The Devil Made Me Do It!

A post from another blogger describing an experience in Berlin last year--confusion about the ticketing system in German rail stations, and riding free as a result--reminded me of a similar experience I had in Stuttgart a few months ago, in which I was not as lucky as he and his companions. This is an excerpt from my journal.

May 12, 2005--I discovered it is very risky to travel without a train ticket. Two times in six years, I’d been checked by the nondescript men who haunt Germany’s public transport system. Not a bad average, when you think about it. They look like average joes, but are really big fat sneaks hiding hand-held databases/ticket machines in briefcases, looking for ticketless victims to embarrass and fine--and even kick off the train.

Happily, I had a ticket both times.

Now, after leaving the big city and returning six months later, I was checked two more times in the last two weeks, and again, I had tickets on me.

It was a stroke of luck, really, because yesterday I dared to travel free.

It wasn’t the first time I’ve freeloaded on the S-Bahn, the U-Bahn or the buses of Stuttgart. Not by far. Especially in the last two weeks since I’ve been back here. I’m not cheap. It’s just that 1.65 € each way really adds up when you’re always on the go, and my money was going very quickly. However, my luck ran out yesterday, and I finally got caught.

I felt very humbled getting caught out! The man who nabbed me said he’d only charge me 10 €, instead of the usual 40 €, because I was “nice”. In other words, I didn’t try to lie my way out of it. Also, he could see I was a foreigner because I was dragging along my suitcase (full of dirty laundry), and had only my passport and Illinois driver’s license for ID. And, of course, I had my son in tow. After he checked his carry-along database, he could see I had never been fined before, so that helped too.

The partner of my sneak didn’t look very happy about the discount, but The ticket he gave me in exchange for the 10 € enabled me to travel anywhere in all directions for two hours. That took care of that morning’s travel—and all the times I’d gone free during the last two weeks.
I made it home just as my time limit expired.

However, I’m now in the system as a one-time offender and I don’t expect anyone to be very merciful to me next time. That’s why I purchased a month’s pass this morning. Now, instead of paying a minimum of 3.30 € per day for one round trip, I am essentially paying 1.97€ per day for unlimited travel within two zones. That’s an excellent deal. Kinda worth the 10 € kick in the pants.

What took me so long to get the pass? Why did I tempt Fate, knowing I would eventually get caught freeloading? I don't know. I guess the Devil made me do it.

What would Grandma say?

Censorship is far less stringent in Europe than it is in America. Here in Germany, we see a lot of nudity in the media. I’ve discovered a surprising number of women like to bare their ta-tas on national television, for instance. On the back page of Die Bild, there is always a woman displaying herself for the enjoyment of male (and some female) readers. 

Just as print and television are more relaxed in what they reveal of humanity, the same holds true for radio. Songs that we would never hear on the radio in America, or words within songs that get bleeped out to be allowed air time, enjoy lots of unadulterated exposure in Germany. 

We Americans know the repercussions of censorship for the sake of “simple decency”. The Janet Jackson thing last year is a prime example. But what happens in a culture where people are far more relaxed about what is seen and heard in the media? 

We hear one song on the radio with amazing frequency. It contains the words “asscrack” once in the lyrics. I never paid much attention to the song itself, except when those words seem to jump out of the music. I’ve laughed at it, my husband has laughed at it, and so has my son. It’s become a family joke as I try to stop my five-year-old from repeating it. My husband, the German, finds it amusing. In a way, I do too. They’re just words, for Pete’s sake. But that Puritan in my upbringing says, “Hey, he’s five. He shouldn’t say those things.” So, I dutifully correct him. Over and over again. 

A few weeks ago, my son finally asked me what asscrack means. “Well,” I began. “You know the middle part of your butt?” 

“The line?” 

“Yes, the line. That’s your asscrack. Buttcrack is nicer to say, but I don’t like you saying those things at all. It’s not nice. Please don’t say them.” 

“Okay, Mommy,” he promised, and kissed me on the cheek. 

Saturday evening, after a busy afternoon of mowing and raking the yard, I popped my little boy into the shower. I poured some shower gel into his hands and he began sudsing up. After pouring soap into my own hands, I said, “Okay, come here so I can wash your hair.” 

“Wait,” said my sweet angel with the complete seriousness of the innocent, “I have to wash my asscrack, first.”

Busy busy busy---but with what?

I've been busy this month. Since joining blogit, I've discovered an area of writing that supersedes regular journal writing, and it's more motivating and stimulating, as well. It's amazing how an audience, however modest, can really kick you in the butt and get you writing again.

But I have other writing obligations, as well. I belong to two critique groups and had been doing fairly well with them—probably critiquing way more than I was writing, but it’s all part of the same thing. That is, I was doing well with them, until I started blogging. Just a couple days ago, I realized that I had not met this month’s critique group obligations at all. In fact, I hadn’t even given those groups a single thought, until whammo! I was due to submit a chapter and critique at least four others—all by the end of the month.

Oh crap.

I think it’s time to restructure. Blogging has been keeping me writing, but I’ve slacked off in other areas of writing, and I find it a little disturbing that I’ve cast my real ambition aside. Although, I can take a little reassurance that others in my critique groups have been extremely quiet during the summer months, too.

Out of thin air, it seems...

I was just enjoying my lunch--jalapeno peppers filled with cream cheese, preserved in a bath of olive oil--thinking of the vagaries and interconnectedness of life. My husband has brought home this particular delicacy in the past, and I've never really had much of a liking for it. Until about two weeks ago, when suddenly, I couldn't get enough of it. Now, I jealously hoard my jalapenos, saving them for a time when I can eat them in peace, without risk of having to share. Just now, I enjoyed three crunchy, cream cheese-filled peppers, delicately dipping a corner of flatbread into the jalapeno-flavored oil, feeling all would be well in the word if only I had a helping of Ben and Jerry's Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough ice cream.

I’ve had to give up a lot of my American culture when I came to Germany. One of the simple pleasures that got left behind was the delight Ben and Jerry’s ice cream. German ice cream, by American standards, leaves a lot to be desired. It is less creamy than it is frothy. When it melts, it doesn’t leak and leave a big liquid mess. Rather, it largely maintains its form, softening into an air-filled lump of flavored fluff. I don’t like German ice cream.

This weekend, my husband surprised me with a pint (which equals about 500 ml to everyone outside the US) of my favorite ice cream of all time. How did he know I love cookie dough ice cream? It doesn’t exist in Germany. And it’s hardly something I would pine over and mumble about in my sleep.

The bigger question was, how did he manage to find some?

From somewhere in the deep dark archives of my memory, I pulled up a faded tidbit I’d probably read in the international version of USA Today that B&J had been bought by an international food distributor. I recognized the name of the distributor, and remembered feeling somewhat dismayed by the news. I’d sincerely hoped that Ben and Jerry’s wouldn’t lose the unique quality of their product. But I didn’t dare entertain the notion that the yummy ice cream would ever reach my dusty corner of the world.

We’ve never seen Ben and Jerry’s in the big grocery stores here or in Stuttgart, so where did it come from? Certainly not out of thin air. I’ve begged my husband to tell me where he found it, but he’s keeping mum. It’s his special secret, a little treasure he’ll surprise me with now and again. I suspect he gets it from the gas station next to the grocery store where we shop. What an odd place to discover this wonderful ice cream. Not a grocery store in a big city, but a gas station in a tiny little rural town!

I wonder how long I’ll have to wait before other favorite products appear in German stores? And where will I find them? The post office? The car dealer? It’s part of what makes life interesting, I suppose. In the meantime, I’ll keep an eye out for Aussie hair care products at the local farmer’s market. Boy, I could sure use some hairspray that works.

Where Does Writing Fit In?

When is the best time to write? It's different for everyone. The best time for me to write is at night. That's when the day's business if finally over and the creative juices get free rein. There are some problems witht his, however. First, I have a family to care for, a child to see to school, so I need to get up early in the morning. and I am not an early riser. The second problem compounds the first. When I write, I get wired. And of course, getting wired at night is a bad idea, since it takes hours to calm down and get to sleep. It doesn't do to wind down at 3:30 am, when you have to get up no later than 7:00 am to start your day.

The alternative is to wake super early in the morning. When I was working, I was out of bed regularly by 5 am to get to work by 7 am. So that shouldn’t be such a chore. But it is. It takes me a long time to get out of bed, shuffle up the stairs, turn on the computer, brew some coffee or tea, and try to get my brain functioning again. Add to that, the disturbance it creates for my husband, who doesn’t have to get up for another two hours, and who gets crabby because he’s grown accustomed to performing his morning routine in complete solitude, and now there’s his wife typing away and staring off into space in the space that was once his alone in the wee hours, asking cheerfully if he’d like her to brew something for him. So, that solution doesn’t work very well. Besides, it’s way too tempting to turn off the alarm and sleep in, Just for Today.

The best alternative is to write during the morning hours, while my son is in kindergarten. The problem here is twofold. E-mail and Blogit provide too tempting of a distraction to benefit from the three hours of solitude. And household chores mostly get put off until the afternoon hours, the time during which I should be tutoring my son on some life basics.

It was a lot easier when I was single. I worked full time, but it was just me I had to worry about. I didn’t have a child who needed lots of attention. I didn’t have a husband who feels threatened when I seem to be devoting more time than he is comfortable with to my projects.

So where does writing fit in my life? I try to squeeze it into the convenient pockets—and there aren’t very many—out of site of my family. Sometimes a Saturday afternoon works out, especially if there is a Formula 1 race, or a soccer game on TV, taking my husband’s mind off of my perceived infidelity. Late at night works out when I have the energy to get started after my son goes to bed, and when I feel I won’t suffer too terribly when I have trouble winding down and get only a couple hours of sleep.

Right now, Blogit is using a lot of writing time. It’s good in a way, because I’m writing—or thinking about writing—every single day. It’s bad, because it takes my mind away from my novel-in-progress, which I promised myself I would not abandon until I finished it.
But at least I’m writing.

A Matter of Life and Death

I love to keep the windows open. I like to keep as many open as possible, weather and temperature permitting, and relish the open feeling it creates, the cleansing breezes that float through the house.  

The day my friend came to visit last week was a fair, sunny day. Big fluffy clouds drifted across the sky, and a wonderful breeze blew through the upper level of the house. As I sat at the kitchen table putting on my makeup waiting for my friend’s arrival, I heard a peculiar flutter coming from the living room. I could tell it was airborne and that it was moving very quickly toward the kitchen. Before I had time to think anything else, a bird burst through the kitchen doorway, flew over my head, and went right out the patio door. 

It had come in through the living room window. 

 There has been lots of bird activity over the last day or two. I assume the birds around here are getting ready for winter, because they are everywhere, like the August bees. They are busy busy busy, and the days have been getting rainier and cooler. 

 Yesterday nearly passed like all others. It was rainy and chilly most of the day, and I spent a good portion of the dreary afternoon teaching my son various things, as I usually do: The days of the week. The months of the year. Things like that. And it was just as the sun came out and our lesson on how to tie a shoe came to a frustrating end (reflecting more on my impatience than my five-year-old’s short attention span) that an interesting thing happened to take our minds off our differences. 

 My son had retreated to the living room to burn off some of the energy that had backed up during the minutes of inertia while learning to form a loop with a shoe string. I rose from the table and started to cross the kitchen when I heard a funny thud on the glass patio door. I looked out and saw a bird lying on the doorstep. It was small and grey, probably a cousin to the little brown sparrows of America. Apparently it had tried to take a shortcut through my kitchen, not realizing there was a double-paned door between it and its destination. 

“Sweetheart! Come here!” I called, hoping silently it wasn’t the same bird that had flown through our house the week before. “Come see this!” 

My son walked into the kitchen, still disgruntled from our minor tiff. “Was ist?” he grumbled at me. 

“Come look out the window.” 

 My son shuffled to the glass door and gasped when he saw the broken bird lying on the paving stones. I explained what had happened, and as I opened the door and we stepped outside together, the bird moved. It was still alive. 

Squatting beside it, I hoped it was only stunned, and would require no more than a minute or two before it flew off again. But as it struggled more, I could see it was injured. Perhaps we could nurse it to health, I thought. It would be a wonderful lesson for my son. 

 When I reached for it and took it gently into my hand, however, I was met with no resistance, and its little head lolled alarmingly with the momentum. “Uh-oh,” I said. “His neck is broken, sweetie. He’s going to die.” 

“Oh no,” my son said, and started to cry. 

 “Why don’t we make a nice bed for him,” I suggested, holding the little bird in my left hand and reaching for the terra cotta bottom of a planter. “Let’s collect some grass and put it in here for the bird to lie on.” The grass was still wet from the rain, but I didn’t think it mattered much to the bird. 

Eager to be helpful, my son rushed into the yard, heedless of the wetness and the mud and his stocking feet, and began pulling up sturdy fistfuls of grass and clover, making a nice little bed for our dying friend. When we had enough, I gently laid the bird down, and we listened to its noisy, labored breathing. There was liquid in its lungs that frothed in tiny pinkish bubbles around its beak, damaged where it met its face. One eye was closed, and it feebly struggled now and again, determined to take flight and continue with its business while its head limply hung to the side, never leaving the grassy bed. 

I hoped it would die soon so it wouldn’t suffer much longer, and I wondered whether I possessed the mettle to twist its neck altogether round and end its suffering. 

 While we watched, my son and I discussed life and death. And only a minute or two later, we watched the bird shudder its final breath and finally lie still. My son didn’t see the bird’s life escape its body, but I did. It was a nearly visible shadow that lifted from it, and as it separated, the bird became absolutely motionless. I saw the light extinguished from its seeing eye, and I said to my son, “It’s over now, honey. The little bird is dead.”  

My wonderful, gentle little boy threw himself in my arms and heaved great sobs of sorrow. I told him that it’s okay to be sad. I also told him that the little bird would always be with us, because we took care of him while he lay dying, keeping him safe from the predatory cats. “He’s sitting on your shoulder right now,” I said, “whispering ‘Thank you’ in your ear, and telling you that it’s okay. He’s not in pain anymore, and he’s in a place where there are lots of green trees and other birds to fly with and sing to, and no cats to worry about.” 

Together, we chose a place under the evergreens, looking out toward the big hazelnut tree in the backyard. Together, we dug a deep hole, and lined it with evergreen tips. Together, we laid the bird on its new fragrant bed, and covered it with more evergreen. And together, we filled the hole, pushing dirt with our hands. My son found a rock to place on top, and we walked away, feeling a mixture of sorrow and closure.

It was a bit earlier than I had hoped to teach my son about death. But I couldn’t have asked for a better example for his introduction. It was a day of lessons.

No Hot-House Flowers Here!

Tuesday afternoon, I had a visitor. She’s someone I met during my exodus to Stuttgart in May, the month I was living apart from my husband. In fact, our meeting was so coincidental, it can’t have been coincidence. Some kind of divine intervention must have taken place to bring us together.

It was laundry day. My son and I had gotten up good and early to beat the collection of souls waiting to use the machines at one of the three Laundromats in the Stuttgart metro area I could locate. It so happened this Laundromat was located just down the street from the first apartment my husband and I once lived in, during the months before our son was born. I was grateful for its relative nearness.

I don’t remember what delayed us, but we were a day late doing laundry and had got a late start that morning, as well. Quite sure we would be waiting ages for machines if we didn’t scurry our little selves over there right quick, we hied it to the bus stop with our suitcase full of dirty clothes, and rode the two buses it required to reach the wash salon. We were lucky. On this particular Thursday, there were only two others there, and plenty of machines to choose from.

There was, however, a problem with the electronic device you put your money in and started the machine. One man told me I had to call the service desk, and pointed toward a phone on the wall. This idea did not please me because of the language barrier. My German isn’t terrible, but it certainly isn’t as far along as it should be given that I’ve lived here for nearly six-point-five years. The best option, I thought, was to simply come back the next day.

But it wasn’t an option for me. I had no underwear left, and the next day was Friday, and I’ll be damned if I was going to spend half my day, unshowered, shoulder-to-shoulder with a bunch of other unshowered launderers struggling to get their wash done before the weekend.
I walked to the phone and picked up the receiver, working through the jumble of words that were the instructions. I punched some numbers and a woman answered. In my imperfect German, I explained what the problem was, and it wasn’t long before she interrupted me and asked if I spoke English. Well, honey, I sure as shit do, I thought. Switching to my native language, I explained again, slowly, using as simple language as I could to make myself clear. I wasn’t condescending in the least. I know what it’s like to muck through a foreign language, and the slower and more simply a person speaks, so much the better.

So, between a mixture of German and English, we got our messages across, and I was told a man would be by shortly to take care of the problem.

And that’s when I met my friend.

“Are you American,” she asked me in English.

“Yes, I am,” I answered.

“I love America,” she said, and described her most recent vacation there.

It turns out we have similar experiences regarding our marriages and husbands, and she suggested we get together once in a while to chat. She’d bring her dog for my son to play with, and we could enjoy some coffee and cake. She had never been to that Laundromat in Stuttgart before. She doesn’t even live in Stuttgart, but rather about 30 minutes SW of there. I don’t know why she was doing her laundry there, instead of at home. I didn’t ask. Like her, I believed there was a reason I was a day late getting laundry done, late getting there that morning, and we happened to be standing in the same place at the same time.

It turns out we did not get together. About ten days after I met her, my husband and I reconciled and I moved back to our Schwarzwald home. The prepaid cell phone I had purchased when I moved out was on its last minute, and I wasn’t about to buy a new calling card when I had my old cell phone back. Figuring she’d probably forgotten all about me, I put the little phone away and never heard from my new friend.

A few weeks ago, I was curious whether I had any messages on my prepaid phone (I was bored. Really, who’s going to call me but my attorney, who I didn't need anymore, and my mother, who knew I was back home?). I checked my phone, and wouldn’t you know, there was a text message for me, and it was from my new friend. She had called only the day before, wondering how I was doing.

Well, I SMSed her back, and made plans to meet the following week. It was good to see her again. We talked about a lot of stuff over coffee and cake, and agreed to get together again in a week or two.

I saw her again on Tuesday. “This is for your birthday, since I missed it two weeks ago.” She held forth the biggest, orangest roses I’ve ever seen. They were enough to put any carefully cultivated hot-house flower to shame.

“How sweet,” I exclaimed, placing them on the floor next to the phone stand. “I’ll put them right here where they’ll shed a little sunlight.” She smiled in agreement, then we went about preparing our barbecue.

Those roses are still on the floor where I can see them every time I walk through the hallway, or sit at the kitchen table to pound away at my laptop. They do, indeed, bring a little sunlight into the semi-dark that separates the rooms on the upper level of our house. They are really very orange, and absolutely gigantic, requiring their own stand for display. They are also completely fake and nothing I would ever purchase for myself, or for anyone else. But they possess a singular beauty that not even a hot-house flower can match, because they were unexpected and given with love.

My Secret Weapon Against Psychic Phenomena

My husband has the Devil’s own luck. I swear it. For instance, he wins the lottery. Never very huge winnings, granted. Most of the time, he wins a few euros, just enough to purchase another round of lotto tickets. But several times, he’s won amounts significant by anyone’s standards. I know people who have never won the lottery. Where does he get off winning so often, when so many never win at all? Like me, for example.

I shouldn’t question it, really. As his wife, I benefit from his winnings, so I’m not complaining. But I’m patiently awaiting the day he wins the big one.

It’ll happen.
It’s bound to.
I hope.

But the hell of it is, my husband and I love to play games—backgammon and canasta, in particular. And playing games with him is hell on earth. Why? Three guesses.

Yep, you got it. He always wins.

If I were less smart than I am, I’d chalk it up to my own lack of intelligence. But I know I’m not dumb, and neither is my husband. He’s pretty sharp. In fact, he’s smart enough that I let him add up all the scores through a canasta game. In some ways he’s smarter than me. In other ways I’m smarter than him. It’s a good balance. So, we should be good competitors when it comes to games that involve a fair balance of strategy and luck.

Not so here. And I’m not the only victim of this circumstance. My husband wins games against everyone he plays against. A strange phenomenon, I was thinking. Until I made the connection between that and him doing the grocery shopping on the odd occasion and my desire for particular items without voicing them—usually in the interest of healthful consumption.

Can you guess what happened?

Yep. That’s right. I would think about those Snickers bars, the Ritter Sport chocolate, the cheese balls, or an odd item like clothes pins… and he would trot right on home with them in the paper bag. It was downright bizarre. There have even been occasions when he left to pick up a few items I’d jotted down on a list, and inevitably I would forget something. During those times, I would sit down and think about said forgotten item very very hard. And most of the time, he would come home with it, or something very like it.

And how many times have I walked past the phone thinking, “I think I’ll give my hubby a call in a few mintues,” and then the phone rings?

Man, I wish I could do that. My husband is freaking psychic!

So, it was during our many many games of canasta that I realized that the reason he was always winning, the reason why I so frequently laid down the card he needed to snatch up the pot, was because the booger is psychic. And it also happened that on the few occasions I’ve won against him, were also the occasions that I had a glass of wine or two, or indulged in my favorite amontillado.

He laughed when I explained it to him. He didn’t believe me.

Until this weekend.

Saturday night, I enjoyed two snifters of amontillado and a delightfully fuzzy head. And won one game out of two.

Sunday night, I won two games out of three—sweetly buzzed, of course—and slaughtered the poor man.

As expected from someone who wins All the Time, he did not take well to losing against me. He was not a happy camper. And I was giggly and happy and not the least bit interested in coddling his poor wounded ego. This time, when I explained to him that the alcohol seems to fuzz up the connection between us, which allows my mind to focus less distinctly and renders his unable to sift through the interference, he finally listened. He didn’t laugh at my theory, this time. Losing three games to me in twenty-four hours—and two of those having left him nearly castrated—was too much evidence to ignore.

I will still tease him about having the Devil’s Luck, and I will let him sink back into believing what a lucky guy he is. But I know better, and deep down, so does he. He may be psychic, but I can beat him at his own game—with the help of fermented and distilled beverages. That sounds like a happy solution to me!

Dance of the Seven Wails

Before I got married six years ago, I lived with my parents. We had three cats who lived outdoors, sleeping mostly in the horse barn on our property, or, in very cold weather, in our basement. The cats were never allowed in the house because I am deathly allergic to them. But I loved those cats, and they kept the rodents away. We had them neutered, and later, a third cat was added to our family—a small orange-black-and-white calico—and we had her spayed. They were lovely critters, friendly, came running when we called their names, left the occasional mouse on our patio stoop. The gunslinger of the group, Monty, was a wirey fellow, ruthless and sleek, and a glutton for a warm lap. He drooled when we pet him. Tigger was the lazy one, with a broken meow, and like his brother, enjoyed friendly company and human loving. Kitty—so-named because we couldn’t find a name for her—was a little more standoffish, but nuzzled and drooled when you pet her, too.

There were other cats in the neighborhood who made use of our barn during the winter months, or mooched the cat food we left for our own. In the summer, the neighborhood cats fought. Once in a while, Monty or Tigger would come home with a minor war wound. Kitty once came home with a tear in her ear, which scarred over. The sounds of fighting or mating cats periodically punctuated our summer nights, that mournful wail and eerie yowling drifting through the warm humid air of our rural subdivision. It was enough to make you reach for the covers for protection, even when it was too hot to bear just a sheet, sending goosebumps down your flesh.

When we first moved to our little German dorf in January, we were greeted by two tabby-cat brothers, not yet a year old. I found them huddled together outside our patio door, patiently waiting for attention. Remembering those two orange tabbies of my own back home, I was delighted. I showed them to my son, who was also delighted. We started feeding them. I bought cat food, and we gave them our meaty leftovers. Though we never allowed them indoors, those cats became the highlight of our day.

One morning, following my usual morning ritual, I had opened the patio door to our bedroom and the window in my son’s room to air the lower level out. You must understand that windows do not have screens, here in Germany. I left my own bedroom to open the window of another room, and returned to make the beds. When that was done, I closed the windows and went upstairs. I didn’t notice anything unusual at the time.

When I came back down an hour later, I smelled the unmistakable odor of cat musk, and it was very strong. “Uh oh,” I thought. When I entered my bedroom, the stench was overpowering. There was no cat inside, but one had snuck in during the thirty seconds I had left the room unoccupied with the patio door open earlier that morning, and marked my bedroom as its territory. I traced the odor to the corner of the wall right by the door, and nearly gagged when I smelled it: the singular odor of armpits and rotten meat. It was horrible.

I decided on the spot that I don’t like cats, anymore. And certainly not ones that haven’t been neutered. And I especially didn’t like the daddy tom I had seen lurking around our house right around the time I had aired out our bedrooms. When I returned upstairs, I threw out the cat food. “No more feeding the cats,” I exclaimed to my family. “They are not allowed here, anymore!”

FYI, It took a lot of diligence, but I finally got rid of the smell by using Febreeze and household-strength vinegar.

After we stopped feeding the litter-mates, they and the rest of their misbegotten family have stopped lurking around our patio. We see them scurry across, going from one place to the other, but they don’t linger anymore. At least not around our patios.

Until last week.

I saw the mommy cat licking herself contentedly on the bench that is connected to our big stone grill. Nearby lurked one of the two brothers who had benefited from our generosity a few months before, and whose daddy had made it necessary to mark my territory as his own. The cat is full grown now, and he was stalking the mommy cat. She glanced over her shoulder at him and twitched her black and white tail at him, smiled seductively and beckoned him into the bushes she had claimed as her boudoir. Understanding what was going on, I rushed outside to chase them away. “No kitty-making in MY backyard!” I shouted at them. The last thing I wanted was a litter of stray kittens populating the underbrush of our bushes.

But that wasn’t the end of it. Oh no. One by one, other male cats streaked across our patio in search of the female in heat—seemingly the only female cat in the neighborhood. I saw cats I didn’t recognize. The sound of feline sex growls sounded from all around, first in one neighbor’s yard, then another’s. One night was particularly active, waking my husband from a deep slumber. “What was that,” he asked me, wide-eyed and clearly freaked out. He’s a city boy, having lived his entire life in Stuttgart. “Cats,” I said, the country girl, having nearly forgotten the racket those felines can make and how creepy they sound in the dead of night.

It became a quite a nuisance. No one around here is keen on those strays—especially under the threat of more invading our lovely hillside of the Schwarzwald. One neighbor couple had taken to dumping water on the copulating animals to chase them away. More than once I heard gun fire ringing through the air, and even witnessed another neighbor with his air rifle scouting around for the cat I had just seen prowling through his garden.

Mis Kitty's season is over. All is quiet again. Our night’s slumber isn’t interrupted anymore by the sound of cats howling on the hill immediately outside our bedroom. I am even less of a cat-lover than I was only two weeks ago. I understand now, why people once stuffed kittens into a sack and tossed them in the river to drown. If only I had a magic wand to wave them all away—or at the least, to spay and neuter them. I wouldn’t mind their company for the next twenty or so years—as long as they didn’t behave like cats.

Writer’s Software--to use or not to use?

I’ve been working on a novel on and off for about a year now. I started it last summer, used NaNoWriMo in November to push me to the quarter mark, and have barely touched the thing since. Okay, so we moved in January, encountered a serious marriage crisis at the same time, and in May I left my husband to return to him in June. Since then, I’ve jump-started my writing in lots of ways, including getting involved here on Blogit. I’ve been feeling really productive. I’ve even written poetry, for god’s sake, which is a first.

Except for my novel. In the past, I’d written tons of short stories, some of which I’ve decided to showcase on Rainy Day Reader (the good, the bad, and the ugly!), but this is my first novel. It’s the first one I’ve begun where I see the beginning and the end very clearly, the first one that I promised myself I would finish before going on to something new. I don’t expect to publish it. I probably won’t even try. It’s an exercise to simply get through it and get down the mechanics.

My major stumbling block is plotting out the middle. I never thought I’d do this, but I ended up buying some software that helps with the plotting. In fact, I bought two programs, which help in different ways, and I’m finally breaking through the barrier. The plot is becoming more refined, and I’m finally coming up with enough varied conflict to propel me through that sagging middle.

I’m wondering, how many of you out there have “stooped” to using writer’s software to push yourself through your works in progress? As a first-time novelist, I’m finding my programs to be invaluable tools for me, and I’m glad I spent the money. Whatever works, right? What’s your opinion?

Sniffing Rubber

Have you ever used a pair of household rubber gloves far beyond their need for replacement? I use rubber gloves to clean the bathroom or for a household chore that requires my hands to be submerged in water for any length of time. Normally, my rubber gloves acquire at least one hole before long, and need quick replacement. But the gloves I’m talking of, the Rubber Gloves that Wouldn’t Die, are the exception. They were approaching their eight-month birthday before they found themselves in the trash.

I’m sure you’re asking yourself, But that’s wonderful! Why would you even consider throwing away a hole-less pair of rubber gloves, when they’re still so full of potential?

In a perfect world, I would hold on to them and treasure them and revere them for their durability. But this is not a perfect world. Behold…

I used my trusty gloves they other day and was overcome by the odor they possessed. I didn’t smell it right away, mind you. I smelled it as my hands heated up in the rubber casing, and little puffs of foul air were expressed from their depths as I diligently worked to keep my house clean. When I was done with my chores, I sniffed the interior of those gloves and nearly keeled over with disgust. They went immediately into the trash, do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars—or euros, as the case may be—and I washed my hands thoroughly.

But the story doesn’t end there. Oh no. The odors created by your own body have incredible staying power. As the afternoon wore on, I caught the occasional sniff of something foul. Something like old feet. As I folded laundry, the smell wafted under my nose, tantalizingly close. What is that smell, I wondered. Could that be me? My clothes were clean, I had showered that morning… Was I developing a foot-odor problem? I lifted one foot to my nose (yes, I am that limber, but I am 35 now, and I dimly noted that with age comes stiffness, and lifting that foot to my nose wasn’t as easy as it might have been five years ago.) No, it wasn’t my feet (thank god!).

Then I smelled it again.

I didn’t find out until a little while later, as I sat at the kitchen table with my son, watching him color. I put my chin in my hand, and there it was again, that unmistakable odor of old feet. What the heck was that? With a sense of dread, I lifted my hands to my nose and inhaled—and nearly passed out. The smell of feet was coming from my own hands! Horrors!
Did it ever occur to you how your hands, the hands you keep scrupulously clean by washing after every bathroom visit, every nose blowing, and every surreptitious lick from the cookie batter, could leave behind an accumulative stink so overwhelmingly bad it would render a perfectly good pair of gloves utterly useless? Probably not.

The gloves, causing my hands to sweat, over time had taken my sweaty shed skin particles and fermented them into a fragrant stew which clung possessively to its source, my hands, and did not want to let go. It took several hand washings for that odor to finally fade, and in the meantime, I learned my lesson. Rubber gloves, even those with no holes, do indeed have a short shelf life once they’ve been worn.

So please, be sure to replace your household rubber gloves regularly. A special announcement from your public health service.

Playing catch-up with the technologically advanced

Last Saturday morning, I woke up to find my husband’s side of the bed empty. My son soon reported that the car was gone, and wondered where his dad had gone. I said to him, “Probably to get newspapers and brötchen,” brötchen being rolls of bread that we Americans commonly use for yummy deli sandwich-making. They might look like Kaiser rolls, or they might look like short baguettes, about four inches long. They might be square with flax seed, sesame seed, pumpkin seed, or sunflower seed. They might be of white flour, wheat flour, dark wheat, or a mix. Either way, they are good. I was looking forward to breakfast.

But an hour came and went, and there was no sign of my husband. I called his cell phone.

“Where are you,” I asked. I had noticed shortly before that, while he was sweet enough to set the table before he left, he did not set a place for himself. Clearly, he did not intent to eat with us, which meant he meant to be gone a while, and might not be bringing breakfast home, after all.

“Ehm… I’m in Stuttgart. Vaihingen.“

„Vaihingen? What are you doing way out there?” Vaihingen is a subdivision of Stuttgart, and where my husband’s previous job was.

“Ehm… Bank stuff.”

I knew better than to press it. If he wasn’t going to volunteer the information, pulling it out of him was worse than pulling a tooth, and often with unpleasant results. I let it go. “When will you be home?”

“Soon. Half-hour.”

And of course, I could interpret that to mean at least an hour. And I was right. He came home behaving very suspiciously. He had something in his hand he didn’t want me to see, and told me to leave the kitchen and go into the living room, making sure the door was closed behind me. When I bent to peek through the keyhole (no, I’m not above such tactics!), his eye suddenly appeared and his voice boomed through the wood door, “No peeking!” Obviously, he had something for me, and it was for my birthday.

After a while, I forgot about it. But when I discovered its hiding place, it was all I could do not to peek. He had hidden it in the kitchen cabinet that houses all of our medicinal items, behind two boxes the held the blood-pressure monitor and the cordless phone. For three days I was good. For three days, I was tempted to peek… and didn’t. Impressed? I am! The flesh, after all, is weak. What impresses me most, is that my five-year-old son knew what the gift was… and kept it secret all that time.

Tuesday afternoon, it occurred to me what that gift might have been, and I knew for certain that if I peeked, I wouldn’t be able to hide that fact from my dear hubby.

Wednesday, I was awakened to three choruses of Happy Birthday from my husband and my little one. My son even soloed. Very cute. Then, like the co-conspirators they were, they ran upstairs to the kitchen, whispering all the way, and came back with the gift. It was exactly the size I had expected it to be, if my suspicion was correct. I tore open the paper with relish, telling myself to not get my hopes up. I’d been asking for one of these for years, and the answer was always the same: we can’t afford it.

When I finally ripped the paper free from the box, I yelled out with delight. “A digital camera! Oh my god! A digital camera!” I couldn’t believe it, even if my suspicion had been proven true. Yes, I know, we’re a little behind the times. We don’t even have a scanner. We only just got broadband a few months ago. And now, we finally have a digital camera. I just couldn’t believe it.
Naturally, I immediately began taking pictures of everything, and especially of the lovely bouquet of varicolored roses my husband had brought home the evening before. “I wanted to get you red, but I decided on these when I saw them. Because love is never the same color,” he said when he handed them to me. How poetic. How come I never think of stuff like that???
The rest of the day was nice. We rented movies, ate chips and dip, even had a champagne breakfast.