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.
Wednesday, May 04, 2005
Tuesday, May 03, 2005
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.]
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.]
Monday, May 02, 2005
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.
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.
Friday, April 29, 2005
I Need a Title Generator
If some girls that are not my daughter want to wear low-rise jeans, I say more power to them. But is it too much to ask that they at least buy said jeans in their own size? There's no added sex appeal in sporting a bulge of tortured flesh that has escaped the dungeon of denim. If you're showing most everything anyway, why pretend your ass is smaller than it actually is?
The weather is so unpredictable these days that half of the girls on the bus were wearing sweaters, and the other half tank-tops. It tried to rain this morning when I took D.D. to school, but this afternoon people were out sunning on the river meadows, getting a long-overdue dose of vitamin D. [Corrected thanks to L.H. So I don't know vitamins.] The ice cream stands were doing a booming business when I walked through town earlier.
The daffodils have started dying off, but the dandelions are well on their way to being ripe. As a matter of fact, fluffy bits are floating through the window and collecting in threatening balls under the desk even as I type. (L.H. just pointed out that they are probably not from dandelions, more likely from trees. Spoil sport.) D.D. scans the sidewalk to and from school for "puffs." Some of the neighbors have really glorious gardens coming up; I told D.D. that since we live in an apartment, we can enjoy their gardens as we walk to school, and we don't have to pull weeds or pay for all the seedlings.
Speaking of which, one of the seeds I planted has sprouted! Go me! I have no idea what it is, since I just threw all the saved seeds in the pot, but I guess we'll see eventually.
Today I sat next to a highly annoying person in my textbook analysis class, a mistake I will try not to repeat. Granted, our instructor is a funny lady, but laughing like Luna Lovegood at every little witticism is not the way to make friends in class.
In case you weren't aware, grammatical gender will be the death of me. German nouns are masculine, feminine, or neuter, and there's very little rhyme or reason to it. Why is milk feminine but coffee masculine? I. Don't. Know. I'm not even positive I just got that right. I try and try to learn it, but it *does not stick.*
While chopping up the veggies for dinner just now, I noticed the labels on the packages. After checking them all, here is the international vegetable stir-fry we are having:
onions from Poland
garlic from Argentina
green beans from Egypt
mushrooms from Holland
cherry tomatoes from Italy
and oranges from Morocco on the fruit dish.
But pork and spaetzle from Germany, of course.
And for your reading pleasure, here are my results for the quiz, What Kind of American English Do You Speak:
The weather is so unpredictable these days that half of the girls on the bus were wearing sweaters, and the other half tank-tops. It tried to rain this morning when I took D.D. to school, but this afternoon people were out sunning on the river meadows, getting a long-overdue dose of vitamin D. [Corrected thanks to L.H. So I don't know vitamins.] The ice cream stands were doing a booming business when I walked through town earlier.
The daffodils have started dying off, but the dandelions are well on their way to being ripe. As a matter of fact, fluffy bits are floating through the window and collecting in threatening balls under the desk even as I type. (L.H. just pointed out that they are probably not from dandelions, more likely from trees. Spoil sport.) D.D. scans the sidewalk to and from school for "puffs." Some of the neighbors have really glorious gardens coming up; I told D.D. that since we live in an apartment, we can enjoy their gardens as we walk to school, and we don't have to pull weeds or pay for all the seedlings.
Speaking of which, one of the seeds I planted has sprouted! Go me! I have no idea what it is, since I just threw all the saved seeds in the pot, but I guess we'll see eventually.
Today I sat next to a highly annoying person in my textbook analysis class, a mistake I will try not to repeat. Granted, our instructor is a funny lady, but laughing like Luna Lovegood at every little witticism is not the way to make friends in class.
In case you weren't aware, grammatical gender will be the death of me. German nouns are masculine, feminine, or neuter, and there's very little rhyme or reason to it. Why is milk feminine but coffee masculine? I. Don't. Know. I'm not even positive I just got that right. I try and try to learn it, but it *does not stick.*
While chopping up the veggies for dinner just now, I noticed the labels on the packages. After checking them all, here is the international vegetable stir-fry we are having:
onions from Poland
garlic from Argentina
green beans from Egypt
mushrooms from Holland
cherry tomatoes from Italy
and oranges from Morocco on the fruit dish.
But pork and spaetzle from Germany, of course.
And for your reading pleasure, here are my results for the quiz, What Kind of American English Do You Speak:
Your Linguistic Profile: |
70% General American English |
25% Dixie |
5% Yankee |
0% Midwestern |
0% Upper Midwestern |
Thursday, April 28, 2005
Bits and Pieces
D.D. is well on her way to mastering the fine art of hyperbole. On the way home from school yesterday: "This backpack is snapping my spine! It's killing me! Look—I think it has a tiny knife, or a gun, or maybe some dynamite!"
Then this morning: "My finger is killing me! I'm dying! I don't think I can go to school!" My response: "If you die from a paper cut, you don't have to go to school. Now get up!"
The rain clouds have finally moved off, but it was nippy enough this morning that I made D.D. wear a sweater and gloves. Of course, it turned warm in the afternoon (but still no rain! Yah!), so she had to drag home a pile of clothes, but she'll survive.
You know how once you've thought of something, you can't *not* think of it? My problem is CO2. Normally, I don't give other people's breathing a thought, but once in a while, like on the bus, it will occur to me that I'm breathing in the exhalations of my fellow passengers. I haven't quite given myself a complex about it, but I might end up hyperventilating from the shallow breathing while on the bus, then deep lung-cleansing breathing when off the bus. (Typing this, I realize I sound like a freak, but everyone needs one hang-up, right? Hello?)
I like various types of sewing and crafts, but I try not to step over the line into sewing little clothes for the cats, or crocheting wall hangings with plastic baby faces. But apparently the people at the sewing machine shop next-door to my favorite bakery have no such self-restraint. It was gone from the window today, but last week they had used their power for good (embroidery machine) for evil (pot-plant cozy).
I know it can't be easy keeping an elementary school clean, especially when it has rained for 2 solid weeks. And I see the cleaning lady sweeping and mopping every afternoon when I go to pick up D.D., so I know it's being cleaned. But the smells! Normally it smells like sweaty puppies (small wonder), but yesterday eau de cat box wafted through the halls. I'm worried that D.D.'s sense of smell will be permanently damaged by the constant exposure.
Since the new Pope is German, there's been something about him in the paper every day since his election. The latest: The 78-year-old Pope is in good shape! He takes the stairs instead of the elevator! I mean, come on, people. He's German. I think they are constitutionally incapable of using elevators. 112-year-old ladies climb the stairs here. People with crutches climb the stairs here. Open a building with fewer than 8 floors and include an elevator, and people will think you've lost your mind.
L.H. has attracted his own stalker. Well, a really annoying, needy, 42-year-old (male) student who can't take a hint, such as L.H. putting on his coat, picking up his bag, saying "I have to leave", and turning off the light. True story. I had to be in L.H.'s building today to use the library, and I came across him and Stalky in the hall, and he refused to make eye contact with me in case Stalky decided to attach himself to me instead.
We are really going to Paris the end of next week (there's a state holiday—Christ Ascension, I think). I know that it didn't work out last time, but this time we have hotel reservations (confirmed yesterday), a car, a map, a guide book, and a phrase book on CD. So we're halfway there! Only, D.D. doesn't want to go, because she's heard the French eat snails. I hope she doesn't burst into tears whenever we pass a butcher's shop or a restaurant.
Then this morning: "My finger is killing me! I'm dying! I don't think I can go to school!" My response: "If you die from a paper cut, you don't have to go to school. Now get up!"
The rain clouds have finally moved off, but it was nippy enough this morning that I made D.D. wear a sweater and gloves. Of course, it turned warm in the afternoon (but still no rain! Yah!), so she had to drag home a pile of clothes, but she'll survive.
You know how once you've thought of something, you can't *not* think of it? My problem is CO2. Normally, I don't give other people's breathing a thought, but once in a while, like on the bus, it will occur to me that I'm breathing in the exhalations of my fellow passengers. I haven't quite given myself a complex about it, but I might end up hyperventilating from the shallow breathing while on the bus, then deep lung-cleansing breathing when off the bus. (Typing this, I realize I sound like a freak, but everyone needs one hang-up, right? Hello?)
I like various types of sewing and crafts, but I try not to step over the line into sewing little clothes for the cats, or crocheting wall hangings with plastic baby faces. But apparently the people at the sewing machine shop next-door to my favorite bakery have no such self-restraint. It was gone from the window today, but last week they had used their power for good (embroidery machine) for evil (pot-plant cozy).
I know it can't be easy keeping an elementary school clean, especially when it has rained for 2 solid weeks. And I see the cleaning lady sweeping and mopping every afternoon when I go to pick up D.D., so I know it's being cleaned. But the smells! Normally it smells like sweaty puppies (small wonder), but yesterday eau de cat box wafted through the halls. I'm worried that D.D.'s sense of smell will be permanently damaged by the constant exposure.
Since the new Pope is German, there's been something about him in the paper every day since his election. The latest: The 78-year-old Pope is in good shape! He takes the stairs instead of the elevator! I mean, come on, people. He's German. I think they are constitutionally incapable of using elevators. 112-year-old ladies climb the stairs here. People with crutches climb the stairs here. Open a building with fewer than 8 floors and include an elevator, and people will think you've lost your mind.
L.H. has attracted his own stalker. Well, a really annoying, needy, 42-year-old (male) student who can't take a hint, such as L.H. putting on his coat, picking up his bag, saying "I have to leave", and turning off the light. True story. I had to be in L.H.'s building today to use the library, and I came across him and Stalky in the hall, and he refused to make eye contact with me in case Stalky decided to attach himself to me instead.
We are really going to Paris the end of next week (there's a state holiday—Christ Ascension, I think). I know that it didn't work out last time, but this time we have hotel reservations (confirmed yesterday), a car, a map, a guide book, and a phrase book on CD. So we're halfway there! Only, D.D. doesn't want to go, because she's heard the French eat snails. I hope she doesn't burst into tears whenever we pass a butcher's shop or a restaurant.
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
What's Up With Us
I decided after L.H. got home from California that 5 days of being a single parent was plenty, thanks. I don't ever want to do that full-time. L.H. is therefore not allowed to die on me. No sudden heart attacks. No fatal bike accidents. No acute food poisoning.
D.D.'s class has been studying invertebrates, so they've covered the snail and the worm. The teacher even brought specimens to class for them to touch and watch. Considering how wet it's been, you can't walk 5 feet without coming across one or the other, so I'm sure collecting them was not a difficult feat. Then last night, the popular science program we watch (Galileo) covered the type of snails that we have around here. D.D. was all into it until she realized that we were watching escargot farmers in action, and that the snails were being raised to be eaten. That's when the tv went off and the tears came on. Then when she spotted a couple of snails on the way to school this morning, there were more tears. So she has a soft-spot for slimy, disgusting gastropods.
I am thinking about starting a hidden-camera anthropology project on the bus. First, I can have the old people that have to shake hands with every person they know on the bus, even if there are 20 of them. Then I can have drunky hair guy, who seems to think that grooming and flinging his long hair repeatedly, while head-banging to his portable cd player and sipping on a bottle of beer hidden in the pocket of his leather jacket, is attractive. Finally, I can cover the range of adolescent thoughtlessness: backing into other passengers with a 20-pound backback, hogging up a seat with a backpack so that others have to stand (and why don't the others call him on it), listening to music so loudly that even with earphones the passengers 2 rows up can hear nothing else. If you can't tell, the glamor of the bus is gone.
The weather is so shitty that I'm not even going to bother bitching about it. It would be like a -2 on the scale (except I can't remember which way the scale goes, so take my word that -2 is not good).
D.D.'s class has been studying invertebrates, so they've covered the snail and the worm. The teacher even brought specimens to class for them to touch and watch. Considering how wet it's been, you can't walk 5 feet without coming across one or the other, so I'm sure collecting them was not a difficult feat. Then last night, the popular science program we watch (Galileo) covered the type of snails that we have around here. D.D. was all into it until she realized that we were watching escargot farmers in action, and that the snails were being raised to be eaten. That's when the tv went off and the tears came on. Then when she spotted a couple of snails on the way to school this morning, there were more tears. So she has a soft-spot for slimy, disgusting gastropods.
I am thinking about starting a hidden-camera anthropology project on the bus. First, I can have the old people that have to shake hands with every person they know on the bus, even if there are 20 of them. Then I can have drunky hair guy, who seems to think that grooming and flinging his long hair repeatedly, while head-banging to his portable cd player and sipping on a bottle of beer hidden in the pocket of his leather jacket, is attractive. Finally, I can cover the range of adolescent thoughtlessness: backing into other passengers with a 20-pound backback, hogging up a seat with a backpack so that others have to stand (and why don't the others call him on it), listening to music so loudly that even with earphones the passengers 2 rows up can hear nothing else. If you can't tell, the glamor of the bus is gone.
The weather is so shitty that I'm not even going to bother bitching about it. It would be like a -2 on the scale (except I can't remember which way the scale goes, so take my word that -2 is not good).
Composed April 24
If April showers bring May flowers, I hope they can swim. We have had rain, rain, and more rain. Funnily enough (but not in the ha-ha sense), we've noticed that it'll rain all day when we want to or have to get out and about, then clear up around sunset, when it's too late for most errands or outings anyway. Bleh!
After the rain, the thing I am most sick of seeing is Anastacia's ass. There's a kiosk across the street with posters for "cultural events" (in the widest possible sense), and every time I look out the kitchen window, she's giving me a come-hither look over shoulder, which is completely a wasted effort.
It's only one o'clock, but it's already been a full day: up at 5 to take Lovely Husband to the train station for leg 1 of his trip to California, got Darling Daughter to school by 7:45, *cleaned* the house, and went to the dentist for a filling. In the middle of the dental appointment, I noticed I wasn't keeping my tongue properly out of the way, and I had the most absurd thought: "I'm licking the dentist!" I guess it's a job hazard in that line of work, but it struck me as hilarious at the time (drug-free dentistry, thanks).
Then after the filling I got asked out. How sad is asking a total stranger *at a bus stop* to go for coffee? I couldn't even think what would be the correct response for 1. turning someone down without being insulting OR encouraging, and 2. saying it in German. I thought the whole thing was kind of funny, but L.H. was concerned when I told him about it. I think he's worried the guy will turn into a stalker, but I'm not worried about attracting stalkers until my fiction is published; then I'll have one eye behind me for literary critics.
After the rain, the thing I am most sick of seeing is Anastacia's ass. There's a kiosk across the street with posters for "cultural events" (in the widest possible sense), and every time I look out the kitchen window, she's giving me a come-hither look over shoulder, which is completely a wasted effort.
It's only one o'clock, but it's already been a full day: up at 5 to take Lovely Husband to the train station for leg 1 of his trip to California, got Darling Daughter to school by 7:45, *cleaned* the house, and went to the dentist for a filling. In the middle of the dental appointment, I noticed I wasn't keeping my tongue properly out of the way, and I had the most absurd thought: "I'm licking the dentist!" I guess it's a job hazard in that line of work, but it struck me as hilarious at the time (drug-free dentistry, thanks).
Then after the filling I got asked out. How sad is asking a total stranger *at a bus stop* to go for coffee? I couldn't even think what would be the correct response for 1. turning someone down without being insulting OR encouraging, and 2. saying it in German. I thought the whole thing was kind of funny, but L.H. was concerned when I told him about it. I think he's worried the guy will turn into a stalker, but I'm not worried about attracting stalkers until my fiction is published; then I'll have one eye behind me for literary critics.
Monday, April 18, 2005
Temporary Absence
Lovely Husband is leaving for California at an ungodly hour Wednesday morning (I get to drive him to the train station), and he's taking the laptop with him. It's the end of the first week of school, and I'm already behind in a couple of classes, so I'm not going to even make the effort to seek out a different Internet source while he's away. Maybe I'll be caught up when he gets back Monday.
See you then.
See you then.
Friday, April 15, 2005
I'm Not Dead Yet
With university classes just starting back up, the whole family is having to get used to a new schedule. But not really, because Lovely Husband's department postponed their classes for a week to do testing. Then he'll be in CA the end of next week, so it'll be 2 weeks before the family schedule gets chugging along. So every 5 minutes I'm checking my Palm to make sure I'm on top of it all. It wouldn't pay to forget, say, Darling Daughter at school.
Before the crush of homework and reading assignments got too onerous, I got the chance to accompany a friend to the opera. Actually, she had invited L.H., but 1. he felt weird going alone with another woman, and 2. he couldn't afford the time now that he's in presentation preparation mode. (He should have known that #1 wouldn't bother me because she's a friend to both of us, and I'm cuter than her; but I was very proud of him for #2.) So he suggested me instead since I'm a fan of Lohengrin. This is an almost *5-hour opera*, people. I love it enough that I didn't fall asleep, unlike some people in the audience, but I kept having the insane urge to yell loudly, just to see if I could be heard over the singers. Do you know the imp of the perverse? He lives in my head.
I thought that the staging of the opera was a little strange—lots of slanted floors and walls, and modern clothes mixed with medieval-esque—but the one part I really didn't get was the presence of 20-30 flags being waved almost continuously by the chorus. Ok, so they're the citizens of Brabant, and they support the king, blah, blah, blah, but it's basically a love story, so I didn't get it. Instead, I wondered if the director had attended a seminar on flag-waving and thought, "That's perfect for our new production!" Or maybe that was a big sale on flags in Mannheim. *I don't know.*
***
Do you ever catch yourself falling back into a childhood behavior you had forgotten about? I don't chew my nails anymore, though a snagged nail will get bitten off until I can get to an emery board. But thanks to my new interest in freakish, giant snails, I catch myself spending way too much time scanning the ground as I walk. When I was a kid, I got really frizzle-fried at the lake (a few times), so often I didn't even bother getting in the water. I'd walk around the picnic tables there at the state park looking for winning soda-can tabs. Now that bottles with twist-off lids and cans with pop-tops have replaced the old tabbed cans, you just don't see little dangerous slivers of aluminum lying around like you used to.
I am now up to 4 intact and 1 partial snail shell for my collection. D.D. wanted to make a necklace out of them (gross!), but I plan to make a diorama—attack of the zombie snails! I haven't decided what materials to use yet, but I will keep you posted on my progress.
***
My Darling Daughter is usually a very laid back child, but certain things will set her off, like a callous disregard for nature. She has a lovely book of children's stories from all over the world (thanks, Gwamma!); the Swiss story is about how the mayor of some town decides everyone would be more productive and the town more famous if the citizens weren't distracted by beautiful nature. So the plants and flowers are locked up behind a brick wall topped with barbed wire, and the butterflies are pinned in boxes. D.D. won't even read the story anymore. She cries just thinking about the poor butterflies.
Our landlord's penchant for hunting also brings her to tears. (1) "What did those poor deer ever do to him?" is her anguished cry. Thank goodness he moved his collection of stuffed animals (and I don't mean teddy bears) from the window and walls of his shop on the ground floor of our building. D.D. never enjoyed walking past a happy little dead woodchuck and ducks. I hope she doesn't notice his business's display of plumbing fixtures and taxidermy outside her dentist's office when she goes for a cleaning in 2 weeks.
(1) I thought I had posted about our apartment decor, but couldn't find it to link to. On the outside of our building is a mural with Saint Humberto and a stag (who was Jesus in disguise). SH is the patron saint of hunters. In our apartment, we have the lovely light fixture over the dining room table made of *antlers*, then the hand-made chairs with wild animals carved into their backs, and finally the tile oven with decorative tiles of, you guessed it, wild animals. So our home is a daily reminder to D.D. of the landlord's hobby.
L.H. told me that when he and D.D. were walking to school one day, she pointed out a tiny sapling trying to grow in a crack in the sidewalk. He made some offhand comment that it didn't look like the best place for a tree to grow, and she jumped to defend it: "How would you like to be a little tree trying to grow and have someone make fun of you?!" What the--? D.D. should join the Sierra Club, or possibly the more militant Greenpeace. I can see her in the future, strapped to the mast of a whaling ship, her self-designed "Don't Mess With Nature" tatoo glistening in the sun...
***
I !hate! people who stand in the middle of the sidewalk or doorway. (2) We live in an old, narrow town, and there is just not room to stop and gawk without forcing other people to walk in the street. And the university library is *1 door*. It's not even a double door. I can't tell you how many times I've wanted to go in, or out, and had to squeeze past a cluster of dummies smoking or chatting or even waiting for someone with a stroller. Move along, people!
(2) L.H. says no one actually "hates" anyone else, but he is wrong. I hope there's a level of hell where path-blockers have to eternally navigate a crowded space—like the Vatican during the Pope's funeral, or Potsdamer Platz in Berlin when the wall came down, or a Tokyo subway car. With a large, hot coffee in each hand. Pushing a stroller with a screaming baby. With a full bladder. Now I feel better.
***
D.D. and I finished the 5th Harry Potter over her school holiday, so now we're eagerly awaiting #6 (3 months and 1 day!). It comes out on the last day of university classes for the semester, but 2 weeks before the end of D.D.'s school year, so I should be able to read it during the day while she's at school and hide it at night in my room. Then I can forewarn her of any scary stuff before/if I read it to her.
We're looking for other things to read, as she has gone through all her books, including the large stack she got for xmas (thanks, JEKL!), minus the one about cats going to heaven or something. I've tried reading Little House on the Prairie to her, but after 3 chapters she thinks it is too sad. I guess it's time for me to practice my German aloud; she may still have a couple of German books that are unread.
Before the crush of homework and reading assignments got too onerous, I got the chance to accompany a friend to the opera. Actually, she had invited L.H., but 1. he felt weird going alone with another woman, and 2. he couldn't afford the time now that he's in presentation preparation mode. (He should have known that #1 wouldn't bother me because she's a friend to both of us, and I'm cuter than her; but I was very proud of him for #2.) So he suggested me instead since I'm a fan of Lohengrin. This is an almost *5-hour opera*, people. I love it enough that I didn't fall asleep, unlike some people in the audience, but I kept having the insane urge to yell loudly, just to see if I could be heard over the singers. Do you know the imp of the perverse? He lives in my head.
I thought that the staging of the opera was a little strange—lots of slanted floors and walls, and modern clothes mixed with medieval-esque—but the one part I really didn't get was the presence of 20-30 flags being waved almost continuously by the chorus. Ok, so they're the citizens of Brabant, and they support the king, blah, blah, blah, but it's basically a love story, so I didn't get it. Instead, I wondered if the director had attended a seminar on flag-waving and thought, "That's perfect for our new production!" Or maybe that was a big sale on flags in Mannheim. *I don't know.*
***
Do you ever catch yourself falling back into a childhood behavior you had forgotten about? I don't chew my nails anymore, though a snagged nail will get bitten off until I can get to an emery board. But thanks to my new interest in freakish, giant snails, I catch myself spending way too much time scanning the ground as I walk. When I was a kid, I got really frizzle-fried at the lake (a few times), so often I didn't even bother getting in the water. I'd walk around the picnic tables there at the state park looking for winning soda-can tabs. Now that bottles with twist-off lids and cans with pop-tops have replaced the old tabbed cans, you just don't see little dangerous slivers of aluminum lying around like you used to.
I am now up to 4 intact and 1 partial snail shell for my collection. D.D. wanted to make a necklace out of them (gross!), but I plan to make a diorama—attack of the zombie snails! I haven't decided what materials to use yet, but I will keep you posted on my progress.
***
My Darling Daughter is usually a very laid back child, but certain things will set her off, like a callous disregard for nature. She has a lovely book of children's stories from all over the world (thanks, Gwamma!); the Swiss story is about how the mayor of some town decides everyone would be more productive and the town more famous if the citizens weren't distracted by beautiful nature. So the plants and flowers are locked up behind a brick wall topped with barbed wire, and the butterflies are pinned in boxes. D.D. won't even read the story anymore. She cries just thinking about the poor butterflies.
Our landlord's penchant for hunting also brings her to tears. (1) "What did those poor deer ever do to him?" is her anguished cry. Thank goodness he moved his collection of stuffed animals (and I don't mean teddy bears) from the window and walls of his shop on the ground floor of our building. D.D. never enjoyed walking past a happy little dead woodchuck and ducks. I hope she doesn't notice his business's display of plumbing fixtures and taxidermy outside her dentist's office when she goes for a cleaning in 2 weeks.
(1) I thought I had posted about our apartment decor, but couldn't find it to link to. On the outside of our building is a mural with Saint Humberto and a stag (who was Jesus in disguise). SH is the patron saint of hunters. In our apartment, we have the lovely light fixture over the dining room table made of *antlers*, then the hand-made chairs with wild animals carved into their backs, and finally the tile oven with decorative tiles of, you guessed it, wild animals. So our home is a daily reminder to D.D. of the landlord's hobby.
L.H. told me that when he and D.D. were walking to school one day, she pointed out a tiny sapling trying to grow in a crack in the sidewalk. He made some offhand comment that it didn't look like the best place for a tree to grow, and she jumped to defend it: "How would you like to be a little tree trying to grow and have someone make fun of you?!" What the--? D.D. should join the Sierra Club, or possibly the more militant Greenpeace. I can see her in the future, strapped to the mast of a whaling ship, her self-designed "Don't Mess With Nature" tatoo glistening in the sun...
***
I !hate! people who stand in the middle of the sidewalk or doorway. (2) We live in an old, narrow town, and there is just not room to stop and gawk without forcing other people to walk in the street. And the university library is *1 door*. It's not even a double door. I can't tell you how many times I've wanted to go in, or out, and had to squeeze past a cluster of dummies smoking or chatting or even waiting for someone with a stroller. Move along, people!
(2) L.H. says no one actually "hates" anyone else, but he is wrong. I hope there's a level of hell where path-blockers have to eternally navigate a crowded space—like the Vatican during the Pope's funeral, or Potsdamer Platz in Berlin when the wall came down, or a Tokyo subway car. With a large, hot coffee in each hand. Pushing a stroller with a screaming baby. With a full bladder. Now I feel better.
***
D.D. and I finished the 5th Harry Potter over her school holiday, so now we're eagerly awaiting #6 (3 months and 1 day!). It comes out on the last day of university classes for the semester, but 2 weeks before the end of D.D.'s school year, so I should be able to read it during the day while she's at school and hide it at night in my room. Then I can forewarn her of any scary stuff before/if I read it to her.
We're looking for other things to read, as she has gone through all her books, including the large stack she got for xmas (thanks, JEKL!), minus the one about cats going to heaven or something. I've tried reading Little House on the Prairie to her, but after 3 chapters she thinks it is too sad. I guess it's time for me to practice my German aloud; she may still have a couple of German books that are unread.
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
Mattel is Ruining My Life
My Darling Daughter is as prone as any other child of 7 to get all "gimme" when she sees toy commercials, but it is especially bad during the run-up to her birthday. She wants everything she sees for her birthday. And to add fuel to the fire, there are ads currently running for no fewer than *8* different Barbie products, running the range from fairies and princesses to toothless kids and "chicks." Fortunately for my sanity, the ad for the potty-training smallest Barbie has finished its run. The commercial that cracks me up, though, is one for the California Barbie and friends (remember when the bikini Barbie was the cheapest one? I doubt it still is). One of the Kens has an afro, which D.D. calls his disco-ball hair. Hee!
D.D. went back to school last week, thank the 7 dwarfs. It was getting hard to entertain her. She got a tin of kid card games at xmas, so we played Old Maid, Go Fish, Crazy Eights, and War until I was sick of shuffling. We did tend to get silly playing War: D.D. would slap down her card shrieking "Hi-Ya!" like the sound effects in a Hong Kong fighting film. War is a *verrrry long* game, so the card-slapping shouts mutated into the names of Chinese towns and foods—egg roll! Bejing! dim sum!—and finally into the first thing we saw—coffee table! Barbie jeep! Monty Python! D.D. got down to one card and was ready to quit, but it was a 9, so she managed to get all of the cards and win.
We also put together many puzzles. If you know my mom's family, you know most of us like puzzles (except for my lil sis—weirdo!). My middle sister even included a puzzle in her novel. (Oh no! I gave away an important plot point! Just pretend to be surprised when you get to the part about the assassin and the puzzle. Thanks.) But unlike the rest of the family, D.D. does not start with the border. She starts with the most salient content—the dolls in a Barbie puzzle, or a string of pearls on a make-up table (complete with adorable kitten) in another. Then she lets me fill in the boring background and border pieces. One day she'll be able to help me finish my Millenium Falcon 3-D puzzle (received as an xmas gift while she was in utero and now 2/3 complete).
The weather was cold and wet the end of last week, but yesterday it finally cleared up. It was still cool, but the sky was cloudless and the sun was shining, so it was very pleasant. D.D. and I went to the indoor pool on Sunday to give L.H. some uninterrupted work time, but it felt weird to be putting on a swim suit when it was so cold and gray outside. Today is overcast again, but not so cold as over the weekend.
I was in town yesterday, and I noticed that the high school students standing around after school were being more obnoxious than usual, playing loud music and blowing whistles. Then I noticed they were getting loaded (the drinking age for beer is 16, I believe, but most of these kids would be 19 anyway). Finally it occurred to me that their exams are right about now. I only hope yesterday was the last day. As L.H. said, it wouldn't pay to start celebrating too early. Anyhow, these aren't just end-of-semester finals, but graduation/college entrance exams, so they're very important for their futures.
Today was my first class, and it was interesting and went well. I found out that the class I was planning to take on Wednesdays was already full, and I don't feel like hanging around bugging the teacher to get in, so I'll take it next semester. I have to finish it by the end of the fourth semester, but I don't think it is a prerequisite for any of the classes I need next semester, so I'll just double up then.
For the moms: This afternoon I saw a lady with a baby strapped onto her chest trying to get three 2- or 3-year-olds to hold hands and walk with her down a path with a lot of bike traffic. The 2 little girls were patiently holding hands with each other and waiting while she tried to get the hand of the little boy. He kept throwing himself on the ground, and when she'd get ahold of his hand or wrist, he twist and turn and start whining really loud. I half-way expected him to cry out, "It burns!", the way he was acting. It made me glad, once again, that mine is big enough to threaten instead of having to manhandle her into cooperation.
I went to Toys R Us today to look for a gift to send to a birthday party tomorrow. I found what I wanted right away, but decided to take a look around since D.D.'s birthday is next month, and I might find something good. At the least, I expected to pick up a new Barbie for her. (I know, don't say it.) By the time I was done, I was ready to claw my own eyes out of my head. I think there were only 4 other shoppers in the whole store, which was weird, being in an empty toy store, so it wasn't that I was hassled or jostled or even spoken to, but just the overwhelming amount of *stuff*. The MyScene Barbie she wants is horrific-looking. I can't even begin to describe it. And the other things I had made mental notes on were either not in stock or not there. And I forgot to find something for yet another birthday party on Saturday, but I think I'll try a different store next time. Maybe they'll be better stocked.
D.D. went back to school last week, thank the 7 dwarfs. It was getting hard to entertain her. She got a tin of kid card games at xmas, so we played Old Maid, Go Fish, Crazy Eights, and War until I was sick of shuffling. We did tend to get silly playing War: D.D. would slap down her card shrieking "Hi-Ya!" like the sound effects in a Hong Kong fighting film. War is a *verrrry long* game, so the card-slapping shouts mutated into the names of Chinese towns and foods—egg roll! Bejing! dim sum!—and finally into the first thing we saw—coffee table! Barbie jeep! Monty Python! D.D. got down to one card and was ready to quit, but it was a 9, so she managed to get all of the cards and win.
We also put together many puzzles. If you know my mom's family, you know most of us like puzzles (except for my lil sis—weirdo!). My middle sister even included a puzzle in her novel. (Oh no! I gave away an important plot point! Just pretend to be surprised when you get to the part about the assassin and the puzzle. Thanks.) But unlike the rest of the family, D.D. does not start with the border. She starts with the most salient content—the dolls in a Barbie puzzle, or a string of pearls on a make-up table (complete with adorable kitten) in another. Then she lets me fill in the boring background and border pieces. One day she'll be able to help me finish my Millenium Falcon 3-D puzzle (received as an xmas gift while she was in utero and now 2/3 complete).
The weather was cold and wet the end of last week, but yesterday it finally cleared up. It was still cool, but the sky was cloudless and the sun was shining, so it was very pleasant. D.D. and I went to the indoor pool on Sunday to give L.H. some uninterrupted work time, but it felt weird to be putting on a swim suit when it was so cold and gray outside. Today is overcast again, but not so cold as over the weekend.
I was in town yesterday, and I noticed that the high school students standing around after school were being more obnoxious than usual, playing loud music and blowing whistles. Then I noticed they were getting loaded (the drinking age for beer is 16, I believe, but most of these kids would be 19 anyway). Finally it occurred to me that their exams are right about now. I only hope yesterday was the last day. As L.H. said, it wouldn't pay to start celebrating too early. Anyhow, these aren't just end-of-semester finals, but graduation/college entrance exams, so they're very important for their futures.
Today was my first class, and it was interesting and went well. I found out that the class I was planning to take on Wednesdays was already full, and I don't feel like hanging around bugging the teacher to get in, so I'll take it next semester. I have to finish it by the end of the fourth semester, but I don't think it is a prerequisite for any of the classes I need next semester, so I'll just double up then.
For the moms: This afternoon I saw a lady with a baby strapped onto her chest trying to get three 2- or 3-year-olds to hold hands and walk with her down a path with a lot of bike traffic. The 2 little girls were patiently holding hands with each other and waiting while she tried to get the hand of the little boy. He kept throwing himself on the ground, and when she'd get ahold of his hand or wrist, he twist and turn and start whining really loud. I half-way expected him to cry out, "It burns!", the way he was acting. It made me glad, once again, that mine is big enough to threaten instead of having to manhandle her into cooperation.
I went to Toys R Us today to look for a gift to send to a birthday party tomorrow. I found what I wanted right away, but decided to take a look around since D.D.'s birthday is next month, and I might find something good. At the least, I expected to pick up a new Barbie for her. (I know, don't say it.) By the time I was done, I was ready to claw my own eyes out of my head. I think there were only 4 other shoppers in the whole store, which was weird, being in an empty toy store, so it wasn't that I was hassled or jostled or even spoken to, but just the overwhelming amount of *stuff*. The MyScene Barbie she wants is horrific-looking. I can't even begin to describe it. And the other things I had made mental notes on were either not in stock or not there. And I forgot to find something for yet another birthday party on Saturday, but I think I'll try a different store next time. Maybe they'll be better stocked.
Thursday, April 07, 2005
Smurfin' Like It's 1999
D.D. watches the kid channel almost incessantly (the shame!), and they have been advertising a show for weeks: The ABCs of the Smurfs (called Schlumpfs in German). Tomorrow night, all these German celebrities are slated to come on the show and talk about their smurf memories.
That set me and L.H. off on a round of smurf-talk:
Smurf 1: Oh, no! Gargamel found our mushroom village!
Smurf 2: We're smurfed!
Smurf 1 to Smurfette over a glass of smurf-berry juice: Wanna smurf?
On viewing Crack-Addict Smurf lying in a gutter: He must have been smurfing up again.
Smurf 1, after walking in on Smurf 2 in the bathroom: I caught him smurfing!
And so on and so forth. Maybe not so funny as Mimi Smartypants, but that is a level I am still hoping to attain, someday...
That set me and L.H. off on a round of smurf-talk:
Smurf 1: Oh, no! Gargamel found our mushroom village!
Smurf 2: We're smurfed!
Smurf 1 to Smurfette over a glass of smurf-berry juice: Wanna smurf?
On viewing Crack-Addict Smurf lying in a gutter: He must have been smurfing up again.
Smurf 1, after walking in on Smurf 2 in the bathroom: I caught him smurfing!
And so on and so forth. Maybe not so funny as Mimi Smartypants, but that is a level I am still hoping to attain, someday...
Tuesday, April 05, 2005
Attack of the Invertebrates
It's cool and drizzly today, so we were able to see our first snails of the year. Dude, these aren't just any snails, these are *escargot* (according to our neighbor). The shells are at least the diameter of a silver dollar, and the bodies are about 3 inches long and white. They are gross but cool. D.D. and I collect the empty shells; we're up to 2.
But as gross as the snails are, they are not nearly as disgusting as the slugs we saw in Sweden. Imagine a 4-inch-long dog turd, black or brown, that is determinedly sliming its way across the sidewalk where you are trying to walk. Now imagine *thousands* of them covering a hundred-yard-long sidewalk that is the only way to your child's daycare. The only thing worse is a cage full of locusts or millipedes (remember, we were recently at the Frankfurt Zoo; trust me on this one). *shudder*
The dark side of spring isn't all slime-laden invertebrates, though. It is also *copious hair loss*. I've always been a big shedder (no mispronouncing and snorting, JEKL!), especially compared to the two other long-haired persons, one long-haired cat, and one short-haired cat I share my home with. But the start of warm weather accelerates the process. It's bad enough that it happens at all, but it appears that *only the brown hairs* are jumping ship. At this rate, I'll be completely white by winter. And the white hairs are thick and kinky (my mom compared them to piano wire; thanks, Mom!), so I'll probably look like a female Einstein. But that is where the resemblance will end, unless my moustache (also turning white!) starts growing uncontrollably.
On the bright side, the pink and white blossoms are appearing hard on the heels of the yellow ones, which helps to cut the gloom of the low-lying clouds and drizzle. Yesterday was cool but sunny, so I worked on cleaning up our terrace. I don't really have a green thumb, more like a brown pinky, but I try. The previous tenants left behind 8 or 9 large planters with mostly unrecognizable contents. There's a small tree in one, and 3 or 4 have tayberry bushes (according to the only label left behind). They put out some pitiful berries last summer, longer and narrower than strawberries and quite bland. I don't know if they'll stay. Then there's some kind of good-smelling herb (maybe basil?) in some of the pots and a few chives in most of them. I stole the dirt out of the most weed-choked pot to plant a few seeds and repot a couple of plants I keep in the kitchen window. I don't really have high hopes for the seeds, which I have been saving from our fruit—it's more of a science than a gardening experiment—but I figure that if I haven't killed off the ivy or xmas cactus yet, they'll survive a little repotting.
Speaking of all things organic, remember the flaming ball of xmas tree? We have a compost can downstairs, so I wanted to do the right thing and put the tiny, singed tree in it. First I had to get the hot-glued-on ornaments and candles off. Turns out, it's not a tiny tree at all. It is a pine branch that was denuded, the stick jammed into a pot of clay, then the branchlets wired back onto the stick in the form of a tiny tree. So the damned thing was not alive at all (no wonder the water kept running straight through the pot, duh!) and was a fire hazard from the get-go. Next year we are going to be here the whole time, so we'll get a full-sized tree and use electric lights. Those two things alone should reduce our chances of a house fire.
I just realized this morning that classes start *next week*! Ack! Ack! Aaaaaaaack! (In case you were wondering how I feel about it.) Did I mention AAAAACK!!?
But as gross as the snails are, they are not nearly as disgusting as the slugs we saw in Sweden. Imagine a 4-inch-long dog turd, black or brown, that is determinedly sliming its way across the sidewalk where you are trying to walk. Now imagine *thousands* of them covering a hundred-yard-long sidewalk that is the only way to your child's daycare. The only thing worse is a cage full of locusts or millipedes (remember, we were recently at the Frankfurt Zoo; trust me on this one). *shudder*
The dark side of spring isn't all slime-laden invertebrates, though. It is also *copious hair loss*. I've always been a big shedder (no mispronouncing and snorting, JEKL!), especially compared to the two other long-haired persons, one long-haired cat, and one short-haired cat I share my home with. But the start of warm weather accelerates the process. It's bad enough that it happens at all, but it appears that *only the brown hairs* are jumping ship. At this rate, I'll be completely white by winter. And the white hairs are thick and kinky (my mom compared them to piano wire; thanks, Mom!), so I'll probably look like a female Einstein. But that is where the resemblance will end, unless my moustache (also turning white!) starts growing uncontrollably.
On the bright side, the pink and white blossoms are appearing hard on the heels of the yellow ones, which helps to cut the gloom of the low-lying clouds and drizzle. Yesterday was cool but sunny, so I worked on cleaning up our terrace. I don't really have a green thumb, more like a brown pinky, but I try. The previous tenants left behind 8 or 9 large planters with mostly unrecognizable contents. There's a small tree in one, and 3 or 4 have tayberry bushes (according to the only label left behind). They put out some pitiful berries last summer, longer and narrower than strawberries and quite bland. I don't know if they'll stay. Then there's some kind of good-smelling herb (maybe basil?) in some of the pots and a few chives in most of them. I stole the dirt out of the most weed-choked pot to plant a few seeds and repot a couple of plants I keep in the kitchen window. I don't really have high hopes for the seeds, which I have been saving from our fruit—it's more of a science than a gardening experiment—but I figure that if I haven't killed off the ivy or xmas cactus yet, they'll survive a little repotting.
Speaking of all things organic, remember the flaming ball of xmas tree? We have a compost can downstairs, so I wanted to do the right thing and put the tiny, singed tree in it. First I had to get the hot-glued-on ornaments and candles off. Turns out, it's not a tiny tree at all. It is a pine branch that was denuded, the stick jammed into a pot of clay, then the branchlets wired back onto the stick in the form of a tiny tree. So the damned thing was not alive at all (no wonder the water kept running straight through the pot, duh!) and was a fire hazard from the get-go. Next year we are going to be here the whole time, so we'll get a full-sized tree and use electric lights. Those two things alone should reduce our chances of a house fire.
I just realized this morning that classes start *next week*! Ack! Ack! Aaaaaaaack! (In case you were wondering how I feel about it.) Did I mention AAAAACK!!?
Saturday, April 02, 2005
It's the Most Yellowful Time of the Year
If colors had personalities, yellow would be cheerful. It's the first color to make a widespread appearance in the spring around here, and I for one appreciate it.
Well, I finished my paper only 5 minutes after the department closed on Thursday, which is probably the closest to on time I've ever been with a paper. I managed to dodge several bullets—the black ink cartridge on our printer was almost empty, but held out for 40-something pages; some of my typed notes disappeared, but they were mostly digressions; and my instructor was totally cool and said I could turn it in "whenever"—and I got the damn thing out the door. So I was pretty pooped out Thursday evening (i.e., no blogging).
Friday we spent the day in Frankfurt. First we went to America (a.k.a. the Consulate) for a few hours to renew D.D.'s passport. As D.D. pointed out, it felt a bit strange to hear so much English.
Then we went to the zoo. It's east of the skyscrapers downtown, but we could still see buildings rising up around the zoo grounds. For a relatively small zoo, we still weren't able to see every single thing in 3-1/2 hours. We only saw the giraffes in the distance on our way to the restaurant (L.H. had found out via their web site that they have a Mexican restaurant—it was ok), and we tried to see the lions at 6:40 on our way to the gate (they close at 7), but some grumpy zookeeper was telling everyone to take off because they were closing. Jerk. Fortunately, a lion was in its outside enclosure, so we got a walk-by viewing.
Saturday we slept in, then we had to make the mother of all grocery trips because we were out of *everything*. Mother Hubbard looked in our pantry and was shocked. When I shop, I like to take a list, and I stick to the list, unless I think of something that I know we are definitely out of and that should have been on the list. L.H. takes a list, but he tends to use it more as a starting point. D.D. is 7 and wants everything in sight, list schmist. Sadly, L.H. and D.D. have had to become fairly adept at sensing when I'm reaching my grocery-shopping breaking point, at which time they become quiet and wary-eyed. I feel bad for them, but at least I retain my sanity and don't lash out at them.
There's a reason L.H. and I have stayed happily married for 10 (!) years:
Thursday morning, preparing to charge myself up for the last leg of paper-writing, I put on a full pot of coffee. L.H. was still in bed, but awake, so I told him, "I hope you've got your coffee-drinking shoes on." And he replied, "More like coffee-drinking Depends." Hee! I love that man!
Well, I finished my paper only 5 minutes after the department closed on Thursday, which is probably the closest to on time I've ever been with a paper. I managed to dodge several bullets—the black ink cartridge on our printer was almost empty, but held out for 40-something pages; some of my typed notes disappeared, but they were mostly digressions; and my instructor was totally cool and said I could turn it in "whenever"—and I got the damn thing out the door. So I was pretty pooped out Thursday evening (i.e., no blogging).
Friday we spent the day in Frankfurt. First we went to America (a.k.a. the Consulate) for a few hours to renew D.D.'s passport. As D.D. pointed out, it felt a bit strange to hear so much English.
Then we went to the zoo. It's east of the skyscrapers downtown, but we could still see buildings rising up around the zoo grounds. For a relatively small zoo, we still weren't able to see every single thing in 3-1/2 hours. We only saw the giraffes in the distance on our way to the restaurant (L.H. had found out via their web site that they have a Mexican restaurant—it was ok), and we tried to see the lions at 6:40 on our way to the gate (they close at 7), but some grumpy zookeeper was telling everyone to take off because they were closing. Jerk. Fortunately, a lion was in its outside enclosure, so we got a walk-by viewing.
Saturday we slept in, then we had to make the mother of all grocery trips because we were out of *everything*. Mother Hubbard looked in our pantry and was shocked. When I shop, I like to take a list, and I stick to the list, unless I think of something that I know we are definitely out of and that should have been on the list. L.H. takes a list, but he tends to use it more as a starting point. D.D. is 7 and wants everything in sight, list schmist. Sadly, L.H. and D.D. have had to become fairly adept at sensing when I'm reaching my grocery-shopping breaking point, at which time they become quiet and wary-eyed. I feel bad for them, but at least I retain my sanity and don't lash out at them.
There's a reason L.H. and I have stayed happily married for 10 (!) years:
Thursday morning, preparing to charge myself up for the last leg of paper-writing, I put on a full pot of coffee. L.H. was still in bed, but awake, so I told him, "I hope you've got your coffee-drinking shoes on." And he replied, "More like coffee-drinking Depends." Hee! I love that man!
Sunday, March 27, 2005
Out of Pocket
I know everyone is panting breathlessly, waiting for my next sparkling update, but I've got nothing but a brain full of a linguistics paper on cognitive metaphors. So check back in next Friday once I've got the bitch turned in.
Wednesday, March 23, 2005
Errata
I didn't mean to imply in my previous post that gluttony is the primary trait L.H. has passed on to D.D. It's probably only a coincidence that they both love spaghetti more than our pets, because L.H. hated spaghetti as a child. His mother still finds it astounding that her small child who hated mushrooms, onions, and tomatoes and would only eat spaghetti plain with a little butter turned into such a big spaghetti fan.
No, love of language is the trait he's most proud of passing on. I asked D.D. a question last night, and she answered, "Oui. I mean, si." She's as fluent as any other second grader in German (according to her teacher), and L.H. keeps her in practice with Swedish. She's even mentioned wanting to learn more Spanish, in addition to the few words she remembers from kindergarten. And she is always asking language-related questions, like wanting to know about the letter 'e' with the two dots over it. (She should ask her dad; I have no idea.)
And she's like both of us in that she loves Ren and Stimpy. She's watched the first couple of seasons on DVD with us (thanks JEKL!), and she does a passable Stimpy voice. Hee!
***
Small kids are cute, but I'm glad D.D. has left that stage behind. There's a little sister at D.D.'s ballet class who I think is about 4, and everything she says comes out at the top of her voice. I guess I'm just not used to little people, but I think that would drive me ape shit if it were my child. I'm sure D.D. was a lot louder a few years back, but now she spends as much time as she can finagle sedated by television, so I'm more used to the loud toy commercials narrated by MONSTER TRUCK RALLEY-TYPE ANNOUNCERS. Yes, even here in Germany.
No, love of language is the trait he's most proud of passing on. I asked D.D. a question last night, and she answered, "Oui. I mean, si." She's as fluent as any other second grader in German (according to her teacher), and L.H. keeps her in practice with Swedish. She's even mentioned wanting to learn more Spanish, in addition to the few words she remembers from kindergarten. And she is always asking language-related questions, like wanting to know about the letter 'e' with the two dots over it. (She should ask her dad; I have no idea.)
And she's like both of us in that she loves Ren and Stimpy. She's watched the first couple of seasons on DVD with us (thanks JEKL!), and she does a passable Stimpy voice. Hee!
***
Small kids are cute, but I'm glad D.D. has left that stage behind. There's a little sister at D.D.'s ballet class who I think is about 4, and everything she says comes out at the top of her voice. I guess I'm just not used to little people, but I think that would drive me ape shit if it were my child. I'm sure D.D. was a lot louder a few years back, but now she spends as much time as she can finagle sedated by television, so I'm more used to the loud toy commercials narrated by MONSTER TRUCK RALLEY-TYPE ANNOUNCERS. Yes, even here in Germany.
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
Mini-Me
Our Darling Daughter is a perfect mix of the two of us. When she was born, MIL said she looked just like me, and my mom said she looked just like L.H. When she was a little older, they switched positions, but there was no doubt that she belonged to both of us.
As she's gotten older, she looks more and more like me (to the point that my nephew swore that a photo of me at about age 6 was D.D.), with certain features that are her dad's. People we've just met even comment on it. It's a running joke that if we lose her in a crowd, I'll just ask everyone if they've seen a smaller version of me.
Anyone can manage to produce a genetic duplicate of themselves, though, so I'm more excited that she's taking after me in other respects. She loves to read. Every night, either L.H. or I read to her (she often reads along and corrects me when I misspeak), then she takes a book or two to bed for another 15-20 minutes of quiet reading. She's getting very fast, too, and will announce how many pages she's read when she's done. Some days she wants something short and easy, like one of her many Arthur (the Aardvark) books. Tonight she is reading a chapter book that came with her American Girl doll (thanks gwamma!).
But 2 recent events have proved beyond a doubt that she's got the reading gene. In a friendship book (remember those?) that went through her class recently, she put down "reading" as both her hobby and her favorite thing to do. Then as we were walking from the car to our house this afternoon (we're leasing our parking space to our neighbor, so we park on the street around the corner), she was *reading and walking*. Classic Nee childhood behavior. Only TV zombifies her more than books, and she is actually continuing to read now that we're home instead of turning on the TV (her usual M.O.).
Probably over a third of our household goods we shipped to Germany was books, and I am afraid the percentage will be somewhat higher when we eventually head back. I guess I should start saving for that now. Eek!
Added 30 minutes later: She tried to eat and read, but I nixed that because 1. I am using the book for my research project and don't want it covered in spaghetti sauce, and 2. she would not actually manage to eat anything, and I'd rather that reading not become mixed up in her mind with dieting.
And to round out the picture of her genetic heritage, she is able and willing to eat copious amounts of spaghetti. Her father is (in)famous in his family for having eaten something like 15 meatballs at one meal. Peas, meet pod.
As she's gotten older, she looks more and more like me (to the point that my nephew swore that a photo of me at about age 6 was D.D.), with certain features that are her dad's. People we've just met even comment on it. It's a running joke that if we lose her in a crowd, I'll just ask everyone if they've seen a smaller version of me.
Anyone can manage to produce a genetic duplicate of themselves, though, so I'm more excited that she's taking after me in other respects. She loves to read. Every night, either L.H. or I read to her (she often reads along and corrects me when I misspeak), then she takes a book or two to bed for another 15-20 minutes of quiet reading. She's getting very fast, too, and will announce how many pages she's read when she's done. Some days she wants something short and easy, like one of her many Arthur (the Aardvark) books. Tonight she is reading a chapter book that came with her American Girl doll (thanks gwamma!).
But 2 recent events have proved beyond a doubt that she's got the reading gene. In a friendship book (remember those?) that went through her class recently, she put down "reading" as both her hobby and her favorite thing to do. Then as we were walking from the car to our house this afternoon (we're leasing our parking space to our neighbor, so we park on the street around the corner), she was *reading and walking*. Classic Nee childhood behavior. Only TV zombifies her more than books, and she is actually continuing to read now that we're home instead of turning on the TV (her usual M.O.).
Probably over a third of our household goods we shipped to Germany was books, and I am afraid the percentage will be somewhat higher when we eventually head back. I guess I should start saving for that now. Eek!
Added 30 minutes later: She tried to eat and read, but I nixed that because 1. I am using the book for my research project and don't want it covered in spaghetti sauce, and 2. she would not actually manage to eat anything, and I'd rather that reading not become mixed up in her mind with dieting.
And to round out the picture of her genetic heritage, she is able and willing to eat copious amounts of spaghetti. Her father is (in)famous in his family for having eaten something like 15 meatballs at one meal. Peas, meet pod.
Monday, March 21, 2005
And Now for the Rest of the Story
Our Little Shop of Horrors plant put out a new leaf, and it looked like a Venus flytrap on its side until it finished unfurling. I'm starting to think it might be an alien life form.
***
Turns out I misread the sign on the new restaurant in our village. It's a pizzeria/kebab house. I guess I was confused by the picture of a guy *wearing a sombrero*. That doesn't really say "pizza" or "kebab" to me. They don't even deliver, so I doubt we'll ever try them out. Besides, one should approach such a place only if one has acclimated oneself be eating a steady diet of Taco Bell and Sonic chili dogs.
***
There's an older couple from Spain that live across the street from us, and I see them sometimes when I'm out and about. Today the lady was wearing a red leather jacket, red leather boots, and a hot pink knit tube?skirt. I saw a blind man behind her wince.
***
Turns out I misread the sign on the new restaurant in our village. It's a pizzeria/kebab house. I guess I was confused by the picture of a guy *wearing a sombrero*. That doesn't really say "pizza" or "kebab" to me. They don't even deliver, so I doubt we'll ever try them out. Besides, one should approach such a place only if one has acclimated oneself be eating a steady diet of Taco Bell and Sonic chili dogs.
***
There's an older couple from Spain that live across the street from us, and I see them sometimes when I'm out and about. Today the lady was wearing a red leather jacket, red leather boots, and a hot pink knit tube?skirt. I saw a blind man behind her wince.
The Navel-Gazing Post
Do you ever have one of those days where you just feel like a meat sack?
***
I have to say that I'm a rather reserved person (in person). Once I get to know and love someone, I can be the real, the obnoxious me, but until then I can be a hard nut to crack.
I'm the same way with my writing. I've only let a couple of people that I love and trust read my fiction (not the blither-blather I post here), and I only talk about it in a rather general way here. But that doesn't mean I'm not interested in how other writers go about the business of writing.
One thing that I haven't made up my mind about is keeping writing-in-progress type statistics. Some writerly blogs I have seen have a special column dedicated to number of words written for the month, or number of manuscripts sent out to publishers, or number of rejections for a year. I can understand *mentioning* those things in a self-woo-hoo kind of way (like, I hand-wrote 3 steno pad pages of a long-dormant story last night; woo hoo!), but I feel that I myself would get so bogged down in the minutiae of this kind of "bookkeeping" that I wouldn't manage to keep writing. Maybe that's just an aspect of my anal-retentive nature.
One of the blogs I follow irregularly is from a person I came to respect on the recently vacated writing list, and she is a member of a smaller group that self-selected from the larger critique community. Apparently, they use the numbers I mentioned above as part of an internal support system comprising congrats, reminders, and a shoulder to cry on. It kind of reminds me of a weight-loss program, where every member is trying to accomplish the same goal but is eager to encourage every other member in the process. Anyhow, I can see how putting your numbers out there in such a situation would be part of the way such a group would function, but working alone, I don't think it's for me.
To put it a bit crudely, to me it's like a potty-training parent: she and every other parent in the same boat is totally excited that Susie made a poopy in the potty, but no one else wants to hear it.
So forgive me if I don't post about my poopies on a regular basis, but occasionally I'll get off my high horse and offer myself a very small self-congratulations here.
***
I have to say that I'm a rather reserved person (in person). Once I get to know and love someone, I can be the real, the obnoxious me, but until then I can be a hard nut to crack.
I'm the same way with my writing. I've only let a couple of people that I love and trust read my fiction (not the blither-blather I post here), and I only talk about it in a rather general way here. But that doesn't mean I'm not interested in how other writers go about the business of writing.
One thing that I haven't made up my mind about is keeping writing-in-progress type statistics. Some writerly blogs I have seen have a special column dedicated to number of words written for the month, or number of manuscripts sent out to publishers, or number of rejections for a year. I can understand *mentioning* those things in a self-woo-hoo kind of way (like, I hand-wrote 3 steno pad pages of a long-dormant story last night; woo hoo!), but I feel that I myself would get so bogged down in the minutiae of this kind of "bookkeeping" that I wouldn't manage to keep writing. Maybe that's just an aspect of my anal-retentive nature.
One of the blogs I follow irregularly is from a person I came to respect on the recently vacated writing list, and she is a member of a smaller group that self-selected from the larger critique community. Apparently, they use the numbers I mentioned above as part of an internal support system comprising congrats, reminders, and a shoulder to cry on. It kind of reminds me of a weight-loss program, where every member is trying to accomplish the same goal but is eager to encourage every other member in the process. Anyhow, I can see how putting your numbers out there in such a situation would be part of the way such a group would function, but working alone, I don't think it's for me.
To put it a bit crudely, to me it's like a potty-training parent: she and every other parent in the same boat is totally excited that Susie made a poopy in the potty, but no one else wants to hear it.
So forgive me if I don't post about my poopies on a regular basis, but occasionally I'll get off my high horse and offer myself a very small self-congratulations here.
Friday, March 18, 2005
Wallowing in Spring
Most Germans—at least, those I've observed here in our village—take their seasonal responsibilities very seriously. When we had our first cold snap in the fall, everyone dutifully trooped out for the last lawn-mowing and hedge-trimming of the year. On the third day of spring weather, people could be seen sweeping and scrubbing sidewalks, trimming rose bushes, and putting out new flowers. So I find it humorous to see one house where they still have plastic evergreen garlands and candy canes festooning their balcony. They may not have made it out on the balcony since they put the stuff out, but you can't miss it from the entry to the house.
After the first day or two of industriousness, though, everyone is out catching some sun and enjoying themselves out of doors. Even though the river is up over the sidewalk on the north bank again (all that melted snow had to go somewhere), the river meadows farther down were covered with bodies when I rode the bus past this afternoon. At the moment [of composing], I myself am soaking up some sun at the playground with Darling Daughter, whose goal seems to be filthing herself up as much as humanly possible. She's taking a break from throwing herself off the swing into the dirt to watch a ladybug that landed on her hand. This week we've seen our first ladybugs, bumble bees (the size of jawbreakers), and butterflies of the year.
Another marker of spring is the annual migration of the ice cream parlor owners from the Mediterranean. ("Italian ice cream" is *the thing* around here.) Their return is heralded by the appearance of patio furniture outside of every shop that can be considered a dining establishment by the furthest stretch of the imagination. Last year, it was still pretty cold when the restaurateurs decided it was spring, but people flocked to the outdoor tables like lemmings, huddled up in their heavy coats and scarves.
I can't help but compare this spring to the one we experienced in Sweden, which started *late*. D.D. had to hunt easter eggs in a snowsuit because it was that cold, and there were a few flurries while we were outside. I don't think we actually saw the sun until early May. I don't remember exactly *when* it was, but I remember going downtown and seeing that every inch of grass in every public area was covered in half-dressed bodies, and every shop was empty. I thought I, the Texas-raised girl who was used to 360 days of sunlight a year (only a slight exaggeration; the Austin visitor center site says it gets 300 days), was the one to appreciate it the most, but it turns out that power-sun-worshipping is a popular sport in Sweden.
***
Darling Daughter has some strong prejudices. Lovely Husband was flipping channels on the TV and came across a concert by some German singer I'm not familiar with. D.D. immediately declared that he was too old to be cool (about 50 in her opinion), plus he was singing a country song, and that was definitely out. So be forewarned that she has deemed herself at almost-8-years-old to be the arbiter of all things cool.
On the way home from the playground D.D. was telling me that she likes to call the still-leafless trees naked. Then she said, "I see your penis, tree! hee! hee!" It's hard to keep your cool in front of your child when you want to fall down laughing.
After the first day or two of industriousness, though, everyone is out catching some sun and enjoying themselves out of doors. Even though the river is up over the sidewalk on the north bank again (all that melted snow had to go somewhere), the river meadows farther down were covered with bodies when I rode the bus past this afternoon. At the moment [of composing], I myself am soaking up some sun at the playground with Darling Daughter, whose goal seems to be filthing herself up as much as humanly possible. She's taking a break from throwing herself off the swing into the dirt to watch a ladybug that landed on her hand. This week we've seen our first ladybugs, bumble bees (the size of jawbreakers), and butterflies of the year.
Another marker of spring is the annual migration of the ice cream parlor owners from the Mediterranean. ("Italian ice cream" is *the thing* around here.) Their return is heralded by the appearance of patio furniture outside of every shop that can be considered a dining establishment by the furthest stretch of the imagination. Last year, it was still pretty cold when the restaurateurs decided it was spring, but people flocked to the outdoor tables like lemmings, huddled up in their heavy coats and scarves.
I can't help but compare this spring to the one we experienced in Sweden, which started *late*. D.D. had to hunt easter eggs in a snowsuit because it was that cold, and there were a few flurries while we were outside. I don't think we actually saw the sun until early May. I don't remember exactly *when* it was, but I remember going downtown and seeing that every inch of grass in every public area was covered in half-dressed bodies, and every shop was empty. I thought I, the Texas-raised girl who was used to 360 days of sunlight a year (only a slight exaggeration; the Austin visitor center site says it gets 300 days), was the one to appreciate it the most, but it turns out that power-sun-worshipping is a popular sport in Sweden.
***
Darling Daughter has some strong prejudices. Lovely Husband was flipping channels on the TV and came across a concert by some German singer I'm not familiar with. D.D. immediately declared that he was too old to be cool (about 50 in her opinion), plus he was singing a country song, and that was definitely out. So be forewarned that she has deemed herself at almost-8-years-old to be the arbiter of all things cool.
On the way home from the playground D.D. was telling me that she likes to call the still-leafless trees naked. Then she said, "I see your penis, tree! hee! hee!" It's hard to keep your cool in front of your child when you want to fall down laughing.
Tuesday, March 15, 2005
Spring Fever
It is glorious outside, the epitome of a spring day. The sun is out; we could tell before we even got out of bed this morning. I hadn't noticed—thanks to all the overcast recently—that the sun is already much farther north in the sky. Our car's external thermometer said it was 15C (around 67F) yesterday. This Sunday is the official first day of spring, but it appears to be getting a running start. I'm all for it.
There are snow-drops and yellow and purple crocuses in the neighbor's yard, confirmed with Darling Daughter's binoculars (thanks westtexasgirl!). A little snow is clinging tenaciously to a few roofs and the shadier parts of people's yards, but I have full confidence that it will be gone in another day or two. Oh happy day!
Self-flagellation, again: If it weren't a time-waster itself, I'd make myself write 100 times, "I will not fart around." But instead I will work on my paper. Only 16 days until the due-date. Ack!
There are snow-drops and yellow and purple crocuses in the neighbor's yard, confirmed with Darling Daughter's binoculars (thanks westtexasgirl!). A little snow is clinging tenaciously to a few roofs and the shadier parts of people's yards, but I have full confidence that it will be gone in another day or two. Oh happy day!
Self-flagellation, again: If it weren't a time-waster itself, I'd make myself write 100 times, "I will not fart around." But instead I will work on my paper. Only 16 days until the due-date. Ack!
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