason and that reason isn’t to dirty your air.
As a kid, when I’d feel a certain level of frustration build up, I’d pull out my eyelashes. All of them. over and over again. I was called “Turtle Girl” growing up. Eyelash pulling, for me, was the marijuana of self mutilation. It lead to other, more serious, less acceptable forms of self mutilation.
And then I discovered cigarettes. I got to do something with my mouth and relieve stress. Cigarettes are nirvana to the orally fixated neurotic.
However, at Kasa Krazy Kraut, Sparky is on a smoking jihad. If I smoke, I have to shower, brush my teeth and lotion up before Sparky will deign to kiss me. He comments each and every time I light up. He counts how many cigarettes I’ve smoked and lets me know.
“Wow, that’s three in a hour. Did you know you were smoking that much?”
That drives me up the fucking wall. As his streaming commentary on my cigarette consumption flows, I just want to smoke more. It adds to that certain type and level of frustration that is almost impossible to deal with constructively and adds a layer of pissiness to our relationship that we just don’t need.
I exercise as a form of stress reduction, but I hate it. It’s not really stress reduction, its guilt reduction. I feel less guilty for eating when I exercise. The best part of the gym for me is leaving. I meditate and occasionally indulge in yoga, but nothing satisfies like sticking something in my mouth.
So given my love affair with cigarettes, the next item might surprise you.
Driving home the other night, I decided to cut back. Just because. Its been easier because Sparky is gone.
And I’m too lazy to go out and buy a pack.
Its a good thing I type because there isn’t a pen that is safe in this house.
Okay, I failed. I was supposed to put this up yesterday, but I was busy as the good auntie making sure Twinkle Toes got a nutritious dinner (Cherry tomatoes and cheese nips), went to bed on time (plus an hour and a half), and brushed her teeth. At least I got the teeth brushing thing in there. Brushing before bed is the most important time to brush. Kids need to know this.
I also taught her the canned air upside down trick.
It was harder to indulge her little sister, Pebbles, because at 16 months, pretty much everything she does is indulged by those who adore her.
So yeah, I was babysitting and didn’t get home until very, very late. Plans to sleep in this morning were thwarted by Commander Evans, programmed to wake Sparky at precisely 7 am. Let’s just say it’s a very effective wake-up method. I hate it when my devious plans come back and bite me on the ass. Commander Evans is a fantastic alarm clock that one has to chase down in order to stop the noise. Fuck me.
Okay, all that being said, here’s how I failed.
Carol aka Northwest Ladybug is coming out in September. She’ll be travelling all over Krautland. On September 29th, she will be in Frankfurt for the night and we are planning a mini get-together.
What you need to know:
You are more than invited to join us, encouraged even, no matter what country of origin from which you hail as long as you are not a serial killer.
I’m talking specifically to you GDB. If you promise you are not a serial killer, you are hereby invited. No bullying or covert manipulation required. (Does that make it less special? Should I have played harder to get?)
The Serial Killer Clause is my one and only rule, I don’t care if you’re Dexter. No Serial Killers!
Two places to meet up:
16:00 - Frankfurt HauptBahnhof Starbucks.
18:30 or later at Yours Australian Bar
Rahmhofstr. 2-4 (Schillerpassage)
60313 Frankfurt. Phone: 069 282 100
- I can promise a really good time.
- I can promise that Sparky will make at least one “But we’re not swingers” joke guaranteed to make at least one person uncomfortable.
- I can promise my language will get worse after one or two drinks.
Please let either me or J know if you’ll be meeting up with us at the Starbucks so we don’t leave without you. Let either of us know if you want to come in general so we know for how many to make the reservations. So, that being said, come out and meet Carol and her lovely daughter Elisabeth, face-to-face.
*** A note to the new expat ladies who have contacted me in the last few weeks. This is a good time to get your feet wet in the expat community. This is a really casual meet-up with more sitting and talking than sightseeing (my favourite type of meet up.) Frankfurt is not too far away from where you live (Dortmund, Duesseldorf, Munich or the Saarland) and there is always an Ibis to stay at if you are so inclined. We can discuss if you are unsure or need logistical help.
I’m doing translations and vacuuming under my bed.
At. The. Same. Time.
Roombas rock.
Thanks, Jefe, you are the best redheaded brother a girl could have.
I wake up early, anywhere from 4 am to 6 am, almost every day.
Early means whenever the light hits my eyelid or the TV turns on and off by itself or a cat whisker finds its way up my nose. I’m a light sleeper and this usually translates into not a lot of sleep. I get up, get dressed, get a cup of coffee and am ready to take on my day. The moment my eyes open, I am ready to go. Sparky on the other hand, could sleep all day. In fact, there are days when he does just that.
It can be almost impossible to actually get his ass up. I usually get the “Just five more minutes” thing. This continues every 15 minutes until he realizes that he has to get up or my reminders get less friendly and more threatening. Unless there is a train to catch, Sparky just cannot get up in the mornings.
Until today.
There is something you should know about me. If I’m awake, I want everyone else in the house to be awake too. I don’t know why, but I do. If my loved ones don’t get up on their own in what I deem an appropriate of amount time, I help them along. I am terrifying, merciless, and cruel in my wake up methods. My early morning wake up habits give me an edge over my competition loved ones and I cannot stop myself from indulging in a little loving torture.
Some examples:
If I’m feeling nice: The stare. Get as close as possible to sleeper without actually waking them. Then stare, making small little noises until they wake up. Usually invoking the name of some god and a swear word, they wake within five minutes. Nothing like the violation of sleep vulnerability to really wake someone up.
Brother and Sister: The Wakey-Uppy Song accompanied with bed jumping: First sing the song off key and loud as you walk in the room. Wait for the head of sleeper to go under pillow. As soon as the head is covered, jump on the bed making sure to include prone form under blankets in jumping surface. Warning: be prepared to move quickly as subject can get violent. Bonus points: If subject starts swinging, jump off the bed and watch them fall sadly back on the bed knowing there will be no respite.
Sparky: Jump up and down repeatedly on his chest singing the “I Love Bukkake” song and kisses. This doesn’t always work, but if it does, he wakes up happy.
Sparky, Plan B: Open curtains letting full morning light flood the bed room, open balcony door and jump up and down singing the “Sparky Wake Up!” song.
So what is my new weapon of early morning torture?
The Roomba, Commander Ernest Evans.
For my birthday, my brother sent me a Roomba. A Roomba with a more powerful battery that required a 16 hour initial charge cycle. I got the German home base yesterday in the mail and couldn’t play with it at all yesterday and nothing drives me battier than a toy I can’t play with right away. However, this morning at 6 am, it was ready to go.
This morning, I tried to wake up Sparky nicely before his alarm went off. He responded with the five more minute thing. So I got up, made my coffee, fed the cats then spied Commander E. Evans blinking green, ready for his mission.
Into the darkened bedroom I crept. Slyly and quietly I set him down and using the remote control, Commander Evans began his first foray into cat hair heaven. Moans could be heard over the sound of the motor and lo and behold Sparky was awake.
Commander Evans is a scheduler Roomba and he has been programmed for 7 am. Every Day.
Aren’t you glad you don’t live with me?
“His confidence that he won’t be stepped on is a good sign,” says his adoptive mother, “especially since he’s the same colour as our wood floor. He’s a cutie patootie.”
Meet Oliver Klaus Oxentail.
We’re not sure where he was born or what brought him to hide in the undercarriage of a Volvo. What we do know is that his guardian angels decided to walk to dinner while discussing their impending move to China, down the Strasse where said Volvo was parked. Hearing his teeny, tiny cries, they stopped to find him. Possessing more than a little perseverance, they got him out and took him home.
Covered in dirt, grease and god only knows what, they took him in and the next day to the vet. Close to starving, the vet diagnosed. More ear mites than she had ever seen in a kitten so young and full of worms, Olli’s foster parents took on the difficult job of saving him. And that they did. Then they made the difficult decision to find him a new home as the move to China would be most difficult.
Along comes Jen, the Angelina Jolie of pets (minus the stunning goddess-like good looks and gobs of money), never one to turn down a homeless animal.
Olli’s foster mother, Megan did a good job with him and was more than a little saddened by his departure.
Olli is a long way from that Volvo in Munich. He now resides in a larger abode in the state of Hessen, surrounded by Jen and Sparky, Kiska and Scrunchy (aka Fin). Scrunchy is the quintessential big brother, playing and hunting and wrestling. It only took two days for the older cats to be won over by Olli’s happiness, kitten joy and overall cuteness. At first, Olli had an odd maturity Jen had never seen in a kitten; a wariness that broke her heart. But he soon lost that wariness as he became more secure.
And his loving nature could not be squashed. His early morning need for snuggles and love wake Jen at 4 am. Head pushes and whiskers up the nose signal her to wake up and give him a little attention. Olli’s purr machine at full volume, he licks noses and lips and pushes his sweet little kitten face against her.
Giving up on sleep she gets up and makes her coffee, including Olli in the established routine. As her coffee brews, the older cats wake and congregate in the kitchen for morning treats, stretching and yawning as they wait patiently. Olli, still underweight, gets a big dish of wet kitten food, one of five he gets daily along with dry kitten food.. He scarfs it down in the amount of time it takes for the coffee to be finished. This is good as she doesn’t have to worry about Scrunchy butting in for his share while she’s in the kitchen. At 16 pounds, Scrunchy doesn’t need high calorie food.
However, at 16 pounds, Scrunchy is the gentlest of playmates, making sure to keep Olli entertained without harming him, teaching him the ins and outs of life in the loft, occasionally holding Olli down for a little laundry duty.
After his breakfast, Olli finds a snugly down pillow to rest his little head. Scrunchy showed him how and the two of them tend to nap together curled up, one orange and white and one solid orange, as if they have always been together.
He’s the most curious little thing. Brushes with danger have only come with large heavy vases that he seems to want to explore. He’s lucky as he’s quick, avoiding the falling leaded glass the way he does. Jen and Sparky have since moved said vases until he’s old enough. Other than that, the cat-proofed house is a perfect kitten playground. All cords are smartly hidden, lots of nooks and crannies in which to hide and pounce from.
It took a while to find his name, but Olli seems to work. It is also a tribute to those who saved him. As they travel the world, exploring distant lands, Olli lives in peace with lots of treats, loving kisses and plenty of soft places the rest his little head.
Thank you Megan and Oliver. Olli is home.
Two Tori Amos tickets for when I’m back in Cali in December.
Score.
My Cali trip is looking better and better.
You know how I know I haven’t been going to the gym often enough?
I have no idea what the kids are listening to these days. I depend on MTV to keep updated and I watch MTV when I spend my one hour in hell on the treadmill.
Thursday, my first day back in a long time, (B’s post was somewhat inspiring) I heard a song that put a bounce in my step so I went out right after and bought it. Hell, I’ll buy any music that makes the time I spend at the gym more enjoyable.
Later in the day, I was talking to my sister. Remember she’s 20. I was telling her I just got the new Timberlake. She responded that I was lame and trying too hard to be hip. She’s a music snob to some extent, but I was willing to go to the mat for a song that got my speed up to 6.5 km an hour for 30 minutes. Seriously, Listen to “The Way I Are” and I dare you not to move. I would complain about the grammar, but that would for sure stick me in the old catagory.
But it wasn’t Timberlake. It’s Timbaland (and let me tell you, Timba can float my boat any time).
I felt totally lame. Lame like when I had to ask Mim’s friend Anna what skeet meant. No one else would tell me. Of all people who should know what skeet means, it should be me. That didn’t come out right. What I meant was that I should be up to date on the vernacular, priding myself as I do for my extensive knowledge of pop culture. I mean, if I learned anything from GBF, it’s how important pop culture can be, right?
So why is it important that I enjoy myself at the gym? Because it’s the only way I can enjoy this: before and after.
I wrote this post for Tatiana’s birthday, Aug 10th, but I never had time to finish editing it because I was busy burning a birthday cake. So, instead I’m doing it today, my birthday.
It started out pretty inconspicuously. We met at a writing workshop. We were both looking for a way to make money doing something we love and support ourselves in this strange new country within strange newish relationships. Well, new in that we were no longer in control in the way we had been before moving here.
Towards the end of the workshop, the leader suggested that we exchange phone numbers in order to work with each other. I got two, hers and this other woman. When I got home, Sparky and talked about the whole thing. He was happy that I might have a possibility for a friendship. Having to be everything to his expat girlfriend was getting difficult. I had felt a quiet click with Tatiana. Not one of those great big clicks where you just know this person gets you, but a quiet, still, yet persistent click. So I called her. And really, when I called, I remember it feeling like no big deal, not like I was calling a virtual stranger, and asked if she and her boyfriend wanted to go to dinner with me and mine, because both our spouses were still boyfriends.
We set up dinner at a restaurant by her house. Dinner was fine, not spectacular. However, the friendship that formed was and continues to be spectacular.
At some point recently, I realized that my life was playing out like a season of “thirtysomething”. But I’m not alone in my drama. She’s got hers going on too, and the writers were kind enough to intertwine our storylines. I have no idea where I would be without Tatiana. I love Sparky, but if not for Tatiana close enough to lend a shoulder, a Kleenex, a stiff drink, I think I would have been out of here years ago. It doesn’t just take a village to raise a child, it takes a village to stay sane. Add the expat factor, and man, girlfriends are more valuable than diamonds or Tide with Bleach.
We’ve been through so much together in such a short amount of time. She is the friend that never judges me -not my mistakes and not my choices. She is supportive when I need her to be and she’s strength when mine has run out. When living abroad, it can be damn hard to just deal with everyday life. Romantic relationships can get magnified by the isolation we expat women feel by simply being here. A girlfriend is not just a friend. She is a witness, she is a comrade, she is an ally and an anchor. There have been times when my bags were packed and I was on the phone to Lufthansa looking for the next flight back. She talks me off the ledge if that’s what she senses I need or she’d drive me to the airport if I asked. I’ve had days where if I looked at Sparky’s face for one more second, I was going to throw another jar of peanut butter. A call, a drive and glass of wine later, I’m playing cards into the night with she and her husband, both happy to have my company while I chill the fuck out. (And btw, telling someone to chill out is the quickest way to light a fire under their ass that I know of. Unfortunately, Sparky had to learn this lesson the hard way and it might have included that jar of peanut butter.)
My relationship with Tatiana is why I started the annual Girlie Weekend. We need sisters in life. I wanted everyone to have an opportunity to have the same type of friendship I have with Tatiana.
We are similar, yet weirdly opposite. She has kids, I have none. She has a smaller apartment filled to the brim with kids and stuff and my loft is big and empty and pristine. She has too much to do and no time to do it and does it all. I have an open, flexible schedule and accomplish almost nothing.
I come from a huge family with kids of various ages and various snot densities running around. I had five aunts growing up and all of them raised each one us kids in some way. Tatiana comes from a small family, her parents having left the extended family behind. I suck up her chaos and she enjoys my silences.
We’re both Leos and both pretty tough ladies. She is more soft spoken than I am. She takes her time before confronting problems or issues, looking for a way to say things so that the other person isn’t hurt. Me? Well, I come from a loud family. We tend to just say things and pick up the pieces of shit that fall out our mouths later. I could learn more from her approach.
I never feel more at home in Germany than I do sitting on her sofa snuggling Twinkle Toes, drinking coffee and talking. It transports me back to the life I fear I left behind when I made the choice to move 6000 miles away.
Then there are the days I see the world through my mother’s eyes. Eyes I assume she saw through when I was nine and hanging around trying to pick up the adult conversation. My mother would be sitting out back with her girlfriend, smoking the occasional cigarette and talking about men, money and kids – her thirtysomething script. She would shoo me away, but the indelible picture of adulthood stayed. Now, sitting on the sofa with Tatiana, discussing our scripts and our extreme frustration with the writers, I feel like that nine year old who had picked up her mother’s glasses, seeing the world through adult eyes. (Seriously, why couldn’t our scripts be closer to a Judith McNaught novel than thirtysomething??).
I have had the privilege to know her and watch her grow as a writer, as a mother and as a woman. Every month or so we have a girls weekend. Just she and I and Sparky. We sit on my back balcony and talk into the night. It is usually when we notice that the moonlight has softly faded into sunlight that we grudgingly head off to bed, still full of ideas and thoughts not wanting to give up the moments just because our eyes are crossing in the morning light.
So here’s to you, my dear. Thank you.
What is with the purple hair in Krautland these days. Its an epidemic and holds to no one demographic. I can almost understand the widespread abuse of the fauxhawk, but the purple hair takes things too far.
Old ladies with eggplant hair, young women and older mothers with the similar color - its not the same since the original color tends to be lighter in the older women. The only difference seems to be the original color and how long its been since a touch up. A primer: If you have very dark brown or black hair and you want to add a hint of purple, well, fine, whatever. I think it looks horrible, but its acceptable. I’m not even going to touch the match your hair to your complexion topic. Its a lost cause in these parts. The younger teens seem obsessed with the pitch black, but really, they are the ones that can get away with it. Blame it on youthful ignorance.
People. Its not okay. Find your bliss and all that. Blah, blah, blah, but at least do it completely. I know all about roots. I know that it can be a while before your colorist can fit you in, but really, 2 inches of gray and 7 inches of variegated purple? Is this the look you’re going for? Really? You already have to deal with ugly shoes, are you sure you want to add to those fashion crimes?
I don’t care if you call it aubergine, eggplant or melongene; it’s purple, a dark purple that makes me think of salting and draining for an hour to reduce inherent bitterness. I’m tempted to stick a green cap on your head and complete the look. At least it would cover the roots.
And perhaps, you might want to read about eggplant before you decide to use it as a personal color choice. Hmm. Maybe I should start using it as my personal color choice. Mad, bitter and high maintenance. Huh. Well, never-mind. Just stop using it for your hair.
Jesus, I’m getting old and cranky. I’m going to go play with my kitten who is, by the way, over his moving issues and in full play-until-he-passes-out-on-my-lap phase.
I love kittens.
I woke up at 2 am last night with start. Something had whisper touched my butt. At first I thought it was the blanket. No, not the blanket. Then I really started to wake up because if it wasn’t the blanket, it had to be a bug, right? that’s when he hit me again and I realized it was a whisper touch because it was a kitten paw (claws retracted, thank god) and he’s so little that he might be the George Forman of the kitten set, but it was still going to be light as a feather.
This attention was disconcerting on many levels. One, why my butt? Why not my face or my arm? And two, contrary to popular belief, my butt is usually left alone in the night. Bugs don’t usually crawl up and die in the night, i’m naturally cranky. However if there was a bug and Olli saw it and wanted to play and he jumped up to play with the bug on my butt and the bug went away, then I’m really grateful, but I don’t want to think about it too much.
Rather than staying up all night trying to figure out the attraction, I pulled him up and over and tried to cuddle him asleep. However, it was nighttime and he is a kitten and for all of you with kitten experience, you know “Nighttime is Prime Time.”
Some of you might recognize our latest addition. We’re looking for names right now.
We’ve short listed some:
Ollli - He seems to respond to this, but it might have to do with his foster parents.
Fritz - Our first German cat and Dieter is out - he’s not a Dieter and because in English Dieter is Diet -er. Not happening.
Wolfgang
Vasco
Rocco - Sparky would go with this because once you name a pet one name, you can’t name a kid that name and I like Rocco, but he HATES it. Olli is not a Rocco though.
Francis - as in Drake and we would call him Frankie
However, he has a cute little monkey face that also seems to say Olli.He’s very playful, but not real cuddly yet. Its a big house, two big people and two big cats. He’s found a ton of hiding places, his favorite being under the kitchen counter. I come around the corner just in time to see the tail pop back underneath.
Scrunchy is pissed off. Sorry, I mean PISSED OFF. Kiska doesn’t really care and she’s been munching on kitten food, so she’s fine. Kitten is the fourth cat she’s had to get to know (excluding those I’ve cat sat) so she’s kind of an old hand at it.
We’ll see how this goes.
Today’s piece of advice: Be careful what you wish for.
Everything is incredibly busy right now. The clock on my 34 years is almost up and I realized that I didn’t say I was 34 enough. So I’m trying to get it in before next week. I walk around the house telling Sparky, “you know what? I’m 34.” “Did I tell you how old I am? I’m 34”. I blame my dad for always telling us we were a year older than we really were so we never got the chance to really enjoy our age. Yeah, I know, wait until I have kids and see what stupid stuff they blame me for. Sparky and I are already saving for therapy if we have kids.
Speaking of dependants, we are adding another to our family. Details to follow.
Monday starts a competition between Sparky and I and another couple. A weight loss competition. I’ve been feeling a bit unmotivated and nothing motivates me like a competition I know I can win unless the idea that I know I can win lets me off the hook. I would go to the gym if I could watch Stargate while I walk. If I had a treadmill at home, I’d use it every day, I swear. Walking for an hour is not bad when I have new music or less on my mind. As it is I do not want to be alone with my thoughts right now. I need that turn off function which didn’t seem to come included with the software. In fact, the firmware, is defective, I think, along with all the other electrical equipment in this house the only thing that seems to function for any length of time in this place is my vibrator and thank god for that, huh. I should count my blessings and not how many DVD players we burn through or computers or printers or fridges or TVs or satellite boxes or routers or cordless phones or cell phones or cars. And seriously, why aren’t plug-ins available in Germany. I swear, it must be related to the cultural expectation of guilt and general surliness because I am here to tell you, if the women of this country had that as an outlet, people, we would be a lot happier. Batteries just add to environmental issues and tend to fail at inopportune times. Plug-ins are the ecological choice. Al Gore agrees.
You know, it’s interesting because I know if I just face what is stressing me out and if I spent a day (or 15) just dealing with it, it would go away. It’s not like its life altering stuff. It’s one of the canned bits of advice I give to my friends and family. Easier to be on the other end of that advice, let me tell you. That and if you don’t deal with your shit, it follows you, like dog poop on the bottom of your shoe.
Also trying to quit smoking again. Nice. It’s the only bad habit I’ve carried with me for years. On again, off again habit. That and cat collecting. But cat collecting is limited and frankly, I would have rather had my original three than more opportunities. And while I know it’s bad for me and I know Sparky is going crazy with it, I just can’t seem to want to stop smoking this time. He suggests exercising, but I’ve fallen off that wagon too.
Fuck, and I guess the use of this word puts me in the vulgar category (or perhaps the shit reference above did that), but I’m actually going to have to get off my ass and do something, damn it. Fuck, ass and damn it in one sentence. I really do show a lack of breeding. Lack of breeding, eh. Or it is the lack of the ability to breed. If I had kids, would I be less vulgar?
Yeah, 35 is going to be swell. This post is a prime example why I don’t post when in this state of mind. And Mim, don’t fret, it’s just a passing mood swing, nothing big unless I don’t get my Roomba next week. Then its all about the bell jar and it will be your fault. (predisposition to feel and use guilt was included in the software bundling.)
Off to Munich. Sparky is going to be on some cooking show, learning how to make Steak Madagascar . Why Steak Madagascar? Because apparently Chocolate Salty Balls were not an option. This should be interesting.
Dear Traffic Amt of _____, Hessen,
My name is Jennifer _____ and yesterday I was flashed by one of your numerous cameras. I would like to take this opportunity to talk to you about it.
See, I’m a really good driver. I try to use my ability to drive for the good of mankind. And yes, my sidekick, Gracie, is a gas guzzler, but really, superheroes need their signature ride and frankly she’s in the shop more often than not due to a quirky electrical issue. I feel the time spent in the shop makes up for the time spent on the road, but I digress.
Yesterday was a beautiful morning. Well, beautiful by German standards. It was cloudy, but not raining. The streets and autobahns were dry as a bone. Gracie prefers to run at about 140. I try to reign her in a bit, but you know how wild horses can be. So there we are, just driving and there is not a soul in sight for kilometres and we’re on a straight as that bone dry road. No in-the-fucking-way-Opel, no the-left-lane-is-a-good-idea-Semi-truck, no nothin’. The radio was on and kind of loud. You know, the loud that can only be achieved when you are alone in the car. The loud that allows you to sing along with every song and not hear how bad you voice is. It was a great moment. Well, that is until “The Edge of Seventeen” came on the radio. Then it just happened. Gracie could no more help herself from punching it to 180 than I could from playing the air drums on the steering wheel and singing along. The spirit of the moment took over. We had no control over the speed. When that song comes on, one is obligated by supernatural forces of the Welch Witch herself to drive faster.
So, given the circumstance, I think you can understand that we really had no choice to be going so fast. I know the speed limit was 130ish, but really, those rules simply cannot apply when Stevie Nicks is on the radio, right? I know in this fine, bureaucracy loving country, there must be the Stevie Nicks clause. I mean she’s not Scorpions, I know, but there has to be some sort of Stevie Nicks loop hole.
I would be happy to discuss this further. If, for some reason you would like to enact said moment, please let me know. Gracie and I would be delighted… barring all future flashes, of course.
Sincerely,
Jennifer __________
Yo dude. Like we’re getting ready for our Annual Meet-up again. Go vote at J’s.
It’s awesome. Always too much to talk about, new friends and conspirators to conspire with. Last year Hamish and I tried to get Belinda to do very bad things. Fun, fun, fun.
Now, one of the worries people sometimes have is that they are shy and nervous. All of us are, but if you are somewhat afraid of talking, just sit with me. I talk so much you won’t have too. I usually end up sticking my foot in my mouth at some point and as an observer it can be entertaining. I swear that’s why Hamish hung out with me, just to watch me embarrass myself. And really, it is such a nice group of people there is nothing to worry about. Totally accepting.
Sparky and I are voting for Dresden as we have never been there, but really, its not visiting the city that’s all that fun for me. Its the talking. I LOVE chatting all day with new people and old friends.
If you have any questions about it, feel free to e-mail me.
