Nah, I can’t complain. Well, technically I can, since that’s what I do and I’m a professional, but I ain’t gonna. I love how polite the seasons are these days. How it remained wet, cool and Spring-like until midnight of June 30th, then immediately morphed into typical hot and humid July weather on the 1st like someone flipped a switch. Couldn’t get better if you planned it.
REASONS I’LL BE GLAD TO MOVE #574
My drunken neighbor lives on her balcony. Her balcony adjoins mine with a thin, short, grey metal partition. It’s important to note there is no television on her balcony, which effectively means my family and I are the entertainment. This is a problem because we live in our living room, which is a mere glance around the barrier away from prying eyes.
But trust me, this is not even necessary. She and her husband can hear everything of interest, even a room volume conversation, by merely sitting (or in her case living) on her balcony. Which they do. Which brings me to ponder… what if I decide one of these days I’m gonna have sex in my living room?
I’m a pretty quiet neighbor and this prompts her to occasionally, you know, just by accident, shake out her rugs right at the edge of the partition, and by doing so you know she needs to lean out a bit - no other way to get that dust out properly - and while she’s already there she may as well surreptitiously peek around and check to see what I’m doing. Because it might be something interesting like freebasing or building a bomb. It’s practically her duty, you see.
If I decided to have sex in our living room, does this mean she becomes a spectator or active participant? Inquiring minds need to know. Either way drinks and a snack will have to be provided and I need a head count.
IN OTHER NEWS
Remember the house that’s so durned cute but we’re probably not going to get it? And that was okay because it was too small anyway and I’d have to live beside our landlords? Well it turns out it’s not too small. Our inside source says the owners have cleverly under-reported the actual size because it was their daughter and her husband living there until now. The owners also live elsewhere.
Michael called for an appointment to see it, be interviewed and make an application which we’ll do tomorrow afternoon. Needless to say I’m in a state of high excitement, both anticipating and dreading it - much like I imagine millions of teenage boys feel when going to an Angelina Jolie movie - knowing they’ll be experiencing two full hours of nearly unbearable beauty they’ll never be able to have.
I’m getting grumpy. The neighbor woman next door is provokin’ me again. *sigh* She gets falling down drunk on a regular basis and scares me (!0_0!) with her zombie ways. Last time she was so soused she couldn’t remember the name of the man who’d just moved out, a neighbor she had lived beside and spoken to almost every day for the past seven plus years. That drunk. Which is a useless point because even if she would’ve remembered his name she was too plastered to pronounce it.
Which brings me to the question: what does one do when encountering someone that drunk? Her body was functioning but her mind had taken a temporary vacation. I didn’t know whether to stay with her till it came home again or run. Since she does this on a regular basis and still wasn’t dead I decided to run.
My further complaints against this trial of a woman include the fact that she uses the common laundry room space like it’s her closet and stores part of her clothing there, while at the same time announcing to me that I need to take my things out of her way because “this is a laundry room, not your personal storage!” Can anyone say ‘hypocrite’?
Next! She told me sweetly several times when I first moved in I could use the inside laundry line whenever I needed it - as if I needed her permission - then proceeded to hang her clothing on it whenever possible, using up every available centimeter. Funny thing about this is even though she has an entire room full of line to hang her stuff, she’ll put her underwear and bras - stuff a prostitute would blush to wear, stuff with spangles and bits of metal and wire and sh*t hanging off it, thongs! (did I mention she’s about 70?) - right in front of my dryer - always my dryer, where I have to push my face through it when I bend down to open the dryer door.
I’m not exaggerating a bit, which is the funny thing. I’m beginning to suspect she has a crush on me.
Next! Although I can smell the liquor on her breath a block away starting at about 10:00, which means she hits the bottle directly after her feet hit the floor in the morning, plus she smokes like a freight train, she’s constantly spraying perfume in the hall outside our door as if we stink. As if she could smell anything through the liquor and smoke fumes with her 70-ish, whore-lingerie wearin’ nose, whose abilities I know must’ve went south a good thirty years ago.
*SIGH* Trials and tribulations! The good Lord must be trying to teach me patience.
About two weeks ago my good husband told me he felt it was time I had my own laptop. Of course I immediately agreed and we were in one accord. He’s leaving a long term position and starting something new, and until now I’d been using his second company laptop because he had two towers and two laptops and I only had one tower and not a laptop to my name, and it downright hurts being the only one in the room with restricted surf-mobility. I mean, what if the neighbors found out? I’d just die of shame.
I’m now happy to announce this problem has been effectively rectified and I can walk down the street with head held high. On June 25th, 2009 I became the proud owner of the following:
May I introduce ‘Alexis’, an Asus Eee 1000he mini-notebook. ‘Alexis’ because as I was setting up I was prompted to give a name, and looking for a long moment and considering carefully I ascertained she’s definitely female, no doubt about it. What male could pull off elegant, sweet, petite, black and incredibly shiny with this level of fierceness? And while she’s all lady she knows how to last a long, long time, not to mention dominate a room in her fierce leather dress. Photo fashion update on that soon.
By the way, ‘eee’ stands for ‘excellence’, ‘easy’ and ‘exciting’. Having test driven her for the past five days I have to say I agree. Color mama satisfied.
This is the first post to be written on my first ever, very own, very new and fabulous laptop. :D More about that later because I’ve got other stuff I wanna yabber on about. Namely that today was a hop in the car and go kind of day so we hopped in the car and went.
We first ended up at the flea market where we discovered it was way too humid to stay, but before taking our leave we got lucky and found what we were after, finally, after Michael had looked for it in stores for the past week without success. What was this mystery item? A round electric skillet. The last time we were invited to dinner with my MIL at her camping site she fixed the whole meal in a big round electric skillet right on the table in front of us. I was immediately in love (with the pan, not the MIL) and had to have one. I was informed by Michael - who loves to inform me of such things - that years ago he’d tried to convince me to get such a skillet and I turned the idea down flat.
I have to admit that sounds just like me. Many times he’ll run some idea or other past me and I’ll respond with NO! NEVER!, then end up eating my words soon after. That’s just how our marriage rolls. Truth is he has so many awesome ideas I have to say NO! just to keep him humble and give him something to work toward. Otherwise he’d just implode with his own fabulous-ness.
Now where was I… oh yes… I wanted this skillet and he’d been searching for it with no success. We were getting overheated and just about ready to give up when we happened upon three in a row on the ground at a shoddy little display seemingly run by a teenager. He tried to sell us the bumpy used-looking one but nothing doing. We went home with the best of the three and my good husband fixed an absolutely awesome meal in it tonight. I supplied the dishes. HA. Never let it be said I don’t participate in greatness.
Also important to note that midway through our search we also happened upon a charming though rather slow-moving little Italian man who made the best hot chocolate and tiny sweetened Ricotta cheese-filled pastries ever. It took him forever to get them to us but boy were they worth it.
But none of this was what I wanted to talk about. It was all preliminary to our ongoing search for a new home. Today’s trip took us to the suburbs outside Düsseldorf to a place recommended by one of Michael’s trusted long-time colleagues. I have to admit I didn’t expect a whole lot because in the not-so-distant past I’ve gone a hunting with stars in my eyes only to come home rather disappointed. This time was different, meaning I was disappointed in a new and unusual way.
Upon arriving at our destination we found ourselves driving thru one of the most charming little towns I’ve had the privilege to be in thus far outside Aachen, and at the end of our drive pulled into one of the sweetest, most well-kept, flowers a’blooming everywhere neighborhoods I’ve seen in a long while. In this neighborhood was the house in question and it looked like something out of a fairy tale.
Now, I could go on for another half hour gushing about how fantastic it looked from the outside but I’m not going to, because I know without a shadow of a doubt I am never going to get lucky enough to have a shot at living there. I know because each time a place looked perfect, fate swooped in and took a dump on the situation and we were left standing in stink. Each and every time. So let me say it looks really good superficially and I’d love to have the chance to live there, but, you know, I probably won’t.
Wanna know how I know for sure? Well, I’ll tell you. For starters, we’d have to live beside the house owners, who happen to be older people, and German. Since we’d basically be living under the same roof we have to pass an interview with these people and they’d have to approve living alongside us for a very long time. While I know my good, dependable German husband with the fantastic resume would pass with flying colors, and my cute, blue-eyed, blonde-headed German children would charm the pants off them, women of the age of the lady who’ll be helping to decide whether to let us take the place or not, will take one look at me and make that face I’ve seen on countless other faces of German women about her age ever since I arrived here.
In short, German women don’t seem to approve of me. I get this wrinkle-nosed, egad-I-just-stepped-in-something look. You see, women of this age here tend to be compactly built, petite and very polished. Their persons are always *just so*, their homes are always *just so*, and their lives are run with military precision. They will be able to build a brick wall, plant a flower garden or prepare a seven course meal with equal and utter skill. They are precise.
I on the other hand am what my MIL calls a “man-woman”. I am tall, overweight, and tend toward frizzy hair in my advancing years. I could build a brick wall with some difficulty and probably not very well, I can’t cook for a cup of coffee and I’m always late. Cleaning house is not my life’s goal, and while I love my man there are limits to what I’ll do and still maintain my self-respect. German women seem to be able to smell these deficiencies in character for five kilometers and it makes their noses wrinkle. Their husbands seem to take one bemused look at me and think “whoa… a mountain with breasts!”, and this makes the nose wrinkle even more.
So you see it probably isn’t going to happen. I suggested to my husband that I stay home and he take the kids and try and dazzle them but he said no. I have to come and meet them. He’s not keeping me tethered in the darkness like some mutant goat.
So I’ll go and receive the wrinkled-nose look, shake the hand of the good lady of the house at our farewell and walk away knowing just as soon as I get out of earshot she’ll turn to her husband and mutter the German equivalent of “Not A Chance In Hell”, and that’ll be that. We’ll keep looking.
Meanwhile way out in the forest of Bergisches Land, those old abandoned factory lofts are still available and I’d be a step up from the neighbors I saw lurking around there, so… who knows. We’ll just have to get some extra strong locks and a couple bodyguards to accompany the kids to school but hey, it could happen.
Yesterday morning my husband informed me Farrah Fawcet had lost her battle with cancer. I thought this news tragic, I wouldn’t wish cancer on anyone, it seems too much to bear knowing your life is coming to an end and you’re going to suffer in your final moments.
Last night as he came to bed he told me he’d just read Michael Jackson had died of a heart attack. My first response was to scoff, “Oh no he hasn’t…” I thought he was putting me on. When I realized he wasn’t I was shocked. Michael Jackson wasn’t old enough to die, was he? I was very tired but when finally able to drift off to sleep I did so still trying to grasp what this all meant.
I’ve still been thinking about it this morning, trying to sort things out. It’s touched me deeper than I thought it would. Of course, Michael Jackson and Farrah Fawcet’s lives were nothing in the big scheme of things for me, personally. Except they were. They were part of my history. That and the fact of their deaths means another long look in the face of my own mortality.
I feel keenly that a part of my childhood has been lost, and when talent like this passes and is no more, the world is made less.
-knitting
-worrying about the future, but not too badly
-listening to audiobooks and podcasts
-playing Farm Town
-posting to old schoolmates and friends on Facebook (highly addictive, there should be a twelve step group)
-laundry
This morning was a pediatrician visit for the babes. I thought Babe number one needed an immunization but it turned out he didn’t. He was mighty glad about that. In the meantime Kindergarten, which is turning out to be the bane of my existence, has given him Conjunctivitis. *sigh* He got drops for that.
My pediatrician recommended we begin language therapy for him immediately but we don’t know how much good it’s going to do with the upcoming move and not knowing what city we’re going to land in exactly. Everything will have to be moved to the new place and there will be a considerable delay in getting it all started back up when we arrive. Not to mention I’m completely pleased with my pediatrician and now have to look forward to screening a bunch of doctors I have no clue about and just hope I get lucky.
Babe number two needed 2 immunizations and is currently in the bedroom sleeping them off.
Kindergarten is still on strike, today and tommorrow and a couple previously scheduled days next week. When July rolls around we unenroll Ollie and that’s it, his Kindergarten career is finished. Next stop Elementary school. It’ll take longer than we have to get him enrolled in our next town because the waiting lists are a year deep. *sigh yet again*
Yesterday we went swimming and I had a wonderful time. The kids had a good time too and promptly passed out in the car on the way back. :) I love when that happens because it’s usually the Bigs who’re too tired to live. I’m feeling it today but it’s a good and tolerable thing.
Ollie is playing a pc game and the music is so intense I feel the urgent need to jump up and save somebody.
Today is election day in Germany and conscientious people are out voting and other conscientious people are debating and discussing it. I’m not one of those people. I’ve got more important things on my mind than politics. Namely, jeans. Sometimes shoes. And often, vindictive retribution.
Went clothes shopping this week. Always fun. You know how when you go clothes shopping it sometimes happens the only size on the rack they don’t have is yours? Well, this happens very often with me. The way I figure it must be the same woman over and over, she just gets there earlier. While standing in front of the last rack in the store I haven’t searched carefully for any little rag I can put on my body and coming up empty, I try to imagine what she looks like, simultaneously thinking of newer and more emotionally damaging expletives I’d like to hurl at her.
Well, I met her last week, finally, and while she didn’t look anything like I imagined two things were spot on. 1.) She was exactly the same height and size as me, and 2.) the desperate, hungry look that burned in her eyes while she combed the clothes, trying to pick out every item of my size before I got there. Only this time she was too late. This time she was the one disappointed. I actually paid attention to the circular this week instead of using it to pad my recyclable paper bin. I knew when those clothes were going to hit the store and made sure I was there first thing in the morning. Then I went to every rack in the place, picked out at least one of the best color available in my size, in some cases two just for spite, threw them on the back of my cart and carried them around the whole time I was there and watched her search, chuckling gleefully. I carried those clothes around with me until she left.
Yes I did. I was that petty and more. After I left that store with my new stuff I went to another, a knick-knack place. While studying the circulars and planning my attack I’d been overcome with an uncontrollable urge to collect a totally useless knick-knack, bring it home and let it gather dust in my bedroom. A teensy, tiny little Zen rock garden complete with a Buddha and miniature rake. Have I become a Buddhist? No. I have become a premature senior citizen. I have morphed into one of those good-smelling, cookie-n-tissue-packing grannies you feel compelled to give your seat up to on the bus.
Know how I know? As if torturing that fat girl in the clothing store wasn’t enough proof? Because when I got to the knick-knack store there were 7-8 boxes of rock gardens and I knew, just knew deep in my old woman’s bones that teenagers tend to toss things around carelessly, and if I didn’t make the one attempting to ring my purchase open up each and every one of those boxes until I got to one I wanted, when I got home it would be broken.
Surely enough the first one was. It was also phenomenally well-packed, everything wrapped and taped so tightly it took that poor girl about five minutes to get it all undone. She was so patient, bless ‘er, somewhere around the middle of opening the second one I came back to my senses and let her off the hook by shouting “That’s okay! I’ll take this one!” After all she wasn’t fat, so she wasn’t the one stealing all the clothes before I could get to the store.
So I took the second one on trust and it was good. When I got it home I played with it for about five minutes before delegating it to my bedroom window sill where it lives happily to this day. Afterward I proceeded to wash, re-try on and catalogue the clothes I purchased because it felt so good in the store not to have to hunt for every fargon thing I wanted an encore.
I found out after the wash the low-riding fit I’d discovered in the last pair of jeans I’d bought continued in the two pair I’d brought home this round. Excuse me, but wtf? Has my a** suddenly blown out 2 feet horizontally? Why can’t I keep jeans on my behind anymore?
This mystery was answered when coming back from the lung specialist with the kids next day I was waiting for a bus, looked over and boom, there’s my answer. A young*, mid-sized mother bent over to attend her be-strollered child and her hairy butt crack fell right out of her belted jeans. I know it was hairy - I kid you not - because unfortunately I was close enough to see the sunlight glinting off each strand, and close enough to see it turn golden when the light hit it. I felt strangely violated and exhilerated all at the same time. It was like God was telling me, “Look, quit getting all hyper about those jeans. It’s just the popular butt-baring cut of the moment. M’kay? M’kay.”
I’ll just dive right on in here, no use messin’ around. (Rant alert!) I don’t understand how it can happen that when one person takes the time to comment on another person’s blog, sometimes the blog author doesn’t take time to answer the comment. Even to just type ‘hey’ or ‘yo’. I can see not typing a masterpiece, but nothing? Nada? Total ignoration? *shrug* Don’t get it. Don’t. Nope, thought about it a moment and still don’t. Luckily most blog authors aren’t like this, but there are a minority out there that are, and they’re repeat offenders.
I made the mistake a long time ago of ranting about this very thing concerning two bloggers I’d recently read. One a gentleman I used to read*, and the other turned out to be Ree of Pioneer Woman, whose internet persona I’ve grown to love more the longer I read her. In fact, I dare you to try and not think she’s adorable. It’s just impossible.
But to get back to the point, I made a little comment on PW’s blog and it took her some time to get around to it because her readership had really begun to take off at that point**, and by the time she did I’d already worked myself up into a lather because I thought she thought she was just too good.
I assumed incorrectly and spoke too soon, I’m embarrassed to say. PW did indeed show up here on this very blog and took the time to apologize and set the record straight (did I mention she was adorable?), and after reading the little foot-kicking, breath-holding text tantrum of a post I was throwing, advised me “Don’t be a hater!”
I want you to know I took it to heart, PW. I’m not a hater. Hatin’s no good. Spoiled rotten, yes. Hatin’, no. I throw tantrums every now and then, though. Sorry. It helps relieve my stress.
Back to the point yet again, here are some of the reasons I thought up that might explain this lapse in good manners toward your fellow man, you bad non-answerers, because I can’t imagine taking the time to think up, share, edit, proofread and publish my thoughts, only to go away and leave people to flouder around in the comments without ever being acknowledged***:
1.) Too many readers to answer them all. Ie - PW. Or Dooce. You’re both excused.
2.) Chronic severe short term memory loss.
3.) Their water broke.
4.) Their fingers broke.
5.) Hit by a plane/train/automobile/boat.
6.) Computer bought the farm, although this should only result in a delay. Most libraries have pc’s.
7.) They were called away suddenly. (see #3)
8.) They’re shy. Although if this is the case they’re in the wrong hobby.
9.) Having recently given birth, they’re sleep deprived and have more important things to do, which is understandable. (This is for you, Jen, to whom this rant was *not* addressed, btw.)
So… that’s about it. I realize it can happen that mistakes are made, things are overlooked, big ole readerships make it impossible to answer and get anything else done. Those reasons aside it looks pretty bad. Maybe one of these days I’ll figure it out or someone will tell me and I’ll get closure but you know what I’m thinking until then. Yes, you. Even if your mama said you were a nice person. Even then.
*Who has since gone on to do other things and doesn’t blog anymore, and best wishes to him wherever he is.
**I was around back at the beginning and am one of the anonymous public who can say they knew her before she won all those high-falootin’ awards… why do I feel smug about this???
***Which is the point of commenting - I have connected in a personal way with something you’ve imparted and I want that connection to be acknowledged! Unless it’s when I don’t want to be acknowledged, which will be obvious, then it’s all good and don’t bother.
Heyah cum dah judge. Got it runnin’ all through me. I know I said I wasn’t going to do this anymore but I’m overcome. Over at Hidden In France today was a link to never-before-published pictures of Marilyn Monroe, graciously shared by Life.com. My first thought before viewing? Candy shop! This woman is truly exquisite. Truly she was, and is. No matter what.
However… you knew there was going to be a however, didn’t you, you bad thing… HOWever… I’d like to share with you my first (gut) impressions of some of these photos, via link. You know those gut reactions are difficult to suppress. I need practice, surely, and lots of it. My apologies in advance.
- Hello Marilyn’s camel toe! Now, seriously. This being the age of Photoshop and all don’t you think they could’ve allowed her a little dignity and airbrushed that out? And while we’re here you may also find yourself wondering what I, a heterosexual woman, am doing staring riveted at Marilyn Monroe’s crotch? Well, it’s obvious isn’t it? MM’s patch is the genital equivalent of Nutella.
-In this one MM thumbs her nose at critics like me in an assertive pose which says “Here’s my lady parts and I’ma PROUD”, a move I thought had been coined by Celine Dion in concert. Go figure. MM had her beat by decades. Once again Celine just does the cover.
- One of the chastity bras that made the era famous. Guaranteed to mortally damage anyone within hugging distance.
- Here Marilyn finds black mold in the second consecutive apartment she’s rented in Germany.
- Oh honey, you can’t tell me you’re not feeling a breeze. I’ve seen women wearing similar on the street and all I can think is, if it were me, my internal monologue would be shrieking “ASS IS OUT! ASS IS OUT! ASS IS OUT!” until I could duck into the next doorway and remedy the situation.
- Here she’s a doll baby but all I can think is she must’ve been perpetually pissed at her wardrobe people. The way that dress hangs it’d be like trying to look sexy while ignoring an angry chicken pecking at your ankles. She pulls it off beautifully though, doesn’t she? What a woman.
Well laundry calls and I must answer. Those are just a few that struck me out of 17 spectacular photos of this tragic beauty. Do click over and look at the rest. She’s worth it, even after all this time.
We love you Marilyn, darlin’. Rest well and may you find happiness wherever you are.
It is said when the Chinese want to curse you they say “May you live in interesting times”. This thinly disguised blessing being the first in a series of three exponentially damning curses. The second is “May you come to the attention of those in authority”, and the third, “May you find what you are looking for”.
Lately I find my life very… interesting.
This morning I needed to do laundry and couldn’t find my keys. What good are keys to laundry, you may ask? Well, I have to lock our soap and softener in the cellar otherwise one of our neighbors steals us blind, I would answer. After searching most of the house I finally found them. Saturday my husband went shopping and needed some help getting the groceries upstairs. It seems I left my keys hanging in the front door lock and a pack of water standing in front of our door for three days.
This being Germany I’m only partially freaked out. My neighbor across the hall does this for a hobby and my only danger is they’ll think me incredibly lazy for not going out of the house for three whole days. If we were in America we’d all done been raped and I’d be staring at the big empty hole where our flat screen t.v. and electronics used to sit. I also wouldn’t be typing this from my husband’s laptop but rather screaming it at you from the living room balcony.
Later this morning my husband left to take the boy to Kindergarten then turned around and brought him back home. It seems our Kindergarten teachers are still on strike. Cue ensuing meltdown from said son who didn’t attend Kindergarten all last week for the same reason and was really looking forward to going today. (See ref: didn’t get out of the house for three days) This turned out to be a joghurt-throwing, big crocodile tear meltdown that left me and the baby staring at him for about thirty seconds trying to figure out whether his mind was gone.
Afterward, after the joghurt had been cleaned away and he was happily munching on a fresh cheese sandwich and a new joghurt, I went to the bathroom to get my knitting (don’t ask) only to find someone had pissed all over it. Yes, I said ‘piss’. ‘Piss’ is what I say when I’m too angry to use the diminutive. I had been working on that scarf since March 5. Yeah I’m a slow knitter, what of it? YOU try knitting with a baby on your lap and see what happens.
Anyway where was I? Oh yes, piss. Piss which dribbled all over my shirt, pants, shoes. Why, you might ask, did someone piss on my knitting given that it was sitting in a spot where pissing on it would’ve taken the utmost skill, patience and aim? Who in the world knows why men do the things they do. They got that extra appendage and sometimes it just overwhelms them with possibilities, I guess, and knitting suffers.
*sigh*
Like I said… interesting times. Hopefully the rest of the plans life has for me today won’t include blood or mutilation. Do wish me luck, won’t you? Thanks in advance.
—–
Disclaimer: It was the youngest of the two males in our household who did the pee-crime.
Saw ‘Krabat‘ yesterday and loved it. This was unusual for me as while there are some truly excellent German films out there they tend to find me at intervals few and far between. This is true for all films, though, and not just the German ones. Still I find myself being harder on my second home than the American film industry, which churns out bad, intelligence insulting, spastic movies so often just to make a buck it’s become expected. So if you haven’t seen ‘Krabat’ yet I recommend it. Imdb users gave it a 6.3 out of 10. I would’ve given it an 8.5. Much better than the ‘Harry Potter‘ series or ‘Golden Compass‘ because it was more carefully made and relied on a well-told story to keep your attention rather than computer animation. It also makes for a more interesting story onscreen than ‘Narnia‘. Be forewarned, though, while it’s a children’s story it leans heavily toward the dark side.
….I’m 41 now. I’ve officially embarked on the second half of my life. Hurrah! And due to that fact I’ve been giving some careful thought to all the things I want to do with the time I’ve got left, however long that is. What’s been more prevalent are thoughts of what I don’t want to do, and here are some of the top things on that list:
I don’t want any more children. I love children. I love my children specifically, but I feel I’ve reached my limit with four. At this point my attention span is stretched as far as it can go without someone getting the short stick, and none of my babies deserve that. I’d like to stop and enjoy the blessings I have.
I don’t want to sit around on a couch surfing and eating myself to death. Been there, done that. My youngest is just now expressing more of an interest in the bottle and cup than the breast. This means that free-for-all food party I was having is officially at at end, and at 41 you don’t want to weigh what I weigh, even given the 70-some pounds I’ve lost due to birth and breastfeeding. (thank you Isabel) It’s time for some accountability and even then, given my age and ever-slowing metabolism, I think I’ll still be trying to lose this excess weight when I’m 90.
I’m tired of being afraid, so I’d like to give that up too. I don’t know if you’ve ever been a fearful person, or what I like to call a ’sensitive’ or ‘more aware’ or ‘cautious’ person, but honey, it’s a big job, thinking of everything that could go wrong at once and trying to prepare for it. Absolutely exhausting. I’d like to hand that responsibility to someone else for a while. Or better yet, forever. I want to face this second half being really surprised when something happens, if it even does, without having first seen it coming and worried myself blind in the weeks beforehand.
I don’t want to worry about what anyone else thinks of me. GAH I’m tired of that! I’d just like to reassure the general public I’m doing the best I can.
Another thing, and this is an important one as far as I’m concerned… I also don’t want to give another moment’s thought to whether anyone else loves me. I’ve sought to be loved my entire life and it’s never (never, ever) brought me one moment of happiness. What I’ve learned is, if people are going to love you, they will, and there’s nothing you can do to stop them. If they aren’t going to love you, they won’t, and there’s nothing you can do to make them. Anything you do above and beyond that is a waste of everyone’s time.
I don’t want to ask other people’s opinions anymore. I may still, I may slip, but I’m going to do my darndest to get out of that habit. I’m so inundated with what other people think I’ve lost all the original me I had inside. I lack even a shred of being that isn’t influenced by what someone else wants, and it’s time to get back in touch with who I am. The original, uninfluenced me.
Like I said, those are some of the top things. I’m sure as time goes on I’ll discover more. And now I must bid you adieu while I go rescue a tiny maiden in a long sleeve shirt from a particularly menacing sunbeam she’s encountered. Until later…
….in ‘The Big Blue’, where Jacques was consoling Enzo for a bad dive saying he knew how it was when the “sea didn’t want you”? Well, The Lawn ™ apparently doesn’t want me.
It has rained off and on for the past week. A half hour of light then sprinkles. Another half hour of warmth then actual rain. Rain for two days, then two hours of sun, but not enough to dry it well enough to use an electric mower without risking life and limb.
There was a brief spate of sunshine today while I had other things to do - relevant, insistent things like taking my son to the dental surgeon - and when I got back and got everyone fed and my teething daughter finally calmed and napping, big dark rainclouds rolled in and peed big splattering raindrops on the previously dried-enough-to-finally-attempt-to-mow lawn.
The neighbors are now selling tickets to tourists to see the yard of what appears to be laziest woman in Aachen. Chronically unemployed people are walking past, shaking their heads and clucking. If I don’t get this done soon I may expire from shame.
One thing’s for sure, I’m thankful we have to move, because this house will be forever branded as “…remember that woman who only mowed half the lawn then let the rest of it sit for half a year and the city had to come and condemn it because a couple kids went missing?”
Last night before I went to bed I glanced at the open Bible on the little table next to my bed. I’ve made a goal, a promise to myself to read it through. I mean, I profess to believe in God, believe in Jesus, I was brought up going to church on Sunday and I haven’t even read the Bible through? What kind of foolery is that?
So there it was open on the night desk and my eyes were beginning to cross I was so tired. I had it opened to Proverbs and decided to read a chapter before I lay down with the girl, who was lying waiting on me. As I tried to hurriedly scan through it before she started to scream I noticed the word ‘diligence’ mentioned several times.
Now, in my way of thinking ‘diligence’ is synonymous with ‘perseverance’, which means to continue in a thing despite obstacles, difficulty or discouragement. Therefore also in my way of thinking ‘perseverance’ is equal to drudgery. I decided to look it up this morning and see if they have the same connotation. I found the following phrases included in the definition:
For ‘diligence’: “Constant and earnest effort, persistent exertion of body or mind, degree of care and caution required by the circumstances of a person, earnest and persistent application to an undertaking, steady effort, assiduity, attentive care, heedfulness, devoted and painstaking effort to accomplish what is undertaken, to exert one’s self, to make interested and earnest endeavor, constancy, care, caution, sense evolved from “love” through “attentiveness” to “carefulness” to “steady effort.” (dictionary.com)
I was surprised to see how the definition evolved as I read until I could see ‘diligence’ and ‘perseverance’, while seemingly synonymous at first glance, approach an undertaking from completely different sides. From my understanding, ‘perseverance’ is continuing because of commitment, come what may, while ‘diligence’ approaches a task and endures because of love.
I’m glad I took the time to look this up. I knew I liked ‘diligence’ better and now I know why.
But to get to the point, while I was reading it occurred to me one of the main reasons for personal success in any endeavor is diligence. I don’t mean competitive success, although I believe diligence would play a part in that also. I mean strictly personal success. Anything you are diligent doing, that you apply yourself constantly to and with love, will result in success.
Dear Cherona ‘Ching Chang Chong’ singers. Please. Shut up. Dear Media, saturation isn’t convincing me. It’s just p*ssing me off.
Moving on… Did you ever have so much to do it seemed you’d need several lifetimes to achieve it all? Yet in spite of having so much to do, none of it was spectacular enough to inspire you to get started?
I’ve got to get the cellar and spare room upstairs cleaned out. Got to get the house in a shape to pack. This means having everything ‘just so’. Or at least way more ‘just so’ than it is right now. We’ll start looking for a new place three months before we need to vacate this one, which is Sept. 30th. Which means the house has to be ready for me to start throwing things in boxes in exactly 51 days from now. Well… it could happen. If I were my mother. If I were way more highly motivated than I am.
Yet, it could happen… just because it’s never happened before, doesn’t mean I couldn’t leap up and make it happen this time.
Dear Me, don’t take what I wrote yesterday as complaining. It’s just more of what my mother calls “all the news that isn’t”. Not a whole lot going on right now worth the evening news. And I’m thankful for that don’t you think I’m not. I’ll take complaining about the lawn any day compared to the alternative. Gimme more first world problems, I can take it.
But back to the cleaning… it’s a bit late to call it ’spring cleaning’, and even then, does anyone ’spring clean’ anymore? Hasn’t that tradition gone the way of ironing? Don’t people think it obsessive-compulsive these days? I guess the world is slowly moving on, leaving me behind like the old people I used to see sitting on the porch of an evening rocking as I rode my bike home in the twilight. I never thought I’d get that old but here I am.
I’ve written about this green monster before. No, not jealousy. Our lawn. This lawn has been in the past and still remains a source of confusion. Because of the rules. Let me summarize them once more for anyone who’s hearing about this for the first time. The rest of you can use this time to go get a cold drink or whatever.
Scene: One apartment building housing four families. Two postage stamp squares of lawn. The rules of which I was once ignorant and still scorn from time to time –> Each family on each side takes a turn cutting the grass in the summer. You are not to cut the grass when it’s not your turn no matter how long it gets. You are never to cross over to the opposite side and cut it also, even if one side is several inches longer than the other and looks wonky. Hooked on equilibrium? Your loss. Breaking any of these time-honored rules will result in much spinning, clucking and tongue-wagging on the part of the offended parties over your stupidity.
Needless to say I’ve done everything wrong. Me, scoundrel who likes both sides of the lawn to be the same length every once in a while. Needless to say this breach of conduct resulted in a huge crack opening up in the sky and raining orange juice.
Fast forward. Last summer was the man-under-me’s turn to mow, and he did. This year the first mow will be mine. Is mine. Enter trouble. It’s been a very rainy late winter and early spring, and let’s say I now definitely know on which side of the lawn the septic tank is buried. Lucky me. The grass on our side is now knee high and I’ve been pasted to the window for the last week worrying and waiting for more than 24 hours of warm weather to dry that patch out so I can get to work. I’ve been like a cat on a hot tin roof least of all because our electric mower has a swath about as long as my hand, and if the grass is longer than two inches I have to stop every 3-4 minutes, flip the miniature Barbie doll misery over, clean out the bottom, rake up the excess into a pile, flip it back over, replug the extension cord back in that keeps coming unplugged and start again. Lather, rinse, repeat as often as necessary. Let me state again, the grass is now knee high to me, and I’m just under 6 feet.
Call it an exercise in patience. I’ve just finished rereading ‘Angela’s Ashes’, an account of the miserable Irish Catholic childhood of author Frank McCourt, and with this in mind I’ve spent the last three-day, three-hour-a-piece span offering it up and trying not to lose my temper.
Cue the neighbors. Not the ones I live with, the other neighbors. The Turkish crowd. Apparently I live on the main walking thoroughfare for my fellow non-Germans and as they stroll past with their entire families in tow (think 6-8 people) they have no qualms whatsoever about stopping and staring at my labors with big smiles on their faces. The men, not the women. The men seem to find the sight of me mowing this horrendous patch of knee high grass with a Hobbit lawn mower hilarious. The women merely sneer in contempt or look sad. The men, though, I kid you not, will stop, step over to the fence, bend forward at the waist, catch my eye and when they have it, cackle at me. This has happened three times in the last two days.
I’m still not done yet either. I would’ve been but the big extension cord that has been run over by the previous tenant of our apartment, I was told, gave up the ghost and I had to pause while repairs were being made. While that was happening it began to rain, rain all over my neat little piles of cut grass that were ready to go into lawn bags and be stacked to carry away to the bio-dump. *sigh*
Tomorrow is Sunday and I’m not allowed to mow. This means I’ll be back at it again on Monday if the sun shines. If not the least I can do is get out there, tomorrow probably, and get the rests packed away. I wonder what the punishment is for bagging lawn cuttings on the Sabbath. Probably a public caning.
Well anyway… the least I can say is I’m giving hours of laughter and enjoyment to the neighborhood, right? Gotta find that silver lining in there somewhere. If the children are laughing at my big bottom pointed at the sky as I bend over and scrape green goo off the bottom of that dwarven mower that’s a couple hours they’re not rotting in front of a television set. Good.
Hopefully I don’t get bitten by spiders next go round. There are an awfully lot of spiders out there. Stay tuned. Good Lord willing and the creek don’t rise I may just have this thing licked by June.
Virtual makeover sites are so much fun! And so thrifty! Gotta admit getting to see what I’d look like with the cut without spending a dime or wrangling a tired, hungry baby underneath a styling cape for two hours totally appeals to the frugal recession victim in me. All I had to do was visit this site and upload a face shot. If you want to save your looks you have to register, otherwise not. (I suggest ‘print screen’ *nudge, nudge*)
Here are a few looks I picked out as possibles for my next stylist visit, coming up soon. Of course this is Germany and I’m gonna come away either scalped bald or with the same 80-yr.-old-woman-helmet-hair I usually get, but one can dream, right?
This is me as Katie Holmes, circa the first horrible bob mistake. Don’t know how I feel about this yet. Neither did she, probably. I’m not really liking the ‘acorn head’ quality of it but I’m certain in one of the universes out there this is considered chic… hmmm… I’ll figure out my feelings later… moving on…
This is me as Katie Holmes after she woke up and realized what she’d done and desperately tried to save her public image by shaving that bob down a peg. Now, this is a little better. I stress the ‘little’. It still sort of feels like revisiting the 80’s Duran-Duran-ish, but it’s trying harder and I’ve gotta give it credit. Next…
Here’s me as Keira Knightly little meshungana tousled mushroom headed pixie tigress. Who’s a cutie huh? who? who? you are!… Um… I don’t like it. It looks like someone set off a firecracker in my hat. Next…
Me as Linda Evangelista. REALLY, there’s little difference is there? I mean, we’re practically twins. I also noticed I have bob on the brain today. I can’t beg, borrow or blow a stylist to give me one because of some obscure German law prohibiting anything cool-looking or trendy on a fat woman (fat women are flawed and the flawed must suffer!), but whatever. I will live satisfy my bob lust in my dreams. Next one…
Me as Elisha Cuthbert. Also as my Aunt Claudia, who looks just like this but has gray eyes. I kinda like it. It’s got a’somethin’.
Here’s me as Victoria Beckham. The color turned out a little brassy but other than that I’ve got to admit I really like this one. I think it looks guuuud. Apparently so do about 150,000 other 40 yr. old women because I can put my arm out on any given day and brush 3-5 women who have this same style. I bet if I printed all these pictures out and took them to the Friseur with me this is the one I’d get, because they’re definitely practiced on it. Problem is, on me it’ll look like it belongs on an 80 yr. old woman. They’ll probably even dye me gray by mistake. Bets are being taken as of…. now!
Me as Victoria Beckham again. I gotta admit I REALLY love this. Whoever her stylist is, we’re jivin’ in the agreement department on what looks good. This is the one I’ll probably go for. Crossing my fingers anyway.
And now, the baby is up again and Her Highness has waited way too long for mom to finish her fun so I bid you adieu and til next time. If either one of you wanna cast a vote as to which you think looks best I’d much appreciate it. I’ve seen the comments are broken and I’ll fix that as soon as possible. Thanks in advance!
We’ve got the coolest pediatrician in the world. I swear, if we end up moving away from Aachen and closer to Cologne as planned, I’m really going to miss her, she’s irreplaceable. Today was the U5 and U9 for Isabel and Oliver, respectively. A lot of work for the doctor but she scheduled them both together. I must’ve been with her for a good two hours, bless her heart.
We’re getting Isabel’s file together for when she sees the specialist early next month. In addition she was checking Oliver’s progress. He’s been going to a therapist for his fine motoric skills, which are coming along really well. Now his gross motor skills need work. It’s important to note this is a direct result of being raised in a bi-cultural family. The Katia and Kylie Mac podcast (which I continue to love, big kudos to them, it’s never boring) raises the point of language and the expat many times. They explore how the acquisition of a new language affects you in every aspect of your life, and in the episodes I’m listening to lately they’ve discussed the idea of what it’d be like to come to a new country with children in tow.
Well let me tell you, because I’m the expert on that. Assuming my children’s reactions are the norm, I’m well-schooled in just about everything that could go wrong with bringing a child born in one country into another during their formative years. I could also write a book on my experience with being a mother of one culture attempting to raise children born in another. Ollie is a prime example of that.
When he was born I was still largely inhibited by the language barrier and the fact I lived in a large city and had little or no contact to family or a support group, meaning people I saw and interacted with on a daily basis. More important would’ve been children Ollie could’ve interacted with on a daily basis. Try as hard as I might, I just can’t replace interaction and the learning which takes place with children of his own age. Simply impossible.
The results of that missing interaction are… well… during testing today he couldn’t tell the doctor why running along the top of a rooftop is dangerous. He’s missing the ‘experiment with my surroundings - either vicariously or directly - and possibly get hurt in the process thereby learning’ element.
To remedy this, in the absence of an available rooftop, our beloved doctor promptly prescribed him one of these:
Did I mention how totally awesome this woman was? I think I want her to adopt me.
"After a while you learn... to accept your defeats with your head up and your eyes ahead, with the grace of a woman, not the grief of a child... you learn that even sunshine burns if you get too much, so you plant your own garden and decorate your own soul, instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers." ~excerpt from "After A While", by Veronica A. Shoffstall
