It’s the Holiday Season. For better or worse, it’s time to prepare for the Yuletide and New Year.
However you choose to celebrate, though, it’s always a big deal. Ultimately, it comes down to food (if you have it, and do you have enough), family (if you have any, and have you remembered everyone), and presents (if you have any to give, and do you have enough for everyone). And, of course, you need the money to survive the season unscathed.
And many of us simply don’t have enough.
But there are some nice things about this time of year. I always love looking at the lights strung along the trees and storefronts. In Germany, people here don’t really do their houses, if they live in one. Not very much. Not like Americans, anyway. But people do decorate Christmas trees in their living rooms, and place candles and lights in windows and along shelves. Unless you have a Kaminofen, there aren’t many fireplaces to speak of and relatively few mantelpieces to hang socks. But it’s still a colorful and decorative holiday, like any other Christmas any other place in the world that celebrates it.
A Kaminofen is a romantic way to warm up, day or night!
There are some culinary treats that come with this holiday, too. Among them is Glühwein. This is a mulled wine, drunk piping hot in little glass mugs. German wine is notoriously sweet, and this is a perfect beverage to top off a cold day of shopping in the local Weihnachtsmarkt, or outdoor Christmas Market.
What’s making these gentlemen visitors to the Münchener Weihnachtsmarkt so happy?
Why, the Glühwein, of course!
Another goodie is called Kriststollen. This is a heavy, dense, lozenge-shaped cake. The cake itself isn’t very sweet, but the raisins it’s filled with really heighten the experience. It can come plain (with raisins—the little fruit is an essential ingredient), or with a marzipan filling in the very center. (Marzipan is a very sweet, almond paste.)
The other thing that makes Kriststollen the particular treat it is, is the powdered-sugar coating. But the powdered sugar isn’t exactly what you’d expect, stateside. It has a texture to it that makes me suspect it’s mixed with granulated sugar crystals, so it's a little... crunchy. What will really surprise you is that this sweet delight is usually eaten with butter--at breakfast! Oje.
Kriststollen; a buttery treat to sweeten up a Sunday morning.
The Weihnachtsmarkt is also a special enjoyment, and Stuttgart holds one of the larger and more popular markets in the region. People come on buses from all over to enjoy the Stuttgart Christmas market.
The streets of downtown are lined with wooden booths, and merchants selling their wares—everything from sweets and Glühwein to Alpine hats and pins, Christmas ornaments, special cooking ware, woolly felt slippers, cutlery and dishes, jewelry, candles, scented oils, all kinds of odds and ends you might associate with an outdoor Christmas market. There's even an ice rink.
In Stuttgart, the market is held every day of the advent, closing on December 23. Most markets are quite a bit smaller, and open for only a weekend.
The Stuttgarter Weihnachtsmarkt: A view of only a portion of the market.
An interior perspective of the photo above.
You don’t really need a lot of money to enjoy this part of the holiday season. Glühwein is extremely cheap at only 1.50 euros per bottle (about $2), and the Kriststollen is about the same. Assuming you can keep your wallet in your pocket while you’re there, the Weihnachtsmarkt also is a cheap thrill, though you’ll have to pay around 4 euros for a glass mug of Glühwein, which includes the deposit for the mug. You get one or two euros back when you return the little mug, but it’s not a bad price, overall, when you quietly slip that mug into your rucksack as a little keepsake. I’ve got five of them, myself, discreetly collected over the years. I had six, but one went missing last year. I plan to restock soon.
Wouldn’t it be nice if we could focus on the joyous part of the holidays, the color, and chill, and warmth of fires and fiery beverages, without all the other crap that goes along with it?
I much prefer the small things.
It’s the bigger stuff that makes this season so unsatisfactory.
Wednesday, December 7, 2005
Tuesday, December 6, 2005
Do you send e-mail to yourself? Apparently I do...
Last week, at the suggestion of a friend, I finally downloaded some IM software called Trillian. I had never heard of this before, but thought I might give it a shot.
Sure, it’s another instant messaging program. But some of you might be interested if you haven’t heard of it before.
The beauty of this software is that it consolidates the IM programs of something like five different major programs, including Yahoo!, MSN, AIM/AOL, ICQ and another I don’t recognize, so can’t remember.
The downside is, not only is it another 11MB of software to bog down your computer, but once you plug in every individual on your e-mail address list who has screen names in one or more of these IM programs, you won’t get a word of writing done. Today was a good example of that as, in the same 10 seconds, three different people converged on me this afternoon, in addition to a phone call from hubby, and my son pulling on my arm to practice some “boxing”.
Let me tell you, I was doing some impressive juggling.
Another beautiful thing about this program is, once you get your own various identities from your various e-mail accounts set up, it will send you a message every time you get new e-mail in each of those accounts AND indicate who it’s from. Then, you can click on the box and it will take you right to your e-mail account.
Wow.
That’s neat stuff for little ol' me, who likes her toys where she can get them! Talk about convenient, and staying informed. It’s like having caller ID for your in-bin. Every single one of them!
This evening, as I worked down my list of favorite bloggers and was steadily rounding the corner to page two (of four, no less, having recently culled pages five and six), I got an e-mail notification for my main e-mail address.
But the weird thing was, the e-mail to me… was from me.
How odd. How could that be?
I believe I was in the comments section of one of Timmy’s blogs when this happened, and I just had to check it out. I couldn’t concentrate on anything else.
I clicked on the little notification box, and it directed me right to my in-box. I scanned the list, and the only thing that could possibly apply to this mystery was another notification from another writing site, informing me that someone on my faves list there had posted a piece of poetry. In the "from" column it simply said so-and-so had posted another poem.
How can an automatic notifier from another website use my e-mail address to remotely send myself e-mail? How does that work?
It just seemed strange to me.
Sure, it’s another instant messaging program. But some of you might be interested if you haven’t heard of it before.
The beauty of this software is that it consolidates the IM programs of something like five different major programs, including Yahoo!, MSN, AIM/AOL, ICQ and another I don’t recognize, so can’t remember.
The downside is, not only is it another 11MB of software to bog down your computer, but once you plug in every individual on your e-mail address list who has screen names in one or more of these IM programs, you won’t get a word of writing done. Today was a good example of that as, in the same 10 seconds, three different people converged on me this afternoon, in addition to a phone call from hubby, and my son pulling on my arm to practice some “boxing”.
Let me tell you, I was doing some impressive juggling.
Another beautiful thing about this program is, once you get your own various identities from your various e-mail accounts set up, it will send you a message every time you get new e-mail in each of those accounts AND indicate who it’s from. Then, you can click on the box and it will take you right to your e-mail account.
Wow.
That’s neat stuff for little ol' me, who likes her toys where she can get them! Talk about convenient, and staying informed. It’s like having caller ID for your in-bin. Every single one of them!
This evening, as I worked down my list of favorite bloggers and was steadily rounding the corner to page two (of four, no less, having recently culled pages five and six), I got an e-mail notification for my main e-mail address.
But the weird thing was, the e-mail to me… was from me.
How odd. How could that be?
I believe I was in the comments section of one of Timmy’s blogs when this happened, and I just had to check it out. I couldn’t concentrate on anything else.
I clicked on the little notification box, and it directed me right to my in-box. I scanned the list, and the only thing that could possibly apply to this mystery was another notification from another writing site, informing me that someone on my faves list there had posted a piece of poetry. In the "from" column it simply said so-and-so had posted another poem.
How can an automatic notifier from another website use my e-mail address to remotely send myself e-mail? How does that work?
It just seemed strange to me.
Monday, December 5, 2005
I’m tired of keeping secrets.
It’s time to come out of the closet.
In a comment to my previous post, MayB brought up the concept of regrets. It was stated in the context of my ongoing friendship with an ex-boyfriend, whom I’ve known nearly twenty years, and who also has remained an important person in my life. Why? Dunno. There are lots of whys. Whys are as plentiful as What-ifs and If-Onlys.
The question of regrets seems to me an interesting coincidence, because of what happened to me last night.
My husband, in normal circumstances, really is a smart, funny, extremely perceptive guy. He’s responsible, and hardworking, and unwaveringly dedicated to his family and the family ideal. He loves kids. He adores his son, and they play together as if they were of an age. I jokingly tell acquaintances that I have two children: My five-year-old son, and my husband. (To be honest, it can be sweet when relating to my son, but when he should be adultlike, it’s bloody frustrating.)
So, my husband has lots of good, admirable qualities.
But my husband also boasts some down sides. Sure, we all do. But his cross the line between being human, and just being… well, I’m at a loss for an appropriate word.
My husband suffers from an undiagnosed mood disorder. We are talking extreme mood swings from one second to the next. If given free reign, he can really work himself up into frightening rages. Mostly, though, he can go from being strangely peppy, to strangely irrational, and settle back into normal rhythm and behave as if nothing has happened. That whole cycle might run its course within an hour, but the mood changes seem to happen instantaneously.
Last night, we ordered take away. It was delivered to us, and I called to my cheery husband in the shower that our food had arrived. He got out, and we all settled down to our individual orders. While we were still eating, I heard a deep cracking noise coming from the kitchen. It sounded like wood from the fire stove popping, but it came distinctly from the kitchen. I glanced inside from where we were sitting in the living room, but saw nothing, and didn’t think anything about it. A minute or two later, I heard what sounded like dripping from the kitchen. I glanced over, didn’t notice anything unusual, and went back to listening to what my husband was saying.
But I kept hearing the noise.
The next time I looked, I saw there was a large puddle forming at the bottom of a cabinet we use to store excess beverages. Water, wine, whisky, beer, more water (I’m the water drinker). I also have been storing my newly bottled Kombucha tea there. And Kombucha tea gets fizzy when you bottle it. Sometimes, if you don’t use bottles appropriate for fizzy beverages, said bottle—a wine bottle, say, like the ones I had been using—will burst.
Well guess what, guys? One of those bottle broke.
I suppose right here would be a good place to explain how controlling my husband is. To make a long and complicated issue as simple as possible, let me apply it only to how it affects my relationship with you fellow bloggers.
My husband hates it when I do things that are part of my own personal development. I don’t write when he’s around because he starts to get agitated. I can see it. And eventually, without fail, he will find a reason to use my writing against me, then enforce acceptable times when I can do it. So, in order to avoid a nasty scene, I don’t write when he’s home. Which is why I don’t blog on the weekends. Consequently, he doesn't know about Blogit, my blogs, or anything of that nature.
The Kombucha tea is a similar story. In order to make it, I needed a live culture and starter fluid to begin. That means I had to find it somewhere. Many people won’t ship it through the mail, which means if you find a provider, you have to drive out there to get it. My husband uses our only car to get to work (even though he can use the train—another control issue of his).
There was some back and forth about driving out to get a culture from someone. Whenever I approached him about it, he got all irritated and pissy. So, then I tried to find someone to mail one to me—with absolutely no luck. (I took advantage of my visit Stateside to purchase one through a reputable herbalist and brought it back to Germany.)
He also limited my buying bottled Kombucha from the store. It’s expensive, but less expensive than the alcohol and cola he purchases every week, by three quarters. In other words, it would have been okay if I wanted a case of soda every week, at 13 euros per 16 1-litre-bottles. But if I wanted to spend 6 euros on two litre-bottles of Kombucha tea (KT), forget it. I could only get one.
So knowing how he thinks, I also knew that he would not like the process of home-brewed KT. I found a discreet area to let it ferment before bottling, but kept the bottles in the cabinet with the rest of our beverages. In a sense, it was an open secret. For two weeks, he said nothing but the occasional disparaging comment about my strange beverage. I thought things were going well.
When the bottle broke in the cabinet last night, I knew I was in trouble. Without a word, I got up, took a dishtowel and tried to catch the liquid as it fell. But when I opened the cabinet, the towel was insufficient to stem the tidal pool of Kombucha waiting to spill out. So, it hit the floor with a splash.
Which caught my husband’s attention.
When I told him oh-so-casually, knowing what thin ice I was standing on, it was over: my husband’s cheeriness, my Kombucha brewing, a pleasant evening.
After some ranting, he told me I had to throw the rest of the bottles away. He wouldn’t have me brewing some shitty drink in his house. He said, to be specific, that the bottles had to be thrown away the next day. So, I finished cleaning up the mess, planning to transfer the precious KT to some plastic 1.5-litre water bottles the next day. I heard an endless rumble from him about how it stank. Which was an exaggeration. It’s a yeasty apple-cider smell. Not unpleasant. Not to me, anyway.
But as I was getting our son ready for bed, I heard bottles banging around in the kitchen. I knew what he was doing. Later on, I went into the kitchen to look for something for my cough, and I saw that he had done what I was afraid of. He’d taken all seven bottles of my home-brewed KT and dumped them all down the kitchen sink. He’d also hidden my box of Pu-erh tea, which he’d made very clear earlier in the day that it smells like fish and he can’t stand it. (I found it this morning, by the way, but left it where it was. I then took my two remaining boxes, which he doesn’t know I have, and hid them. And yes, it sucks living my life in secret from my husband. Isn't that just wrong???)
His reasoning behind it? Brewing the KT, which takes no more than two hours of total physical work each week, is taking too much of my time and attention away from the house, and care and education of my son.
And I thought, uh-oh. Here we go again. It’s this time of year (winter), and he always gets worse. Last year was horrible, and resulted in my leaving him and petitioning for the custody of our son. I won’t go into why I returned. But I did. And now here we are, back to square one, it seems.
In addition to my husband’s control issues, mood disorder/irrational thought, alcoholism and verbal abuse, he also toes the line of being a physical threat. I’ve been pushed/shoved, pinched, scratched, blocked, forced up the stairs, in addition to being raged at and controlled to the point that my human rights have been treaded upon. (The KT being but one example.)
And because of the sticky state and general unlikelihood of foreigners gaining custody of their German-born children, you might understand a portion of the reason I returned to my husband this summer. And you might also understand why I’m so desperate for our family to return to the States.
So do I have regrets?
One might say I do. In a way, I wish that when T had called me out of the blue two weeks before my wedding, I had called the whole thing off and tried again with him. But without my beastly husband, I wouldn’t have the beautiful child that I do. There are some nice times, though they don’t justify the not-so-nice times.
Regrets are complicated. I’ve certainly learned some important lessons in the six years of my marriage. But one thing is clear. I can’t keep it a secret any more. I’m coming out of the closet as an unhappy spouse of a verbally abusive, mood-swinging alcoholic.
I didn’t ever want to write about this issue on Blogit. I didn’t want to whine and complain. I don’t want people to poo-poo me, or poor-Silver me, or give me advice. I hold no illusions of the situation I’m in. None. I choose to stay (for now) for some important reasons, and not one of them is self-delusional. But the time for secret-keeping is over.
And regrets, in my opinion, are a luxury I can’t afford.
What regrets might you have? Are they really regrets? Be careful how you answer. There's a lot more to it than you think.
In a comment to my previous post, MayB brought up the concept of regrets. It was stated in the context of my ongoing friendship with an ex-boyfriend, whom I’ve known nearly twenty years, and who also has remained an important person in my life. Why? Dunno. There are lots of whys. Whys are as plentiful as What-ifs and If-Onlys.
The question of regrets seems to me an interesting coincidence, because of what happened to me last night.
My husband, in normal circumstances, really is a smart, funny, extremely perceptive guy. He’s responsible, and hardworking, and unwaveringly dedicated to his family and the family ideal. He loves kids. He adores his son, and they play together as if they were of an age. I jokingly tell acquaintances that I have two children: My five-year-old son, and my husband. (To be honest, it can be sweet when relating to my son, but when he should be adultlike, it’s bloody frustrating.)
So, my husband has lots of good, admirable qualities.
But my husband also boasts some down sides. Sure, we all do. But his cross the line between being human, and just being… well, I’m at a loss for an appropriate word.
My husband suffers from an undiagnosed mood disorder. We are talking extreme mood swings from one second to the next. If given free reign, he can really work himself up into frightening rages. Mostly, though, he can go from being strangely peppy, to strangely irrational, and settle back into normal rhythm and behave as if nothing has happened. That whole cycle might run its course within an hour, but the mood changes seem to happen instantaneously.
Last night, we ordered take away. It was delivered to us, and I called to my cheery husband in the shower that our food had arrived. He got out, and we all settled down to our individual orders. While we were still eating, I heard a deep cracking noise coming from the kitchen. It sounded like wood from the fire stove popping, but it came distinctly from the kitchen. I glanced inside from where we were sitting in the living room, but saw nothing, and didn’t think anything about it. A minute or two later, I heard what sounded like dripping from the kitchen. I glanced over, didn’t notice anything unusual, and went back to listening to what my husband was saying.
But I kept hearing the noise.
The next time I looked, I saw there was a large puddle forming at the bottom of a cabinet we use to store excess beverages. Water, wine, whisky, beer, more water (I’m the water drinker). I also have been storing my newly bottled Kombucha tea there. And Kombucha tea gets fizzy when you bottle it. Sometimes, if you don’t use bottles appropriate for fizzy beverages, said bottle—a wine bottle, say, like the ones I had been using—will burst.
Well guess what, guys? One of those bottle broke.
I suppose right here would be a good place to explain how controlling my husband is. To make a long and complicated issue as simple as possible, let me apply it only to how it affects my relationship with you fellow bloggers.
My husband hates it when I do things that are part of my own personal development. I don’t write when he’s around because he starts to get agitated. I can see it. And eventually, without fail, he will find a reason to use my writing against me, then enforce acceptable times when I can do it. So, in order to avoid a nasty scene, I don’t write when he’s home. Which is why I don’t blog on the weekends. Consequently, he doesn't know about Blogit, my blogs, or anything of that nature.
The Kombucha tea is a similar story. In order to make it, I needed a live culture and starter fluid to begin. That means I had to find it somewhere. Many people won’t ship it through the mail, which means if you find a provider, you have to drive out there to get it. My husband uses our only car to get to work (even though he can use the train—another control issue of his).
There was some back and forth about driving out to get a culture from someone. Whenever I approached him about it, he got all irritated and pissy. So, then I tried to find someone to mail one to me—with absolutely no luck. (I took advantage of my visit Stateside to purchase one through a reputable herbalist and brought it back to Germany.)
He also limited my buying bottled Kombucha from the store. It’s expensive, but less expensive than the alcohol and cola he purchases every week, by three quarters. In other words, it would have been okay if I wanted a case of soda every week, at 13 euros per 16 1-litre-bottles. But if I wanted to spend 6 euros on two litre-bottles of Kombucha tea (KT), forget it. I could only get one.
So knowing how he thinks, I also knew that he would not like the process of home-brewed KT. I found a discreet area to let it ferment before bottling, but kept the bottles in the cabinet with the rest of our beverages. In a sense, it was an open secret. For two weeks, he said nothing but the occasional disparaging comment about my strange beverage. I thought things were going well.
When the bottle broke in the cabinet last night, I knew I was in trouble. Without a word, I got up, took a dishtowel and tried to catch the liquid as it fell. But when I opened the cabinet, the towel was insufficient to stem the tidal pool of Kombucha waiting to spill out. So, it hit the floor with a splash.
Which caught my husband’s attention.
When I told him oh-so-casually, knowing what thin ice I was standing on, it was over: my husband’s cheeriness, my Kombucha brewing, a pleasant evening.
After some ranting, he told me I had to throw the rest of the bottles away. He wouldn’t have me brewing some shitty drink in his house. He said, to be specific, that the bottles had to be thrown away the next day. So, I finished cleaning up the mess, planning to transfer the precious KT to some plastic 1.5-litre water bottles the next day. I heard an endless rumble from him about how it stank. Which was an exaggeration. It’s a yeasty apple-cider smell. Not unpleasant. Not to me, anyway.
But as I was getting our son ready for bed, I heard bottles banging around in the kitchen. I knew what he was doing. Later on, I went into the kitchen to look for something for my cough, and I saw that he had done what I was afraid of. He’d taken all seven bottles of my home-brewed KT and dumped them all down the kitchen sink. He’d also hidden my box of Pu-erh tea, which he’d made very clear earlier in the day that it smells like fish and he can’t stand it. (I found it this morning, by the way, but left it where it was. I then took my two remaining boxes, which he doesn’t know I have, and hid them. And yes, it sucks living my life in secret from my husband. Isn't that just wrong???)
His reasoning behind it? Brewing the KT, which takes no more than two hours of total physical work each week, is taking too much of my time and attention away from the house, and care and education of my son.
And I thought, uh-oh. Here we go again. It’s this time of year (winter), and he always gets worse. Last year was horrible, and resulted in my leaving him and petitioning for the custody of our son. I won’t go into why I returned. But I did. And now here we are, back to square one, it seems.
In addition to my husband’s control issues, mood disorder/irrational thought, alcoholism and verbal abuse, he also toes the line of being a physical threat. I’ve been pushed/shoved, pinched, scratched, blocked, forced up the stairs, in addition to being raged at and controlled to the point that my human rights have been treaded upon. (The KT being but one example.)
And because of the sticky state and general unlikelihood of foreigners gaining custody of their German-born children, you might understand a portion of the reason I returned to my husband this summer. And you might also understand why I’m so desperate for our family to return to the States.
So do I have regrets?
One might say I do. In a way, I wish that when T had called me out of the blue two weeks before my wedding, I had called the whole thing off and tried again with him. But without my beastly husband, I wouldn’t have the beautiful child that I do. There are some nice times, though they don’t justify the not-so-nice times.
Regrets are complicated. I’ve certainly learned some important lessons in the six years of my marriage. But one thing is clear. I can’t keep it a secret any more. I’m coming out of the closet as an unhappy spouse of a verbally abusive, mood-swinging alcoholic.
I didn’t ever want to write about this issue on Blogit. I didn’t want to whine and complain. I don’t want people to poo-poo me, or poor-Silver me, or give me advice. I hold no illusions of the situation I’m in. None. I choose to stay (for now) for some important reasons, and not one of them is self-delusional. But the time for secret-keeping is over.
And regrets, in my opinion, are a luxury I can’t afford.
What regrets might you have? Are they really regrets? Be careful how you answer. There's a lot more to it than you think.
Boy did I bomb...
I wrote four pages, total for NaNo.
But it's okay.
Really.
I let myself not sweat it. It was only my second attempt, and due to family circumstances, both inside and outside my own home, I chose the easy route over dogged determination.
Sometimes we need to do that. To save our sanity.
Don't we?
But it's okay.
Really.
I let myself not sweat it. It was only my second attempt, and due to family circumstances, both inside and outside my own home, I chose the easy route over dogged determination.
Sometimes we need to do that. To save our sanity.
Don't we?
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
No, it's not a stain!
When I was back home a few weeks ago, two friends of mine came to visit. Naturally, we were excited to see each other, and naturally, we took pictures. I just uploaded the photos to my computer, yesterday, and while perusing them, I noticed that some spots showed up on three or four of those pictures. The spots didn't show up on any other pictures, before or since, just on those.
Now yes, if you know me, you also know I'm thinking, Holy crap! Those are orbs.
But, being a realistic person, I'm also thinking, Golldurnit, that's only dust.
Or is it?
I've never had dust show up on a picture before. Never. Unless you count the time we were in Penzance three years ago, and the odd dust that showed up on my pictures of the Merry Maidens standing stones--and only on those pictures.
Last night, while putting my boy to bed, I felt that funny sense of pressure that you get when you think someone is in the room with you, but isn't. So, still being of an experimental bent (see previous post), I got up and got my camera, then crawled back in bed and turned out the light. After relaxing and waiting for that feeling to come back, told any wayward energy that I'd like to take a picture of it now, and to please oblige. I pointed my camera toward the other end of the room and snapped a picture. Turning the camera around, I looked at the display--and wouldn't you know it, a series of white orbs showed up.
I took another picture, and the same thing happened. Different orbs, in different spots. But definitely something showed up.
I spent an hour snapping pictures in the dark. Some showed no orbs, but several did. As a point of interest, I noticed two things. First, the longer I took pictures, the dimmer the orbs became and the fewer the number. However, they brightened up noticeably after I spoke to them.
The last thing I did was lay quietly for a bit until I felt a "fullness" coming from a particular area of the room. Three times out of four, the picture showed an orb: One in two corners of the room, and one over the bed.
Coincidence? Dust with a conscience?
You be the judge. I've included some pictures below.
What I DON'T want you to judge is the color of the room. It's pink. I didn't want it to be pink. It was supposed to be a much deeper color. But it turned out pink, and there's no help for it now. The other thing I don't want you do judge is the burgundy-sheeted air mattress propped up against the wall, where most of the orb pics were taken. I specifically aimed for that spot because it's a broad expanse of dark color, and figured if anything is there, it would show up best against the darkness. That aside, yes, I have dark red sheets. They are actually remnants of my American bed back home, and those sheets matched my blue and dark red comforter. So there. The rest of the house is a nice neutral ivory and wood tone.
Anyway, here are the pics. Tell me what you think!
Now yes, if you know me, you also know I'm thinking, Holy crap! Those are orbs.
But, being a realistic person, I'm also thinking, Golldurnit, that's only dust.
Or is it?
I've never had dust show up on a picture before. Never. Unless you count the time we were in Penzance three years ago, and the odd dust that showed up on my pictures of the Merry Maidens standing stones--and only on those pictures.
Last night, while putting my boy to bed, I felt that funny sense of pressure that you get when you think someone is in the room with you, but isn't. So, still being of an experimental bent (see previous post), I got up and got my camera, then crawled back in bed and turned out the light. After relaxing and waiting for that feeling to come back, told any wayward energy that I'd like to take a picture of it now, and to please oblige. I pointed my camera toward the other end of the room and snapped a picture. Turning the camera around, I looked at the display--and wouldn't you know it, a series of white orbs showed up.
I took another picture, and the same thing happened. Different orbs, in different spots. But definitely something showed up.
I spent an hour snapping pictures in the dark. Some showed no orbs, but several did. As a point of interest, I noticed two things. First, the longer I took pictures, the dimmer the orbs became and the fewer the number. However, they brightened up noticeably after I spoke to them.
The last thing I did was lay quietly for a bit until I felt a "fullness" coming from a particular area of the room. Three times out of four, the picture showed an orb: One in two corners of the room, and one over the bed.
Coincidence? Dust with a conscience?
You be the judge. I've included some pictures below.
What I DON'T want you to judge is the color of the room. It's pink. I didn't want it to be pink. It was supposed to be a much deeper color. But it turned out pink, and there's no help for it now. The other thing I don't want you do judge is the burgundy-sheeted air mattress propped up against the wall, where most of the orb pics were taken. I specifically aimed for that spot because it's a broad expanse of dark color, and figured if anything is there, it would show up best against the darkness. That aside, yes, I have dark red sheets. They are actually remnants of my American bed back home, and those sheets matched my blue and dark red comforter. So there. The rest of the house is a nice neutral ivory and wood tone.
Anyway, here are the pics. Tell me what you think!
Monday, November 21, 2005
It's Alive! (and good for you, too)
I've been doing a little experimenting at home.
With tea.
It's called Kombucha tea, or KT. It's an ancient Chinese tonic that is supposed to be extremely healthy. It reportedly detoxes your body of all sorts of nasties, boosts your immune system, and helps your body heal an amazing variety of ailments.
The catch (isn't there always a catch?) is that you brew it yourself--from a culture. That's right. It doesn't come from a leaf, and you don't steep it in hot water.
It's fermented from a live culture, with water, sugar, and a vinegary "starter", and takes about a week to produce approximately two bottles of the stuff. With each batch, you produce a new culture, and the cultures are reusable.
It's also diabetic-safe, from my understanding, because the sugar is consumed and converted during the fermenting process. I would check to make sure this is the case, however. I'm not diabetic, nor am I a doctor or a scientist, so don't take my word as law.
Please follow this link to read Who should not drink Kombucha tea.
Anyway, last week, I bottled my first batch of Kombucha, and began my second. Turns out, I let that first batch brew a little too long for my taste, so it came out pretty vinegary. My second batch, which surprised me by being ready a few days early, is a tad sweeter--just on the threshold of being tart, and I mean just. It's perfect. So, I bottled that, then held some back to add to the sour stuff of last week.
And you know what?
Damn, if it doesn't taste good!
A couple months ago, while researching this growing phenomenon, I joined a Yahoo! group called Original Kombucha. I'll have to admit, some people get a little fanatic about this stuff, or just downright flakey, but the fact that this femernted beverage has so many followers gives testament to it's supposed efficacy.
You can find it already made and bottled, but the best stuff comes from your own kitchen. And it's much less expensive to produce yourself. If you're interested, you can Google it and find a wealth of websites to choose from. Or you can simply link from here to the sites that I have looked at and found very helpful.
Kombucha Tea... all you need to know
The Happy Herbalist
Let me know if you give this a try, and how you like it. I'm curious to know others' opinions, as well.
With tea.
It's called Kombucha tea, or KT. It's an ancient Chinese tonic that is supposed to be extremely healthy. It reportedly detoxes your body of all sorts of nasties, boosts your immune system, and helps your body heal an amazing variety of ailments.
The catch (isn't there always a catch?) is that you brew it yourself--from a culture. That's right. It doesn't come from a leaf, and you don't steep it in hot water.
It's fermented from a live culture, with water, sugar, and a vinegary "starter", and takes about a week to produce approximately two bottles of the stuff. With each batch, you produce a new culture, and the cultures are reusable.
It's also diabetic-safe, from my understanding, because the sugar is consumed and converted during the fermenting process. I would check to make sure this is the case, however. I'm not diabetic, nor am I a doctor or a scientist, so don't take my word as law.
Please follow this link to read Who should not drink Kombucha tea.
Anyway, last week, I bottled my first batch of Kombucha, and began my second. Turns out, I let that first batch brew a little too long for my taste, so it came out pretty vinegary. My second batch, which surprised me by being ready a few days early, is a tad sweeter--just on the threshold of being tart, and I mean just. It's perfect. So, I bottled that, then held some back to add to the sour stuff of last week.
And you know what?
Damn, if it doesn't taste good!
A couple months ago, while researching this growing phenomenon, I joined a Yahoo! group called Original Kombucha. I'll have to admit, some people get a little fanatic about this stuff, or just downright flakey, but the fact that this femernted beverage has so many followers gives testament to it's supposed efficacy.
You can find it already made and bottled, but the best stuff comes from your own kitchen. And it's much less expensive to produce yourself. If you're interested, you can Google it and find a wealth of websites to choose from. Or you can simply link from here to the sites that I have looked at and found very helpful.
Kombucha Tea... all you need to know
The Happy Herbalist
Let me know if you give this a try, and how you like it. I'm curious to know others' opinions, as well.
Wednesday, November 16, 2005
Well, I'm thrilled that I got this far...
Two nights ago, my husband had to go to a school meeting for parents whose kids are entering first grade next year. I took advantage of the opportunity to get my son to bed on time (8:00 pm), and get moving on some writing.
First, I typed out a frivolous poem I wrote a couple months ago, which I've posted in my poetry blog. Yay! Unfortunately, that also means my meager store of poetry is now depleted, and if I want to post more, then I have to write more. Boo!
Second, and most importantly, I started that ghost story I’d planned for NaNo. It's not for NaNo, anymore, but it is the first new story I’ve begun and the first time I’ve actually written in exactly one year. I feel a little rusty, but I’m so thrilled to have gotten something started after all this time. Yay me. In the one hour I spent on that story, I wrote no less than four pages. By that time, it was 10 pm, and my husband had just gotten home, and so it was time to quit.
Gotta celebrate these small victories, especially when we don’t have much energy for anything except breathing and sleeping.
Woo-hoo! Four pages!
First, I typed out a frivolous poem I wrote a couple months ago, which I've posted in my poetry blog. Yay! Unfortunately, that also means my meager store of poetry is now depleted, and if I want to post more, then I have to write more. Boo!
Second, and most importantly, I started that ghost story I’d planned for NaNo. It's not for NaNo, anymore, but it is the first new story I’ve begun and the first time I’ve actually written in exactly one year. I feel a little rusty, but I’m so thrilled to have gotten something started after all this time. Yay me. In the one hour I spent on that story, I wrote no less than four pages. By that time, it was 10 pm, and my husband had just gotten home, and so it was time to quit.
Gotta celebrate these small victories, especially when we don’t have much energy for anything except breathing and sleeping.
Woo-hoo! Four pages!
Friday, November 11, 2005
Ugh! Now what am I gonna do???
It's already week two of NaNoWriMo, and I still haven't written a word. My Grandma had a stroke two weeks ago, and I flew to Chicago right away to be with her for a week. In the meantime, NaNo started, and I didn't. I MEANT to, I even brought my little USB stick, which caused a little problem at the security checkpoint when it got lost in my purse.
The security officer kept asking me, "Do you have anything else in there?" and running my purse through the x-ray no less than three times.
"No," I said. "That's everything." Cell phone, wallet, book, asthma inhaler, pens, passports.
I had to take everything out and put it all back together, three times, each time the woman asked what else is in there. My purse is black. So is my little USB stick, and so impossible to see in the inky depths of my carryon. On the third pass-through, and the third dismanteling of the contents, the security officer finally found the culprit.
"What's this?" she asked.
"Oh," I said. "I forgot about that. It's my USB stick."
She thrust it in my hand and shoved everything back at me. "You can go."
Two nights later, my sister's boyfriend was asking about NaNo... or somehow the conversation evolved to that point, and I remember talking about it and thinking to myself, Well, that's DAYS away. I've got plenty of time to get over my jetlag and get myself in order.
After that, I forgot about NaNo. Until a friend of my mother's called, and at the end of their conversation, asked to talk to me. Somehow, she knew I was planning on doing NaNo again this year, and told me a friend of hers is doing it, as well. "But I suppose you won't make the 50,000 mark, will you? Not since you're in Chicago this week."
I thought about what she said. Holy crap. It was Halloween evening and NaNo was starting at midnight. "Well, I brought my USB stick with me," (that troublesome little beast), "so, I was planning on squeezing some writing in while I'm here." and I meant it when I said it. I really did. I was fully confident I would get a goodly chunk of writing done.
But as soon as the conversation was over, I'd forgotten about NaNo. Until I returned to Germany. and now, with reverse jetlag and all, the idea of working on a story just overloads my circuits. I haven't thought about that novel in at least two weeks, probably more. I guess I better get crackin', though. I have no excuse to be forgetting all about it, now, do I?
Why can't writing a novel be as easy as writing a blog??? I'd have no trouble getting anything done, then.
I've been getting up, ready to tackle the day at 2:30 am, every day since we've been back.
Might as well start making using of that jetlag, right?
uh, yeah. right...
The security officer kept asking me, "Do you have anything else in there?" and running my purse through the x-ray no less than three times.
"No," I said. "That's everything." Cell phone, wallet, book, asthma inhaler, pens, passports.
I had to take everything out and put it all back together, three times, each time the woman asked what else is in there. My purse is black. So is my little USB stick, and so impossible to see in the inky depths of my carryon. On the third pass-through, and the third dismanteling of the contents, the security officer finally found the culprit.
"What's this?" she asked.
"Oh," I said. "I forgot about that. It's my USB stick."
She thrust it in my hand and shoved everything back at me. "You can go."
Two nights later, my sister's boyfriend was asking about NaNo... or somehow the conversation evolved to that point, and I remember talking about it and thinking to myself, Well, that's DAYS away. I've got plenty of time to get over my jetlag and get myself in order.
After that, I forgot about NaNo. Until a friend of my mother's called, and at the end of their conversation, asked to talk to me. Somehow, she knew I was planning on doing NaNo again this year, and told me a friend of hers is doing it, as well. "But I suppose you won't make the 50,000 mark, will you? Not since you're in Chicago this week."
I thought about what she said. Holy crap. It was Halloween evening and NaNo was starting at midnight. "Well, I brought my USB stick with me," (that troublesome little beast), "so, I was planning on squeezing some writing in while I'm here." and I meant it when I said it. I really did. I was fully confident I would get a goodly chunk of writing done.
But as soon as the conversation was over, I'd forgotten about NaNo. Until I returned to Germany. and now, with reverse jetlag and all, the idea of working on a story just overloads my circuits. I haven't thought about that novel in at least two weeks, probably more. I guess I better get crackin', though. I have no excuse to be forgetting all about it, now, do I?
Why can't writing a novel be as easy as writing a blog??? I'd have no trouble getting anything done, then.
I've been getting up, ready to tackle the day at 2:30 am, every day since we've been back.
Might as well start making using of that jetlag, right?
uh, yeah. right...
Thursday, November 10, 2005
It was nice to be home again. It's been four years...
After ten days in Chicago, I'm back in Germany. Two weeks ago, I packed up my son and some clothes to visit my grandmother, who had a stroke and is still in the hospital. She is not doing well. She had lots of bleeding in her brain, she can't speak and understands very little that is said to her. She seems to be thinking well, but can't communicate. Very little gets in or out.
When we left Chicago Sunday night, her spirit had visibly flagged and she was fighting off a touch of pneumonia. I haven't heard from my mom since our return to Germany, so no news is good news, as far as I'm concerned. I don't want to call her, because the only time our schedules coincide, given the seven-hour time difference, is while she's getting ready for work. She'd stressed out enough as it is without having to field phone calls for me in such little spaces of time. I did e-mail her, but she hasn't even returned that.
It was disturbing to go home, knowing that it was to say goodbye to Grandma. She was in good health, thanks to a pacemaker put in last year, when Grandpa was dying. She was happy, and involved in her community, and had lots of friends. When we visited her in the hospital, it made us laugh to see her usual facial expressions that show her sense of humor. She was happy to see me, and fascinated by my son, who was two years old the last time she saw him.
Every time I visited her, I was in tears. I had to leave the room to compose myself, so she wouldn't see me cry. I don't think I fooled her.
My mom has been a real trooper, though. I have to admire her for her strength of character. Especially after having seen Grandpa through all of his strokes and eventual death. That went on for years, however. I can only imagine what she must be going through to be losing her mother now. At this time of my life, it would kill me to lose one of my parents. Not to mention both.
I don't know how to write about this. My thoughts are so disjointed.
But, in spite of my reason for returning home, it was wonderful being there. My parents' house is peaceful and loving. I told only three of my friends that I was home, because I didn't want to deal with phone calls and visits: the woman who used to cut my hair, who I adore; my best friend; and a dear mutual friend of ours. The reunions were pleasant and happy.
I brought very little back to Germany with me, except for a few products that can't be found here. I also bought hygiene supplies (soap, shampoo, deo, toothpaste, hair products) to leave at my mom's house, in anticipation of our relocation stateside, next spring. We don't know for sure that we'll be able to go back, but you can bet your bottom dollar that both Mom and I are banking on that eventuality. My best friend asked me what I would do if it didn't work out. I said, "Kill myself." I don't want to get my hopes up too high, because I might very well have to face disappointment, but I still can't stop hoping.
Lots have changes have happened in the rural area I left, six-and-a-half years ago. Lots of retail development, lots of the surrounding cornfields yielding to big housing developments. Property values have gone up as a result, which puts a damper on the likelihood of our buying a home in the area--but not on my enthusiasm to do so.
The trees in our yard have gotten so big, in the fours years since I'd last seen them. And the leaves were still red and orange when we arrived. In the forty-eight hours before we left, most of them had fallen off because it had gotten pretty windy. We don't get wind like that here, in Wildberg. I missed it.
So, we're in Germany again. My husband was glad to have us back, though even in that department things have gotten back to normal, which is not always pleasant. I'm discovering the Zen of fire-building, though rueing the maintenance factor, and the rapidity with which the fire's heat dissipates once the fire goes out. I'm able now to judge the atmospheric pressure according to how much I have to open or close the vents in the wood stove to keep the fire burning at maximum efficiency. Today, the pressure is dropping, which means we'll probably get rain. I don't know that for sure. It's still dark out, and all the shades are closed as I write this, but that's what the fire is telling me.
I've been up since 2:30 am, today. Jetlag. Still. Going east is always harder than going west. I seem to recall my mom and dad always getting up at that time when they've been here to visit. So, I've been up about five hours, now, dreading how sleeping I'm going to be in another five hours.
Jetlag sucks. But at least I got back to blogging because of it.
When we left Chicago Sunday night, her spirit had visibly flagged and she was fighting off a touch of pneumonia. I haven't heard from my mom since our return to Germany, so no news is good news, as far as I'm concerned. I don't want to call her, because the only time our schedules coincide, given the seven-hour time difference, is while she's getting ready for work. She'd stressed out enough as it is without having to field phone calls for me in such little spaces of time. I did e-mail her, but she hasn't even returned that.
It was disturbing to go home, knowing that it was to say goodbye to Grandma. She was in good health, thanks to a pacemaker put in last year, when Grandpa was dying. She was happy, and involved in her community, and had lots of friends. When we visited her in the hospital, it made us laugh to see her usual facial expressions that show her sense of humor. She was happy to see me, and fascinated by my son, who was two years old the last time she saw him.
Every time I visited her, I was in tears. I had to leave the room to compose myself, so she wouldn't see me cry. I don't think I fooled her.
My mom has been a real trooper, though. I have to admire her for her strength of character. Especially after having seen Grandpa through all of his strokes and eventual death. That went on for years, however. I can only imagine what she must be going through to be losing her mother now. At this time of my life, it would kill me to lose one of my parents. Not to mention both.
I don't know how to write about this. My thoughts are so disjointed.
But, in spite of my reason for returning home, it was wonderful being there. My parents' house is peaceful and loving. I told only three of my friends that I was home, because I didn't want to deal with phone calls and visits: the woman who used to cut my hair, who I adore; my best friend; and a dear mutual friend of ours. The reunions were pleasant and happy.
I brought very little back to Germany with me, except for a few products that can't be found here. I also bought hygiene supplies (soap, shampoo, deo, toothpaste, hair products) to leave at my mom's house, in anticipation of our relocation stateside, next spring. We don't know for sure that we'll be able to go back, but you can bet your bottom dollar that both Mom and I are banking on that eventuality. My best friend asked me what I would do if it didn't work out. I said, "Kill myself." I don't want to get my hopes up too high, because I might very well have to face disappointment, but I still can't stop hoping.
Lots have changes have happened in the rural area I left, six-and-a-half years ago. Lots of retail development, lots of the surrounding cornfields yielding to big housing developments. Property values have gone up as a result, which puts a damper on the likelihood of our buying a home in the area--but not on my enthusiasm to do so.
The trees in our yard have gotten so big, in the fours years since I'd last seen them. And the leaves were still red and orange when we arrived. In the forty-eight hours before we left, most of them had fallen off because it had gotten pretty windy. We don't get wind like that here, in Wildberg. I missed it.
So, we're in Germany again. My husband was glad to have us back, though even in that department things have gotten back to normal, which is not always pleasant. I'm discovering the Zen of fire-building, though rueing the maintenance factor, and the rapidity with which the fire's heat dissipates once the fire goes out. I'm able now to judge the atmospheric pressure according to how much I have to open or close the vents in the wood stove to keep the fire burning at maximum efficiency. Today, the pressure is dropping, which means we'll probably get rain. I don't know that for sure. It's still dark out, and all the shades are closed as I write this, but that's what the fire is telling me.
I've been up since 2:30 am, today. Jetlag. Still. Going east is always harder than going west. I seem to recall my mom and dad always getting up at that time when they've been here to visit. So, I've been up about five hours, now, dreading how sleeping I'm going to be in another five hours.
Jetlag sucks. But at least I got back to blogging because of it.
Thursday, October 27, 2005
It was so sudden
I've been a busy little bee. I got caught the last week or so making a video CD of digital pics for my folks back in the States. I had lots of problems with creating the CD. I won't go into detail, but it was time-consuming.
Having solved the problem yesterday, I managed to get the first CD burned, and was working on another, when I got a phone call from my mom.
It was one of THOSE phone calls.
The kind you typically get late at night, that pull you out of sweet la-la land to face terrible news.
Usually news of death.
Mine was pretty much like one of those. Almost, but not quite. I got my phone call in the middle of the day, and I could tell from my mom's voice that not all was well on the Midwestern front.
Two possibilities ran through my head. Is it Dad or Grandma? over and over the question revolved in the three-second silence between my question, "What's wrong?" and my mom's answer:
"It's Grandma."
Shit. Grandpa died a little over a year ago, and Grandma had been doing really well. She was happy, involved, had friends all over her assisted living community. She didn't need assistance, but she was there because Grandpa had been.
But she is also 91 years old. A spry 91, at that.
Turns out, Grandma's brain is bleeding, deep inside, near the medulla, the part that regulates all life functions. Grandma is aware, so far, but can't speak. Mom wasn't sure if she was really congnitive. She'd answered my mom's questions, but answered yes to every single one, for example. The doctor said operating at her age, so deep inside, so close to such a vital area of the brain, is simply too dangerous, and he advises against it.
He said it's likely she will lapse into a coma, as the tissue in her skull swells, but that she may wake out of it. If she does, she will never be the same Grandma we know and love. She will be just as she is right now. There is also the likelihood that her life functions eventually will be affected, and her body will shut down.
Grandma has a living will, so will not be put on life support.
My husband questioned whether she REALLY wants to be put on life support, now that the time is so close. Who knows? How can we know, if she isn't truly coginitive? But what's the alternative? To put her on life support, at age 91, until she's what? 105? 110? Whenever the rest of her body finally poops out? The rest of her was really going strong.
Naturally, I'm upset. I'm leaving Germany tomorrow at noon, and will arrive in Chicago around
2 pm CDT. My son is accompanying me, and my husband is staying home. His bosses at work won't give him the time off. He has 20 days of vacation due him, and they made a fuss that he asked for a half-day on Monday to run the car through inspection. They really made a fuss when he just asked for Friday off to drive me and our son to the airport. The arschlöcher.
I spent the day packing and cleaning the house (makes less work for me when I get back). I managed to throw in binders of sheet music, which are incredibly heavy, as a tangible prayer that we move to the States next year. The music would just add to the weight of boxes shipped stateside when the times comes. So why not bring them back while I can?
I'm feeling numb right now. I hope the sensation lasts for the next 38 hours. Let me get home and get a full night's rest, before I start feeling again.
I don't want my Gram to die.
Shit. I'm gonna cry again.
Having solved the problem yesterday, I managed to get the first CD burned, and was working on another, when I got a phone call from my mom.
It was one of THOSE phone calls.
The kind you typically get late at night, that pull you out of sweet la-la land to face terrible news.
Usually news of death.
Mine was pretty much like one of those. Almost, but not quite. I got my phone call in the middle of the day, and I could tell from my mom's voice that not all was well on the Midwestern front.
Two possibilities ran through my head. Is it Dad or Grandma? over and over the question revolved in the three-second silence between my question, "What's wrong?" and my mom's answer:
"It's Grandma."
Shit. Grandpa died a little over a year ago, and Grandma had been doing really well. She was happy, involved, had friends all over her assisted living community. She didn't need assistance, but she was there because Grandpa had been.
But she is also 91 years old. A spry 91, at that.
Turns out, Grandma's brain is bleeding, deep inside, near the medulla, the part that regulates all life functions. Grandma is aware, so far, but can't speak. Mom wasn't sure if she was really congnitive. She'd answered my mom's questions, but answered yes to every single one, for example. The doctor said operating at her age, so deep inside, so close to such a vital area of the brain, is simply too dangerous, and he advises against it.
He said it's likely she will lapse into a coma, as the tissue in her skull swells, but that she may wake out of it. If she does, she will never be the same Grandma we know and love. She will be just as she is right now. There is also the likelihood that her life functions eventually will be affected, and her body will shut down.
Grandma has a living will, so will not be put on life support.
My husband questioned whether she REALLY wants to be put on life support, now that the time is so close. Who knows? How can we know, if she isn't truly coginitive? But what's the alternative? To put her on life support, at age 91, until she's what? 105? 110? Whenever the rest of her body finally poops out? The rest of her was really going strong.
Naturally, I'm upset. I'm leaving Germany tomorrow at noon, and will arrive in Chicago around
2 pm CDT. My son is accompanying me, and my husband is staying home. His bosses at work won't give him the time off. He has 20 days of vacation due him, and they made a fuss that he asked for a half-day on Monday to run the car through inspection. They really made a fuss when he just asked for Friday off to drive me and our son to the airport. The arschlöcher.
I spent the day packing and cleaning the house (makes less work for me when I get back). I managed to throw in binders of sheet music, which are incredibly heavy, as a tangible prayer that we move to the States next year. The music would just add to the weight of boxes shipped stateside when the times comes. So why not bring them back while I can?
I'm feeling numb right now. I hope the sensation lasts for the next 38 hours. Let me get home and get a full night's rest, before I start feeling again.
I don't want my Gram to die.
Shit. I'm gonna cry again.
Thursday, October 20, 2005
I SEE IT IN MY CRYSTAL BALL...
When I was in my twenties, a co-worker told me she had gone to a psychic. Naturally, I was interested. I’d been to a few before. A couple who seemed legitimate. A few others who seemed like quacks. But this one, my friend told me, was different.
“She’s really good. I totally believe her.”
“Good,” I said. As fascinated as I am, I always take things like this with a grain of salt.
“She mentioned you by name,” my friend continued.
That really got my attention. “What? My name?”
My friend nodded. “Yeah. She said, ‘Do you know someone named Silver?’ I said yeah. She said, ‘Tell her to be careful with her eyes.’”
I hesitated. “My eyes?” My eyes have never given me trouble, except that I wear glasses—and at the time, I had to have my prescription changed frequently because they kept getting worse. Not unusual, my doctor had told me. It would level out as I got older. Which was true. “How do you know she meant me?”
“You’re the only Silver I know.”
“Huh.”
“She also said, ‘Tell her to be very careful driving.’”
“No way. Really?”
“Yeah. I think she gave me more information about you than she did about me.”
Somehow, I felt guilty about that. “Sorry.”
“Well, it wasn’t so bad. I think she’s really good. I’m going to go again.”
Some time had passed--two or three weeks, maybe—and I’d forgotten all about the psychic lady my friend had visited. It was early on a Saturday evening, and I was driving to a local pizza place to pick up a slice for dinner. We lived out in the country, and the roads were long and straight, and the speed limit was a typical 55 mph. and I tended to drive with a lead foot.
About a quarter mile ahead of me, there was another car. I saw it hit its brake lights briefly and then move on. As I approached the spot where the car had slowed down, I hit the brakes, hard. Right there, almost in the middle of the road, stood a small toddler boy. His parents were nowhere in sight. I pulled over, got out of the car, and walked up to him.
“Hello,” I said. “I’m Silver. Where are your mommy and daddy?”
The little boy pointed toward the house, set back about 100 feet from the road.
“Well, let’s go find them, okay?” I took him by the hand and he lead me to the side door. I rang the doorbell, and the child ran inside. I told the mother where I’d found her son, and that if I or another driver hadn’t been paying attention, he could have gotten killed.
The words frightened me, probably as much as they frightened the mother. My god. I could have killed this child on my way to get a freaking slice of pizza. I could have taken a life, and permanently altered the lives of this family, my family—and myself. How could I live with such a thing hanging over my head like that?
The woman thanked me, and I walked back to my car. My friend’s message rang in my ears again. “She said to be very careful driving.”
Shortly after that, my friend went to the psychic again, and returned with another message for me. “She said to tell you to be careful with her eyes.”
“Again? Why does she keep mentioning me?”
My friend just looked at me. “I think you should go, so you can talk to her personally.”
Remembering the warning about driving, I took down the details and made an appointment.
I went, and it was interesting. She offers to record each session, so I brought a tape with me. I don’t remember what she told me, except that she saw a lot of paper around me. She asked if I was a student. I wasn’t. But I told her I was in publishing and did a lot of copy editing. And I told her I had just started writing again. “Keep doing it,” she said to me. She was very emphatic about it. “Keep writing and start showing it to people.”
Well, if you check out my fiction from that time, you’ll see it isn’t great. It wasn’t until a couple years ago that I finally started showing people my work. And writing more regularly. My short stories kept getting longer, so last year I decided to try writing a book. I have yet to finish one, but I’ve got tons of ideas. That and Blogit keep me very busy. Very preoccupied.
She said some other things, which I don’t remember very clearly. The tape, I think, is long gone. I’d tossed it in my desk drawer at home, intending to listen again after I’d gotten some distance from it. But then I got married and moved away, and I think my mom threw the tape in the trash, not knowing what it was.
The psychic did, however, mention an aunt by name and suggested she start taking aspirin regularly to fend off an impending stroke or something. And she told me to be careful about my eyes.
Again, with my eyes. Just what was up with that???
After I got married, I got pregnant right away. About six or eight weeks before my son was born, I went to the doctor to have my eyes checked. He discovered I had a hole in my retina. He recommended I have it lasered closed right away, before the baby was born. It could rupture and cause blindness during labor. He also said from the looks of it, it had been there for quite a while, and that I was lucky nothing serious had happened so far.
After I had the hole in my retina fixed, my friend had returned to the psychic a few times, and even my mom had paid her a visit. Not once was I, my eyes, or my driving mentioned again.
“She’s really good. I totally believe her.”
“Good,” I said. As fascinated as I am, I always take things like this with a grain of salt.
“She mentioned you by name,” my friend continued.
That really got my attention. “What? My name?”
My friend nodded. “Yeah. She said, ‘Do you know someone named Silver?’ I said yeah. She said, ‘Tell her to be careful with her eyes.’”
I hesitated. “My eyes?” My eyes have never given me trouble, except that I wear glasses—and at the time, I had to have my prescription changed frequently because they kept getting worse. Not unusual, my doctor had told me. It would level out as I got older. Which was true. “How do you know she meant me?”
“You’re the only Silver I know.”
“Huh.”
“She also said, ‘Tell her to be very careful driving.’”
“No way. Really?”
“Yeah. I think she gave me more information about you than she did about me.”
Somehow, I felt guilty about that. “Sorry.”
“Well, it wasn’t so bad. I think she’s really good. I’m going to go again.”
Some time had passed--two or three weeks, maybe—and I’d forgotten all about the psychic lady my friend had visited. It was early on a Saturday evening, and I was driving to a local pizza place to pick up a slice for dinner. We lived out in the country, and the roads were long and straight, and the speed limit was a typical 55 mph. and I tended to drive with a lead foot.
About a quarter mile ahead of me, there was another car. I saw it hit its brake lights briefly and then move on. As I approached the spot where the car had slowed down, I hit the brakes, hard. Right there, almost in the middle of the road, stood a small toddler boy. His parents were nowhere in sight. I pulled over, got out of the car, and walked up to him.
“Hello,” I said. “I’m Silver. Where are your mommy and daddy?”
The little boy pointed toward the house, set back about 100 feet from the road.
“Well, let’s go find them, okay?” I took him by the hand and he lead me to the side door. I rang the doorbell, and the child ran inside. I told the mother where I’d found her son, and that if I or another driver hadn’t been paying attention, he could have gotten killed.
The words frightened me, probably as much as they frightened the mother. My god. I could have killed this child on my way to get a freaking slice of pizza. I could have taken a life, and permanently altered the lives of this family, my family—and myself. How could I live with such a thing hanging over my head like that?
The woman thanked me, and I walked back to my car. My friend’s message rang in my ears again. “She said to be very careful driving.”
Shortly after that, my friend went to the psychic again, and returned with another message for me. “She said to tell you to be careful with her eyes.”
“Again? Why does she keep mentioning me?”
My friend just looked at me. “I think you should go, so you can talk to her personally.”
Remembering the warning about driving, I took down the details and made an appointment.
I went, and it was interesting. She offers to record each session, so I brought a tape with me. I don’t remember what she told me, except that she saw a lot of paper around me. She asked if I was a student. I wasn’t. But I told her I was in publishing and did a lot of copy editing. And I told her I had just started writing again. “Keep doing it,” she said to me. She was very emphatic about it. “Keep writing and start showing it to people.”
Well, if you check out my fiction from that time, you’ll see it isn’t great. It wasn’t until a couple years ago that I finally started showing people my work. And writing more regularly. My short stories kept getting longer, so last year I decided to try writing a book. I have yet to finish one, but I’ve got tons of ideas. That and Blogit keep me very busy. Very preoccupied.
She said some other things, which I don’t remember very clearly. The tape, I think, is long gone. I’d tossed it in my desk drawer at home, intending to listen again after I’d gotten some distance from it. But then I got married and moved away, and I think my mom threw the tape in the trash, not knowing what it was.
The psychic did, however, mention an aunt by name and suggested she start taking aspirin regularly to fend off an impending stroke or something. And she told me to be careful about my eyes.
Again, with my eyes. Just what was up with that???
After I got married, I got pregnant right away. About six or eight weeks before my son was born, I went to the doctor to have my eyes checked. He discovered I had a hole in my retina. He recommended I have it lasered closed right away, before the baby was born. It could rupture and cause blindness during labor. He also said from the looks of it, it had been there for quite a while, and that I was lucky nothing serious had happened so far.
After I had the hole in my retina fixed, my friend had returned to the psychic a few times, and even my mom had paid her a visit. Not once was I, my eyes, or my driving mentioned again.
Monday, October 17, 2005
How do you explain it?
There has been a lot of talk lately of things metaphysical. I’ll be honest in saying that I love this area of thought in most of its forms. I’m deeply intrigued by psychics and the paranormal, in particular. It’s funny, isn’t it, how many people are interested in this subject, but how few are willing to admit it?
I wanted to share with you-all some of my experiences. They are not extraordinary, and they certainly don’t involved any latent talent of my own come to light. I’m pretty boring. I don’t see ghosts. I can’t tell the future. I get strong instinctual feelings and, more often than not, am wrong. I always choose the longest line at the bank or grocery store, no matter how I open my mind to show me the shortest. Sometimes I second-guess myself, and am wrong even then.
When we were in Frankfurt one day in July, we were driving around looking for someplace to eat. A McDonald’s would have been fine. A Burger King would have been better. My husband drew up to a corner and asked me which direction we should go. He has good instincts, but sometimes he asks me. I paused, and after a moment I said straight ahead. My husband, strangely enough, agreed. I asked, “Know why I said straight?” His answer was straight on. He said, “Because you were going to say right, but knew you always guess wrong, so you said straight instead.” Yes, he knows me well. And that only illustrates just how often I’m off the mark.
But I’ve gotten off track. I’d like to share one of my most cherished memories.
When I was young, I think I might have been nine years old, my grandparents (my dad’s parents) had driven up from Florida to Chicago for a visit. It was summer, and they invited me to drive back down with them, and I’d take a plane home in a week or two, after I’d visited my mother’s parents.
Driving from Chicago to Florida can require one or two overnights in a motel—especially with the elderly. On one of our overnights, the three of us bedded down nice and cozy for the evening after calling my mom and dad back in Chicago. Grandma and Grandpa shared one bed, and I was in the other.
The next morning, they both asked me if I remembered getting up in the night. I said no. They told me I had gotten up and curled into bed next to my grandpa, thinking it was my dad.
I wanted to share with you-all some of my experiences. They are not extraordinary, and they certainly don’t involved any latent talent of my own come to light. I’m pretty boring. I don’t see ghosts. I can’t tell the future. I get strong instinctual feelings and, more often than not, am wrong. I always choose the longest line at the bank or grocery store, no matter how I open my mind to show me the shortest. Sometimes I second-guess myself, and am wrong even then.
When we were in Frankfurt one day in July, we were driving around looking for someplace to eat. A McDonald’s would have been fine. A Burger King would have been better. My husband drew up to a corner and asked me which direction we should go. He has good instincts, but sometimes he asks me. I paused, and after a moment I said straight ahead. My husband, strangely enough, agreed. I asked, “Know why I said straight?” His answer was straight on. He said, “Because you were going to say right, but knew you always guess wrong, so you said straight instead.” Yes, he knows me well. And that only illustrates just how often I’m off the mark.
But I’ve gotten off track. I’d like to share one of my most cherished memories.
When I was young, I think I might have been nine years old, my grandparents (my dad’s parents) had driven up from Florida to Chicago for a visit. It was summer, and they invited me to drive back down with them, and I’d take a plane home in a week or two, after I’d visited my mother’s parents.
Driving from Chicago to Florida can require one or two overnights in a motel—especially with the elderly. On one of our overnights, the three of us bedded down nice and cozy for the evening after calling my mom and dad back in Chicago. Grandma and Grandpa shared one bed, and I was in the other.
The next morning, they both asked me if I remembered getting up in the night. I said no. They told me I had gotten up and curled into bed next to my grandpa, thinking it was my dad.
“Daddy, I’m cold,” I’d said to him. He woke up and carried me back to my bed.
I’m not a sleepwalker, and I thought it was pretty funny to hear that I’d done something like
that. When we called my mom and dad the next evening, I told them what had happened. My ad didn’t think it was funny at all. He said, “Well, I had a dream last night that you came to our bed. You were cold, and you were having trouble breathing. I tried to keep you warm.” (I have asthma, which was a constant trouble in my youth.)
My father and I had had the same dream. We were very close when I was young, so it didn’t surprise me that we had shared dreams. When I was young, my world revolved around my dad, and this was evidence of how closely we were linked. I thought it was really wonderful.
Later, when I was in high school, I had a friend who was not the best influence on sweet innocent me. My friend had asked me to sleep over at her house. Her mother was out of town for the weekend, and my friend was having a little party. I asked my mom and dad, and somehow, this time, they knew to ask if my friend’s mother was going to be there.
Naturally, I lied.
So my dad dropped me off at her apartment, and the evening progressed smoothly. And then it was 11:00 or so, and it was time for all of us to get ready to go to the midnight showing of The Rocky Horror Picture Show. We saw the movie (for the millionth time), and then we stopped off at Wag’s for fries, coffee, waffles, whatever.
Fact was, it was about 2:30 am. We were sitting at our corner table, when I had this strong feeling.
“Uh-oh,” I said suddenly to my friend, cutting across the conversation at our table. “Does your mom know I’m spending the night?”
“No,” she said. “She thinks I’m staying the night at your house.”
This was news to me. But it didn’t matter at the moment. “Umm, I think your mom just called my dad.”
We decided shortly after to wrap things up and go home.
Sure enough, my friend’s mother was waiting for us when we got back to her place. For whatever reason, she'd come home early. She was pretty mad that my friend had lied to her, but said I could stay the rest of the night, and my dad would come pick me up in the morning. In the meantime, I was to call my dad to let him know I was all right.
It was mother’s instinct that made her return home in the middle of the night, then call my father in search of her daughter. Since the apartment was probably in a real state from the party we’d had, it had likely made her doubt her daughter had spent her evening at my house.
But how did I know she had called my dad? How, in the middle of all our mid-adolescent antics, after a night of drinking cheap beer and Rocky Horror and a plate of French fries with friends at 2:30 am, did I know my dad was wondering where in the hell I was?
I didn’t get in trouble for my friend’s indiscretion. I hadn’t known she’d told her mom she was at my house. But I was very much reminded of the bond between my dad and me.
Friday, October 14, 2005
Wilkommen zu unser Zuhause
For the first half of September, the weather here in lovely Wildberg was warm and sunny. It was the summer we mostly didn't have, this year. The weather finally took a turn, however, and fall is finally here. As the cold front moved in, so did some lovely photo opportunities...
The is the front half of the house. Our landlady, Friedl, lives in this half. The picture is taken from the parking lot... sorry, driveway below. (The driveway is pretty big, considering there are three garages beneath the house that belong to Friedl, and another huge,
two-car garage to the right.)
The is the front half of the house. Our landlady, Friedl, lives in this half. The picture is taken from the parking lot... sorry, driveway below. (The driveway is pretty big, considering there are three garages beneath the house that belong to Friedl, and another huge,
two-car garage to the right.)
~~~
This is our house. You can see Friedl's connecting front half on the left. The two windows and glass patio door you see on the lower level belong to the kitchen, and it's a huge kitchen! This picture is taken from the hill I frequently refer to in my posts. Across the distance, and thanks to my camera's zoom feature, it appears smaller in the photo than it really is. The white chimney separate from the house is our grill. It's huge, too. We have a great big patio, a little patch of yard behind the grill, with a big shady hazelnut tree. We like to watch the squirrels climb the trees in the garden behind ours, and run through the connecting branches
to collect the nuts in our tree.
to collect the nuts in our tree.
~~~
Ahh, pretty clouds over the Black Forest, as seen from our kitchen door.
The rain and fog move in as the cold front sweeps through... and so do my rain pains. Ouch. But it's worth it. I love this weather, and to watch it from the kitchen window
is a heavenly experience.
is a heavenly experience.
Thursday, October 13, 2005
Quote of the Day
We had a diarrhea epidemic in our house last week. Those invovled basically have returned to good health, with minor accidents here and there. The occasion was punctuated by this little exchange yesterday:
My son and I were walking to the Kindergarten. As he walked, he released a very large fart. We're normally a very open family who laughs and giggles at such things (sue me!), but this one was met with silence.
"I farted," my son informed me, as if I hadn't heard. Really, anyone passing across the street would have heard that one.
"Yes, I know..." I said, feeling a little worried.
Before I could ask, he said, "Don't worry, Mommy. This time it was dry."
My son and I were walking to the Kindergarten. As he walked, he released a very large fart. We're normally a very open family who laughs and giggles at such things (sue me!), but this one was met with silence.
"I farted," my son informed me, as if I hadn't heard. Really, anyone passing across the street would have heard that one.
"Yes, I know..." I said, feeling a little worried.
Before I could ask, he said, "Don't worry, Mommy. This time it was dry."
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
Good News, and A New Role
On Friday, my sister-in-law gave birth to her twin girls. We're all very excited. She was taking fertility drugs, and finally last winter she became pregnant. She'd looked really awful during her entire pregnancy, and in fact, had been throwing up clear into her third trimester. Poor woman.
She was actually due in November, but the last time we saw her a few weeks ago, I told her the girls were coming the middle of October. I took one look at her and I knew. She was so uncomfortable and looked so ashen, and had been confined to 80-percent bedrest. We were all worried about her.
There were complications during the birth. She had to have a caesarian, and there was an argument between the doctor and the anaesthetist over whether it was safe to put my sister-in-law under. The doctor said it was time, and it was dangerous to let it go on any longer. The anaesthetist said it was too dangerous to put her under at that time. In the meantime, the clock was ticking, and my sister-in-law was in serious discomfort.
When my son was delivered, I'd had complications, too. To make a boring story short, he should have been caesarian--he was a large baby, and I've a small frame. The result--after 24 hours of labor, a reluctant and stingy anaesthetist, and the head nurse pushing down on my belly to force my son out while the doctor sucked him out with a mechanical suction cup--was paralysis to my son's right arm, which required a year of physical therapy.
Turns out, my in-laws were at the same hospital I was. If they had known, they would have chosen another. If we had known, we would have advised against that particular hospital.
The babies were finally delivered, five weeks early, but they both received low Apgar scores all three times. The smaller one had stopped breathing more than once, and had been put on a respirator. My sister- and brother-in-law were beside themselves, but I reassured my husband that it's not uncommon for early babies to go through this kind of thing. I explained that Apgar scores are more to help the doctors determine what kind of treatment the babies should receive, and are not a guide for the parents to determine how healthy they are. And certainly not to determine their future development.
On Monday, we visited. Everyone is doing fine. The babies look strong and alert, though they are kept in Intensive Care, and are monitored. They are the tiniest things I've ever held in my arms. Both of them together are smaller than my son was when he was born (9.5 pounds).
And while I held one of them and cooed and marveled at the miracle of life, I suddenly realized one thing:
I'm an Aunt.
She was actually due in November, but the last time we saw her a few weeks ago, I told her the girls were coming the middle of October. I took one look at her and I knew. She was so uncomfortable and looked so ashen, and had been confined to 80-percent bedrest. We were all worried about her.
There were complications during the birth. She had to have a caesarian, and there was an argument between the doctor and the anaesthetist over whether it was safe to put my sister-in-law under. The doctor said it was time, and it was dangerous to let it go on any longer. The anaesthetist said it was too dangerous to put her under at that time. In the meantime, the clock was ticking, and my sister-in-law was in serious discomfort.
When my son was delivered, I'd had complications, too. To make a boring story short, he should have been caesarian--he was a large baby, and I've a small frame. The result--after 24 hours of labor, a reluctant and stingy anaesthetist, and the head nurse pushing down on my belly to force my son out while the doctor sucked him out with a mechanical suction cup--was paralysis to my son's right arm, which required a year of physical therapy.
Turns out, my in-laws were at the same hospital I was. If they had known, they would have chosen another. If we had known, we would have advised against that particular hospital.
The babies were finally delivered, five weeks early, but they both received low Apgar scores all three times. The smaller one had stopped breathing more than once, and had been put on a respirator. My sister- and brother-in-law were beside themselves, but I reassured my husband that it's not uncommon for early babies to go through this kind of thing. I explained that Apgar scores are more to help the doctors determine what kind of treatment the babies should receive, and are not a guide for the parents to determine how healthy they are. And certainly not to determine their future development.
On Monday, we visited. Everyone is doing fine. The babies look strong and alert, though they are kept in Intensive Care, and are monitored. They are the tiniest things I've ever held in my arms. Both of them together are smaller than my son was when he was born (9.5 pounds).
And while I held one of them and cooed and marveled at the miracle of life, I suddenly realized one thing:
I'm an Aunt.
Well Whaddya Know
On Friday, my sister-in-law gave birth to her twin girls. We're all very excited. She was taking fertility drugs, and finally last winter she became pregnant. She'd looked really awful during her entire pregnancy, and in fact, had been throwing up clear into her third trimester. Poor woman.
She was actually due in November, but the last time we saw her a few weeks ago, I told her the girls were coming the middle of October. I took one look at her and I knew. She was so uncomfortable and looked so ashen, and had been confined to 80-percent bedrest. We were all worried about her.
There were complications during the birth. She had to have a caesarian, and there was an argument between the doctor and the anaesthetist over whether it was safe to put my sister-in-law under. The doctor said it was time, and it was dangerous to let it go on any longer. The anaesthetist said it was too dangerous to put her under at that time. In the meantime, the clock was ticking, and my sister-in-law was in serious discomfort.
When my son was delivered, I'd had complications, too. To make a boring story short, he should have been caesarian--he was a large baby, and I've a small frame. The result--after 24 hours of labor, a reluctant and stingy anaesthetist, and the head nurse pushing down on my belly to force my son out while the doctor sucked him out with a mechanical suction cup--was paralysis to my son's right arm, which required a year of physical therapy.
Turns out, my in-laws were at the same hospital I was. If they had know, they would have chosen another. If we had known, we would have advised against that particular hospital.
The babies were finally delivered, five weeks early, but they both received low Apgar scores all three times. The smaller one had stopped breathing more than once, and had been put on a respirator. My sister- and brother-in-law were beside themselves, but I reassured my husband that it's not uncommon for early babies to go through this kind of thing. I explained that Apgar scores are more to help the doctors determine what kind of treatment the babies should receive, and are not a guide for the parents to determine how healthy they are. And certainly not to determine their future development.
On Monday, we visited. Everyone is doing fine. The babies look strong and alert, though they are kept in Intensive Care, and are monitored. They are the tiniest things I've ever held in my arms. Both of them together are smaller than my son was when he was born (9.5 pounds).
And while I held one of them and cooed and marveled at the miracle of life, I suddenly realized one thing:
I'm an Aunt.
She was actually due in November, but the last time we saw her a few weeks ago, I told her the girls were coming the middle of October. I took one look at her and I knew. She was so uncomfortable and looked so ashen, and had been confined to 80-percent bedrest. We were all worried about her.
There were complications during the birth. She had to have a caesarian, and there was an argument between the doctor and the anaesthetist over whether it was safe to put my sister-in-law under. The doctor said it was time, and it was dangerous to let it go on any longer. The anaesthetist said it was too dangerous to put her under at that time. In the meantime, the clock was ticking, and my sister-in-law was in serious discomfort.
When my son was delivered, I'd had complications, too. To make a boring story short, he should have been caesarian--he was a large baby, and I've a small frame. The result--after 24 hours of labor, a reluctant and stingy anaesthetist, and the head nurse pushing down on my belly to force my son out while the doctor sucked him out with a mechanical suction cup--was paralysis to my son's right arm, which required a year of physical therapy.
Turns out, my in-laws were at the same hospital I was. If they had know, they would have chosen another. If we had known, we would have advised against that particular hospital.
The babies were finally delivered, five weeks early, but they both received low Apgar scores all three times. The smaller one had stopped breathing more than once, and had been put on a respirator. My sister- and brother-in-law were beside themselves, but I reassured my husband that it's not uncommon for early babies to go through this kind of thing. I explained that Apgar scores are more to help the doctors determine what kind of treatment the babies should receive, and are not a guide for the parents to determine how healthy they are. And certainly not to determine their future development.
On Monday, we visited. Everyone is doing fine. The babies look strong and alert, though they are kept in Intensive Care, and are monitored. They are the tiniest things I've ever held in my arms. Both of them together are smaller than my son was when he was born (9.5 pounds).
And while I held one of them and cooed and marveled at the miracle of life, I suddenly realized one thing:
I'm an Aunt.
Friday, October 7, 2005
Odorferous Foibles
Every morning, when I walk my son to Kindergarten, I take care to lock up our house. The house is actually two apartments, one above, one on the ground floor. That means, there are two interior doors that open into the two separate apartments. Both of these doors get locked every time we leave the house unattended. There's a story behind this, but I'll get to it another time.
So, Tuesday morning, I locked up nice and tight and headed off, then returned to the house, unlocked everything, and went about my business, as usual. When it was time to pick up my boy, I locked up again. When we returned, I undid the lower-level door, then headed upstairs and unlocked the door that leads to the main part of the house. The door unlocked just fine, but I couldn't twist the key all the way around its 180-degree circuit that clicks the lock into place and releases the key.
(We use locks that need skeleton keys. It's a system that's still very much in use in Germany. And yes, you can peek right through them into the other room, just like in the old Tom 'n' Jerry cartoons!)
I couldn't get the key out of the door. Inconvenient, but at least we could get into the rest of the house.
My husband told our landlady, Friedl, and the next day she brought a locksmith over to take a look. "Kein problem," he said. "We'll come over tomorrow afternoon and fix it. About 16:00. (4:00 pm).
The next day, predictably, 4:00 pm came and went, and about 5:00 pm, I got a call from one of his workers. "Es tut mir leid. We can't come today. Is tomorrow morning between 7:30-8:30 okay?" That was the only time anyone was available.
7:30 is a little early for me, and my son was sick, and I was starting to feel a little ill, myself. But, I had little choice but to say yes, or have to wait the whole weekend to have our lock fixed. So, I agreed.
I woke up this morning at 6:50, my gut rumbling. That did not bode well. I rushed into the bathroom knowing I had definitely contracted my son's illness. Then, I got dressed, padded up the stairs and opened the windows in the kitchen and living room to air out the residual smokey smell from the previous days' struggles with the wood stove. Then, I tidied up the kitchen.
Then I settled in at the computer (after another stop in the toilet) to wait for the locksmith.
7:30 passed. So did 8:30. At 9:30, I called my husband just to complain that they were late. Not unexpected, but irritating, because I hadn't showered yet, and I'd been postponing another trip to the bathroom because, well, I didn't want to stink up the joint.
At 1:30, my husband called the locksmith, and by 2:30 he was here. I was feeling pretty ripe by then. When I'd gotten dressed and semi-primped early in the morning, I looked half-way decent. But a day of ill health, while tending to my son's needs, and trying to get the laundry done in between, had taken its toll. Having not yet showered, I couldn't have smelled good, and I certainly did not look my best. But I didn't care. It was a bloody locksmith. He was just coming to get the key out of the lock and move on.
But the man who walked through my door made me want to cringe in horror. A young man of medium height, sandy hair, blue eyes, and so damn cute. And there I was, looking like a nightmare of housewifery. I wanted to crawl into a hole a hide until he left.
He was very nice to my son, too, who followed him around asking all kinds of questions.
I remained out of site, too mortified to satisfy my own curiosity by watching. I determined he must be about 15 years younger than me, and I fantasized how he would look once he finished growing into this bone structure. In ten years, he would be one handsome guy. Yowza.
When he was done, I could barely look him in the eye. I must reek something awful. And I already knew how terrible I looked. But he smiled, and was friendly, and didn't behave as if I were repulsive or invisible.
He said goodbye, and turned away, heading down the stairs and out the door. And that's when it hit me. I wasn't so concerned about my B.O., anymore. because I'd caught a whiff of his. As he departed, I was left standing in a wake of armpit stink powerful enough to wake the dead and knock 'em out again.
I cursed as, again, I ran to the bathroom. But then I smiled, knowing that even the best of us can have moments when we fill a room with our presense. No shame in that. It only human.
But I did check to make sure I had plenty of deoderant in stock.
And then I took a very long shower.
So, Tuesday morning, I locked up nice and tight and headed off, then returned to the house, unlocked everything, and went about my business, as usual. When it was time to pick up my boy, I locked up again. When we returned, I undid the lower-level door, then headed upstairs and unlocked the door that leads to the main part of the house. The door unlocked just fine, but I couldn't twist the key all the way around its 180-degree circuit that clicks the lock into place and releases the key.
(We use locks that need skeleton keys. It's a system that's still very much in use in Germany. And yes, you can peek right through them into the other room, just like in the old Tom 'n' Jerry cartoons!)
I couldn't get the key out of the door. Inconvenient, but at least we could get into the rest of the house.
My husband told our landlady, Friedl, and the next day she brought a locksmith over to take a look. "Kein problem," he said. "We'll come over tomorrow afternoon and fix it. About 16:00. (4:00 pm).
The next day, predictably, 4:00 pm came and went, and about 5:00 pm, I got a call from one of his workers. "Es tut mir leid. We can't come today. Is tomorrow morning between 7:30-8:30 okay?" That was the only time anyone was available.
7:30 is a little early for me, and my son was sick, and I was starting to feel a little ill, myself. But, I had little choice but to say yes, or have to wait the whole weekend to have our lock fixed. So, I agreed.
I woke up this morning at 6:50, my gut rumbling. That did not bode well. I rushed into the bathroom knowing I had definitely contracted my son's illness. Then, I got dressed, padded up the stairs and opened the windows in the kitchen and living room to air out the residual smokey smell from the previous days' struggles with the wood stove. Then, I tidied up the kitchen.
Then I settled in at the computer (after another stop in the toilet) to wait for the locksmith.
7:30 passed. So did 8:30. At 9:30, I called my husband just to complain that they were late. Not unexpected, but irritating, because I hadn't showered yet, and I'd been postponing another trip to the bathroom because, well, I didn't want to stink up the joint.
At 1:30, my husband called the locksmith, and by 2:30 he was here. I was feeling pretty ripe by then. When I'd gotten dressed and semi-primped early in the morning, I looked half-way decent. But a day of ill health, while tending to my son's needs, and trying to get the laundry done in between, had taken its toll. Having not yet showered, I couldn't have smelled good, and I certainly did not look my best. But I didn't care. It was a bloody locksmith. He was just coming to get the key out of the lock and move on.
But the man who walked through my door made me want to cringe in horror. A young man of medium height, sandy hair, blue eyes, and so damn cute. And there I was, looking like a nightmare of housewifery. I wanted to crawl into a hole a hide until he left.
He was very nice to my son, too, who followed him around asking all kinds of questions.
I remained out of site, too mortified to satisfy my own curiosity by watching. I determined he must be about 15 years younger than me, and I fantasized how he would look once he finished growing into this bone structure. In ten years, he would be one handsome guy. Yowza.
When he was done, I could barely look him in the eye. I must reek something awful. And I already knew how terrible I looked. But he smiled, and was friendly, and didn't behave as if I were repulsive or invisible.
He said goodbye, and turned away, heading down the stairs and out the door. And that's when it hit me. I wasn't so concerned about my B.O., anymore. because I'd caught a whiff of his. As he departed, I was left standing in a wake of armpit stink powerful enough to wake the dead and knock 'em out again.
I cursed as, again, I ran to the bathroom. But then I smiled, knowing that even the best of us can have moments when we fill a room with our presense. No shame in that. It only human.
But I did check to make sure I had plenty of deoderant in stock.
And then I took a very long shower.
QUESTION OF THE DAY. . .
Have you ever laid down your glasses without thinking (to do something like, oh, say, smear on some facial moisturizer), and then couldn't see to find them again? I just did that. My face is about three inches from the computer screen to see what I'm typing. I really didn't want to put my contacts in today, but it "looks" like I might have to...
Have a great wonderful fantastic weekend, everyone!
Have a great wonderful fantastic weekend, everyone!
Thursday, October 6, 2005
Some People Think Its Funny...
But it’s really wet and muddy.
Diarrhea. The scourge of mankind. The great leveler.
And my son is suffering from it.
It’s been going around at his Kindergarten, and I suppose it was only inevitable that he should contract it, as well. Well, he doesn’t appear to be suffering, except for the running back and forth to the toilet, the constant changing of underwear—he’s watching movies, jumping around pretending to be Spiderman, making the usual racket. His appetite isn’t even suffering, and he doesn’t have a fever. So, I’m not particularly worried.
And I don’t feel particularly guilty about complaining about it, either.
To be honest, it’s been a pain in the ass. I’ve thrown my back out cleaning up after the little guy, stooping to wipe his butt, clean the floor, scrub undies. It’s times like this I’m more thankful than usual that I have only one child to tend. I can’t imagine myself running behind two or more children and dealing with this kind of mess.
Don’t get me wrong, my heart goes out to him. Naturally, possessing the tender heart of a mother, I don’t want my child suffering illness. But after his bout of stomach flu two weeks ago, cleaning after the careless pissing of both males in this household (Men, please pay better attention to where you aim. Keep at least one hand on your willie, and one eye on the target ), and now this, I’ve just about had it with messy bodily fluids.
Calgon, take me away… and ease my aching back.
By the way, I did manage to figure out how to start a fire on the first go. Thanks to Hearth.com. Anyone who has trouble getting their fireplace or wood stove going, take a gander at this site. It even boasts a handy dandy video for those of you, like me, who benefit from visuals.
Diarrhea. The scourge of mankind. The great leveler.
And my son is suffering from it.
It’s been going around at his Kindergarten, and I suppose it was only inevitable that he should contract it, as well. Well, he doesn’t appear to be suffering, except for the running back and forth to the toilet, the constant changing of underwear—he’s watching movies, jumping around pretending to be Spiderman, making the usual racket. His appetite isn’t even suffering, and he doesn’t have a fever. So, I’m not particularly worried.
And I don’t feel particularly guilty about complaining about it, either.
To be honest, it’s been a pain in the ass. I’ve thrown my back out cleaning up after the little guy, stooping to wipe his butt, clean the floor, scrub undies. It’s times like this I’m more thankful than usual that I have only one child to tend. I can’t imagine myself running behind two or more children and dealing with this kind of mess.
Don’t get me wrong, my heart goes out to him. Naturally, possessing the tender heart of a mother, I don’t want my child suffering illness. But after his bout of stomach flu two weeks ago, cleaning after the careless pissing of both males in this household (Men, please pay better attention to where you aim. Keep at least one hand on your willie, and one eye on the target ), and now this, I’ve just about had it with messy bodily fluids.
Calgon, take me away… and ease my aching back.
By the way, I did manage to figure out how to start a fire on the first go. Thanks to Hearth.com. Anyone who has trouble getting their fireplace or wood stove going, take a gander at this site. It even boasts a handy dandy video for those of you, like me, who benefit from visuals.
Tuesday, October 4, 2005
Ahh, the Spicy Scent of Wood Smoke... ga-ack!
I LOVE Fall.
And now that it has arrived, walking my son to Kindergarten every morning is enhanced by the scent of burning wood hanging heavy in air.
Here in Germany, a very popular alternative to the standard wall-mounted oil heaters--especially in this neck of the woods where firewood is plentiful and inexpensive--is the Kaminofen. A Kaminofen is a wood-burning stove used for heat, just like a fireplace. It's equally decorative, but the difference is it's a little stove stuck in the corner of a room (usually the living room), with a large pipe that leads from it into one or more other rooms and exhausts through the roof. It's enclosed, with little glass doors, and is very romantic.
So, beginning this time of year, until about May or so, you can walk outside any time of the day and the air smells like campfires. I love it. It reminds me of summer weekend mornings when I was a musician at the renaissance faire, and I'd smell this smell passing by merchants' booths, where the merchants who lived in the rooms above their shops set to preparing their morning coffee. Or where the glazier stoked her fire nice and hot to make her cups and bowls and figurines throughout the day. Or the mushroom guy, getting ready to sautee his first batch of garlic mushrooms. A particular scent of incense also burned, and pacing through the fair site before opening gate was a magical experience for me. And connected to it all is the image of a medieval village starting its day.
The smell is inspiring to me.
We have a Kaminofen, too. Last year, we didn't use it and were sorry for it. Our electric oil heaters are inefficient at best. We had to crank them very high to heat the rooms to a livable temperature. Our heating bill was enormous, and we were horrified. When we lived in Stuttgart, our heating bill was extremely low--but then, our apartment was very small and in the middle of the building. We barely used the heat.
So, this year, we decided to put our Kaminofen to use. The problem with this thing is, if you're not adept at building fires from scratch, you will have that yummy campfire smell in your house--at which point the idea of a fire and it's wonderful smell stops being yummy and romantic. I have spent the last week attempting to quickly and efficiently build a fire, and keep it stoked, without clouds of smoke escaping and polluting our main living area on the upper level. I've gotten the fire going, and kept it going, but every time we've had to let it die down because of the smell, and then open the windows to air it out.
It's not just my inexperience that's contributing to the problem. There's an art to the technique of fire building, and I'm determined to learn it. However, I'm also certain the joints in the pipes leak. When we moved in, before we painted, I saw the black smoke stains on the walls from the previous tenants (the ones who left all their junk in our garage for six or seven months before clearing it away). And now I know what that funky permanent smell is that haunts the upper floor--stale wood smoke embedded in the walls, a smell so deep that not even painting over it could eliminate it.
We can't really afford to have the pipes looked at and fixed. And I don't like living amid the rogue clouds of smoke that escaped during my hurry to put another log on the fire. I mean it really stinks. It's strong and my hair reeks of it. We will look for a heat-resistant duct tape, however; and I will ask our landlady exactly how to get a proper fire started and maintained (I have a strained relationship with her, and I usually avoid contact) tomorrow.
We may end up foregoing the Kaminofen altogether and make use of a couple of space heaters to supplement our bad oil heaters. But until we definitively elimnate the wood stove as a means of heat, we may all come down with black lung or die of carbon monoxide poisoning.
If, inexplicably, you never hear from me again, you'll know why.
In the meantime, I feel pissy that the wonderful campfire smell that drifts through our village is no longer as inspiring as it is a frustrating reminder of the struggles I have with our own wood burning.
The Kaminofen (wood stove), as an instrument of torture.
And now that it has arrived, walking my son to Kindergarten every morning is enhanced by the scent of burning wood hanging heavy in air.
Here in Germany, a very popular alternative to the standard wall-mounted oil heaters--especially in this neck of the woods where firewood is plentiful and inexpensive--is the Kaminofen. A Kaminofen is a wood-burning stove used for heat, just like a fireplace. It's equally decorative, but the difference is it's a little stove stuck in the corner of a room (usually the living room), with a large pipe that leads from it into one or more other rooms and exhausts through the roof. It's enclosed, with little glass doors, and is very romantic.
So, beginning this time of year, until about May or so, you can walk outside any time of the day and the air smells like campfires. I love it. It reminds me of summer weekend mornings when I was a musician at the renaissance faire, and I'd smell this smell passing by merchants' booths, where the merchants who lived in the rooms above their shops set to preparing their morning coffee. Or where the glazier stoked her fire nice and hot to make her cups and bowls and figurines throughout the day. Or the mushroom guy, getting ready to sautee his first batch of garlic mushrooms. A particular scent of incense also burned, and pacing through the fair site before opening gate was a magical experience for me. And connected to it all is the image of a medieval village starting its day.
The smell is inspiring to me.
We have a Kaminofen, too. Last year, we didn't use it and were sorry for it. Our electric oil heaters are inefficient at best. We had to crank them very high to heat the rooms to a livable temperature. Our heating bill was enormous, and we were horrified. When we lived in Stuttgart, our heating bill was extremely low--but then, our apartment was very small and in the middle of the building. We barely used the heat.
So, this year, we decided to put our Kaminofen to use. The problem with this thing is, if you're not adept at building fires from scratch, you will have that yummy campfire smell in your house--at which point the idea of a fire and it's wonderful smell stops being yummy and romantic. I have spent the last week attempting to quickly and efficiently build a fire, and keep it stoked, without clouds of smoke escaping and polluting our main living area on the upper level. I've gotten the fire going, and kept it going, but every time we've had to let it die down because of the smell, and then open the windows to air it out.
It's not just my inexperience that's contributing to the problem. There's an art to the technique of fire building, and I'm determined to learn it. However, I'm also certain the joints in the pipes leak. When we moved in, before we painted, I saw the black smoke stains on the walls from the previous tenants (the ones who left all their junk in our garage for six or seven months before clearing it away). And now I know what that funky permanent smell is that haunts the upper floor--stale wood smoke embedded in the walls, a smell so deep that not even painting over it could eliminate it.
We can't really afford to have the pipes looked at and fixed. And I don't like living amid the rogue clouds of smoke that escaped during my hurry to put another log on the fire. I mean it really stinks. It's strong and my hair reeks of it. We will look for a heat-resistant duct tape, however; and I will ask our landlady exactly how to get a proper fire started and maintained (I have a strained relationship with her, and I usually avoid contact) tomorrow.
We may end up foregoing the Kaminofen altogether and make use of a couple of space heaters to supplement our bad oil heaters. But until we definitively elimnate the wood stove as a means of heat, we may all come down with black lung or die of carbon monoxide poisoning.
If, inexplicably, you never hear from me again, you'll know why.
In the meantime, I feel pissy that the wonderful campfire smell that drifts through our village is no longer as inspiring as it is a frustrating reminder of the struggles I have with our own wood burning.
The Kaminofen (wood stove), as an instrument of torture.
Sunday, September 25, 2005
Back from the Land of Nod
Jeez. I've been gone a whole week, and I feel like the world has passed me by.
I took the last week off to catch up on some household projects I'd been letting slide, but my son got sick and I spent most of the week tending him. Nothing as wrenching as helping a helpless child puke his guts out every half-hour for twenty-four hours, till there's nothing left but bubbles and bile. Makes the moms feel as helpless as the children.
In the meantime, my husband and I have been glued to the TV to watch Rita's progress, praying it would at least miss New Orleans. German television proclaimed it would wipe Galveston off the map--to quote literally. We were happy to see that didn't happen, but how full of mixed emotions we are when we watch. When you add them all together, they equal one gigantic hope: Please don't let there be a lot of damage. What else can we hope for?
This week will have to be a slow blogging week, as well, since now I really have to get caught up with those things I didn't get around to last week.
My husband took our son swimming this afternoon. I have a couple hours ahead of me... well I did, until I decided to catch up on what you-all have to say. For the last hour I've been promising myself, "Okay, just one more, just one more. Okay, one more after this one..." I haven't commented much, but I did a lot of visiting today.
I really missed everyone quite a lot!
Have a great Sunday, everyone. I hope to keep in touch more this week.
I took the last week off to catch up on some household projects I'd been letting slide, but my son got sick and I spent most of the week tending him. Nothing as wrenching as helping a helpless child puke his guts out every half-hour for twenty-four hours, till there's nothing left but bubbles and bile. Makes the moms feel as helpless as the children.
In the meantime, my husband and I have been glued to the TV to watch Rita's progress, praying it would at least miss New Orleans. German television proclaimed it would wipe Galveston off the map--to quote literally. We were happy to see that didn't happen, but how full of mixed emotions we are when we watch. When you add them all together, they equal one gigantic hope: Please don't let there be a lot of damage. What else can we hope for?
This week will have to be a slow blogging week, as well, since now I really have to get caught up with those things I didn't get around to last week.
My husband took our son swimming this afternoon. I have a couple hours ahead of me... well I did, until I decided to catch up on what you-all have to say. For the last hour I've been promising myself, "Okay, just one more, just one more. Okay, one more after this one..." I haven't commented much, but I did a lot of visiting today.
I really missed everyone quite a lot!
Have a great Sunday, everyone. I hope to keep in touch more this week.
Monday, September 19, 2005
Uncut and Uncensored
Crazy Frog!!!
See the original Crazy Frog Video in its entirety! Oh, go on, take a look!
Crazy Frog is a big deal in my house. My son is, well, crazy for him. Some of you might already be acquainted with this devilish little creature. But how many of you are familiar with the uncensored version of Crazy Frog?
You may or may not know, he originated here in Germany. But as he migrated overseas, you'll notice he's lost a certain part of himself in transit. Looking for the Alex F. video to download, we discovered that many of the international versions of Crazy Frog have completely emasculated him by blurring, black-boxing or erasing his nether parts.
Our family will not stand for such audacity. So here I am, passing on to the rest of the world
Crazy Frog, uncut--
Literally.
(In the meantime, I will be away from Blogit for a few days. Take care everyone! See you soon!)
Friday, September 16, 2005
Care to Take a Toilet Brush?
I hate cleaning the toilet. I don't think anyone likes it. It's nasty and disgusting, but it's gotta be done. And today is bathroom-cleaning day. I save it for Fridays (oh joy!) so that our family will have a fresh clean bathroom and toilet to enjoy for the weekend. Weird logic, maybe, but I'm a hausfrau and it's my privelege to decide what days get devoted to which household tasks. Friday is bathroom cleaning day.
So while I'm scrubbing the toilet, I suddenly remember that my son is bringing his friend home from Kindergarten this afternoon. That's great. I love that these two get along so well. But the other boy, in my biased mother's opinion, is a bit of a monster. Hyperactive. He leads my boy astray and influences him to do things my son knows he probably shouldn't be doing. One thing they think is funny is going potty together. You know. Crossing streams. Needless to say, this makes a big mess.
This child who is not mine also is a very messy pisser. Every time he's been over, I've had to scrub the bathroom down again. Maybe I should just hold off cleaning the bathroom until tomorrow? No. It gets done now. And I'll make a point of informing the children only one boy at a time in the potty, washing hands is a must, and please aim for the MIDDLE of the toilet.
Last time this kid was over, I found out they'd been playing in the street. We live on a big hill and were rolling their bikes into the driveway by hiking up the hill, stopping in the middle of the street (german drivers are fast drivers, even on remote, curvy, residential, hillside roads).
So an hour ago, as the three of us approached the house, my son and his friend took off up the hill again, and I yelled after them in my sterm mommy-voice, "Überhaupt NICHT in die Strasse spielen, ja? Nicht in die Strasse, jungs. Niemals." Absolutely NO playing in the street, got it? Not in the street, boys! Never!
They humbly agreed. So I left them for a few minutes while I changed over the laundry (towel washing day falls in with bathroom cleaning day), and five minutes later went back outside to check on them. Normally, I would have trusted my child to do as he was told, but he was with this friend, so I thought it best to keep a close lookout. I trudged outside, down the stairs and into the parking-lot-sized driveway--and they were nowhere in sight. And not a peep to be heard. Uh-oh.
I moved to the edge of the driveway where it looked down onto the street curving downward below, and I heard the remote chime of childish laughter. I hurried down the hill to the busy street that runs at a 65-degree angle from ours and saw the two boys half-way down the hill on the narrow sidewalk. Cars rushed past inches from their flushed and joyful little bodies. I let them mess around until they saw me standing there and started to walk their bikes back up (it's too steep to ride them). My son stopped a few feet before me, turned around, and prepared to roll down the hill again.
"Nein!" I yelled. "Komm' zurück! Ins haus mit euch! Jetzt!" No! Come back! Get in the house, now!
Looking abashed, they lead the way back up the hill to our house, while I quietly but sternly chastised my son for what I knew, this time, was his idea. He likes to roll down the hill as fast as he can go, despite my calling out, Not so fast!, as I walk him to kindergarten every morning. I knew he wanted to show his friend this very cool pastime.
Once we were inside, I did inform my son that the rule was only one kid in the potty at a time, and we both made sure to remind poor D to wash his hand before eating and after using the toilet. And miraculously, his aim was very accurate when he peed. But the afternoon is not over, and I hear the two giggling in the backyard. I know when they come back in, there will be mud smeared into the seats of their pants, and dirt tracked over the floor.
But at least the toilet is still clean.
...And I'm hearing silence again. Help.
So while I'm scrubbing the toilet, I suddenly remember that my son is bringing his friend home from Kindergarten this afternoon. That's great. I love that these two get along so well. But the other boy, in my biased mother's opinion, is a bit of a monster. Hyperactive. He leads my boy astray and influences him to do things my son knows he probably shouldn't be doing. One thing they think is funny is going potty together. You know. Crossing streams. Needless to say, this makes a big mess.
This child who is not mine also is a very messy pisser. Every time he's been over, I've had to scrub the bathroom down again. Maybe I should just hold off cleaning the bathroom until tomorrow? No. It gets done now. And I'll make a point of informing the children only one boy at a time in the potty, washing hands is a must, and please aim for the MIDDLE of the toilet.
Last time this kid was over, I found out they'd been playing in the street. We live on a big hill and were rolling their bikes into the driveway by hiking up the hill, stopping in the middle of the street (german drivers are fast drivers, even on remote, curvy, residential, hillside roads).
So an hour ago, as the three of us approached the house, my son and his friend took off up the hill again, and I yelled after them in my sterm mommy-voice, "Überhaupt NICHT in die Strasse spielen, ja? Nicht in die Strasse, jungs. Niemals." Absolutely NO playing in the street, got it? Not in the street, boys! Never!
They humbly agreed. So I left them for a few minutes while I changed over the laundry (towel washing day falls in with bathroom cleaning day), and five minutes later went back outside to check on them. Normally, I would have trusted my child to do as he was told, but he was with this friend, so I thought it best to keep a close lookout. I trudged outside, down the stairs and into the parking-lot-sized driveway--and they were nowhere in sight. And not a peep to be heard. Uh-oh.
I moved to the edge of the driveway where it looked down onto the street curving downward below, and I heard the remote chime of childish laughter. I hurried down the hill to the busy street that runs at a 65-degree angle from ours and saw the two boys half-way down the hill on the narrow sidewalk. Cars rushed past inches from their flushed and joyful little bodies. I let them mess around until they saw me standing there and started to walk their bikes back up (it's too steep to ride them). My son stopped a few feet before me, turned around, and prepared to roll down the hill again.
"Nein!" I yelled. "Komm' zurück! Ins haus mit euch! Jetzt!" No! Come back! Get in the house, now!
Looking abashed, they lead the way back up the hill to our house, while I quietly but sternly chastised my son for what I knew, this time, was his idea. He likes to roll down the hill as fast as he can go, despite my calling out, Not so fast!, as I walk him to kindergarten every morning. I knew he wanted to show his friend this very cool pastime.
Once we were inside, I did inform my son that the rule was only one kid in the potty at a time, and we both made sure to remind poor D to wash his hand before eating and after using the toilet. And miraculously, his aim was very accurate when he peed. But the afternoon is not over, and I hear the two giggling in the backyard. I know when they come back in, there will be mud smeared into the seats of their pants, and dirt tracked over the floor.
But at least the toilet is still clean.
...And I'm hearing silence again. Help.
Thursday, September 15, 2005
Thou shalt not suffer a WHICH to live???
Well, it’s Fall. Autumn. Herbst. All around us, members of the Animal Kingdom are getting ready for winter. Squirrels are racing around collecting nuts everywhere you look. Birds are flying every which way fattening up for the cold months ahead, feeding off the ripe berries and juicy bugs that seem to have appeared in legions. It hasn’t been safe to prepare food or to eat it in our house with the windows open because the August Bees, as I call them, have become very aggressive. They swarm in through the kitchen windows, enticed by even the tiniest trace of food-like scent and make a real nuisance of themselves. Even the mosquitoes seem to be busier than usual, working harder than ever to suck our family dry for some last-minute nourishment for their egg stores.
While, by and large, watching our co-habitators preparing for the cold days ahead amuses me, there is one insect whose activities do not amuse me in the least. Like many people, my fear of this creature borders on phobic, and twice a year--Spring and Fall--we get a large number of these visitors in our home.
I’m talking about, of course, the spider. Huge, wicked-looking brown spiders with bodies about an inch long, and long spindly legs.
They like to sneak in when I’m airing the bedrooms on the ground floor. They like to surprise me in the night, just as I’m getting my son tucked into bed. They lurk in odd places. One day early last Spring, I found one on the hallway ceiling, then five minutes later, I found one on the wall of our utility room. My son saw one under our bed, which my husband graciously squished, and a day or so later, there was another only centimeters from the light plate where I had just turned on the hall light.
Last spring, there were so many spiders, and I so often encountered them with my son, that together we formed an efficient team of spider extermination: Upon a spider sighting, I run to grab the bleach-based, anti-bacterial bathroom cleaner, and a roll of paper towels. I spray the spider continuously until it stops running away (or, rather, it stops running toward me), while uncontrollable screeches and screams pass my lips and hysteria threatens to overwhelm my senses. Once it stops moving, I then drop several paper towels on top of the motionless body. I have to be careful, because sometimes they play dead, then try to come after me again when I get close enough. Quite like Michael Mayers. After I cover the body with the paper towels, my son comes to the rescue and stomps the hell out of it. Finally, I clean up the mess. The whole process takes about three minutes, start to finish, and it takes a good hour or so longer before my heart stops palpitating and my hands stop shaking.
Now that it’s fall, the spiders have returned, looking for warm dry places to sleep the big sleep until next spring. I just wish they wouldn’t look in our house.
Those nasty spiders have begun appearing again, just last week. Friday night, for example, I had a close encounter with two. I had left the dishwasher cracked open for a few minutes between washings, and when I returned and opened the door, in the dimness of twighlight I saw the telltale scuttling of long legs and slammed the door shut.
“What’s wrong?” my son asked.
“Spider,” I said, trying to keep calm. “There’s a spider in there.”
“Let me see,” he begged, over and over.
“No,” I insisted, still more. “If I open the door, it’ll run out.”
So, with the dishwasher less than half full, I turned it on full blast, full heat, and let it run the full cycle, hoping the spider would fall apart and go away.
Later that same night, I was putting my son to bed. As I passed from my bedroom to my son’s, I saw, from the very edge of my vision, a dark spot along the floorboard. Please don’t let that be a spider, I pleaded in silence. And then I chided myself. My imagination was running overdrive. It’s fall, and I’ve been worried about spiders, so now I’m seeing them where there aren’t any.
When I returned to my room, I glanced down, expecting to see empty space. But to my horror, there was a huge brown spider waiting for me. As if we’d never stopped, my son and I went immediately into Spider Slayer mode, working smoothly and efficiently through my bursts of rage and horror, until the creepy crawly critter was good and dead. I did, of course, have the presence of mind to snap some pics, beforehand.
The next day, Saturday, I opened the dishwasher and finished loading it with the dishes that didn’t get loaded the night before due to the emergency cycle run, and with that morning’s breakfast dishes, then ran the cycle again.
That afternoon, after unloading the now-very-clean dishes, I glanced into the food trap to see if the first spider had made it through or not. To my dismay, I saw two very long legs hanging out of it. As my eyes adjusted to the dimness within the machine, I could see that not just legs got stuck in the trap, but the whole damn body was wedged inside, very much still intact.
Suppressing a shudder, I braced myself for the inevitable. I was going to have to take that sucker out of there and throw it away.
I’m not going to bore you with more details, but suffice it to say that by the time I finished dislodging it from the food trap, taking pictures of it, and scooping it into the trash, my heart was going about a million miles an hour, and my hands were shaking badly. I managed to get some good shots, though, and you can view them below.
Knowing that big spiders like these really like living in your house is very disconcerting, and until the invasion season is over, you live through a kind of paranoid shock: Always on the lookout, always a little bit jittery, jumping at the tiniest shadows in the corners.
I did a little investigation to determine what kind of spiders these are, hoping to god they aren’t Brown Recluses. But I think they are. We don’t seem to be infested, but rather invaded bi-yearly, and I take precautions to keep their numbers to a minimum. Several years ago, I house-sat a Recluse-infested home, and I know for a fact that that isn’t us. But it still makes me anxious. I get nervous and jittery just writing about it.
I’m supposed to be a nature-lover. I’m a solitary eclectic practitioner of the nature (goddess) arts, and I know the spider is a revered creature. I know that it represents wisdom, self-knowledge, the weaving of time and sundry other wise and useful things. But I do not suffer spiders to live in my home. Not small ones, not harmless ones, not big fast ugly brown ones.
My rationale is that if I were to walk into a spider’s home, that spider would wrap me up like a big juicy burrito and suck me dry in a heartbeat. In fact, he’d probably throw a party, and one of his guests would have the bright idea to throw salt on the bite wound and call me a marguerita. Well, the same rules apply to my home. Invade my space, and you’re history. Basta.
Update: Thanks to another blogger's gentle direction, I spent a couple hours the other night searching for the identity of our arachnid guests. These are house spiders, otherwise known as Large European House Spiders. Large is right.
During my search, I also encountered this descriptive phrase on a French (?) university website:
Tegenaria atrica C. L. Koch (Araneae, Agelenidae), a common and harmless house-spider in central Europe, often received for identification from worried parents.
Yes, I would say that about sums it up. Though I'm not sure about the harmless part. Try telling my adrenal system that.
While, by and large, watching our co-habitators preparing for the cold days ahead amuses me, there is one insect whose activities do not amuse me in the least. Like many people, my fear of this creature borders on phobic, and twice a year--Spring and Fall--we get a large number of these visitors in our home.
I’m talking about, of course, the spider. Huge, wicked-looking brown spiders with bodies about an inch long, and long spindly legs.
They like to sneak in when I’m airing the bedrooms on the ground floor. They like to surprise me in the night, just as I’m getting my son tucked into bed. They lurk in odd places. One day early last Spring, I found one on the hallway ceiling, then five minutes later, I found one on the wall of our utility room. My son saw one under our bed, which my husband graciously squished, and a day or so later, there was another only centimeters from the light plate where I had just turned on the hall light.
Last spring, there were so many spiders, and I so often encountered them with my son, that together we formed an efficient team of spider extermination: Upon a spider sighting, I run to grab the bleach-based, anti-bacterial bathroom cleaner, and a roll of paper towels. I spray the spider continuously until it stops running away (or, rather, it stops running toward me), while uncontrollable screeches and screams pass my lips and hysteria threatens to overwhelm my senses. Once it stops moving, I then drop several paper towels on top of the motionless body. I have to be careful, because sometimes they play dead, then try to come after me again when I get close enough. Quite like Michael Mayers. After I cover the body with the paper towels, my son comes to the rescue and stomps the hell out of it. Finally, I clean up the mess. The whole process takes about three minutes, start to finish, and it takes a good hour or so longer before my heart stops palpitating and my hands stop shaking.
Now that it’s fall, the spiders have returned, looking for warm dry places to sleep the big sleep until next spring. I just wish they wouldn’t look in our house.
Those nasty spiders have begun appearing again, just last week. Friday night, for example, I had a close encounter with two. I had left the dishwasher cracked open for a few minutes between washings, and when I returned and opened the door, in the dimness of twighlight I saw the telltale scuttling of long legs and slammed the door shut.
“What’s wrong?” my son asked.
“Spider,” I said, trying to keep calm. “There’s a spider in there.”
“Let me see,” he begged, over and over.
“No,” I insisted, still more. “If I open the door, it’ll run out.”
So, with the dishwasher less than half full, I turned it on full blast, full heat, and let it run the full cycle, hoping the spider would fall apart and go away.
Later that same night, I was putting my son to bed. As I passed from my bedroom to my son’s, I saw, from the very edge of my vision, a dark spot along the floorboard. Please don’t let that be a spider, I pleaded in silence. And then I chided myself. My imagination was running overdrive. It’s fall, and I’ve been worried about spiders, so now I’m seeing them where there aren’t any.
When I returned to my room, I glanced down, expecting to see empty space. But to my horror, there was a huge brown spider waiting for me. As if we’d never stopped, my son and I went immediately into Spider Slayer mode, working smoothly and efficiently through my bursts of rage and horror, until the creepy crawly critter was good and dead. I did, of course, have the presence of mind to snap some pics, beforehand.
The next day, Saturday, I opened the dishwasher and finished loading it with the dishes that didn’t get loaded the night before due to the emergency cycle run, and with that morning’s breakfast dishes, then ran the cycle again.
That afternoon, after unloading the now-very-clean dishes, I glanced into the food trap to see if the first spider had made it through or not. To my dismay, I saw two very long legs hanging out of it. As my eyes adjusted to the dimness within the machine, I could see that not just legs got stuck in the trap, but the whole damn body was wedged inside, very much still intact.
Suppressing a shudder, I braced myself for the inevitable. I was going to have to take that sucker out of there and throw it away.
I’m not going to bore you with more details, but suffice it to say that by the time I finished dislodging it from the food trap, taking pictures of it, and scooping it into the trash, my heart was going about a million miles an hour, and my hands were shaking badly. I managed to get some good shots, though, and you can view them below.
Knowing that big spiders like these really like living in your house is very disconcerting, and until the invasion season is over, you live through a kind of paranoid shock: Always on the lookout, always a little bit jittery, jumping at the tiniest shadows in the corners.
I did a little investigation to determine what kind of spiders these are, hoping to god they aren’t Brown Recluses. But I think they are. We don’t seem to be infested, but rather invaded bi-yearly, and I take precautions to keep their numbers to a minimum. Several years ago, I house-sat a Recluse-infested home, and I know for a fact that that isn’t us. But it still makes me anxious. I get nervous and jittery just writing about it.
I’m supposed to be a nature-lover. I’m a solitary eclectic practitioner of the nature (goddess) arts, and I know the spider is a revered creature. I know that it represents wisdom, self-knowledge, the weaving of time and sundry other wise and useful things. But I do not suffer spiders to live in my home. Not small ones, not harmless ones, not big fast ugly brown ones.
My rationale is that if I were to walk into a spider’s home, that spider would wrap me up like a big juicy burrito and suck me dry in a heartbeat. In fact, he’d probably throw a party, and one of his guests would have the bright idea to throw salt on the bite wound and call me a marguerita. Well, the same rules apply to my home. Invade my space, and you’re history. Basta.
Update: Thanks to another blogger's gentle direction, I spent a couple hours the other night searching for the identity of our arachnid guests. These are house spiders, otherwise known as Large European House Spiders. Large is right.
During my search, I also encountered this descriptive phrase on a French (?) university website:
Tegenaria atrica C. L. Koch (Araneae, Agelenidae), a common and harmless house-spider in central Europe, often received for identification from worried parents.
Yes, I would say that about sums it up. Though I'm not sure about the harmless part. Try telling my adrenal system that.
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
What’s Your Genre? Say it Loud, Say it Proud!
People have the need to label and pigeonhole each other, and in the writing world that holds especially true. Even here at Blogit, we’re cast into our specific genres. That’s not a bad thing; it helps keep everyone organized so it’s easier to identify what we want to read. It’s how we find books in the bookstores and in the libraries and on Amazon.com.
But it puts a lot of pressure on the writer, what should we focus on and which slot to place ourselves. What’s the best genre to write in.
If you’re like me, you don’t like pigeonholes. You like the freedom to write whatever the hell you please as the mood strikes. That attitude doesn’t suit publishers and marketers, however, so sometimes we’re forced to make a decision.
When someone asked me the other day in which genre I write, I wasn’t sure what to tell them. My typical answer is a broad one. (Well, my typical answers for just about anything tend to be broad, but that’s another issue, entirely!)
I used to write literary short stories. I cut my teeth on literary reading, and literary mimicking, and after a good fifteen years or so, I had to admit I’m not good at literary. Maybe I haven’t lived enough. Maybe I’m not emotionally mature enough. Maybe I simply lack the talent to create something interesting and meaningful out of the dull and lackluster.
But about two years ago, a change within my writing took place. I became less concerned about making myself fit that literary mold, and started letting loose a little. Romantic elements crept into my work.
I was accused of sounding too Harelquinesque by members of my critique group. I thought that ironic, since I’d read precious few Harlequins in my time, and the last one was while studying for my Chaucer final in college twelve years ago. (You’d need some light reading, too, after finishing that class!)
I started writing a horror story at the same time I started getting comments that my other stories were sounding like romance novels. I didn’t knee-jerk and say, “Hmm, I think I’m going to write a horror story, today.” No, the idea came as a single image garnered by a line in a song I’d heard on the radio. I believe the song was about war, but my mind took it elsewhere. I sat down and, over a period of six months, pieced together my longest short story ever, which evolved all on its own without help from me. I simply channeled it.
I was offended by the Harlequin comments, but the more I thought about it, the less concerned I was that my stories contained romantic elements. If I were to be honest with myself I would have to admit that I like romance.
This was difficult to achieve, because I’d grown up rather snobby about what I read. Part of it was influence from other snobs. Part of it was coming into adulthood as a graduated English major. Part of it was simply that I had interests in other genres and couldn’t be bother with such fluff. When I considered what I had been reading when I’d scorned Romance novels the most vehemently, however, I was humbled. Who was I to condemn Romance as a genre, when I read such schrott as Fantasy, Horror and some SciFi thrown in for good measure???
So, after finally opening up to the possibilities, I decided I would read romance novels, and try to write one, too. And I’m glad I did. I’m having a ball reading all I can get my hands on, and learning about the craft.
But that still doesn’t mean I’ve managed to find a niche.
Because of its particular structure, I’m also using the romance genre to help me learn the craft of writing a novel. Even though I am currently settled in Romance, and have an idea for a second book within this genre, I also have ideas of several other books.
Those stories may or may not fit into the Romance genre, depending on how the wind blows when I start writing each one. Most of them, however, are historicals. And all contain romantic elements.
I don’t recommend pigeonholing yourself in any one genre, unless you have a great gift for one single thing and possess no interest exploring other coops. But the next time someone asks you, “What’s your genre,” be honest. Tell them what you’re working on now, and leave it at that. Hold true to what’s in your heart. Write whatever you feel like writing…
Without exception, without apology.
But it puts a lot of pressure on the writer, what should we focus on and which slot to place ourselves. What’s the best genre to write in.
If you’re like me, you don’t like pigeonholes. You like the freedom to write whatever the hell you please as the mood strikes. That attitude doesn’t suit publishers and marketers, however, so sometimes we’re forced to make a decision.
When someone asked me the other day in which genre I write, I wasn’t sure what to tell them. My typical answer is a broad one. (Well, my typical answers for just about anything tend to be broad, but that’s another issue, entirely!)
I used to write literary short stories. I cut my teeth on literary reading, and literary mimicking, and after a good fifteen years or so, I had to admit I’m not good at literary. Maybe I haven’t lived enough. Maybe I’m not emotionally mature enough. Maybe I simply lack the talent to create something interesting and meaningful out of the dull and lackluster.
But about two years ago, a change within my writing took place. I became less concerned about making myself fit that literary mold, and started letting loose a little. Romantic elements crept into my work.
I was accused of sounding too Harelquinesque by members of my critique group. I thought that ironic, since I’d read precious few Harlequins in my time, and the last one was while studying for my Chaucer final in college twelve years ago. (You’d need some light reading, too, after finishing that class!)
I started writing a horror story at the same time I started getting comments that my other stories were sounding like romance novels. I didn’t knee-jerk and say, “Hmm, I think I’m going to write a horror story, today.” No, the idea came as a single image garnered by a line in a song I’d heard on the radio. I believe the song was about war, but my mind took it elsewhere. I sat down and, over a period of six months, pieced together my longest short story ever, which evolved all on its own without help from me. I simply channeled it.
I was offended by the Harlequin comments, but the more I thought about it, the less concerned I was that my stories contained romantic elements. If I were to be honest with myself I would have to admit that I like romance.
This was difficult to achieve, because I’d grown up rather snobby about what I read. Part of it was influence from other snobs. Part of it was coming into adulthood as a graduated English major. Part of it was simply that I had interests in other genres and couldn’t be bother with such fluff. When I considered what I had been reading when I’d scorned Romance novels the most vehemently, however, I was humbled. Who was I to condemn Romance as a genre, when I read such schrott as Fantasy, Horror and some SciFi thrown in for good measure???
So, after finally opening up to the possibilities, I decided I would read romance novels, and try to write one, too. And I’m glad I did. I’m having a ball reading all I can get my hands on, and learning about the craft.
But that still doesn’t mean I’ve managed to find a niche.
Because of its particular structure, I’m also using the romance genre to help me learn the craft of writing a novel. Even though I am currently settled in Romance, and have an idea for a second book within this genre, I also have ideas of several other books.
Those stories may or may not fit into the Romance genre, depending on how the wind blows when I start writing each one. Most of them, however, are historicals. And all contain romantic elements.
I don’t recommend pigeonholing yourself in any one genre, unless you have a great gift for one single thing and possess no interest exploring other coops. But the next time someone asks you, “What’s your genre,” be honest. Tell them what you’re working on now, and leave it at that. Hold true to what’s in your heart. Write whatever you feel like writing…
Without exception, without apology.
Uh oh. It's that time of year again. I've signed up. Have you?
Well, I did it. Last week, I got my reminder notice in my e-mail, and I signed up for NaNoWriMo this year. For those of you who are not familiar with it, NaNoWriMo is an acronym for National Novel Writing Month.
What happens, is a bunch of crazies like us already-prolific bloggers sign up for this event, and during the month of November, we labor, sweat, keep bizarre waking hours, and tear our hair out trying to meet the prescribed deadline of writing 50,000 words in one month.
For a typical genre novel, that’s exactly half of a book, or two hundred pages of specially formatted manuscript pages. Word counts are done on the honor system, and they do have a way of counting the words you submit at the end of the month, if you claim you’ve met the 50,000 mark. They respect your privacy, and offer simple suggestions for encrypting your work, if you feel the need to do so—which is basically unneccesary.
But they trust you to be honest, and that what you submit is actually what you’ve written in November ONLY, and NOT including what you’ve written UP TO November.
The reward is more personal than it is anything else. You get a free T-shirt if you are a winner, and there are as many winners as there are people who succeed in writing 50,000 words. There are probably one or two other little advantages, like getting your name displayed somewhere on their website. But like I said, it’s really the personal reward of achieving a difficult goal that really drives people.
This event has been around for a few years now, but I didn’t learn about it until last year when someone people on a writing list had mentioned it in passing. Curious, I looked it up and decided to give it a try.
For those of us with full lives, writing 50,000 words in a month is a difficult task. I got up at 5:00 am every morning, enduring my husband’s ruffled feathers from my having invaded his personal pre-work solitude. But most mornings, I managed to drag my sorry ass out of bed, brew a pot of coffee, don my headphones and played my writing music via my Real Player.
I wrote a lot. I wrote more in one month than I ever had before. I’m a slow writer, you see. A procrastinator, a thinker, a muller. But last November, I really cranked. In those four weeks, I spewed forth 25,000 words, one quarter of my “new” novel. I was very proud of myself. I didn’t win the prize, but I surpassed my expectations, and set a new record for myself.
Unfortunately, due to burnout, life circumstance, what have you, I haven’t added to that word count, since. My romance is still languishing, begging to be fleshed out beyond the critical plot work I dedicated to it this summer. It's had a nice long vacation, and it's long overdue to get back to work.
So, when I signed up again on Friday, I thought I’d probably continue where I left off. Maybe this time, I’d meet the goal, and the hardest part of any novel, the middle, will have been completed. I just want to get this particular book out of the way, simply so I can say, I DID IT! I FINISHED A NOVEL!
But something happened to change all that.
Yesterday, my husband took our son for a father-son jog/hike a little ways down the road. He came back with an interesting piece of history to which we later found only a single sparse reference to on the Internet.
You see, back in the early 19th century, a local woman was killed on her way home from market. The few details he brought home (if you don't mind, I'll just keep that info between me and my greedy little writer's heart) made me wonder aloud if the place where this happened was haunted.
And then I said, That would make a good premise for a ghost story. And then I remembered a premise for another ghost story that’s been bubbling on the back burner for maybe the last ten years. And then I thought, Holy mackerel, I could combine them!
And then I thought, Maybe, just maybe, I’ll be starting a new novel when NaNoWriMo launches this year. That tired old romance can wait. I’ve got a good solid outline of the plot and can return to it another time, and lose nothing since it’s already lost momentum.
But this new story, well, really intrigues me, and I get excited thinking about it. It would be nice to use NaNoWriMo to get a big start on it, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll get more than 25,000 words out of it, this year.
And maybe, just maybe, I'll have enough momentum left over at the end of November to finish it, too.
Time will tell...
What happens, is a bunch of crazies like us already-prolific bloggers sign up for this event, and during the month of November, we labor, sweat, keep bizarre waking hours, and tear our hair out trying to meet the prescribed deadline of writing 50,000 words in one month.
For a typical genre novel, that’s exactly half of a book, or two hundred pages of specially formatted manuscript pages. Word counts are done on the honor system, and they do have a way of counting the words you submit at the end of the month, if you claim you’ve met the 50,000 mark. They respect your privacy, and offer simple suggestions for encrypting your work, if you feel the need to do so—which is basically unneccesary.
But they trust you to be honest, and that what you submit is actually what you’ve written in November ONLY, and NOT including what you’ve written UP TO November.
The reward is more personal than it is anything else. You get a free T-shirt if you are a winner, and there are as many winners as there are people who succeed in writing 50,000 words. There are probably one or two other little advantages, like getting your name displayed somewhere on their website. But like I said, it’s really the personal reward of achieving a difficult goal that really drives people.
This event has been around for a few years now, but I didn’t learn about it until last year when someone people on a writing list had mentioned it in passing. Curious, I looked it up and decided to give it a try.
For those of us with full lives, writing 50,000 words in a month is a difficult task. I got up at 5:00 am every morning, enduring my husband’s ruffled feathers from my having invaded his personal pre-work solitude. But most mornings, I managed to drag my sorry ass out of bed, brew a pot of coffee, don my headphones and played my writing music via my Real Player.
I wrote a lot. I wrote more in one month than I ever had before. I’m a slow writer, you see. A procrastinator, a thinker, a muller. But last November, I really cranked. In those four weeks, I spewed forth 25,000 words, one quarter of my “new” novel. I was very proud of myself. I didn’t win the prize, but I surpassed my expectations, and set a new record for myself.
Unfortunately, due to burnout, life circumstance, what have you, I haven’t added to that word count, since. My romance is still languishing, begging to be fleshed out beyond the critical plot work I dedicated to it this summer. It's had a nice long vacation, and it's long overdue to get back to work.
So, when I signed up again on Friday, I thought I’d probably continue where I left off. Maybe this time, I’d meet the goal, and the hardest part of any novel, the middle, will have been completed. I just want to get this particular book out of the way, simply so I can say, I DID IT! I FINISHED A NOVEL!
But something happened to change all that.
Yesterday, my husband took our son for a father-son jog/hike a little ways down the road. He came back with an interesting piece of history to which we later found only a single sparse reference to on the Internet.
You see, back in the early 19th century, a local woman was killed on her way home from market. The few details he brought home (if you don't mind, I'll just keep that info between me and my greedy little writer's heart) made me wonder aloud if the place where this happened was haunted.
And then I said, That would make a good premise for a ghost story. And then I remembered a premise for another ghost story that’s been bubbling on the back burner for maybe the last ten years. And then I thought, Holy mackerel, I could combine them!
And then I thought, Maybe, just maybe, I’ll be starting a new novel when NaNoWriMo launches this year. That tired old romance can wait. I’ve got a good solid outline of the plot and can return to it another time, and lose nothing since it’s already lost momentum.
But this new story, well, really intrigues me, and I get excited thinking about it. It would be nice to use NaNoWriMo to get a big start on it, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll get more than 25,000 words out of it, this year.
And maybe, just maybe, I'll have enough momentum left over at the end of November to finish it, too.
Time will tell...
Friday, September 9, 2005
The Prelude to My Fifteen Minutes of Fame...
Well, the interview went well. The reporter wanted to make it short, but we ended up talking for an hour or so before she moved on to my husband. The questions were standard. How my husband and I met, how I felt about uprooting my life to live in Germany, what were the first things I noticed that were different. Things of that nature.
My husband was pretty excited about it. He came home in a good mood for a change, and shortly before the woman called, he was bordering on obnoxious. Recognizing the signs, I begged him to play nice and be quiet. When I'm on the phone with my mom, he gets all excited like a puppy and runs around making all kinds of noise with our son, as if trying to show evidence that ours is a happy healthy family, making it impossible to hold a conversation for all the racket going on.
When I answered the phone, I sequestered myself in the bathroom, where the echo factor is at a minimum (we have laminate flooring and no area rugs to dampen voices and other noises. Phone calls are difficult for this reason). Three minutes into my conversation, my husband and son walked into the bathroom, deciding it was imperative to wash their hands at that very moment, and that they couldn't go downstairs to do it.
After my son left, my husband kept snapping his fingers to get my attention and pointing to the sink. This man is extremely persistant. He kept doing this until I got up from the edge of the bathtub where I was perched and looked. There was a smudge of dirt in the bowl. Then he pestered me to clean it.
Yes, he did.
And no, I didn't.
I waved him away repeatedly, like the annoying insect he had become, and he finally wandered out again.
Thirty-five minutes into the interview, he showed up again and begins to pester me to get off. I'm telling too much, he says. Again, I waved him away. After I gave some some nasty looks, he left the room. And then the phone disconnected.
Now, when I'm talking to my mom on the phone, it often disconnects after exactly one hour. We're never sure if it's coming from her end, or my end, but that's what happens, and we chalk it up to the transatlantic cable. When I looked at the phone, it indicated I had been on the line for 38 minutes and some seconds before it cut out. How were we disconnected? Did my husband do it? It certainly was not beyond him.
I was mortified by the thought, and we exchanged some words. He didn't admit to having disconnected me. Nor did he deny it. I waited until she called back, and she sounded a little irritated. I apologized and said I didn't know what had happened there, and we moved on.
So after another ten minutes or so, we finished up, and she asked to speak to my large child of a husband. He took the phone and went outside, where he spoke to her by the swing set, under the stars. His part of the interview was considerably shorter. He was humored and truculent at once, after he got off the phone.
He was also very drunk and more than a little obnoxious. A couple of beers and 2/3 of a bottle of whisky will do that to a person. I did briefly wonder what kind of impression he might have made, but let it go. What's done is done. Besides, he can carry himself off pretty well, when he wants to.
Lucky me.
My husband was pretty excited about it. He came home in a good mood for a change, and shortly before the woman called, he was bordering on obnoxious. Recognizing the signs, I begged him to play nice and be quiet. When I'm on the phone with my mom, he gets all excited like a puppy and runs around making all kinds of noise with our son, as if trying to show evidence that ours is a happy healthy family, making it impossible to hold a conversation for all the racket going on.
When I answered the phone, I sequestered myself in the bathroom, where the echo factor is at a minimum (we have laminate flooring and no area rugs to dampen voices and other noises. Phone calls are difficult for this reason). Three minutes into my conversation, my husband and son walked into the bathroom, deciding it was imperative to wash their hands at that very moment, and that they couldn't go downstairs to do it.
After my son left, my husband kept snapping his fingers to get my attention and pointing to the sink. This man is extremely persistant. He kept doing this until I got up from the edge of the bathtub where I was perched and looked. There was a smudge of dirt in the bowl. Then he pestered me to clean it.
Yes, he did.
And no, I didn't.
I waved him away repeatedly, like the annoying insect he had become, and he finally wandered out again.
Thirty-five minutes into the interview, he showed up again and begins to pester me to get off. I'm telling too much, he says. Again, I waved him away. After I gave some some nasty looks, he left the room. And then the phone disconnected.
Now, when I'm talking to my mom on the phone, it often disconnects after exactly one hour. We're never sure if it's coming from her end, or my end, but that's what happens, and we chalk it up to the transatlantic cable. When I looked at the phone, it indicated I had been on the line for 38 minutes and some seconds before it cut out. How were we disconnected? Did my husband do it? It certainly was not beyond him.
I was mortified by the thought, and we exchanged some words. He didn't admit to having disconnected me. Nor did he deny it. I waited until she called back, and she sounded a little irritated. I apologized and said I didn't know what had happened there, and we moved on.
So after another ten minutes or so, we finished up, and she asked to speak to my large child of a husband. He took the phone and went outside, where he spoke to her by the swing set, under the stars. His part of the interview was considerably shorter. He was humored and truculent at once, after he got off the phone.
He was also very drunk and more than a little obnoxious. A couple of beers and 2/3 of a bottle of whisky will do that to a person. I did briefly wonder what kind of impression he might have made, but let it go. What's done is done. Besides, he can carry himself off pretty well, when he wants to.
Lucky me.
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