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Happy 34th, my Darling.
I would write you a big long post about how great you are, but I’m too busy holding shit together up here right now. Just know I love you and will be there in about 9 hours.
I’ll drive all niiiiiiiiight to get to you. (original version, not the Cyndi/Celine version)
What is the point of a coffee shop that opens at 9am?
I don’t understand.
I have a question, well two.
1. Any ladies interested in the Annual Girlie Meet-up this year. I have figured out a way to have it AND enjoy it, rather than being totally focused on hostess duties. I also have a manicurist who will come to the loft and perform magical mani/pedi’s. Let me know and I’ll start in on logistics.
2. Any Northerners want to plan a mini meet-up? I know a few of you via e-mail and failed attempts to meet, but shall we try to do this for real? Ian?? PapaScott? Kim? Love Immigrant?
I’m feeling particularly social. Probably because I’m sort of a bachelor these days. Sparky is holding down the fort in Boweltown and I’m rocking the single girl ‘tude up north.
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Had a fabulous day Saturday shopping and preparing for a full day of nesting and making the apartment my own. It was a balmy 12 degrees C so I dropped the top on the cabrio and tooled around town listening to Miz Winehouse.
When I lived alone in the states, I had a routine I followed shortly after I moved to a new neighborhood. I’d drive around looking for my grocery store, hardware store, vacuum repair shop, Ikea, dry cleaner and coffee fix. Important places, you know.
All is well as I have found all my places in my neighborhood, Winterhude, except for the Ikea, but that is on the way to my gym so it’s technically crossed off the list and I have a Dyson vacuum so I skipped the repair shop. The Dyson could suck up the sun and still function.
All was perfectly perfect until I drove up to my lovely art deco apartment building. Some schmuck parked in front of my driveway. MY driveway.
In the middle of my outraged “what do I do now?” snit, MY balcony door opened. Then a hand, a male hand, popped out, messing around with stuff on the balcony.
Turns out it was the landlord doing the twice monthly cleaning I had requested be arranged. Arranged and perhaps communicated. Had I known he was coming, I might have scooped the cat litter. Had I known he was coming, or anyone was coming, I might have put my shoes away or perhaps stored my “Items of a Personal Nature” in a drawer rather than a topless box under the bed.
I walked in to see him on his hands and knees vacuuming under said bed, hand on box.
Later, after he left and my face resumed its normal Germanic winter white tone, I noticed that the box had been pulled to the bottom edge of the bed frame and all those errant shoes I had left out were lined up like good German soldiers guarding my shame.
I don’t know why this stuff embarrasses me anymore. Really.
Why do I seem to have more time to blog and read blogs and COMMENT now that I’m working?
I walked at 9 months
I read at 3 years.
I flew by myself (in a plane) at 3.5.
I learned to drive at 12.
I have been on my own since my 18th birthday.
I am 35 years old. And a half. Today.
I have many adult-like accomplishments from building a house to running a company.
So why is it that I cannot drink or eat without spilling all over my shirt within 30 seconds?
Jennifer is a name I’ve always hated since every other girl in the world is named Jennifer. I wanted to be a unique and special snowflake. Not one of 10 Jennifers in a 28 person classroom. So I moved to Germany where its only every other expat I know. Now when someone yells my name, it is usually me they are yelling at.
Hmm… I like this definition too.
Someone one told me that a jennifer was a young woman who dated married men and the wives of such men were referred to as janets. I can’t won’t comment as to the validity of that reference.
I got this from Kim who is having a birthday today. Yay, Kim.
What Jennifer Means |
 You are fair, honest, and logical. You are a natural leader, and people respect you. You never give up, and you will succeed… even if it takes you a hundred tries. You are rational enough to see every part of a problem. You are great at giving other people advice. You are friendly, charming, and warm. You get along with almost everyone.You work hard not to rock the boat. Your easy going attitude brings people together. At times, you can be a little flaky and irresponsible. But for the important things, you pull it together. You are very intuitive and wise. You understand the world better than most people. You also have a very active imagination. You often get carried away with your thoughts. You are prone to a little paranoia and jealousy. You sometimes go overboard in interpreting signals. You tend to be pretty tightly wound. It’s easy to get you excited… which can be a good or bad thing. You have a lot of enthusiasm, but it fades rather quickly. You don’t stick with any one thing for very long. You have the drive to accomplish a lot in a short amount of time. Your biggest problem is making sure you finish the projects you start. You are loving, compassionate, and ruled by your feelings. You are able to be a foundation for other people… but you still know how to have fun. Sometimes your emotions weigh you down, but you generally feel free from them. You are wild, crazy, and a huge rebel. You’re always up to something. You have a ton of energy, and most people can’t handle you. You’re very intense. You definitely are a handful, and you’re likely to get in trouble. But your kind of trouble is a lot of fun. |
Speaking with a co-worker about a management change:
Me: So, can you handle it. He is a hard guy to work with and he’ll fight it.
Male Colleague: Yes. I can. I have der longer breast.
Me, thinking WTF?: You mean you have the bigger penis?”
MC, looking at me with disgust: No, no, no. How do you say… atem. Ich kann…
Me: Oh, you mean breath. Okay, yes, that works. You can hold your breath longer. Gotcha.
MC, looking at me angrily: I do NOT have longer breasts.
You know the hardest part of being in the working world again after such a long hiatus? It’s not the getting up early and working late. It’s not the morning Brotchen. It’s trying not to fart while walking around the office.
I know this seems like a no brain-er, but think for a moment. Once, long, long ago, I was a polite city girl, going out and about, farting privately in the bathroom or alone wherever alone was. Alone was not in my very busy office or in the kitchen at work. Alone was where:
Linger Factor x Blast Radius(self) = SD/P*
not
Linger Factor x Blast Radius(people) = TD x CE**
My mother raised me right and other than that one sneeze from hell prompted fart at work on my office Aeron chair (no muffle factor AT ALL!) I kept my animalistic tendencies private.Then I moved to Germany. My mother-in-law starts off our relationship explaining the proper way to wipe my ass and my then boyfriend never closed the bathroom door, ever. No matter what he was downloading.
Fast forward four years and all the mystery is gone. My mother would be so disappointed. She was totally right. Your friends form your behavior and lordy, mama, Sparky farts all the time. He’s even made me participate in the fart wars. I confess and fall upon the good graces of the gods and goddess to cleanse my spirit (and my bowels, please) and forgive me for my bodily sins.
In other news, Ollie the cat was up all night playing with one of the fourteen mice I purchased for the move. His favorite place to tear the sucker apart was on the bed… Where we were sleeping. Olli woke Sparky who woke me up with his swearing. Then Olli fell asleep on Sparky’s pillow, purring as he drifted into his sweet fluffy kitty cat night-night. Then Scrunchy tried to wiggle his nose into my neck bone and Kiska, the little runaway, jumped up behind my knees. Oh and me? I was awake. The swearing and the purring did me in.
Good Morning, morning glories.
SD/P* (self disgust/pride)
TD x CE** Total Destruction of all nearby life forms and complete embarrassment
I am a big, big fat pig. I ate everything I could get my grubby little hands on yesterday and today my jeans are tight and I was forced to wear my fat sweater that hides the bulges that exist when I don’t wear body armor.
This work thing is great except for that brotchen in the morning. I love brotchen in the morning. Brotchen love me so much that they have found an abandoned area on my hips (where ice cream used to reside) and made camp. I don’t like brotchen anymore.
This morning, I decided I would start the protein shake thing again but Sparky made it with warm water instead of milk and I got a mouthful of icky. Blehhh. He offered to make it with milk, but we only have an opened milk. I don’t drink milk that has been opened by anyone but me. And that milk I only drink THAT day. I won’t touch it if it’s older than 12 hours. I don’t want to hear it. Have food poisoning more than once and come talk to me about weird things you do now to prevent 2 hours of exorcist-like projectile vomiting followed by 24 hours of dry heaves. I don’t do milk. Okay?
So I’m just going to exist on coffee and cigarettes. I’m doing the supermodel thing. At least for today.
My cat got out last night and Sparky went in search of her this morning. Am I a bad cat mom because I thought she was still under the kitchen cupboards and Sparky “Just Knew” she was gone? I have chased that cat around continents. She waits until we’ve moved and then heads for the hills. That or any other time a door or window is left open and there is no one around to say “Get back in the house, Helen Keller. The outdoor world is no place for you!”
He found her hidden in between boxes under the stairs. It’s a good thing he went because I do not walk down basement steps when it’s dark outside. Or alone. Or actually ever. I saw a lifetime movie last week about a little girl being haunted by her dead cousin and it was terrifying. I only watched it because I was tired of sobbing through the other lifetime movies I purchased on iTunes. So now, I can imagine coming upon a spirit house (or doll house depending on how many scary movies you watch) as I walk down the creaky basement steps and freaking out. Just plain freaking out with the scared dance and wailing and all sorts of commotion thus scaring the cat away and never finding her again. Its a good thing she has Sparky.
The new place is great, except for the bed. All night I fight to stay on. It’s a European double bed and the middle is raised just enough that the occupants slowly fall off the sides. I know why the birthrate is low here. No one can snuggle. No opportunity for an “Oops, it just slipped in” in the middle of the night because you’re both too busy trying not to hit the floor.
I had a dream last night that I needed a break so I hopped in my convertible and drove to Tuscany where I bought 3000 euros worth of clothes. I had the top down and bought everything new from gorgeous panties (with magic fat suck-in capabilities) to new red shoes and skirts and flowey dresses. I met my girlfriend Jami there and we had a cigarette together and talked about how because I was buying so much, I thought I should get 30% off. She agreed. I ended up getting 6.6% off but I really didn’t care all that much. Then my brother walked down the street leading a tiger. We thought the tiger was way cool and he talked to us like a sober Brian from The Family Guy, but stayed on all four paws.
I woke up sad because I really wanted to wear those new red shoes.
Ah well. So there you go, dear diary. I’ve got to go start my work day. Later.
I got the keys to the apartment on Thursday. I had them take out the water clause all together. They said it was a standard HausOrdnung, but had no problem taking it out. Everyone told me to talk to a lawyer, but what it came down to was just not wanting to have the potential for problems. I didn’t care if it was illegal or unenforceable. As someone who has lived with passive aggressive notes from landlords to just aggressive behaviour from roommates, the idea of finding a little yellow post-it on my door puts me off even the cutest art deco building built in 1908 on a great street with lots of tree alleys and tons of windows and a balcony and a parking place.
The landlord himself told me it was ridiculous and I could shower anytime I wanted. So I took it.
In San Francisco I lived in an in-law apartment for a while. It was more of an out-law because it was not up to code and I was always sick from the slight gas leak in the kitchen. That gas leak didn’t prevent the onslaught of raccoons that would visit said kitchen in the middle of the night (beginning of raccoon phobia), but visitors always mentioned the slight odour as they walked in. I just got used to it. Anyway, because it was not up to code, all utilities were included in the rent. Well, I was apparently using too much electricity and got a post-it to reduce my usage.
I came home from work a few days later and noticed that the lights seemed dimmer. And it looked like my white kitchen had a purplish tinge. I used 100 watt bulbs because I was blind, needed to see and I was in a freakin’ basement. There was no natural light.
Having a different, but similar light bulb experience in college, I thought it was just me for a while.*
Checking all the bulbs I found that they had magically turned to 60 watts and had turned purplish. I thought about it for a week, wondering if there had been a power surge that had turned all four of my light bulbs purple. I figured I just thought I had 100 watt bulbs, that I was remembering wrong. My first reaction is always to think I’m the crazy one. When Markus starts to gas-light me, it’ll be a very easy job. When my step-dad told me that “No, Jennifer, light bulbs don’t change colours, they pop out” that it dawned on me that someone had actually changed my light bulbs.
This went on for months. Months. I asked them to stop changing my light bulbs, especially with the free-with-every package-of-natural-white lifestyle colour bulbs because the purple was driving me nuts. You know, with a “Please” and “You can’t just go into my place without telling me and taking my light bulbs” kind of thing. It didn’t stop and I moved, but it was a total pain in the ass. Anyway, did not want to deal with a “don’t shower” vibe. Now I don’t have to worry and I’m out of the hotel and it all worked out. The end.
I’m back in Boweltown this weekend and next. Next weekend the cats make their five and half hour drive to the northland. That should be a barrel of laughs.
*It was a dark and stormy night in the heart of December. No really, it was dark and stormy and I was all alone in a house that was rumoured to be haunted. I am primed to believe in haunting, so just by mentioning the word haunting leads me to see ghosts and weird things.
During this particular storm, the main power line to the house was cut, causing a huge explosion that woke me up at 3 am on the dot. I know this because the clocks stopped at 3 am on the dot. This explosion, which I didn’t know was an actual explosion, just a really loud noise left just enough power to the house to causing all the bulbs in the house to glow at a 5 watt intensity. There was also enough power to shock the crap out of me when I tried to check the fuse box located on the outside corner of the house. In the rain with a dimming flashlight Did I mention it was storming? And I was alone? And in a white, short, empire cut lawn cotton nightie barefoot? When I write about running out in the middle of a storm, I write from personal experience. I might have read too many Gothic novels hence my accessories, but I have lived the terror! I could never write an autobiography because my freakin’ life has been one bad cliché after another. No one would believe it. Too contrived.
I know I’m working in Germany, but…
Researching salaries in within the advertising field, this link popped up - marxists.org.
Not sure if Marx will go over very well here.
Why has it taken me so long to appreciate Moby? Does this make me old?
You know what is not fun? Switching from a crappy Vista machine to a Mac auf deutsch.
I have no idea what I’m doing, but the machine keeps laughing at me.
Excel on a Mac is crap. Excel on a Mac in German is hell.It took me four hours figure out how to copy & paste.
That apple key is driving me crazy as is switching between a UK keyboard and a German keyboard. I wonder if i could use that as a new skill. Fluent in British, American and German keyboarding. Just finding the @ symbol is a challenge, not to mention the ‘ or the /. Let’s not even talk about the Z and Y configuration. It’s not so eayz.
Found an apartment. It’s great except for the clause in the lease that says we cannot bathe or shower from 10 pm to 7 am. WTF?? If they think showering is noisy, there is another activity that begins with an “S” they should be more worried about.
I’ve had 7 cups of coffee.
I’m no longer making any sort of sense.
This one is for Blair.
These boys were my roommates while I was in Cali. This picture was taken in Smitty’s. We have Jeffy in front, Steve in the middle and Tom in the back of the picture.
Steve is a fantastic man. I can’t say enough about him. He’s smart, sharp and sarcastic with a great heart and a really annoying penchant for damaged women.
Tom. Tom is charmed personified. I am more than aware of his abilities, but I could never deny Tom a thing. I wanted to, I fought it, but Tom always manages to get what he wants, the fucker. He’s the kind of guy who smiles and cajoles you until YOU feel bad saying no.
But this is about Blair. The fourth guy.
Blair is my favourite bartender, a shark at dice and a great guy. He works at Smitty’s which is pretty much my favourite bar in the free world. I didn’t discover Smitty’s, my friend Jami did and when she and I became friends, oh like ten years ago, we hung out at Smitty’s a LOT. Even Ace has been to Smitty’s. Blair won’t be there much longer so if you live in the area and want to have great conversation and a good drink, head on over. He’s also really hot, in the fireman sort of way. Did I say hot, because he’s really hot. Like drop your panties hot. Jami, so way your type. In full disclosure, I might have a little crush on Blair.
It has to be hard being a bartender. You see people in every emotional extreme, every night. Some people can maintain, most can’t. Some are nice, sad or happy. Some are mean, sad and miserable. It’s got to be tough. That’s why I think he’s leaving to be a fireman. No, really. With his heart, he really has no choice.
I was in a bad place this last trip home. It took me weeks to get out of my head. Blair helped with that. Not to say he got me drunk and helped me stay there, because that happened only once, the night before I left and that, my friends, was an act of mercy. (Okay, twice, but that first time was so necessary.) No, he was friendly, intelligent and our conversations veered from the life I didn’t want to think about. And he totally kicked my ass with that dice game.
One night I was picking up Chinese and I almost hit him as he was walking down the street. I told Jeff that I almost killed Blair with his car. Blair just looked annoyed at the time as if it wasn’t the first time. Jeff? Jeff freaked out! “Blair? You almost hit Blair? Jen, this isn’t like that woman in the wheelchair**. Be careful. Jesus, not Blair! You are never driving my car again.”
Smitty’s is a local dive, but not the kind of place that makes you go home and shower and thank god you don’t have to be there. And it has always been good to me, whatever my needs were. This time was no different. You never know who you’re going to meet and there are always interesting people. This time I met some guy who brought his dog. His little fluffy little girl dog. He said she couldn’t sleep so he brought her to Smitty’s until she could calm down. Or the local guy who has been coming to Smitty’s for like 35 years. Or the chick who thought Markus was a model and wanted to know if he had a website. BTW, he’s not and he doesn’t have a website. At Smitty’s you can just start up a conversation with anyone.
My last night*, Blair helped me achieve the perfect hangover that was to help me fly home. Granted I didn’t fly home, thanks United, but the perfect hangover was achieved. Blair is nothing if not generous.
So, that last night, Jeff let Blair in on our beaver joke. I was somewhere else, talking to someone or something. I don’t know. All I know is the next day, Jeff texted (SMS’d) me at the airport. He told me to check my camera. Lo and behold was this last souvenir from a great trip.
Thanks, Blair.
** I don’t know if I wrote about that little car mishap, but long story short, I forgot to pull the emergency brake and my car rolled into a woman, in a wheelchair, on her tommy lift. Not good. I was not in the car, but my siblings always leave that part out of the story.
