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It’s 8:32 am.
It seemed like the most natural thing in the world to me until I realized that I’m not actually a.) in college b.) living in Oakland c.) living with my brother – although he stopped smoking years and years ago and d.) my building is full of a bunch of uh, responsible squares. Well, that’s not true, but no one who would smoke pot.
We have one guy, who just retired, who drinks copious amounts of red wine and then starts singing. Loudly. We call him the ghost of (name of our building) because he walks around at night making sure everything is closed up and tucked in. His wife is a romance novelist and that’s weird. I want my romance novelists to look like Kathleen Turner in Romancing the Stone and she most certainly does not. And a neighbor read one of her books. She told me that the sex scenes were especially hard for her because she couldn’t stop visualizing the author and her husband.
Another neighbor has a swing in his living room. And nothing else.
Another neighbor has a DEEP love for horses. This is find odd in females over the age of 14. Don’t get me wrong, I like horse too, but I’m not dressing up for them. I feed them an occasional carrot and contemplate Alice Walker’s short story “Am I Blue?”
There’s Twig-and-Berry man who likes to sun himself. I wouldn’t mind if his balcony wasn’t directly across from mine, he wasn’t 6′7″, and wasn’t overly fond of stretching.
You know, after more contemplation, the scent of marijuana really shouldn’t surprise me at all.
Sparky and I are probably the squarest ones here, all secretive and non-social with a house full of cats and closed curtains.
And I can’t actually say anything about it.
This is why I could never be a spy. I would walk around telling everyone that I knew stuff I couldn’t tell them. I might even play 20 questions so that they could guess that Putin dressed up like a fairy complete with pink tissue paper wings on days he was especially tough or that he loved the feel of silky ballet slipper ribbons tied around his pixie-like ankles when ordering “Phasers set to kill”.
Shit, I probably shouldn’t have said that. I might be poisoned. It’s like Stephen King. Don’t fuck with Stephen King or you end up dead from “Natural Causes” at 43 or in my case 36. I love Stephen King. I can’t read his books because I’m a total wuss and some PG-13 movies are too scary for me, but you’ll never hear me say a bad word about Mr. King.
So, yeah. I have a secret and I can’t say anything.
This blog might be boring for a while.
How long?
Yes or no questions only, please because I really can’t say. It’s a secret.
Is it one week?
Yes.
Can I check back in one week and you’ll have told us your secret?
Yes.
Can I ask more questions until then.
No. Sorry, Sparky has officially tied my fingers together in an attempt to shut my mouth.
In other news, Sparky’s news clip was on last night on ZDF. We got exactly 2 hours notice. He was great. I’m so proud of my expert. AND they used my mouth in the background. Why is this good? Well, for one, my mouth is always open. A very good example for word-of-mouth marketing. I can’t keep it shut to save my life. See above. But also, they didn’t show my period stained pants.
And kennedy121, I mean trousers or slacks. I was not running around being filmed for a news program in my underwear.
Why are “pants” underwear in the GB? What are they called in Australia? Is this different in New Zealand?
Last night, around 11 pm, Sparky and I were so excited about sleeping in. We get up at 5 am every day and were very excited about a possible 8 am start to our Sunday. I made sure the alarm wasn’t set and snuggled up.
Around 2 am, Ollie plopped on my head, covering both my nose and mouth and fell asleep because really there is nowhere more comfortable in the house than my face. I moved my head to an uncomfortable angle in order not to wake the cat and fell back to sleep. At 4 am Ollie did it again, accompanied by his signature 150 decibel purr/wheeze/snore. At 5 am, he woke for good and proceeded to terrorize me with hopes I’d get up and open the wet food. It’s a treat, Ollie. A gift from me to you, not a required morning nutrient. I finally got up at 6.
Sparky is still asleep despite my best cat-like efforts. I jumped on the bed. I jumped on him. I kissed him all over his face. I used my hair as a weapon against his nose. I put my cold toes in strategic places. I wiggled certain parts in certain places. Nothing. Apparently when I’m up and hyper at 7 am, Sparky does not feel the need to wake and entertain me. The man can sleep through anything.
I finally gave up and told him I’d be back in a hour. I’m not sure he heard me so I sent the cats in to fight to make sure my point was made.
Yesterday we woke early and drove to Neuschwanstein. It was a lovely day. There are times I forget how well Sparky and I get along. Its usually when he loads the dishwasher wrong or he starts to polish the fridge in the middle of a conversation about mung beans because how could he not give me his full attention when I speak of mung beans.
But days like yesterday I am reminded.
We travel well together. Even when things go bad, we both find the good part. Especially since we have banned relationship talks on drives over one hour. I mean really, getting tear-gassed on your Parisian honeymoon could have been bad, but both of us found it hilarious once we were out of danger and kind of exciting when we were IN danger. He even makes jokes about how I lead us into a riot because nothing stops me from getting to where I want to go. Not even police barricades or riot gear. Rather than getting pissed that my bad sense of direction and over-developed sense of entitlement lead us directly between the rock throwing french socialists and the obviously fascist well-dressed police, he finds the humor. (Aren’t facists always well dressed?)
Yesterday, it rained. A lot. Sparky wanted yesterday to be blue, gorgeous cabrio weather, but it wasn’t. However, it was dramatic and foreboding which was appropriate when talking about Ludwig II.
And we both find the humor in farts. Walking behind this really old man, the old man ripped one. I don’t mean a little “Oops!” toot. I mean a full on, stepped-on-a-duck-20-second-I’m-eighty-what-do you-expect fart. Giggling, we moved quickly around the greenhouse gas.
A few minutes later, on our horse and carriage ride, the horse stepped on a few ducks. It was truly amazing. I have never before heard a horse fart. My life is now complete. I can die a well-informed woman.
I won’t go into the lady in the bathroom, who, with some sort intestinal problem, had no concept of the “Courtesy Flush”. If not for my over-active bladder, I would have been out of there in a New York minute. It was like a Bloodhound Gang song. However, betrayed by said bladder, I was there for the entire performance. Then I told Sparky all about it and we giggled some more.
It was raining so hard after our tour of the castle (or rather our tour of many smells), I had to buy an umbrella because you know, I haven’t lived in Germany for five years and was not prepared for sudden downpours as it happens so infrequently. It’s not like I don’t have four in the car. My husband, raised by an emotionally scarred war-child, visibly winced when I said I needed to buy an umbrella to walk down the mountain. I know he wanted me to just tough it out because it was five euros for 30 minute walk and don’t you know that his mother lived on 3 cents for two months in the 40’s? Please understand, he’s not cheap. This took me years to figure out. He just hates to spend money on Wasted Items. This type of spending drives him to obsessively polish things mad. I bought the umbrella and then decided I needed a diet coke, a five euro diet coke. For a second, I thought I was back in Paris. I didn’t purchase the diet coke because I shot my wad on the umbrella. I had to tilt my head and open my mouth to wet my whistle, the only part of me that was dry. Sparky bought me a latte in a restaurant even though I bought the umbrella and we waited out the rain in almost warmth which shows how much he loves me.
So, I know I’m going against my personal code, but I’m going to be happy for another day. That makes four in a row if you’re counting.
Today is my birthday. I’m now officially in my mid-mid-thirties. What the fuck? When did that happen because i could have sworn I just had my 25th birthday. I have a book on my desk that I use all the time. I opened it the other day and there on the front cover was my name and the date I bought it. Jan 1990. Holy cow, I have a book that is 18 years old. A book. Do you know how old that makes me feel? Ah, well, things are going too good for me to complain.
Things are boding well for my 36th year.
- I had my hair done finally, in a teeny tiny little village and it is the best I’ve had in Germany, rivaling my guy in SF. The cut isn’t exactly perfect, but man, it does look great. Whodda thunk?
- I got my birthday wish a few days early and I am so not complaining.
- The smell of fresh cut grass is wafting in through my open windows.
- I also got a great car stereo from the Sparkster. Now when I drive my car, I can actually listen to music. It hooks up to Lucius, my iPod, AND has a bluetooth hands free thingie so I can talk safely while driving. And Sparky even washed the car for me so Gracie is all super sweet and clean. Perfect for a topless drive.
- And to the topless drive, today is also the first time ever, in the last 33 years (i can’t remember the first three) that it hasn’t rained on my birthday. Yeah, I grew up in California and yeah, it rained there too. I had a party a few years ago and it stormed mightily. It was the hail that finally put out the BBQ and my hopes, but not today!
Thanks for all the birthday wishes, I’m really touched and surprised. Claire, or shall we call her Super Woman, even sent me a card that was delivered today. How does that work? If I didn’t know Claire personally, I would have thought she was one of those “Perfect Hair Women”. You know who I’m talking about. We’ve all met them and hated them at some point in our lives.
Anyway, I’m going to know go take a nap because I’m tired and I can. Then I’m going to take a drive in a gorgeous convertible and then perhaps go see the Dark Knight.
Life is good and I am happy.
I hope you have just as good a day as I’m having.
Dude, I had no idea that I needed this. Thank god I found this website. I mean really, Jennifer is such a common name. It pulls at my energy levels and is really the root of my laziness and unhappiness. Oh, my wretched parents, stealing my name from my aunt who was pregnant at the same time, but due three months later than my mom. My mother and her sisters always stole everything from each other so why would baby names be any different, right?
My contrary husband sent me THIS link when i went off about how the woman above is milking people out of their money.
Its a boring day.
Something is going on with my sniffer.
I woke up to gamey man scent with a peculiar top note of pear. It was so strong it woke me up. And it’s not Sparky. That was my first thought, but he smells like soap and deodorant. Then at the gym, the showers smelled like chlorine with a bit of sweaty balls. The parking ticket area smelled like cafeteria school lunches. Weird.
Ollie is following me around as if I smell of cat treats, which, after my shower at the sweaty ball gym, I most decidedly do not. I smell like cinnamon buns! The problem with that body wash is that I really, really want a cinnamon bun after I use it. Every. Single. Time.
Okay, I’ve got some stuff goin’ on over here in Boweltown, so I’ll make this short.
4th Anuual Whiney Expat Blogger Meet-Up
September 27-28, 2008 – Bremen
If you live in Germany, you really ought to go to this next meet-up. I’ve been to two, including the first and thus I am a charter member. It has always been a blast, even the year I could not stop putting my foot in my mouth. Sparky and I are heading up to Bremen this year unless reproductive issues keep us here (I have an appointment with some very interesting equipment and let’s just say if I get pregnant soon, it will not be because I had dirty sex unless you have a medical fetish and then it is extremely dirty).
Why should you go?
1. It is so much fun. It’s kind of a little island of your own culture in the middle of this vast sea of Kraut. It’s nice to have conversations with people who understand cultural references without having to explain.
2. Meet new/old friends. Seriously, I have yet to meet an expat who doesn’t fall into a hole of routine. It’s comfortable, that routine, but sometimes it gets a little old. And having been in a routine, it’s sometimes scary to leave it to meet people you’ve only met via blogs or forums. Well, let me tell you, the learning curve is about 30 seconds before everything is really comfortable and lovely.
3. See a new city? This isn’t such a draw for me as I’d prefer to sit at a cafe, drink coffee and say inappropriate things as I get to know new people.
- If you are feeling shy just know we all feel shy. I put on good face, but I’m actually really shy. Unless there is red wine. Then I’m not so shy at all.
- You don’t have to be an expat nor a blogger to attend. We don’t discriminate.
So, e-mail me with any questions. This week is a good time to do this as I have promised myself to return all e-mails I’ve neglected over the last 3 months before my birthday so that I can start my 36th year clean of all prior commitments and procrastinations.
Otherwise, see you in Bremen. Seriously, get your butt to Bremen.
I have lost all my politeness. Really, I’m rather cranky and the following is a short list of why I am cranky today (yesterday):
- Some butt wipe choosing the locker right under mine at the gym when there are no fewer than 59 (I counted) other lockers to chose from. Really? You really want to be beneath that one locker with the red light indicating it is taken? Really? Oh, then act shocked when you come in to my aisle and find that wow, the one other person with a locker in that aisle is there. While you’re struggling to get your things out as I’m lotioning up, you can go ahead and kiss my ass.
- Stopping with a grocery cart in the middle of the aisle when I’m behind you. Start thinking of these situations as if you are in a car. You stop suddenly in a car and hopefully I’ll have enough distance not to hit you, not because I am a nice person because I’m not. I’d really like to hit you, give you a little lesson in how to drive with your head out of your ass. No, I don’t hit you because my car is gorgeous and I don’t want to pay higher insurance costs. Stop suddenly in an aisle and i have no such qualms. My cart will ride up the back of your heel and I’ll apologize and try to make my face look like I mean it.
- Stand back when I’m paying for my groceries. How much I spend is none of your beeswax and neither are the contents of my wallet/handbag. Are tampons really that exciting? Stop staring, you nosy busybody. This is followed closely by actually touching me when I’m paying for my groceries. I’m am so sorry, I didn’t notice you there when I turned suddenly with my elbow.
- Women drivers who give the rest of us a bad name. Every. Single. Time. Sadly, I know and love some of these women, Mim.
- When someone reeks at the gym and only after holding my nose and making faces do I realize it’s me.
- When my French press strikes back and hot coffee spurts all over my clean white tee-shirt. I need a fucking coffee machine already. I’ve done my time with the manual shit.
- When the phone rings at 5 am and my standard “Who died?” is not met with my brother drunkenly professing his love, but rather my sister with a sobering “Grandma.” And worse, as my Dad said, It’s too early for dead grandmother jokes.
I’m a cranky pants today. I’m going to go dare people to fuck with me.
In effort to stave off a rebellious cigarette craving, I ate too much pineapple.
My tongue has that enzyme burn and my stomach is so full I want to be bulimic.
At least my semen will taste better.
Sparky and I were driving home last Friday. In our little hamlet is a bus/tram zone where at least a hundred people were waiting for various buses/trams. As we were driving in this 100 meter bus zone we noticed a man laying in the street as if he were listening to the asphalt to see when the next tram would arrive.
Only he wasn’t. He was having a seizure.
He was also not being helped. He was alone, lying in the street, shaking and beating his head on the ground with at least 100 people in the immediate area, some staring, others not noticing.
Sparky pulled over and we ran to him, screaming for help. This man, who I’ll call Bob, seized for about five or six minutes. He stopped seizing and fell into a deep sleep. He woke gradually with absolutely no comprehension. or ability to speak. He badly injured his head, his ear being ripped from his scalp a bit. There was blood everywhere.
We stayed with Bob until the ambulance got there and took him away.
A couple of things stuck with me for the next few days.
First and foremost, why wasn’t anyone else helping this man before we showed up? There were a ton of people on the street and, uh, not in a car. There was an apotheke 10 feet from the man, but the apotheker couldn’t help? The ambulance was called from the apotheke, so it wasn’t like they didn’t know. Why was it only when Sparky and I started screaming for help did anyone do more than stare at this man?
I understand it from a psychological perspective, but I can’t viscerally. Don’t make me go here.
It makes me so angry which on one hand is good because it relieved some of the nausea I felt at the actual injury to this man and the sight of all that blood. Bob was in dire need of help and NO ONE did a thing. Someone eventually went for a doctor and that doctor took his sweet time getting downstairs. He literally sauntered, Sauntered! over to Bob as the ambulance got there and he was a flight of stairs away. That was at least 15 minutes into the whole thing. What the fuck?
And all those people? What were they doing? A musician came up before I had a towel from my car and I grabbed his music folder to put under the man’s head. And the musician grabbed it back from me. Bob was grievously injuring himself on the asphalt. Is a folder that important? Take out your music then and give me the folder? I was about to pull off my tee-shirt that’s how much damage was being done to the man, he was ripping his ear off his head.
I kept playing the scene over in my mind wondering if there was anything else I could have done because all my first aid training flew from my brain. I came home and googled. We did what we were supposed to which made me feel a bit better. I hope Bob is okay.
I have included some links below so if anyone else encounters this, you’ll know what to do.
Basically it is this:
- Try to prevent them from injuring themselves further – move objects, furniture.
- Put a pillow/towel under their head to prevent head injuries.
- DO NOT put anything in their mouths, they won’t swallow their tongues.
- After it is over, roll them on to their side to drain any liquid in their mouths.
I saw a woman yesterday wearing what I deemed a really horrible outfit. She works at my gym so I see her all the time. She is a little on the heavier side and having lived my entire life on that side, I can tell you a really, really tight denim mini paired with shinny leggings and a green blouse that is so tight that the Michelin rolls are accentuated and the buttons pop is not a good idea unless you are auditioning for Jerry Springer. She topped off the outfit with obtusely pointed thick strapped heels.
I was thinking how to put her outfit together in a better way. Then the conversation with myself went south.
“What if she is confident in that outfit? What if she really likes it? No. It’s one of those “I don’t know what to wear” kind of outfits.
Keep the bottom, change the top, v-neck instead of popping buttons, way different shoes, preferably leather unless she has a moral problem with leather and then her choices are limited and she can hide behind her ethics for wearing shoes that should never have been produced.
Less tanning salon/self tanner and way less foundation. Eye make-up not bad, but a steadier hand would make all the difference. Perhaps not applying while driving. I apply while driving. Does my makeup look like that? Not now as it is all over your face. The sweat and the redness add a whole lot to your look, missy. You look awful. Who are you to judge? I’m not judging. I’m trying to distract myself because weight lifting is the second most boring activity after watching a video of Uncle Chris fishing.
Really? Did you notice that you have a similar denim mini and might have worn it with footless spanx.
Oh shit. Did I look like that? Oh my god, I bet I did. I looked like a whore. A $1 Dolla Store whore and that might have been what I was going for at Smitty’s, but not in Strasbourg. Wow, that screams desperation. What am I desperate for? Youth? My whorish youth? Yep, I’m trying to hold on to my mid-twenties. Dude, those were good times. I will never wear that mini again. Holy shit, I hate it when I’m criticizing someone and I circle back on myself. I’m horrible. Who were you before Shaun? There but for the grace of gay men.
I thought you weren’t criticizing, just distracting yourself by problem solving?
Shut up. She’s just German. She has no idea how to dress. It’s not her fault they lost the war and were sentenced to bad shoes and a horrible fashion sense for all of eternity or at least until they get tired of being a a fashion faux paux and invade Poland again. Who developed goose stepping? Odd. I wonder if I could help her. Oh my god, look at yourself (doing lat pulls). You have Michelin rolls too. I know, shut up. I have to pretend they don’t exist to actually exercise in public.
Your hair looks horrible. Just get it done already. It couldn’t be worse then what you have now which is four inches of roots. You’ll not get to Hamburg in the near future. If Salvatore’s lady screws up the color again, you can always head back north to Martin Max. I know, low lights or highlights aren’t really a good idea in Krautland and there is always the risk of zebra stripes, but jesus, you live here, you can’t live 3 months out of the year with good hair and 9 months in hair Hades. Even Persephone was only trapped for 6 months at a time. And cover that gray or just wear that mini-skirt again, paired with the roots and the gray and its a stunning outfit. You are a beauty queen. Why don’t you just borrow a leopard print handbag and do your eyes in blue liner. Wait, that could be kinda cute. No, it couldn’t. In theory perhaps, but it would take someone far better than you to pull it off. And thinner. Bobby Kristina, you are too fat to wear that hat. You suck. Why don’t you eat more bread? You need to be here all week. Smile, damn it. Look confident, like you didn’t almost just lose your pants again. What happened to you? If you were skinnier, prettier, smarter, better, faster… If you just did things differently, if you only…. Get your ass on that treadmill. Faster, Pussycat. Kill. Kill.
This is one of the reasons I hate the gym. It is a place where my inner monster strangles my inner child and I end up killing myself on machines to feed that beast.
So after that 3 second conversation with myself, I worked out too hard yesterday and today, I have nothing creative to say.
