Put on Your Reading Depends

I'm afraid I'm becoming a blog addict. If I don't write something for a few days, I go completely overboard when I finally get around to it. (Why doesn't this happen with my fiction writing?) So be forewarned.

We've been pretty busy recently. Last Friday—the hottest day of the year in Germany—Darling Daughter's class had an outdoor party. Fortunately, there was covered seating and cold drinks, and it started to cool off as the sun went down, so we didn't die. There were only 2 injuries, neither to our child, so it was a success!

Then on Saturday we went to a midsummer celebration thrown by the German-Swedish club, of which we are members. There was a flower bedecked May-pole, a short program by the Swedish school kids (including D.D.), and various games. Plus dancing around the May-pole. One woman with a mic was giving detailed directions before each song. (Later someone pointed out that it would have helped the German half of the German-Swedish club if she had not given all the directions in Swedish.) Most of the kids and almost half of the adults got up to dance in rings. In addition to the able-bodied dancers, I spotted a few elderly folks, 3 or 4 pregnant ladies (one heavily so), a woman with an infant strapped to her front, and a girl with a soft brace on her ankle. Swedes take their midsummer seriously!

We expected it to be hot, but a storm had blown in the night before, and we got a few sprinkles throughout the day to keep things cooled down. Just in case, I packed a lot of heat-friendly foods for our picnic, including watermelon, cantaloupe, plums, cherry tomatoes, cucumber slices, and condiment-free ham sandwiches. I'm surprised we didn't all get diarrhea after chowing down on all that water-filled good stuff.

Although the above-mentioned storm cooled things off for a day or so for us, it caused big problems in other parts of Germany, including flooding, property damage from hail and high winds, and some injuries. We had seen in the paper that there was flooding in Paris, so I guess we got lucky.

Speaking of Paris, I can now announce that my Lovely MIL and PawPaw (I thought people might get the wrong idea if I used S.D. (for StepDad)) are coming to see us in August, and we are going to take a group trip to Paris for a few days. Plane tickets have been purchased and hotel rooms reserved, so there's no backing out now, Gwamma, hahahahaha! D.D. is so excited that she declared a couple of weeks ago that if Gwamma ended up not coming, D.D. would throw away her pompoms and never dance again, except ballet. That is serious.

Unfortunately, the restaurant next door closed after, what, 7 months. So we'll have to drag them a light farther away to get some authentic German cuisine. And we ourselves had never gotten around to eating there. Oh, well, our loss.

According to the temperature gage in our village, today was just as hot as last Friday (36C=97F). I wore jeans. Of course, I could be melted into a puddle of goo, but I'd still yell, "Turn up the heat!" in my best crotchety old lady voice.

Although it is hot, that is no excuse for the 2 morons I saw diving off the bridge into the river of doom. Well, one moron made it into the water, and the other moron got talked down by two locals with some sense. I watched the whole thing from the bus stop.

At least I haven't encountered the +summer –shirt –shoes guy on the bus in a while. I take that back: I saw him wearing shorts, and vest –shirt, and some Birkenstocks that he probably slipped off but I couldn't see. The flesh, it creeps when I spot him taking up a section of 4 facing seats because no one wants to sit next to an overweight, balding, sweaty, half-naked man on a bus with no AC. Capice?

I did see Vin Diesel on the street today, but he's much shorter than I would have guessed. Shortly after that, I saw another bald-ish guy wearing almost the exact same black shirt, but he had man-boobs, so I'm positive he's not also Vin Diesel.

The bus stop gives me both pleasure and pain. Pain, because after I give up my place on the bench to some old people, they compound the imposition by starting to smoke heavily, joined by the teenaged parents hanging around nearby; and pleasure because I saw a woman who couldn't have been a day younger than 65 drinking from a *baby bottle*. Minus the nipple, of course, because she probably couldn't suck that hard, but any adult who considers a baby bottle an appropriate drink container (it looked to be tea) needs a reality check. Then I looked to my left and saw another grandmotherly type about to put a baby bottle, *full of milk and with a nipple*, in her mouth. "What in the Hell is going on today?" I thought. She was teasing her grandbaby in the stroller next to her, not having a delicious snack of formula on a hot day. Whew!

D.D. has mentioned several times today (unconvincingly) that she hopes she doesn't faint due to the heat. Every time I make her drink some more water, she points out that she probably won't faint now. The cat was out of the bag when I took her to ballet, which is un-air-conditioned: "I hope I faint!" said with a grin. I promised her that if she did, I'd drag her out of the room. Then I made her drink some more water.

I'm trying not to be paranoid about the heat, but D.D.'s little classmate didn't help things this afternoon. She walked part of the way home with us after school, and she assured us that D.D. has a "pale blister" on her neck just like the one she herself had had the time she didn't eat or drink during a heat wave. (Ok, whose parent doesn't make their kid eat, and especially drink, during hot weather?) L.H. pointed out that it's not a blister, just a white splotch, and it's most likely due to the patchy job he did of applying sunscreen to her the last time.

L.H. thinks people are trying to take advantage of me when they ask for a little help with something they've written in English, like a couple of girls in my classes. One had translated a letter of recommendation for an au pair position in England (took 5 minutes to look at, plus 10 minutes of chatting), and the other is taking a translation course in the English department, but had missed half of the semester due to surgery on her foot and her professor didn't have time to look at her assignments. So I corrected them and arranged to meet her this morning to return them. I was a few minutes late, but she didn't come, so I assumed she had a class and headed home. On the way to the bus, I stopped in a department store, on the hunt for the Perfect Gift (tm)—*whisper* but it's a secret. They didn't have it, but I looked at their cookie cutters since I need to expand my collection (all xmas and Halloween right now). People! Who wants cookies shaped like *tea pots*? Or *spoons*? Really! That store needs to find a new supplier.

So I leave the store, and I see the girl walking by. Turns out she had missed her bus into town and was just running late. So we made the swap, but then she gave me a pretty Chinese fan to say thanks. (It really came in handy at the ballet studio, too.) I feel like I'm finally building up some positive credit in my karma account after stirring up a bunch of family shit last week (which I won't go into here).

Of course, I will probably use it all up by mentioning the horrible dress my classmate was wearing last week. What is the deal with sequins lately? I don't mean a design with sequins on it (btw, Gwamma, D.D. is the talk of the second grade with her new sequined shirts); I mean a whole section of a garment covered in sequins. Think early Elton John. After the following horrifying event, I saw that a "boutique" in town had placed several partially sequined items in its window.

Anyhow, this girl was wearing a halter-top dress: the top was covered in black sequins; the bottom was a nightmare of chartreuse and white and black in a kind of Mondrian pattern. With loafers. Because nothing says "glamorous" like white leather loafers.

Thanks for hanging in there!

Throwing You a Bone

For various reasons, I'm not particularly in posting mode right now, but to keep gwamma and the aunties happy, I figure I can post some oldies but goodies from D.D.'s speech log. (L.H. has been keeping notes on her language(s) development since she started talking, but about 1/4 of the entries are just cute things she said.)

Enjoy.

Age 4
(about Swedish) "That's the old stuff to talk; I like new stuff like I'm talking right now.... I don't like stuff that's junky and funky."

D.D.'s version of the Pledge of Allegiance: "...to the United States and North America and South and April and March. Very good."

"I flang it." (past tense of 'fling', don't you know)

In her Yoda phase: "Pin can you not hold in your mouth." (I had some sewing pins in my mouth.)

Why she supposedly couldn't speak Swedish anymore: "A little troll that's named Maha, he came and took the Swedish away from my heart."

D.D. wanted to tussle with L.H.: "Daddy, bend down so I can kick your butt."

When I was cleaning out the coffee pot with vinegar: "That's the worstest coffee you ever made!"

Yoda redux
me: "There are lots of buildings [in Dallas]!"
D.D.: "And big are they, too."

Age 5
During a difficult BM: "I'm gonna die!"
After I tried to comfort her: "I *want* to die!"

After visiting the grands in LA: "Fangers. That's how Pawpaw says it."

L.H.: "Why did you put a cotton ball in Barbie's dress?"
D.D.: "Because so her boobs will look bigger. Fashion style."

D.D. wanted Lucky Charms, and she promised to eat "the lucky *and* the charms."

While watching a funny movie: "This part cracks me off!"

Age 6
While watching the wedding scene at the end of Star Wars, Episode 2
me: "I think grabbing onto a metallic hand [Anakin's] would ruin the moment."
D.D.: "A can of tuna on someone's head would be a little romantic."

Inside D.D.'s brain: She was musing that the only holiday when devils like to come up to the world is Thanksgiving, because they like to see those dead turkeys.

After eating corn chips in the car: "My tummy is upset. It's upset at those Fritos because they were so salty."

While looking at some golden, bejeweled chalices in a museum: "Too much God."

To the philosophical question, "Why are we here?": So we could eat and drink and so God could watch us on his television.

Age 7
On why she had been in trouble in the recent past: "Sometimes I go far away from my right self and I do bad (stuff)."

D.D. wanted to take a knife to her hard-frozen ice cream, but her dad counseled patience.
(translated from German) "*groan* Patience takes too long."

"Daddy, I would like a thermostat for tomato soup with Mommy's homemade bread" [in her lunch box].

L.H.: "What's this device called?" [pointing to a comic strip drawing of a guillotine]
D.D.: "A head off-chopper?"

Flip-flops and dying, etc.

I saw a woman in high-heeled mules make her way unsteadily across the cobblestone courtyard where I was studying; she then unlocked a bike and proceeded to mount it. I thought "Holy shit! She's going to kill herself!" To my relief, she dug around in her giant Gucci bag and pulled out some regular flip-flops, thereby avoiding catastrophe.

Then I saw a girl wearing turquoise rubber flip-flops...laced up the calf with matching satin ribbons. She looked completely ridiculous. What was she supposed to be, ballerina-slash-beach bum? Roman-slash-transvestite? I do not know.

Later, while crossing the bridge to the bus, I saw a man swimming in the river. He must have a death wish, because the city government's weekly newspaper recently carried a warning to stay out of the river, due to it being so filthy. (My husband has been in it once, and I made sure to read the article to him in the spirit of "I told you so.") After I got to the bus stop, I tried looking for the swimmer, but I spotted two little bunnies in the shrubbery instead. Cute! And much better than watching some guy dissolve in the river.

I know I said I drive like a granny, but really, I follow the speed limit. The only time I creep along is when I have to go down the main road in our village that has cars parked all along the down-hill side. Have I mentioned that the streets are all narrow? I thought so. Anyhow, I cruise along *at the speed limit* when I'm on the road to the grocery store, but inevitably, someone will insist on tailgating me. So when I spotted the 'falling rocks' sign recently, I thought that would be the answer to all my prayers: tailgaters crushed by falling rocks, i.e., instant karma.

The annoying pseudo-band has another annoying song: Space Cowboy. I will go on record as saying that only Elton John could pull off a song with that title. This band is definitely no Elton John, therefore they should just hang up their jocks.

The weather has been wonderfully warm—no, hot—and I am soaking it up. There were a few clouds earlier this week, but it didn't get too cold, and we've only gotten the tiniest sprinkle, so today was a bit humid. But hot! Woo! Hoo!

I'm Unappreciated

My hair is getting really long, so I've taken to wearing it up in a braid or a bun (shades of my grandmother). I like to think that when I take it down, I have luxuriant waves, but one day I noticed that my unbraided hair keeps separating itself into thin, scraggly, pseuo-dreds. Ok, I thought, screw the braid; the bun won't let me down. Last night, D.D. said I had a bunch of "crinkly little hairs", and L.H. commented that my hair looked frizzy, then corrected himself: bushy.

When L.H. was little, he had a knack for pushing people's buttons, to the point that his mother feared for his life when he started in on his older, bigger brother. He hasn't outgrown this trait. Of course, my mom says I had a smart mouth, but I—Wait, scratch that. Never mind.

I was just remembering the time in junior high when the guy who sat in front of me in math started calling a blond classmate "Goldilocks" and myself "Shitty-locks." My thirty-two-year-old self hopes my thirteen-year-old self told him he was a total dick. (He grew out of it, if I remember correctly.)

I hope that something like that doesn't happen to my beautiful, brunette daughter, but I imagine anyone who tried it would get a punch in the face for his efforts.

I finally broke down and hit the "Jeans Palace." According to the Levis site, the JP carries their jeans. I know exactly what style and size of Levis fit me (having just bought a pair while in Texas), so I thought shopping would be a snap. Encouraged by the "30% off brand-name jeans" sign, I entered the den of iniquity. Where I promptly had a heart attack and fell over. !!86 euros for Levis!! (and not even in the style I was looking for). Even with the discount, there is no way I would pay half my grocery bill for jeans. Sheesh!

I like to read fantasy novels, and I'm giving writing one a shot, but I have to admit that I feel a little silly writing a bare-bones outline of the plot; I actually used the word "ensorcel." *mental note—fire that part of my brain* I think I need to jazz things up, like use mafia-esque terms: the wizard whacked a bunch of people. Now I feel less silly.

My Lovely Husband just put out a bunch of geraniums and some plumbagos—or, as we call them around here, his "precious plumbagos." That goes back to when he had a huge wall of plumbagos growing outside our front door, and he would disappear for a while each evening in order to water and prune and rearrange his darling plants. The new flowers are in flower boxes all along both balconies (over one another on the east-ish side of the house). Since we have a kind of Bavarian-looking house, L.H. insists on the flowers to go with the look. I'll give him his prop and say that I enjoy the view out the kitchen window much more after his flower-planting orgy. So there.

Short but Coherent

I remember that last year the pedestrian bridge was often littered with dog poop, but it's been surprisingly clean this year (knock on wood). So it was upsetting to see that a man—an American!—appeared to be encouraging his little dog to evacuate on the bridge this evening. It's a good thing his wife came and made them move along, because on behalf of all daily bridge-crossers, I would have been forced to stab him with my pen.

Outside of the occasional motor starting in the tiny parking lot outside my classroom, we hardly even notice it's there. But today someone's car must have sprung a mighty leak, because gas—not exhaust—fumes filled our room. Latin is brain-damaging enough; I don't need a side order of toxic fumes, thanks.

Lovely Husband and Darling Daughter toted some of her friends to the pool yesterday, but L.H. has a militant disregard for SKIN CANCER, so he didn't bother to put on any sunscreen, and now he's all red. HA HA! It's my wifely prerogative to mock, didn't you know?

L.H. tried to thwart my plan to educate the online public about the wonderful world of Star Wars-themed paper products by using the first paper towel off the roll, thereby throwing off the pattern so that Chewbacca's feet or head are systematically chopped off, but my patience and cunning have paid off. Chewbacca is not only friendly and unassuming, but he kicks ass at cleaning up hairballs.
 

According to the front page of the regional newspaper, this is the new look for summer. Personally, I think it's a cheap rip-off of Siouxie Sioux, and she should be pissed.

[When I told him why I had the digital camera out, my "Lovely" Husband called me "e-Margie." I am putting this on the list, and if I ever decide to leave him, it will be entered as evidence of mental abuse. (ha! ha!)]
 

Blabbedly Blab Blab

Thursday morning I was waiting for a shop to open so I could drop off some film for developing, and to kill some time I wandered to the window of the plumbing business next door. In addition to the usual collection of sinks and fixtures, there was a toilet, with a most unusual lid. It was painted in wavy stripes that forcibly reminded me of The Scream. Now I am having all these strange associations.

I also looked in the window of the drug store, and lo and behold, there were *cotton balls*. When D.D. was having some cold-related ear problems, I needed cotton balls to keep the drops in her ears, and I could not find them anywhere in the damn drug store. Of course, I could have just asked, but I generally avoid asking questions in German. Besides, shouldn't cotton balls be with the baby supplies? Right? But no, they are by the cosmetics, so it makes perfect sense that I have never seen them before.

***

Bikes aren't allowed in the main shopping/pedestrian street in town, so they all take the parallel street that connections many of the university buildings. German bikes have bells, and people use them to warm dummies who walk 5 across while they chat to get the hell out of the way. I have to say that I feel much safer walking around here than on the UTexas campus, where I constantly feared the 2-wheeled messengers of death.

I also feel much safer on a bus. I know I have mentioned before how narrow everything is around here—the end result of living in a valley and/or an old, pre-auto town—but the buses can squeeze through the tiniest gaps without knocking off rear-view mirrors. It's actually kind of weird to be passing another bus (or a streetcar) so closely that you can tell the passengers on the other bus are also holding their breath. I wouldn't trust an Austin bus driver not to hit a traffic sign, much less pass a bicyclist on a narrow, twisty, mountain road.

***

When I take D.D. to school, we often see the man who delivers the lunches for the after-school-care kids (there's no lunch at school here otherwise). He cracks me up. He's this middle-aged, kind of dumpy man, but the radio in his truck is blasting dance music of the techno variety the whole time he's at the school. A Night at the Roxbury, anyone?

***

The grandparents and aunts and uncles will be happy to know that my Darling Daughter still says "fanger" (instead of "finger"). I believe she does it quite consciously, but it's better than no drawl whatsoever.

Off the Cuff

Lovely SIL sent me an appropriate accompaniment to my toilet-reading post. Enjoy!

I met a girl! (If you thought of Cry-Baby, you are my soul mate.) Well, she's been in 2 of my classes all semester, but we just introduced ourselves briefly today. She's also American, although I didn't catch where from. Seeing how I'm so socially reluctant, it was a big deal for me.

Here are some interesting things I saw on the way home on the bus:

Neighboring houses with almost-matching, wrought-iron, birdcage-esque gazebos on the street side. One was serving as a rose arbor.

Two crows standing on some driftwood swirling in the river. They didn't seem to notice the water or the swirling.

A red hang glider circling over the abbey. He seemed to be heading for one of the fields nearby.

Otherwise, I got nuthin'.

All the News That's Not Really News

D.D. managed to injure herself twice over three days. First, she slammed her hand in the car door. She had a big bruise just below her wrist that was tender the first day. She was complaining at school that it hurt, so the secretary put an ice pack on it, then wrapped a gauze bandage around it so her friends could sign it. She managed to whip up plenty of sympathy and attention for herself with one bruise.

Then last night she flopped over the back of the couch onto the seat, a not uncommon occurrence around here, except that she managed to land with her heels on the coffee table. Ouch! She had a scrape on one ankle, but when I felt all over her foot while she watched tv, she didn't even flinch. Until she noticed what I was doing, then it was, "Oh! My foot!" I made her run cold water over her foot in the tub, which she said helped. So she's not permanently maimed.

One night this week, D.D. wanted to listen to her Soul Control cd, but we have to switch around a bunch of plugs to turn on the stereo, so I talked her into using the jambox in the kitchen. She wanted me to close it off with a makeshift curtain (no door) so we wouldn't peek, because she wanted to "dance for herself." We promised to stay in the living room, but we wondered what the neighbors downstairs thought of the rhythmic thumping coming from her jumping around and dancing in the kitchen.

D.D. has decided that bad people should have giant apple heads (but not red), for easier spotting. Like Dracoy Malfoy, for instance. He'd have a big, pale, apple head with a sprig of blond hair where the stem would be. If only life were so simple.

She has also decided to forego those pesky "idioms" and "conventions of standard English." We were watching the second LOTR movie, the scene where the Ents attack Saruman's fortress. L.H. and I were explaining what was going on to D.D., and I remarked, "How would Saruman like to get a taste of his own medicine?" D.D. corrected me: "A taste of his own *poop*. That would be much worse." And we couldn't convince her that her way wasn't the best. I can't wait to see her first school essay in English when we get back to the States.

L.H. and I have a running argument about who has the worst taste in dining: he says my instant coffee tastes like it's infused with tuna, and I point out that hot dogs wrapped in bacon is not exactly a gourmet dish. A side argument is dunking: he does, I don't. *shudder* I hate soggy food.

On Sunday we took advantage of some nice-ish weather (not too cold; overcast, but not raining) and went for a "hike." There are trails all over the place around here, so we weren't hiking in the "mountaineering" sense, but we did have a nice, long walk. At one point we came across a marshy area that is purportedly a wallowing spot for wild boars, who were thankfully absent. While standing around a tiny observation hut above the spot, we heard the *very loud*, *very disconcerting* droning of bees. We didn't see many bees except down near the water, so we think they may have been in the cane off to the side. L.H. and I started wondering if any Africanized bees have made it this far north.

We had to cross a road at one point and saw—I don't know what you call them—a three-wheeled motorcycle. (Silly me, it's called a trike. Why didn't I know that?) We've seen quite a few since the weather warmed up (comparatively speaking). During the memorable 4 days when it was nearly hot (sound like a legend in the making: "The Almost-Heat-Wave of '05"), the road that goes through our village and over the mountain to the next village was overrun with bicyclists and motorcycles, including the trikes. One day I counted from the window as a motorcycle club went up the hill; I lost track at 70, but I'm positive there were at least 100 riders.

Anyhow, when we saw the trike on Sunday, D.D. said she wanted one, hot pink, with her name written on both sides and a big 'one' on the back. My little motorcycle mama.

On the drive home, we were passed by a bicycle. Yes, I was driving, but it was a steep hill, so I was in a low gear and riding my brakes, and the dude was peddling as fast as he could go. As a matter of fact, I got stuck behind another bike that was coasting down the hill. So I'm following one bike and being tailgated by another until he had a chance to pass us both. The humiliation! (Not really. I'm an unashamed granny driver these days. "Better safe than dead" is my motto.)

More Observations From Around Town

I'd like to report another sighting of the Old French Whore, in town instead of on the bus this time. She had on an acid green top and a floral-print skirt in hot pink, with a matching hot-pink sweater draped jauntily around her shoulders. I spotted her tottering across the central bus terminal on stiletto mules. Ouch! Surprisingly, the top and skirt coordinated, but caused me to lose my color vision for several minutes afterward.

Farther along in the shopping district, I spotted Simon LeBon's copycat younger brother, who apparently had just been unfrozen from his cryogenic sleep. His polo couldn't have been pinker, his loafers less sockless, or his jeans less tightly rolled at the ankle. And after sleeping through the 80s and 90s, it must have been difficult for him to lift his head with all the residual styling products weighing it down (but nevertheless leaving him with the timeless "rooster-head"). Ah...those were the days.

I found myself staring at my classmates again today. The reason was pretty straightforward in one girl's case—she had bubble-gum pink tips on her nails, set off with a silver glitter line. In all other respects, this girl was non-descript: naturally styled hair, light make-up, simple black blouse. But I guess the heart of a disco queen can beat in any of us.

The other girl looks a lot like Audrey Hepburn: small, pointy, pixie face and large eyes. Quite cute, actually, and always tastefully made up. But the clothes! Today she wore a leopard-print blouse; her hair was piled high and topped with a dusty-rose silk flower, which just happened to be the same color as her leather jacket. Unfortunately, neither matched her black cat-eye glasses or giant dangly bead earrings. I often think maybe I should glam up, but then I see this girl and realize how easily fashion-retarded people like myself can make a misstep or 12.

While crossing the bridge on my way to the bus stop, I passed a guy singing loudly *in falsetto*. People! Headphones do not make you invisible!

My Dear Friend was telling me about the series of freaks she's had to teach (at the university level), the most recent being a girl who bursts into song during class. Maybe she thinks she's in a Björk film.

There's a tanning salon around the corner from my building at the university, and the signs they have outside kill me. One poster is for the brand of tanning beds they use, and it features a woman crouching in a desert, wrapped in *tiny strips of foil*. The way she's squatting, she appears to be giving birth, and I have to wonder: to what, a baked potato?

The other poster is actually their logo, a drawing of a man in a bikini on a lounge chair soaking up some sun. It's nice to see a man used for once, except that some of the color directly above his bikini has been scratched or rubbed away, so his crotch appears to be smoking. Hee! I don't think that's really going to bring in the male customers.

Weather-bitching level: 2.5
Once again, I've been duped! Over the last 2 days, it's been gradually getting warmer...then it rained this morning, with sprinkles on and off throughout the day. Sitting in the house, it's cool, but if you have to move around outside (like to pick up your kid from school), you are instantly soaked in sweat because it is so humid. Damn you, Mother Nature!

Doesn't Yoda look ready to take names and kick ass? Cleaning with these babies makes me feel powerful. Keep tuned for more photos as we make our way through the multi-pack (C3PO, Chewbacca, and Darth Vader are slated to put in appearances). 

The Wonderful World of Pants

I am beginning to take an obsessive interest in pants. They're fascinating! For instance, I am noticing a definite trend in pants that double as optical illusions.

Exhibit A
Tan cargo-style pants with gothic lettering, in white, across the seat (seen as the wearer was heading into the Ladies'.) It appears that someone from Pimp My Ride went crazy and started putting letter decals on everything in sight, and the afflicted pants caught on. Unfortunately, the letter-applier stayed true to the original form (an arc; you know, like on the back window of a low-rider), and I suspect that has a magnifying/distorting effect. Have you ever successfully seen what's inside one of those Magic Eye posters? (Dude! It even works online!) Same effect.

Exhibit B
Dark-colored, pin-striped, tight, women's pants. These are not being worn as part of a suit, either (although I did see a woman in a pin-striped suit recently, and her pants did not melt my brain, because they were properly tailored). No, these pants are topped with baby tees and cropped sweaters and such. It makes my eyes water to see the lines distorted over the bulgy parts, and it's horribly unflattering. Who talked these women into thinking that straight vertical lines are attractive on a normal, curvy figure?

And to make matters worse, I saw a pair on a *pregnant woman*. I know! What was she thinking? If there's one thing a pregnant lady has, it's bulges, trust me, and this lady's pants were affecting my brain like acid-laced Fruit Stripe gum.

Coinciding with my pants fetish is the need for new pants. Well, jeans. I really need to find a store that carries petite, i.e., short, sizes, because I was ready to stab my eyes out after roaming the juniors section of the large department store. I even braved the horrors of a shop helpfully named "Pretty Fashion", but I detest pre-distressed jeans, and also the size problem; on the other hand, I was very much tempted to buy from their array of silk kimonos and Mandarin evening gowns. I have no plan whatsoever to enter "Jeans Palace", and I learned last year that H&M caters to women who are 6 feet tall with legs shaped like dowel rods, i.e., not me.

***

[Grossness Warning]
If you are like me, you have a large-ish stack of unread books, perhaps left over from your *cough* university classes. Maybe you would like to read them but don't feel you have the time. I am here to share with you my new system: put a book in the bathroom! Toss Redbook or Reader's Digest or Carpentry Weekly in the trash and get edjumicated! It'll take you forever to finish (for this reason I suggest starting with a compilation of essays or articles), but at least you'll be making progress (no pun intended).

***

Le Mariage Royale has foisted another travesty of formal wear on unsuspecting passersby. The gown on the left in the window is not too bad on first glance: a simple design in white with dark red piping along the bodice seams—bold but not ugly. Until you see that someone added a row of cross-lacing, with a red tie, up the left hip. Perhaps it was supposed to be a corset top, but the seamstress misplaced her glasses and decided to keep on with her work anyway.

The dress on the right.... I can only speculate that it's part of a new line aimed at retired prostitutes, those who found the red-trimmed dress too demure. I can't even describe it, but suffice it to say that it is a confounding amalgamation of mini-skirt/mermaid dress, tiny tulle ruffles, and plunging necklines.

Composed June 9

The Weather-Bitching Level is back! And it's a 2.7! (0 being 'nothing to bitch about weather-wise' and 3 being 'I will never stop bitching', i.e., winter.) According to the weather-lady on tv yesterday, we're having the coldest June in recent memory. South of us they even had a frost. In June! It hasn't even hit 70F since over the weekend. One morning, we saw smoke rising from someone's chimney, and that evening my polar-bear child wanted a blanket to go with her long jammies during the bedtime reading. I hate! the cold. The only way the weather could be worse would be if it started raining, which will probably happen now that I've said it.

You see some interesting people riding the bus, but after a while you get used to your fellow commuters. Today there was a new face on the bus, and it was *crazy*. Not like threatening crazy, just avoiding eye contact but talking loudly *in English* crazy. I didn't catch what exactly she was saying, but she seemed to be addressing someone; I checked her out several times, because I thought she might have a cell phone with a headset or a mini-recorder, but I didn't see anything of the sort. Great. Now the Germans around here will think Americans are war-mongers AND crazy.

But that wasn't even the scariest thing to happen on the bus that time. Whenever we came to a stop, you could tell the driver was trying to stop as gradually as possible, letting off the brakes 2 or 3 times before coming to a complete halt, at which point the brakes would make a terrible noise. I was concerned that perhaps there was a bicycle up in the wheel well, with or without bicyclist, but I didn't notice once when I got off. I was also worried that we might start to skid since the noise was a bit like the sound of brakes locking. Have I mentioned that my house is at the top of a steep hill?

Do you ever notice yourself blinking, then you can't stop noticing, and then you wonder how weird you must look because you're consciously blinking? I think this awareness of involuntary movements is becoming a theme with me.

My Darling Daughter had a wart on her foot; I didn't dawdle in treating it, because I've had a plantar wart before, and having a doctor jab a skewer covered with wart-poison into her foot is not something I would wish for my daughter. Anyhow, a couple of days after starting to use the salicylic acid on her foot (carefully!), I noticed that the wart on my thumb knuckle was making a break for freedom. Now, this has been a tenacious wart; I've accidentally scraped the skin off that spot *twice* with a cheese grater—don't try that at home, kids!—yet the wart always returned. I guess the wart got wind of the acid and decided not to stick around to be the next victim, so after picking off the little seed thingie—which was literally hanging out—I am officially wart-free.

I took my Latin mid-term today, and I don't think I bombed, so that was good. I did go through all the psychological stages of studying, though:
denial—"I've got plenty of time!"
panic—"There's too much to learn!"
death wish (self)—"I want to lie down and die."
death wish (instructor)—"If he had a heart attack last night, I won't have to take the test today."
and resignation.

Games You Can Play with Your Child

The next time your child gives you a kiss, throw your hands over your face, writhe, and screech, "It burns!" Guaranteed child pleaser, and sure-fire way to get more voluntary kisses.

***

My Darling Daughter was reading a book the other day, and I popped into the living room to ask her a question. She gave me a curt "No", which, translated for any non-compulsive readers out there, means, "Shut up and go away." I wasn't offended, but I ran back into the kitchen for a giggle because it was so me as a child. She really is Mini-Me.

***

D.D. got a big birthday box in the mail from her gwamma that was filled with one large and several small packages. Interestingly, she started with the small boxes: "A tiny waddle bottle!" Joy! Molly, her American Girl doll, really raked it in with an entire bedroom suite, complete with a tiny working lamp, a bed, a dresser with a drawer in it, and water bottle (obviously). D.D. had to stop in the middle of the proceedings to get batteries for the lamp, and she's been dragging it around the house like she used to carry her blankie as a toddler, because you never know when she might need the extra light of a 10-Watt bulb. She also generously offered to let L.H. take it with him to an 8 p.m. meeting in case it was dark when it ended; he pointed out that the car's headlights should provide plenty of light, thanks.

The bedroom suite has been in the living room, in the "clubhouse/hotel" under her play-bed, and in the bed next to D.D.'s pillow. I'm surprised she hasn't jabbed herself in the eye with a wooden edge (even if it is covered by a corduroy bedspread) in her sleep. In the mornings, I tickle D.D. awake, then she gently wakes Molly by slowly lifting her upright until her eyes open. She's a much sweeter mom than I am.

***

When we were in Paris, we had dinner with Lovely Husband's friend, and she roasted a chicken. D.D. wanted the wishbone, but we couldn't find it as it was probably broken up in the process of carving. So the friend's daughter explained that this was 'poulet', not 'chicken', therefore French chickens must not have a wishbone. Shades of Gary Larson and his "Boneless Chicken Ranch." Hee!

***

There's a formal-wear shop near the German as a Foreign Language department called "Le Mariage Royale." (Makes me think of a plastic clock L.H. 'rescued' from the garbage room when we lived in Sweden that was helpfully labeled "High Class Clock.") Every time I walk by with D.D., she says I need to get one of the (wedding) gowns on display. I've repeatedly pointed out that I'm not exactly in the market for such a dress.

Most of the time this shop has duelling gown models in varying degrees of tackiness in the window, but these days they have a bridal couple *made of balloons*. The groom is a column of gray balloons topped with a white balloon with a Lego-esque face drawn on it. I think he also has a gray top hat. The bride is a column of ivory balloons with a white balloon head and a veil. But that's not all! She's also got a tube balloon (like clowns bend into poodles and swords and hats) for arms at waist height with a pink bouquet attached to the front. It's a classy display for a classy shop.

***

Usually I'm pretty nonchalant around here about my blog. I'll mention to L.H. that I've updated it, or tell him if I felt I had something particularly witty to say, but otherwise I try to play it cool. But sometimes, like a couple of days ago, I get all hovery and want to watch L.H. while he reads. (Because I'm a megalomaniac—surprise!—,a term we've been bandying about recently.) He finally told me I was creeping him out, kinda like the old lady in The Wedding Singer who wants to watch Adam Sandler eat the meatballs, because "That's my favorite part!" So I'm backing off. But maybe I'll install a surveillance camera. Hmmm....

The Bird Man of Ziegelhausen

My husband's family, at least on his dad's side, has a strange affinity for birds. His grandparents used to have a house full of the vermin, I mean, parakeets and cockatiels, plus doves out back, and his grandmother used to cook scrambled eggs for them and let them drink out of her coffee cup. (Needless to say, I have never kissed her on the mouth. And I don't leave D.D. unattended around her in case she decides to cook her up and serve her to the rest of the family.) Family grudges have been held over who let whose bird escape. And L.H.'s dad is always going on about a song he composed and taught his bird to whistle. He'll be on Broadway next.

In the past, L.H. has shared my distaste for all things feathery and indiscriminately excretory, but now he swears he's been hearing a bird outside our window who is singing the Munchkin-Land tune from The Wizard of Oz. I think he's getting some fumes up through the floor from the teenager in the apartment below us. I haven't heard the bird myself, but L.H. claims he was vindicated in the case of the piss bugs (which we actually saw in action on one of his grandmother's trees), and he will be proved right this time. Quite a track record, eh?

According to the Partaay Quiz (that's not misspelled) L.H. took at D.D.'s behest on the Disney web site, Dijonay of Proud Family fame has labeled him a "Party Pooper." "That explains why I never get invited back; I should go before I leave home," he quipped. (We're all about scatalogical humor around here, since we're in BIL withdrawal.)

And in related news (wait for it...), D.D.'s German is not just bleeding into her English these days, it has taken it hostage and is only letting it out for cigarette breaks. She doesn't use the cute kid-English for bathroom functions anymore (one and two, remember?); instead she has to "make a big (or enormous, in her case) or a small." If you don't learn any other German idioms from this site, be sure to master this one.

The weather is driving me mad(-der; ha ha *twitch*). If the first day of Summer is June 21, why am I still wearing jeans and a long-sleeved shirt and a jacket? We had four clear, warm, sunny days about a week and a half ago, then a pretty powerful storm blew in with thunder and rain to cool things off, which we appreciated at the time. On the plus side, it also knocked a bunch of baby chestnuts off the trees, so that means less head-conking this fall. On the minus side, it seems to have also taken casualties among the apple trees down the street.

Since then we've had cool, wet, almost warm, windy, and cloudy, but no truly warm weather. Why oh why did we buy that oscillating fan? I feel like a fool for pushing our long-sleeved clothes and sweaters to the back of the closet, because who knows when we might need them again (like today)? In Texas, you put everything made of yarn away in May, and you get it back out in October. There is no overlap in the seasons. Here, you never know when a new one has started. L.H. found out that it is now safe to put out geraniums, i.e., no threat of frost. At the start of June! Ok, I should stop this line of complaining before I give myself a stroke.

Some of the Spring/Summer phenomena I have noticed around here are UGLY pumps and loafers, and thin, white cotton pants. If you ask me, the latter are a recipe for disaster. And the former—so ugly! I saw one woman in normal clothes and *gold glitter flats*. D.D. had a red pair as a 4-year-old that we called her Dorothy shoes (it's the Oz recursion!), but I had never thought of them as appropriate for 25-year-olds. The other shoes look like someone sent a dumpster from the 80s through a time portal that landed in the local department stores. Eek!

Another Summer pastime is mowing. I have seen the following techniques used here in our village (keep in mind that the sides of the valley are steep, and houses are built up along both sides): mowing with an industrial-strength, tractor-type mower; weed-whacker followed by raking; a scythe; and sheep. The last two amuse me to no end, especially since I can watch the mad scyther while I wait for the bus near D.D.'s school, and we can sometimes hear the sheep bleating from at home; they usually sound pretty pissed off, although I don't claim to be a sheep interpreter. I would be pissed off, too, if I were an ersatz lawn-mower, lazy owners.

True Confessions

I need to get something off my chest. You'll probably want to sit down for this. If you have a weak heart, be sure to pick up the phone and dial 9-1 before proceeding to the next line.

I de-haired my legs.

Yes, I realize this is a terrible shock, but it is true nonetheless. Note that I did not *shave* my legs, as that usually entails copious blood loss for me, and I'm trying to keep my anemia under control.

I finally caved and bought some depilatory cream because we had four very warm (high 80s) days and no AC. Hairless seemed a much cooler way to go. The stuff I bought didn't stink and promised to last twice as long as shaving (so that would be two days as opposed to one for me). I will never take a razor to my legs again.

As long as I'm coming clean, I ironed today, and not even my own clothes, and not even because someone needed it right then. I know! What is wrong with youth today? Gwamma sends D.D. beautiful dresses, and usually I am lazy enough to let her go around wrinkled, but today I needed to re-melt an iron-on back on, so I ironed the whole dress, plus one of L.H.'s particularly wrinkly shirts. I realize that this unprecedented act of housekeeping is a desecration to my mother's name, but I can still make her proud to be my mom with my closet full of half-finished craft projects.

My lovely MIL sent me two cute blouses, so with them and my freshly de-haired legs in mind, I decided to go shopping for a skirt. Normally, the only thing that would be worse is falling into an open sewer, but I braved *two* department stores in search of a prairie-style skirt. (At least, that's how I think of them—I don't know fashion.) By the second store, I couldn't even bring myself to go up to the second floor. It was a soul-withering experience, and I have decided to just be happy with my long denim skirt for now.

And, I was a black drag queen in a former life, but you probably already knew that.

This dwarf turned his head back and forth, but notice how his eyes *never stop watching you*. 

Here's Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. 

Here's a classic: the donkey who shat golden coins. If you ask me, they're still going to be hard to spend.  

This was really the defining moment for me. These are mining dwarfs, and they are mining Stollen (a German xmas cake), from what I can tell. And according to the recording, not a beam of natural light ever made it into their caves. Creep-o! 

Belated Birthday

D.D. had her birthday a couple of weeks ago, but it was in the middle of her school break, and we managed to fart around and not arrange anything then. She today we took her and 4 of her friends to the local amusement park. It's about like Neff's in Angelo (is that place still open?). Anyhow, it's called the Fairy Tale Paradise, and there are lots of kid-friendly rides and playgrounds. D.D. and friends rode on the back of a giant plastic witch around a track, ditto a pony, rode around the park on the train, bounced on the giant moonwalk thingy, and drove non-bumper cars. D.D. almost caused a pile-up as soon as she got in her car, and it took her a couple of tries to get the hang of it. As she careened around, trying to make the car go where she wanted it to, she called out, "I don't have a driver's license!" How irresponsible of us to let her drive without one!

Interspersed among the rides are these creepy animatronic scenes from fairy tales the Brothers Grimm collected back in the day; these things make the Pirates of the Caribbean and It's A Small World at Disney World look cuddly and cute. For your viewing amusement, I'm posting my photos of what I like to call the Animatronic Nightmare. Enjoy.

The Joys? of Parenting

The crack about the Nixon parenting method was made just before Deep Throat came forward. Talk about a weird coincidence.

Except that the parenting seems not to be working. D.D. punched a boy in the nose at after-school care and made it bleed. There was much eye-closing and sighing around here after she finally confessed. The boy had been pulling her dress up and wouldn't stop, and she claimed she couldn't get the teacher's attention, and finally, her "mind was out of control", and she punched him. Her friends claim he deserves it, because he's punched them, too, but we don't want our daughter to use violence to counter violence. Of course, now that he knows she might *make him bleed*, he might not try anything with her again.

She gave herself a week's restriction from tv before we could even come up with a punishment, so we went with that. Then she wrote a heartfelt letter to Barbie on her web site and said that the one thing she would like to change about herself is her fury. We knew she was on the Barbie site, but our interest was piqued when she asked how to spell "school" and "fury", so I went and had a look at what she was writing. We're thinking that the pre-programmed Barbie response will probably not be appropriate to the Daughter's soul-baring letter.

She Comes By It Naturally

D.D. is a bit of a geek (see Yoda picture below) because her dad and I are geeks. We were listening to a radio interview with a man who is part of a group of people who are trying to break a record by reading as many places of pi as possible in 30 hours. This led L.H. and I to rack our brains trying to remember what we knew about pi: I had the denominator—7—and he had the numerator—22. I only remembered 3.1.4, but when he tried to outgeek me (incorrectly, I might add smugly), I was able to come up with 3.1416. Dr. Math at Drexel gives a short version of 3.14159265358979323846, so mine was rounded up. Considering I haven't taken math of any sort since 1995-ish, and no geometry-related math since 1992, I felt less stupid than I have of late.

D.D. and I are geeks. We got a multi-pack of paper towels just because this little guy was in it, then we fought over him; I won. And the paper towels are nifty, too--they have Star Wars characters on them. They go with the travel packs of tissues with the Star Wars wrappers. 

Translation: "Hannah's Revenge Notebook" Yes, we're parenting using the award-winning Nixon Method. 

All D.D., All This Time

I Think I'm Turning Japanese (sing it if you know it). D.D. has gotten into the habit of asking for a drink out of the "waddle boddle." Now I can't say it right. I even caught myself writing "watel" the other day. And it's starting to bleed over into other words. Sometimes I don't even sound like I'm speaking English when I get on a roll.

D.D. is very flexible; she's inherited my grandmother's "loose hips." That means I know 2 people who can cross their legs at the knee, then tuck the top foot behind the ankle of the bottom leg. I certainly can't do it. She's been entertaining us recently by bending and crossing her legs into the shapes of different numbers. She can do 4, 0, and 8, and we expect her to start on letters any time now.

I think D.D. is veering into "whoa, take it easy, kid" territory. I put her in the tub yesterday afternoon, and she asked me to pull the stool over by the tub. On it were her clean shirt, a book of Far Side comic strips, and a guide to the first few seasons of the Simpsons (thanks, JKL!—pre-JEKL). She couldn't believe I wouldn't let her *read in the tub*--"I'll dry my hands off first!" So she read the Far Side book as part of her bedtime reading ritual instead.

And in other non-news...

The premenstrual puff receded, then L.H., who was in charge of making the week's menu, fed me pea soup one night and pinto beans the next. I think he's aiming for a heart attack brought on by severe gastric distress. Death by indigestion—the indignity.

In my English class, the tables are arranged in a big square. I was watching this girl on the opposite side of the square, and on behalf of all other females, I think her womanhood should be revoked. She was flirting heavily with the guy next to her, which—normally—I'd be all, "Go for it, girl!" But in this case, I'd have to say, "What in the hell is wrong with your gaydar?" I mean, the only person more obviously gay than this guy would be Liberace. I'm expecting him to show up in sequins and/or feathers any time now.

There's been this terrible, terrible "Making of a Pop Group Diary" show on the kids' channel that D.D. watches, and the horrific-ness of the whole thing is sickening. They are obviously patterned on a real, live, successful pop group—Ch!pz (I can't believe I just typed that)—in that they have 2 girls and 2 boys, ranging in age from 18 to 22, but they just aren't believable as a group of friends who love to sing and dance together. Their first song is Dubbi Dam Dam (which actually sounds like doobie dum dum—that's all of the words for 2-1/2 minutes of music), and the animated aliens in the video are more talented performers than these guys.

On further investigation on the channel's web site, there was a contest, and the 4 were put together to give it a go. I'm waiting for the "Making of the Diary Show" show, where it's revealed that one of the girls is in rehab, the other is making porn movies, and the two guys are now dating and doing drag shows in Amsterdam.

D.D. is always a source of amusement for us. We typically visit 2 grocery stores on Saturdays, one that has cheap staples, and the other for everything else. At the cheap store, she wanted her own deodorant, so she wouldn't use mine up; and also, ladies use it. That was news to me, that she was using mine, but I said sure, why not. So she picked out a pink, rose-scented roll-on. She got mad at me because I wouldn't let her carry it into the second store, but no matter, she had already put some on. Before we even crossed the parking lot, she offered to let us sniff her armpits. No thanks, honey. In the store, I caught her—repeatedly—pulling her short sleeve up to her nose for a sniff, then saying, "Mmmm." She was quite pleased with her new 59-cent deodorant.

Paris—Day 4 (Finally!)

I know—it's about time I wrapped this up, eh? So Day 4 was actually not in Paris, but about 30 minutes north at a theme park. D.D. was good and patient at the grown-up, touristy places for 2 days, so we thought she deserved a little fun.

You know how Disneyland—which we did *not* go to—is based on the Disney characters? Well, Parc Asterix is based on a series of comic books about Asterix the Gaul, set in France (Gaul, actually) during the Roman Empire, in 50 B.C. The books are fairly popular here in Europe and have been translated into many languages. So 15 or 20 years ago, they opened an amusement park, and we all enjoyed ourselves, even though everything was in French.

There were lots of rides, including 2 big roller coasters. D.D. is such a brave child and wanted to ride both, until we rode the first one. I would say it compares with the Judge Roy Scream (if they still have it) at Six Flags in Arlington, but without so many tall drops. D.D. shrieked like she was in mortal danger, but when she got off she declared she could scream even louder, but would give the roller coaster with the loops a miss. It didn't help that we had ridden the Spider en route and were all pretty queasy.

Later, D.D. and L.H. left me on the ground while they rode the carousel of hanging chairs that uses centripetal force to swing them out. I was taking zoom photos, and D.D. didn't scream once. This from my daughter who claims to be afraid of heights and cowers on escalators.

We were able to go on a couple of water rides, one right at the beginning, so of course I had a wet ass and L.H. had a wet lap right off. "Hi! Nice to meet you! We're the Incontinent Family!"

D.D. wanted to check out one of the theatrical events, which was funny if unintelligible to us. Caesar wore a blond, rubber Elvis wig and had a band of incompetent legionnaires for slapstick comedy routines. Later, the soldiers performed an interesting, Cirque du Soleil-esque aerial gymnastics-on-a-bungee-cord-dance thing, which would have been quite beautiful if they weren't wearing satin mix-n-match costumes in fuchsia, purple, and fluorescent green and yellow. And satin wrestling masks with plumage on top. But otherwise not too gay. (We neglected to take photos of the spectacle.)

Paris might be the City of Love, but Parc Asterix is the amusement park of *small children*, so I didn't expect to see so many people mackin' on the rides and benches.

There was way more to do and see than we had time for, but we rode some rides, at some hot dogs and ice cream, and got to check out Asterix's world, so all in all it was a success.

On the drive back to Germany, we stopped in Reims to see the Cathedral. It's every bit as beautiful as the Notre Dame in Paris, but way less crowded (about 20 people at 5 pm on Sunday). Then we were all ready to be home. When we finally crossed the border, L.H. said he was ready to get out and kiss the ground.

I have to admit that after struggling to make ourselves understood in France, I vowed to double my efforts in mastering German, 1. because I already have a good start, and 2. because I was afraid I might still be speaking tourist-ese.

***

Here are a few notes I jotted while traveling, which may or may not be of interest to anyone but me:

Paris was fairly expensive. Our hotel was surprisingly reasonable, but ice cream and cold drinks were more expensive at the stands at the tourist sites than at the amusement park. Could you imagine paying more for a coke at the Alamo than at Fiesta Texas?!

Still in comparison mode, a Happy Meal was 4 euros in Paris, but 3.25 at home.

Seeing Scooby Doo in French was a mind-altering experience.

On the drive home, there was a stretch where the stench of onions permeated the car, so I assumed we were driving past an onion farm. But then a couple of days later I smelled onions on the bus. At first I wondered if I was having olfactory hallucinations brought on by brain trauma from the roller coaster. Then I wondered if I was in line for sainthood—you know, incorruptible (i.e., when the saintly person died, his or her body didn't decay, and also gave off the scent of flowers). It occurred to me that smelling like onions might not make me too popular with the other saints. But then I finally noticed that the girl behind me was eating a pita. Damn reality.

Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow?

--when I've been carted off by the guys in the white coats? Considering how yucky I felt this last week, I was downright chipper today. (L.H. kept calling me chipper this evening, but I'm pretty sure he meant "insane.") I bought myself some cute little Chinese Mary Janes, and did I mention how cute they are? And only 9 euros!

I celebrated by devouring a 2-scoop ice cream—peach and melon, yum!—that was probably chock full of artificial flavors, and I didn't have to listen to L.H. pronounce my doom via allergic headache or additive poisoning while I ate it. (I have now been instructed to get only plain vanilla or chocolate ice cream for the family, as they are less likely to contain artificial flavors. This is the man who has been known to complain about the lack of sprinkles, chunks, and cookies in the ice cream I buy. Which we all know are made using only organic ingredients by happy little grandmas in the dairy.)

See what I mean? Mental hospital—here I come!

Last week was really rough for me. My brain was the focal point of a head-on collision between menstrual hormones and an overwhelming amount of homework, and I was, well, overwhelmed. But between my regular day off on Wednesday, a state holiday on Thursday, and dropping one of my (not required) classes on Monday, I managed to come up with a sizeable chunk of time in which to get on top of the pile of work and make a bit of a dent in it.

On Wednesday I took D.D. to the playground after we returned our library books, but she didn't know the only other kid there, so she betook herself to her favorite climbing tree. The other kid, a little boy, was there alone; he looked about 5 years old. He kept going in and out of the little wooden play fort; he'd made a "door" for it by leaning a stick across the opening, and each time he crossed, he'd say something I couldn't catch and open and close the "door." After about 10 minutes of that, he took the stick, held it against his hip, then "unsheathed" it and beat the hell out of an unsuspecting bush, repeatedly, until he broke a large-ish branch off. That's about the time when his dad came for him. Drunky hair guy. I should have guessed.

On Thursday, we all went to the botanical gardens. It was a beautiful day for strolling outside, but we made sure to take a turn through the greenhouses. D.D. is now interested in getting her very own carnivorous plant, and L.H. got a tip on where we can buy one. D.D. was mostly interested in the different ponds and streams around the grounds, and she definitely likes the unpaved paths the best. She kept leading the way, saying, "We like the wild way." That would be "we=me and Dad." We discovered the reason why Germans make frogs say, "quak", which sounds like "kvak." Because they actually sound like that. They definitely do not sound like Texas frogs. At one point, we heard what we thought was a frog croaking a lot, but it might have been a duck attacked with a stick.

Afterwards, L.H. taught D.D. how to play frisbee. She picked it up really fast, and we are planning on making her play professionally to pay for our retirement. She doesn't know yet, though, so shhh. (She's reading over my shoulder as I type. Hee! Hee!) Actually, it was somewhat humiliating to see her snatch the frisbee out of the air, because I still can't do it myself. I'm the wiener who ducks when things fly at her, but that might be conditioning from when I got hit in the eye with a softball as a kid. And I guess in general it's a good reflex to have.

Today I noticed a lot of people walking around sporting sunburns. I managed to get sunscreen on our faces before we went out on Thursday, but I noticed my arms are a little pink, in that scary, blotchy way. D.D. tans easily, like her dad, damn them, but she is getting a few little cute freckles on her face. Not as many as me or her aunt, LilSis, thank the 7 Dwarfs.

In village news, the cosmetics boutique is probably driving away customers with their new window display. Aside from the hideous fake roses adorning the counter, there is a window painting? cling? that on close inspection turns out to also be red roses, but from afar appears to be fresh blood. Ick.

Today D.D. and L.H. went to the pool. I got home with a grocery bag full of goodies that I was looking forward to sharing, and there was a note that they had gone swimming because it was too hot. It was only about 85. Pu-lease. Of course, you know me. I'll be asking for a sweater when I get to hell. D.D. did fantastic in the water, her dad reported. She is taking swimming at school, but has been on vacation for the last 2 weeks, but it seems she has not forgotten her lessons. Good girl!

Another good girl is Mini-Nee. She got all A's for the year, is still in Gifted and Talented, and whipped the TAKS or whatever the latest acronym is like it was a red-headed stepchild. Go, Mini-Nee!

Y'Know--Stuff

I have been cruelly duped. I bought a bag of mixed Haribo gummy candies, just because it included licorice. I bit into a beautiful black and white one, and it was licorice—laced with coconut. Noooooo! It was like delicious licorice with a side of ass.(1) And *every single black one* had a layer of white. L.H. didn't want to eat them because of the licorice, and I didn't want to eat them because of the coconut, so they are still sitting on the kitchen counter, hardening.

Yesterday I looked less like I was retaining water and more like I was retaining a watermelon. I seem to have deflated a bit this morning, but I really hate the start-of-period puff. It makes me even grouchier than normal to wear my new jeans that are usually quite roomy and to get squeezed like a cocktail waitress in a construction workers' convention.

The weather has gone from cold and wet to warm and wet, to warm and humid, back to cold and wet, and finally to clear, warm, and sunny. No one is more ready for it to be summer than I. Our landlord is supposed to start converting our terrace into a glassed-in sun-room in three weeks, so even in the winter we'll be able to enjoy whatever sunlight comes our way.

We are so un-together that we still haven't organized a bday party for D.D. (actual birthday: May 22). It doesn't help that she changes her mind every 5 minutes about what she wants. At some point she has wanted a movie party, a fairy party, a Harry Potter party, a swim party, and a rock-climbing party. We may end up pushing it back yet one more weekend, since it might be difficult to organize a party and round up guests in 3 days.

On her bday, we took her to see the new Star Wars, and we all liked it. It was kind of strange to take her to a film that children under 12 are required to be accompanied to, but she had to sit on a booster seat to be able to see the screen. I've heard a lot of complaints online about the stiff dialog (and I've seen all the rest of the films in English and can attest to the stiff dialog in them), but it was not so noticeable in German. Also, it was so hard to visually follow what was actually going on half the time with the heavily laden special effects that the dialog was a welcome relief from all the spaceships and explosions and battle scenes. That said, we'll probably get it on DVD when it comes out. We don't have a DVD player, but we do have a computer particularly designed for multi-media, so we just use it as a tv when we want to play one of our tiny collection of DVDs.

(1) One of L.H.'s former grad school colleagues—coincidentally a German—says licorice tastes like ass, but what does he know.

The Throw-Away Post (sort of)

Today I am puffy and surly/manic and unfunny, but here are a couple of things that don't require any additional humor from me (or any humor at all, for that matter).

As soon as I walked in the door on Thursday, D.D. accosted me: the most disgusting thing in the world had just happened. Thinking I was going to be in charge of a cat-barf mess, she went on to inform me that a snail had just climbed onto her new sandal and onto her foot (!) when she was playing in the meadow across the street. So she had to wash the new sandal, and would probably never wear it again. I know that the snails around here are large and relatively fast, but I couldn't quite make out how she was still long enough for one to crawl onto her foot. The best I can tell, she was walking through tall-ish grass and kicked up a slug (not a snail), which then befouled her foot. The trauma!

While walking past a large (5-story) department store early one morning, I heard this weird whistling sound, interspersed with metal clinking. It was the metal lines that were holding the sides of some banner-things that hung down the sides of the building. The banners were whistling, and the metal lines were clinking. It gave me gooseflesh, since it gave me a mental picture of one of the lines snapping and whipping through the air to maim passersby. I try not to walk so close to that building now. *shudder*

So Proud!

I found out from my mom that my niece made a sweep (almost) at her school's award night—8 out of 10! I shall call her (pinky to lips)...Mini-Nee.

She even won a citizenship award, but according to LilSis, a bit of the luster was rubbed off by M-N's bored expression. That's no way to be a good citizen, Mini-Nee! You should show *some* appreciation and modesty. Unless you're *really* bored, then full steam ahead!

***

D.D. hates it when people (generally old people) pat her head or *gasp* talk to her in public. She's starting to get quite surly about it. Today she practically ran to me at the grocery store check-out to get away from an old lady asking her about her doll. Don't want to be approached, don't look so cute, honey.

"I hate it when old Omas talk to me. That *gets on my nerves*." (You can say that last bit with one word in German, which is the most economical I've ever seen the language be.)

When I got onto her for being impolite, she replied that she's not supposed to talk to strangers. I pointed out that she's probably not in much danger from such an elderly person, plus I was only 5 feet away. She came back with an elaborate tale of the woman and her husband probably desperately wanting a little girl of their own—just like her! I let it drop at that point, but I'm starting to wonder about D.D.'s concept of reality.

***

After reading one of my entries, L.H. declared himself surprised that I noticed what other people were wearing so much of the time. He should remember that I am an inveterate people-watcher (a.k.a. starer). Plus, some people's clothing just cannot be missed.

For instance, I haven't seen her lately, but there's a woman in our village I have mentally named "The Old French Whore." She typically wears clothes that are 30 years too young, 2 sizes too small, and inevitably include a combination of fake fur, leather or vinyl, and animal prints. Paired with elaborately curled and badly dyed hair, 2-inch-long nails, and 4-inch-high heels, well, you can see where I'm going with this. I have no idea how she gets up and down the steps to the bus without tanking.

Life in the Climbing Lane

A few days ago, I got home from school to find L.H. picking up the last shards of glass from a broken jar. It turns out that D.D.+jar+tile floor=pickle bomb. Who would have guessed? It took several attempts at mopping to get all the brine up, and there was a horrid pickle/lemon cleaner stench until I succeeded.

***

Earlier today I was in the ladies', and I heard D.D. stomping up the stairs toward me (the child can't just walk up stairs), so I preemptively yelled, "I'm in the bathroom!" And she answered, "I just wanted to tell you something." Now, D.D. often has interesting insights on the world, so my curiosity was piqued. After washing my hands, I found out that "These chips are delicious with ketchup. I just tried them."

It was hard to suppress my natural sarcasm. My brain was saying, "Thanks for the newsflash!", but my mouth managed to say, "I'm glad you like them." I don't want to crush her fragile spirit with my sarcastic tendencies.

***

So I started some homemade bread to go with some homemade carrot soup (I make a mean carrot soup), but I was having trouble with one line in the directions: "Continue adding flour as you knead until the dough is no longer sticky." The damn stuff was still sticky, but was starting to approach the density of a black hole, so I declared, "I dub thee satiny and smooth. Now rise!" (Actually, I just now added that "rise" bit, because I'm—you know—a geek. hee!hee!)

***

For the most part, I think Disney television programming is insipid and pointless, but I have to give them their props when they get one right. D.D and I are addicted to "Fillmore," and we've only seen 3 or 4 episodes. It's like a police detective drama, but set in a school with school-aged detectives. They even have a big cocoa urn instead of coffee. Hee! There are lots of misleading clues and conflicting motives that make for interesting stories. So I like cartoons—sue me.

Speaking of which, I am afraid there are only about 4 voice talents in all of Germany, going by the number of cartoon characters with the same set of voices. It's gotten to the point that I can't even guess what show is on when walking past the living room; I have to actually look at the tv set, which I try to avoid as much as possible. And 9 times out of 10 I'll be surprised. Spongebob-guy is 6 other voices, off the top of my head, and Squidward-guy is getting up close to that number. L.H. thinks those guys should give some other voice-actors a break and step down once in a while, but I can't imagine it's that lucrative a field anyhow.

***

We have a surprisingly difficult time finding children's bubble bath around here, so we stocked up when we came across some in a grocery store in Paris. Now D.D. has Hunchback of Notre Dame (Disney again, I know) bubble bath, with packaging in French. I like to think of it as horizon-expanding.

***

And here is one of mine and L.H.'s all-time favorite lines from Public Television:
"You are an idiot, but your produce is delicious."
Jennifer, one of the "2 Fat Ladies", to a live chicken while gathering fresh eggs

Paris—Day 3: Into the Bowels of the Louvre

(n.b. French spelling is not my forte, so please disregard any typos.)

Actually, the Louvre is an amazing place (and their web site is very user friendly; the virtual tours are the bomb!). The building itself is 4 stories and too huge to get into one photo without a helicopter. It was originally a palace; we were able to see rooms that Napoleon had used, and let me tell you, it was more opulent even than the current Swedish royal family's digs. But the French aristocracy back then must have felt it was lacking, because they abandoned it for Versailles (which, from the photos I've seen, appears to be gilded from toilets to kitchen counters).

You enter through a large glass pyramid that seems a bit out of place at first, but the effect from inside is really cool. Then you go down an escalator, and the main level is one floor underground, lighted by the pyramid that now acts as an elaborate skylight. There are three wings, and each wing has four floors.

We spent !6! hours walking around and didn't even make it onto every floor of every wing. (That's as long as it took us to *drive to Paris* in the first place.) Mostly we decided what we really wanted to see, and planned it out on the handy map we got when we arrived. If they hadn't thoughtfully put numbered signs on the walls, we would have been irretrievably lost in a matter of 10 minutes.

Darling Daughter got her wish and stood before the Mona Lisa, along with the 100 people pushing us forward. Choosing not to join the teeming throng in prematurely aging the Mona Lisa via flash-photography, we declined to take our own photo. Also, we didn't know how to turn the flash off on our new-ish digital camera. But we bought a postcard and a bookmark of the M.L. later at the bookshop, so take that, Philistines!

Poor D.D. was bored out of her mind after that, and I have to admit that the thousands of paintings (even the 30-foot-high ones) kind of became a blur of colored oil after a while. L.H. dutifully looked at most of the paintings, but D.D. would find the nearest bench and flop down until we were ready to go to the next room. Then L.H. would sing a little piece from the Disney "Alice in Wonderland" to get us moving: "Clean cups, move down..."

We saw the Mona Lisa and the Venus de Milo, but we missed the Egyptian section. We saw David's painting of Napoleon crowning Josephine empress, but not the medieval moat that originally surrounded the Louvre when it was a fortress. I think it would take a week just to physically walk past everything, and months to read all the labels (if we could read French; there are no multi-lingual signs on the displays in the Louvre, for future reference).

Afterwards we walked the length of the gardens, which are still being renovated, I understand, until we came out on the Champs Elysees. We walked all the way up to the Arc d'Triomphe, which is a goodly way, but it was blocked off from visitors. We're not exactly certain, but we think it was related to the next day being the anniversary of the end of WW2 in France. There was supposed to be something there on the 8th (we were there on the 7th). Anyhow, we still got to see it from fairly close, but we were all too tired and cranky by then to be properly appreciative. Thank goodness the Metro station was right there.

Yes, we managed to use the Metro and not die. Please, hold your applause. The train was no problem; finding the correct platform was the problem. After asking at the information desk (and getting half-squashed in the ticket barrier—I'm alright!), we followed the signs until we reached some tracks. And of course it wasn't the right set. How silly of us not to realize that we had to follow the platform until we were behind the original escalator we took downstairs, then take another escalator *back upstairs.* We came out in a totally different area, don't ask me how. I suspect there was some kind of time-and-space-warp into another dimension, but we made it to the Place d'Italie, so who cares how we got there.

***

Each evening, L.H. would whisper, "Hey, Baby... we're in the City of Love..." To which I would respond, "And I'm the mayor of Tiredville. Sorry, Babe." Walking around for like 12 hours is only conducive to instantly falling asleep as soon as you lie down.

The Madness of my Darling Daughter

D.D. and I had been to the grocery store, and she was telling me about the limited set of veggies that she considered ok to eat: raw carrots, frozen peas, salad with dressing, green beans, and cucumbers. But definitely NOT asparagus. (Asparagus season has just started, a big deal around here.) I reminded her that as a baby she used to eat canned asparagus. She answered that she didn't have any teeth back then and had to eat mushy food. Oh, and she was insane. I guess that explains it.

***

The neighbor's yard is looking less like a beautiful meadow and more like an abandoned lot. It just needs a few discarded cars or large appliances, and the transformation will be complete. It has been raining or overcast off and on since...forever, and the homeowners who didn't get around to mowing on one of the clearer days are now having to wade through their lawns to get to the front door. Make that a "pro" of living in an apartment.

***

D.D. is counting down the days until Star Wars comes out (tomorrow, right?). She had told her friends at school that we were going to take them all to Star Wars for her birthday, but she neglected to verify with us first, so too bad, so sad. It's not really a birthday-party kind of movie. We're taking her to see it on the day of her birthday, but we'll have an actual party the week after.

She got a tiny, plastic light saber out of her cereal box, and it has been a dual-purpose weapon and lipstick. We have a little game going, where she pretends to apply lipstick to me, and I pretend to have my lips sliced off. It's always fun and games around here.

Paris--Day 2: Let the Tourism Begin!

On Friday, L.H.'s friend took us to Notre Dame cathedral. On the way, we saw a medieval museum in a "townhouse" that had once belonged to the monastery at Cluny, the church of Saint Severin, the Shakespeare and Co. bookstore, and the Sorbonne (the original building of the University of Paris plus an old student quarter). It was a bit chilly and damp, but I have finally figured out how to pack for traveling in Europe: one warm-weather outfit plus one cold-weather outfit per day, worn in layers in case it warms up.

Notre Dame was huge and beautiful. D.D. took a crying fit; she claimed it was the male chorus that was singing in the background, but I could understand if it was just the size of the place that got to her. Also, there were hundreds of people strolling through it, so in all, it was an overwhelming experience. But after we sat and talked quietly for a few minutes, she calmed down and we made our way around to where L.H. was checking things out. The line for the tower tour was a block long, so we didn't go.

Then we walked around the rest of that island. (There are 2 islands in the middle of the Seine, and therefore in the center of Paris, that were the original settlement of Paris.) The Sainte Chapelle is on the other end, and although it is smaller than the Notre Dame, it is more opulent. It was a private chapel for the king, dedicated to the Crusaders.

We eventually made it to the Eiffel Tower at the end of the day. It is much bigger than I had imagined from just seeing it in photos. There are *2* elevators *each leg*, plus a set of stairs. An hour-long line stretches from one leg to another along one side of the base. We had dinner plans with L.H.'s friend, so we weren't able to go up, but we wandered around the gardens. Paris definitely *is* the city of love, going by the number of couples we saw mugging on every occupied park bench or stretch of grass. But the final straw was when D.D. noticed that a tree at the Eiffel Tower was covered with initials that had been carved into it. Fuckin' lovers.

There are lots of snack stands catering to tourists, and every single one of them carries cotton candy. Now I understand the character in the children's book Barbapapa. Barbe a papa is cotton candy in French.

This is a photo I took from the Louvre guide book. We didn't take many photos inside the Louvre.
(Giotto di Bondone, c. 1300: Saint Francis of Assisi Receiving the Stigmata)

Note the interesting use of lines to indicate Jesus beaming stigmata down to St. Francis. Unfortunately, a similar, and much more interesting, painting didn't make it into the guide book, but imagine if you will: Aphrodite hovering over 6 "lovers from history" (Lancelot, Paris of Troy, Troilus, etc.) and shooting identical beams *from her crotch*. The painting was called something like "Aphrodite Conquers the Fabled Lovers."
 

Rage in the Classroom, etc.

I have to pick a different seat in class next time. The guys sitting across the table—one from Africa and one from China (who likes to be called "Rock")—are totally nice and polite and not socially retarded. The same cannot be said of the girl next to me. You might remember me mentioning her before: the Luna Lovegood spaz-alike.

The poor thing is quite hirsute, but that doesn't really excuse the wide array of annoying behaviors (or the "Happy Kiddies" technicolor pencil case). Imagine a painter who imagines himself a performance artist: he makes bold, dramatic strokes on the canvas, dancing back occasionally to see the result. Not imagine that it's a hairy woman with a pen. It's quite distracting.

Leaning over me and staring at my notes instead of reading the overhead is also distracting. And asking what we're supposed to do every time we get a worksheet—3 times per class. Get a hearing aid, damnit! And acting like a game show contestant when we discuss the worksheet all together with the instructor: 3! 3! 3! And wiggling in her seat like she has ants in her pants. And *taking off her shoes and putting her SWEATY, pantyhose-clad feet on an empty chair*. And how does one even make paper squeak by rubbing one's fingernail across it?!

***

There's a guy in one of my classes who seems to be going for the young George Michael look. I wondering which gender he is trying to attract. Hee!

***

My skin is so dry today, I could strip the paint off wooden furniture with my bare hands. I could scratch my class notes onto my arm and still read them this evening. I could wipe my hand across Tammy Fay Baker's face and remove her makeup down to the skin. I look like some kind of desert lizard, which is something considering that the only place wetter than here is in the Amazon (it is raining buckets as I write).

***

I personally feel that if you are extremely pigeon-toed, wearing boots with 3-inch heels and long, pointy toes is not going to improve your chances of not tripping and falling. Just an observation from the bus stop.

***

D.D. was in such a fantastic mood when I picked her up one afternoon this week that she wondered if I had put super-happy potion in her milk at breakfast. I reminded her she didn't have milk, but maybe there was something in her chocolate milk at school.

***

I'm not exactly a professional decorator myself, but I wish shop owners would make a little more effort with their window displays. The bakery in the village where D.D. takes ballet has some dolls in the window, and nothing makes me want to buy bread more than seeing Chucky with a baker's hat and a rolling pin.

***

D.D. and I have been noticing enormous ravens big enough to carry off a cat or possibly an unattended baby. Between them and the giant snails, I'm becoming concerned about the water supply around here. There's also a nuclear power plant somewhere nearby...

Life Goes On

I'm still working on my Paris write-up, but there's so much to say! So here are some tidbits from real life since we got back:

I had to run some errands in town, and I passed through my favorite section of the main pedestrian/shopping street. I like to think of it as the Thoroughfare of Deliciosity; 3 bakeries, a butcher specializing in smoked sausages, and a coffee and tea shop are all cuddled up together, so there's a series of good smells as you walk past. mmm... sausage and coffee and bread... mmmm.

I strolled though a department store on the way to my bus, but their wares weren't any better than what I had just bought, so I didn't bother to stop. But I noticed that right in the middle of a big area that is being remodeled, they had left one little display carousel—of hairnets. I wonder if they have such a hard-core clientele of hair-net shoppers that they didn't want to piss them off by moving their wares to another section with the rest of the hair-care products.

D.D. announced on the way home from school one day that she wanted to be a gardener when she grows up, "instead of a ballerina or that other stuff" (dance teacher, police officer, archaeologist). I hope she has a better knack for it than I do. My tiny seedling (indoors) had croaked when we got back from the trip, and so had most of the flowers D.D. and her friend had sown on the balcony. But my beloved ivy and xmas cactus were still going strong. They probably looked down their shoots at those puny seedlings.

D.D. stopped to look at something on the ground and declared that she thought it was a "roly-poly-oly", without a trace of silliness. I think Disney has messed up her vocabulary.

Postscript to Paris—Day 1

Advice for
Driving in France:
Be prepared to pay several tolls as you drive across the country. From the border to Paris, I think we stopped 6 times for a total of 24 euros. That's about the cost of a half a tank of gas. Eek!

Driving in Paris:
There is a disturbing lack of lines on the streets. And the few lines seem to be more of a suggestion than a law, judging by the behavior of the other drivers. Ditto crosswalk signs for pedestrians, who seem to have a militant disregard for personal safety. I'm pretty sure most of the jaywalkers were Parisians, not tourists, going by the absence of maps and cameras and the presence of a purposeful stride. Also, our hotel wasn't in a touristy area.

Germans are pretty conscientious sign-obeyers, so the difference in mentality in Paris was quite obvious.

Paris—Day 1: The Trip

We haven't done much highway driving since we got the car, just short jaunts around town or to neighboring towns that are not connected by highways (think of Elgin to Taylor, Texas, as opposed to Austin to Elgin), so driving across a large part of France made us use skills that had gotten a bit rusty. But we made it in spite of our map- and sign-reading deficiencies. And we managed to keep ourselves entertained in the process.

Our first source of amusement was a road sign while we were still in Germany: Danger! Accidents Possible! That's about as useful and specific as the US Homeland Security's "Orange Advisory." [It actually refers to a dangerously short on-ramp. The sign.]

Then when we got to France, we saw lots of white cows out in the fields, all lying down. The first standing cows we saw were black, so L.H. quipped that they must be German cows. We speculated on whether they were imported to be the worker cows, or just to be a positive influence on the white French cows. Then I wondered if perhaps the French cows were subverting the German ones, because we saw a couple of black ones lying down. Car games with nee and L.H.

More pervasive than cows, though, were the fields upon fields of rapeseed (1). I mean, the stuff was *everywhere*, so it must be a major crop. As a matter of fact, we saw a (German) tour bus that claimed it ran on pure canola oil. Neat! We didn't take a photo ourselves, but you can see the beauty for yourselves here. I happened to recognize it because I had seen it while driving through southern Sweden with L.H.'s friends acting as our tour guides.

(1) Rapeseed is the source of canola oil (see the debunking at the bottom of the linked page), but Americans don't want to see the word "rape" on their kitchen staples, as in "rapeseed oil", so it got a new name.

You know how American highways have mile markers but only sporadically, plus exit numbers? Well, in France, *every 100 meters* is marked with a sign. So at the end of the length of a football field, there's a number: 366.9, 366.8, 366.7.... I'm just anal enough that I would catch myself keeping track of them, which meant it was time to distract myself with futile reading assignments for school and Crazy Eights with D.D.

If you ever go to France, DO NOT EVER order andouillette in a restaurant. You will receive tripe sausage, also known as chitterlings sausage, as L.H. discovered to his eternal horror. After a quick search online, I see that it is often referred to as "sausage bursting with offal." L.H. said it smelled like the outside of the pig from which it originally came.

After the mystery lunch, we passed a bizarre series of ... installation art? on the highway for maybe 20 km—disks, spheres, pyramids, cubes, flat squares, a single pole, flat triangles, and cubes on one point, all in rainbow-hued pastels. They were just lying on the ground next to the road. After 10km, I was all, "Ok! It's geometry AND art—we get it!"

Some of you may be tempted to smite me for blasphemy, but there was a stretch or two between Reims and Paris that reminded me of Texas scenery, maybe between Austin and Waco. The part of Germany we're in tends to be hilly and forested, so it was a nice change.

We managed to drive into central Paris, find our hotel, and put the car in a garage without a hitch. D.D. was happy that she got her own bed and that there was a tv, but she didn't know what to make of the bidet. L.H. mused that it was the perfect size for a Barbie pool, but D.D. was disgusted by the suggestion. And we had no Barbies on hand with which to try it out. Suffice it to say that the bidet went unused while we were there.

Then we paid a visit to L.H.'s friend from Sweden who is living in Paris temporarily to help take care of her baby granddaughter. She and her daughter took us on a walking tour of their neighborhood (at the Place d'Italie) and pointed out some good places to eat. D.D. found a feather on the ground while we were out. When a pigeon crossed her path, she held out the feather and said, "Hey, Pidge! Looking for this?" all smart-alecky. Hee!

After a quick Chinese dinner, we went back to the hotel and geared up for Day 2: Let the Tourism Begin!

Electronic Prozac

I've been in a bad mood, but having a bit of a rant off-screen and reading about Sars' version of a bad mood made feel better.

So I will now troop upstairs and cobble together my notes from the Paris trip into a real post for tomorrow.

The Air Up Here

Even more than low-rise pants and stairs, Germans love fresh air. On May 1 they all troop out into the woods for "wandering" and grill parties and fresh air. I think it may be a national sport.

The valley where we live was once an "air spa." I'm not sure if that's a nice way of saying "sanitarium," but even today, the locals praise the air quality and compare it to that of the neighboring villages.

There's no AC, so it's understandable that people open the windows when it's warm out, or when it's cool but clear. But even in the dead of winter people will have their windows flung open, especially first thing in the morning. Don't you know the 3 required parts of the morning ablutions: shit, shower, and hypothermia? I can't imaging that the house gets so funked up every single day that it is necessary to thoroughly air it out. Maybe my neighbors are just smelly.

But I remember my mom commenting on the old German ladies tut-tutting that she didn't air out her bedding every morning. You still see feather bolsters hanging out of upper windows in the mornings. Weird.

Well, we are off to Paris in the morning and won't be back until Sunday evening. Check back in around Tuesday for an update on our globe-trotting adventures. And Happy Mother's Day, in case I miss making all my calls Sunday evening.

Defeat of the Mystery Puff (edited for your pleasure)

Remember the pollenous puff I mentioned before? Well, I'm starting to think it might actually be an alien life form. When this occurred to me, I had the mental image of a cheesy old sci-fi magazine cover, with a blond woman holding her hands up to her face, "No-o-o! Not the Puuuuuffff!"

I had noticed that clusters of puff were collecting here and there around the house, thanks to the recent spate of warm weather and resultant window-opening. So I hauled out the vacuum cleaner to get rid of them, and it turns out that there were many more than I had suspected. I even found them hiding behind the vanity in the bathroom. They were definitely trying to get entrenched; I could tell.

And I suspect they were bringing in reinforcements. I have found more spiders and giant fuzzy beetles and spindly-legged ?dragonflies? in the house, wandering around innocently. But I see right through them.

The puffs are trying to set up a colony. Their strategy is simple but brilliant: puffs and bugs waft in through the open windows, looking like innocuous bits of pollen, but then they start joining together in bigger and bigger puffs, until I am unable to dislodge them with anything short of full wattage on the vacuum. And it is against our religion to squash bugs, so if we can't scoop them out the window, they get to stay.

I think I got to the puffs just in time, though. There were enough of them around that I'm afraid they were on the verge of applying for statehood, or at least petitioning for civil rights.

But I can tell that the battle is not over, at least until the trees stop blooming. One day it will get murderously hot, and we'll cave and open the windows (only .1% of German houses have AC). That'll be their big chance to regroup and try another assault. But I vow to remain vigilant, of that you can be sure.

[I'll let you know if anyone is interested in the movie rights. George Lucas, I'm looking at you.]

For You

We have had just the most glorious, uh, 3 days (I started this over the weekend, oops!). It's been clear, warm, and sunny, my favorite type of weather. Even I—sun-shunner that I am—have gone out to catch a few rays, until I noticed some red blotches on my arms. With the feeling I was watching skin-cancer in progress, I quit the balcony for the less carcinogenic (except for the fine dust) living room.

Now that the sun's come out properly, I can see that the neighbors' yards are taking on prarie-like proportions with the deep grass and wildflowers. Remember the opening credits to "Little House on the Prarie", where the individual Ingalls-es are running down a slope? Put a white, 4-story house at the top of the slop, and an apple tree halfway down, and that's what I see out the front window.

We're way past "the days are getting noticeably longer," but it came as kind of a surprise since it's been so overcast lately. Dinnertime tends to sneak up on you when it's still full sunlight outside until after 7 p.m. I mean, the sun is not even casting shadows yet. Even the street lights don't come on until after 8:30. It would be even worse if we didn't live down in a valley; when the sun goes over the rim, we get evening, but the people living out in the plains are probably already getting zombified by the late light.

Even half a week after the last rain, we can hear the water rushing through the stream that flows under our street. The city had to do something with the water to keep it from washing away their nifty roads, I guess, so several streams spend part of their course underground. It makes an interesting white noise at night. I don't generally require white noise to sleep, but I have to admit it's soothing.

Darling Daughter did a fantastic job of cleaning her room over the weekend, so I got her a Barbie magazine as a little bribe for continued good behavior. Or reward, it's all the same. There are a ton of magazines for little girls—Barbie, Disney Princess, some other princesses, and about 80 pony magazines. D.D. got one last week that has 14- or 15-year-old girls in it who like ponies, and who like boys, and who have problems with their ponies and boys. This magazine has everything an almost 8-year-old could want!

Speaking of Barbie, D.D. was playing on their (her?) website, a charming little game called "Room Makeover." You get to pick from an astounding array of crap to decorate your virtual bedroom, and one of the Barbie friends pops in at the end to congratulate you on your fantastic talents. I thought my eyes would bleed at the sight of the psychedelic nightmare that adorned the computer screen. For one thing, I don't know how anyone could *sleep* in such a room. I for one would certainly develop some kind of psychiatric disorder.

L.H. and I are generally anti-knick-knacks. Horizontal space has a disturbing tendency to get stuff piled on it around here, so the fewer things we have to dig out of the mess, the better. L.H. is more mess-averse than I am (as evinced by the current state of my side of our room), but I do my fair share of picking up. But ceramic doodads and posters are not my idea of decorating. I guess I lean in the Nordic decorating direction (woo! hoo! IKEA!).

D.D. has become a prescriptive princess. She declared that "luv" looks dumb (as seen in an "email" on the Barbie site). She had noticed it once before in a book we were reading, and now it's firmly entrenched in her mind. Her dad will be so proud.