Well, Hell. I'm Back. I just couldn't stay away.
I'm back, for better or worse. I missed everyone terribly, even if to you my absence registered little more than a faint blip on the Blogit radar. I missed... well, I just missed writing on Blogit. I know, I sound corny 'n' all, but that's just the way it is.
In the time I've been gone, I managed to get my website up and running, and have gotten a few jobs so far, so that's good. I also managed to glean a little knowledge in HTML code, by way of reverse engineering a couple of Blogger templates I was using to restructure them to my own specifications, so I'm feeling pretty good about that, too.
My mother-in-law and her mother vacated our home two weeks after her arrival with the usual shouting match between her and my husband. She stayed with my brother-in-law for one week before a shouting match with him and his girlfriend (how can you call a 40-year-old woman a girlfriend? Don't we move beyond that title at some predefined point?) prompted her early return to Greece. Good riddance. Of course, all of her stuff from her recently vacated Stuttgart apartment is now occupying our master bedroom and laundry room, and I have no idea when or IF she plans to get it our of our house.
And on that note, we have finally moved through the final phase in the application for my husband's US residence visa. Yes, last week was his interview. Today, he cleared up a misunderstanding about his immunization records, and so we should know within the next two weeks whether he will be eligible for permanent residency in the US. Once that is determined, there's a good chance we will be living in the US by summer's end. Yee-ha!
Of course, that means completely starting over. But things aren't that great as they stand now, so it'll be like wiping the slate clean and doing something different. I'd like to get my teacher's certificate, for instance. I'd like to convince my husband to do the same, because, watching him teach our son math, I think he'd make a good teacher.
Well, that's enough for now. It's midnight where I am, and I'd like to get some reading done before crashing for the night. Take care, everyone. I missed you all!
Monday, April 10, 2006
Thursday, April 6, 2006
Lessons in Waiting
Tuesday marked the beginning of significant change for our little family. After months of filling out forms, standing in endless lines, and subterranean emotional preparation, my husband and I found ourselves finally at the American Consulate in Frankfurt to take the final steps toward his U.S. residence visa.
What that means for us is, after having lived these past seven years in Germany, my husband’s homeland, we may very well be returning to the Chicago area once and for all before summer’s end. I’m very excited about this, and I think my husband is, too. And our son will be delighted.
The day at the Consulate passed very smoothly. The mission was to attend an interview conducted by one of the Consulate officials and then proceed to his physical, as outlined in the appointment letter. Just like in the movies, there was a line of people waiting to get into the Consulate itself. As we waited, I noticed a sign on the wall that indicated no electronics are allowed in the building. Opening the bag I held, I looked inside and found we had forgotten to leave my husband’s cell phone in the car. He took the phone and ran down the block to put it away.
In the meantime, a young woman, 23 years old, turned around and started talking to me. She revealed that she had lived near my hometown, and even had attended church meetings in the little schoolhouse-turned-community center in our farming community. (Actually, it’s no longer a farming community, but a burgeoning village—a recent victim of urban sprawl.) I was really amazed to run into someone else from my tiny little corner of the Midwest. Last year on the subway, I ran into a young woman, a Seventh-Day Adventist missionary no less, who is from the next town over from ours. It really is a small world.
As we laughed together, the woman behind us joined our conversation .
“I admit it,” she’d said, “I was eavesdropping.”
The first young woman and I both made the same dismissive hand gesture and at the same time said, “That’s okay!”
“This far from home,” I said, “we’re all family.”
Just as my husband returned, and while the three of us were deep in conversation, one of the line attendants inquired after each person’s business. Now here’s the interesting part. To the girl in front of me, and the girl in back of me, he spoke English. To me, he spoke German. I don’t know what it was that made him assume I might be German, except maybe my reddish dark-blond hair and blue eyes. But other than that, I’m about as American as they come. My clothes certainly have held to my American roots—t-shirt, oversized PolarTec pullover, hiking boots. And my hair basically has kept its style over the last seven years: long with bangs. I’m horribly unfashionable in this part of the world, and embarrassingly out of date in my own country. So why would he presume to speak German to me—especially after interrupting our little Kaffee Klatsch? Didn’t he hear us all chatting away in English?
He ushered the three of us (my husband trotting behind to catch up) to the front of the line where we simply checked in and were given a number ahead of several others who no doubt wondered what gave us privilege over them. Then, we had to stand in another line to enter an antechamber, where we had to pass through a metal detector and x-ray our bag and coats, just like at the airport or a courthouse. Only four people at a time could enter the antechamber, and that’s where I was separated from my new friends. I didn’t see them again, even after entering the Consulate, but that was not surprising. My husband and I were directed to the immigrant visa section of the large waiting hall, separate from the American portion of the area where passports, birth-abroad certificates, and the like are handled.
It was about 8:20 a.m. when we entered the Consulate, and were immediately directed to Window 22, where we paid our application fee. (Someone had told us last year, before we even started the application process, to expect to pay around $500 in fees before it was all over. He was not kidding!) We were given our receipt and told to sit in the waiting area until our number was called again. W511. We looked around, and decided the wait wouldn’t be as long as we thought it would be (the papers sent to us indicated a 3- to 6-hour process). There simply weren’t many people around, and our number was pretty low. It certainly didn’t take long before our number was called to Window 23, where we turned in my husband’s application—as if he already hadn’t filled out a zillion other forms last summer, putting this whole thing in motion. We finished up there nice and quick, with no fuss, and were told to sit and wait until our number was called again.
This wait took a little longer. After fidgeting in our chairs for a while, I said to my husband, “I’m going to read a little bit. Once I really get into it, they’ll call our number.” And sure enough, maybe ten minutes later, we were called up to Window 11. There, we turned in all of our documents: police report, military records, birth certificate, marriage license, affidavits of support—a whole pile of papers. In a bored monotone and without pause for breath, the woman gave us instructions of what to do when we first arrive in the States. After spending a few minutes getting those instructions straight, we were told to sit down—again—and wait for our number to be called—again—for the formal interview.
This wait took still longer, and not even my old reading trick helped speed things up. I think it was because we were both a little nervous and I couldn’t concentrate. We waited long enough that we both began to wonder if maybe they might call our number on the American side. It sounds silly, but we’d waited just long enough for our numbed minds to start hypothesizing and playing tricks on us.
Eventually, we were called to Window 17, our final destination at the Consulate. The interview seemed more like a chat over coffee than an actual interview, except for the obvious questions the interviewer asked us: Where will we be living, has my husband been there before, how long have we been married (all of this information was already on the umpteen thousand forms we’d filled out), why do we want to relocate? At one point, I took my husband’s hand, and the man smiled at me and said, “Don’t worry. You’re doing fine.”
It was 11:10 when we finished up with the formal interview, and, taking the advice of our interviewer, we took one of the taxis lurking outside the consulate to the doctor’s office to make it there before it closed at 11:30.
As we rushed through the door of the doctor’s office, the Turkish receptionist, adorned in her very attractive head scarf and ankle-length black skirt, directed us to a waiting room upstairs. When we entered, we recognized several other people from the Consulate waiting hall. We all smiled at each other in greeting, everyone clearly excited by the prospect of gaining their U.S. immigrant visas. At another desk, a woman crossed my husband’s name off a list. Beside his name was the scheduled time of our interview, 8:30. The list was long, and there were people with later interview times at the Consulate who had yet to arrive, their names still to be crossed off. Like everyone else, we had to pay the doctor €125 in cash—German insurance would not cover this exam, imagine that—and after seeing that list of Consular patients for the day, I said to my husband, “This doctor must make a whole lotta money.”
Back in the waiting room, my husband and I talked about the man who’d interviewed us. “I think he liked us,” I said to him. “He was really nice, very friendly.”
“Too friendly,” my husband said. “Did you notice how quick he was with his questions?”
I thought about it and realized my husband was right. The man had been very friendly. Very chatty. But in the midst of the chattiness, he shot out pointed questions, so that those taken off-guard by his friendliness might stumble over one if they had secretive or dishonest reasons for wanting to gain permanent admittance to the U.S.
I said, “You’re right,” and felt a little let down. I like to think I’m not naïve, but sometimes I really can be. I like to believe the best in people. We had been a nice, humble couple during the interview. I’d smiled genuinely at the interviewer, thrilled that we had finally attained this final step, the future opening up before us, both of us happy and optimistic. And the man had seemed like a really nice guy. I understood his position, of course, being one of the final people to decide yay or nay to hopeful (and sometimes devious) immigrants from Germany. But I really wanted to believe he was a nice person, that he’d liked us, that the sparkle in his eyes had been as genuine as my smile. So, in a conscious decision to not play devil’s advocate for once, I let myself believe what I wanted to believe.
The physical went smoothly, too, though there was one hitch in my husband’s immunization records. Once we get that straightened up early next week, the physical results get sent to the Consulate. Within two weeks after that, we’ll know whether my husband has received his visa.
We have still another long wait ahead of us, but I’m fairly confident the outcome will be favorable.
What that means for us is, after having lived these past seven years in Germany, my husband’s homeland, we may very well be returning to the Chicago area once and for all before summer’s end. I’m very excited about this, and I think my husband is, too. And our son will be delighted.
The day at the Consulate passed very smoothly. The mission was to attend an interview conducted by one of the Consulate officials and then proceed to his physical, as outlined in the appointment letter. Just like in the movies, there was a line of people waiting to get into the Consulate itself. As we waited, I noticed a sign on the wall that indicated no electronics are allowed in the building. Opening the bag I held, I looked inside and found we had forgotten to leave my husband’s cell phone in the car. He took the phone and ran down the block to put it away.
In the meantime, a young woman, 23 years old, turned around and started talking to me. She revealed that she had lived near my hometown, and even had attended church meetings in the little schoolhouse-turned-community center in our farming community. (Actually, it’s no longer a farming community, but a burgeoning village—a recent victim of urban sprawl.) I was really amazed to run into someone else from my tiny little corner of the Midwest. Last year on the subway, I ran into a young woman, a Seventh-Day Adventist missionary no less, who is from the next town over from ours. It really is a small world.
As we laughed together, the woman behind us joined our conversation .
“I admit it,” she’d said, “I was eavesdropping.”
The first young woman and I both made the same dismissive hand gesture and at the same time said, “That’s okay!”
“This far from home,” I said, “we’re all family.”
Just as my husband returned, and while the three of us were deep in conversation, one of the line attendants inquired after each person’s business. Now here’s the interesting part. To the girl in front of me, and the girl in back of me, he spoke English. To me, he spoke German. I don’t know what it was that made him assume I might be German, except maybe my reddish dark-blond hair and blue eyes. But other than that, I’m about as American as they come. My clothes certainly have held to my American roots—t-shirt, oversized PolarTec pullover, hiking boots. And my hair basically has kept its style over the last seven years: long with bangs. I’m horribly unfashionable in this part of the world, and embarrassingly out of date in my own country. So why would he presume to speak German to me—especially after interrupting our little Kaffee Klatsch? Didn’t he hear us all chatting away in English?
He ushered the three of us (my husband trotting behind to catch up) to the front of the line where we simply checked in and were given a number ahead of several others who no doubt wondered what gave us privilege over them. Then, we had to stand in another line to enter an antechamber, where we had to pass through a metal detector and x-ray our bag and coats, just like at the airport or a courthouse. Only four people at a time could enter the antechamber, and that’s where I was separated from my new friends. I didn’t see them again, even after entering the Consulate, but that was not surprising. My husband and I were directed to the immigrant visa section of the large waiting hall, separate from the American portion of the area where passports, birth-abroad certificates, and the like are handled.
It was about 8:20 a.m. when we entered the Consulate, and were immediately directed to Window 22, where we paid our application fee. (Someone had told us last year, before we even started the application process, to expect to pay around $500 in fees before it was all over. He was not kidding!) We were given our receipt and told to sit in the waiting area until our number was called again. W511. We looked around, and decided the wait wouldn’t be as long as we thought it would be (the papers sent to us indicated a 3- to 6-hour process). There simply weren’t many people around, and our number was pretty low. It certainly didn’t take long before our number was called to Window 23, where we turned in my husband’s application—as if he already hadn’t filled out a zillion other forms last summer, putting this whole thing in motion. We finished up there nice and quick, with no fuss, and were told to sit and wait until our number was called again.
This wait took a little longer. After fidgeting in our chairs for a while, I said to my husband, “I’m going to read a little bit. Once I really get into it, they’ll call our number.” And sure enough, maybe ten minutes later, we were called up to Window 11. There, we turned in all of our documents: police report, military records, birth certificate, marriage license, affidavits of support—a whole pile of papers. In a bored monotone and without pause for breath, the woman gave us instructions of what to do when we first arrive in the States. After spending a few minutes getting those instructions straight, we were told to sit down—again—and wait for our number to be called—again—for the formal interview.
This wait took still longer, and not even my old reading trick helped speed things up. I think it was because we were both a little nervous and I couldn’t concentrate. We waited long enough that we both began to wonder if maybe they might call our number on the American side. It sounds silly, but we’d waited just long enough for our numbed minds to start hypothesizing and playing tricks on us.
Eventually, we were called to Window 17, our final destination at the Consulate. The interview seemed more like a chat over coffee than an actual interview, except for the obvious questions the interviewer asked us: Where will we be living, has my husband been there before, how long have we been married (all of this information was already on the umpteen thousand forms we’d filled out), why do we want to relocate? At one point, I took my husband’s hand, and the man smiled at me and said, “Don’t worry. You’re doing fine.”
It was 11:10 when we finished up with the formal interview, and, taking the advice of our interviewer, we took one of the taxis lurking outside the consulate to the doctor’s office to make it there before it closed at 11:30.
As we rushed through the door of the doctor’s office, the Turkish receptionist, adorned in her very attractive head scarf and ankle-length black skirt, directed us to a waiting room upstairs. When we entered, we recognized several other people from the Consulate waiting hall. We all smiled at each other in greeting, everyone clearly excited by the prospect of gaining their U.S. immigrant visas. At another desk, a woman crossed my husband’s name off a list. Beside his name was the scheduled time of our interview, 8:30. The list was long, and there were people with later interview times at the Consulate who had yet to arrive, their names still to be crossed off. Like everyone else, we had to pay the doctor €125 in cash—German insurance would not cover this exam, imagine that—and after seeing that list of Consular patients for the day, I said to my husband, “This doctor must make a whole lotta money.”
Back in the waiting room, my husband and I talked about the man who’d interviewed us. “I think he liked us,” I said to him. “He was really nice, very friendly.”
“Too friendly,” my husband said. “Did you notice how quick he was with his questions?”
I thought about it and realized my husband was right. The man had been very friendly. Very chatty. But in the midst of the chattiness, he shot out pointed questions, so that those taken off-guard by his friendliness might stumble over one if they had secretive or dishonest reasons for wanting to gain permanent admittance to the U.S.
I said, “You’re right,” and felt a little let down. I like to think I’m not naïve, but sometimes I really can be. I like to believe the best in people. We had been a nice, humble couple during the interview. I’d smiled genuinely at the interviewer, thrilled that we had finally attained this final step, the future opening up before us, both of us happy and optimistic. And the man had seemed like a really nice guy. I understood his position, of course, being one of the final people to decide yay or nay to hopeful (and sometimes devious) immigrants from Germany. But I really wanted to believe he was a nice person, that he’d liked us, that the sparkle in his eyes had been as genuine as my smile. So, in a conscious decision to not play devil’s advocate for once, I let myself believe what I wanted to believe.
The physical went smoothly, too, though there was one hitch in my husband’s immunization records. Once we get that straightened up early next week, the physical results get sent to the Consulate. Within two weeks after that, we’ll know whether my husband has received his visa.
We have still another long wait ahead of us, but I’m fairly confident the outcome will be favorable.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
An Old Promise Made Good
Seven years ago, I quit my editing job, got married and moved to Germany. As I was wrapping up my final days at the office, I promised the associate editor for one of the magazines I copyedited that I would send him a copy of the German magazine that bears his last name.
Last week, I visited the website of my old company for the very first time. I don’t know what took me so long to do it, but there you have it. Checking out the sub-domain of that magazine I copyedited, I saw that a couple years back, the associate editor had been promoted to editor. That made me happy, because I felt he was a nice guy and working with him had been very pleasant.
And then, I realized that I had never sent him the magazine I had promised exactly seven years ago. So, the very next day, I bought a copy of that week’s edition and dropped it in the mail. I figured it was the least I could do… and the last chance I have to do it. We are, after all, in the process of making plans to return to the States for good.
After recovering from the shock of the postage -- almost three times the cost of the magazine! I was rudely reminded why I don’t send anyone presents from Deutschland. Well, except to my mom at Christmas! -- I was filled with a giddy pleasure. Imagine your surprise after receiving a large envelope with a big airmail stamp on it, from a person you haven’t spoken to in seven years. And inside that envelope is a promise finally -- if belatedly -- made good on.
I hope he likes his present.
Last week, I visited the website of my old company for the very first time. I don’t know what took me so long to do it, but there you have it. Checking out the sub-domain of that magazine I copyedited, I saw that a couple years back, the associate editor had been promoted to editor. That made me happy, because I felt he was a nice guy and working with him had been very pleasant.
And then, I realized that I had never sent him the magazine I had promised exactly seven years ago. So, the very next day, I bought a copy of that week’s edition and dropped it in the mail. I figured it was the least I could do… and the last chance I have to do it. We are, after all, in the process of making plans to return to the States for good.
After recovering from the shock of the postage -- almost three times the cost of the magazine! I was rudely reminded why I don’t send anyone presents from Deutschland. Well, except to my mom at Christmas! -- I was filled with a giddy pleasure. Imagine your surprise after receiving a large envelope with a big airmail stamp on it, from a person you haven’t spoken to in seven years. And inside that envelope is a promise finally -- if belatedly -- made good on.
I hope he likes his present.
Thursday, March 16, 2006
Letting the Young-uns Fly...
A certain copywriter hit the nail on the head when he (or more likely, she) wrote, “If they could only stay little till their Carters wear out.” With every cute little outfit my son has outgrown, with every sweet little quirk left behind, or funny mispronunciation corrected, that Carter’s phrase comes unbidden to my mind. And every once in a while, as if someone had clicked my mind’s refresh button, I’ll take a new look at my son and realize that he really is growing up fast.
I often come to this realization with a painful tweak, and I find myself having to scramble to catch up with his growth. He’s not a little boy anymore, is he? He’s six years old, and somewhat tall and sturdy for his age. And just Sunday night, he lost his second baby tooth. But still…
I’m always willing to let him spread his wings, test them for flight. I remember the first few times he so carefully poured water or juice all by himself. The first time he brushed his teeth alone. Now, he sometimes makes his own breakfast, buttering his own bread or pouring his own cereal. He dresses himself most days, too. These things make me happy. I’m happy for his budding independence, and I’m happy I no longer have to be quite SO responsible for the simple things in his life. But the most recent development gives me a little trouble.
My son wants to walk to kindergarten alone.
It’s really not such a big deal. The school is less than five minutes away on foot. The journey is even quicker if you’re an energetic six-year-old itching to stretch your strong, boy leg muscles after a long winter indoors. And two weeks ago, after he plaintively begged me, I finally said, “Okay, you can go by yourself.”
He was very excited, and kept asking me how long before he should leave. When I told him it was time to put his shoes on, he hopped up and did it without hesitation, then pulled on his coat, hat, mittens and scarf without being told. Wow. Now, that's a first!
We said goodbye, and as his warmly packed, very alive body walked out the door, I realized that my son may be ready to assume this new responsibility, but I wasn’t ready to relinquish it. How would I know when he got there? How would I know he whether got there in one piece?
How would I know if he got there at all???
I quickly ran to the bathroom (I couldn’t wait to go potty), washed my hands, donned my shoes, coat and mittens, and flew out the door after him. I wasn’t going to join him, I just wanted to follow him to make sure he got there all right. But when I jogged down the hill to the main street, my son was nowhere in sight.
“Be calm,” I told myself. “He’s just beyond your sightline. Nothing to worry about.”
I followed the narrow sidewalk all the way down the hill to the kindergarten, situated beside a swift-flowing brook swollen with the melting snow. The walkway to the front door of the school was empty, no sign of my son in his lime-green-and-grey ski jacket anywhere. Just as I had made up my mind to sneak into the kindergarten to be sure he was in there, the mother of one of his schoolmates appeared.
“Hallo, Claudia! Hast du mein Sohn da drin gesehen?” I asked. Did you see my son in there?
“Joh,” she answered in her Schwäbisch dialect. She had seen him, and he was very proud of himself that he had walked to kindergarten all alone.
Satisfied that all was well, and not wanting him to discover that I had followed him, I turned around and headed back home.
Since then, my son has begun showing other signs of independence. I still bring him to kindergarten most days, but he no longer gives me the big hug and kiss at the door that he used to. And on the days he asks to walk alone, like the big boy he is, I let him go.
Then, I count to sixty before hopping in the car to trail him there, making sure he walks through the door of the school, safe and sound!
I often come to this realization with a painful tweak, and I find myself having to scramble to catch up with his growth. He’s not a little boy anymore, is he? He’s six years old, and somewhat tall and sturdy for his age. And just Sunday night, he lost his second baby tooth. But still…
I’m always willing to let him spread his wings, test them for flight. I remember the first few times he so carefully poured water or juice all by himself. The first time he brushed his teeth alone. Now, he sometimes makes his own breakfast, buttering his own bread or pouring his own cereal. He dresses himself most days, too. These things make me happy. I’m happy for his budding independence, and I’m happy I no longer have to be quite SO responsible for the simple things in his life. But the most recent development gives me a little trouble.
My son wants to walk to kindergarten alone.
It’s really not such a big deal. The school is less than five minutes away on foot. The journey is even quicker if you’re an energetic six-year-old itching to stretch your strong, boy leg muscles after a long winter indoors. And two weeks ago, after he plaintively begged me, I finally said, “Okay, you can go by yourself.”
He was very excited, and kept asking me how long before he should leave. When I told him it was time to put his shoes on, he hopped up and did it without hesitation, then pulled on his coat, hat, mittens and scarf without being told. Wow. Now, that's a first!
We said goodbye, and as his warmly packed, very alive body walked out the door, I realized that my son may be ready to assume this new responsibility, but I wasn’t ready to relinquish it. How would I know when he got there? How would I know he whether got there in one piece?
How would I know if he got there at all???
I quickly ran to the bathroom (I couldn’t wait to go potty), washed my hands, donned my shoes, coat and mittens, and flew out the door after him. I wasn’t going to join him, I just wanted to follow him to make sure he got there all right. But when I jogged down the hill to the main street, my son was nowhere in sight.
“Be calm,” I told myself. “He’s just beyond your sightline. Nothing to worry about.”
I followed the narrow sidewalk all the way down the hill to the kindergarten, situated beside a swift-flowing brook swollen with the melting snow. The walkway to the front door of the school was empty, no sign of my son in his lime-green-and-grey ski jacket anywhere. Just as I had made up my mind to sneak into the kindergarten to be sure he was in there, the mother of one of his schoolmates appeared.
“Hallo, Claudia! Hast du mein Sohn da drin gesehen?” I asked. Did you see my son in there?
“Joh,” she answered in her Schwäbisch dialect. She had seen him, and he was very proud of himself that he had walked to kindergarten all alone.
Satisfied that all was well, and not wanting him to discover that I had followed him, I turned around and headed back home.
Since then, my son has begun showing other signs of independence. I still bring him to kindergarten most days, but he no longer gives me the big hug and kiss at the door that he used to. And on the days he asks to walk alone, like the big boy he is, I let him go.
Then, I count to sixty before hopping in the car to trail him there, making sure he walks through the door of the school, safe and sound!
Monday, February 6, 2006
Watch out, it's a whirlwind out there!
Who'd have known that the new year would herald so much change?
The changes around here have been relatively small. I was away from Blogit for such a long time, it's hard to remember everything that's kept me from the computer. The first thing that comes to mind is all the hard work I put into a website I created to promote my proofreading and editing services. It's been up for two weeks, and I spent some time submitting the URL to search engines, and placing ads in obscure online classifieds. When I checked on Saturday, I saw that I had finally made it into Google. Excited, I wrote a giant mass-email to everyone in my address book announcing my new site. But then my mom wrote to tell me the Google link didn't work. So I tried it, and she was right. I WAS in Google on Saturday, but today I'm not. Not sure what happened there.
But fact is, the Website is up. Did it all myself. Go ahead and take a look. No, really. Of course, that also means the end of my anonymity here... but that's okay.
There. There it is. Let me know what you think.
In the meantime, my mother-in-law came to Germany with her 85-year-old mother in tow, and they've been living with us for the last ten days or so. These two, they eat A LOT of bread. I have to buy a fresh two-pound (1-kilo) loaf of bread every two days to accomodate their lust for gluten. Okay, fine. They like their bread. But all those carbs result in a whole lotta farting--and my house smells like stale farts. That is NO JOKE. Walk into my bedroom, which they are occupying, and oh boy. And whatever you do, don't stand behind the grandmother. As sweet as she is, she is loaded with lethal fumes. I can't tell you how often I've gotten caught in fart fumes from this little lady.
My mother-in-law is a pill, to say the least. She is the original mother-in-law. We had our first spat a few days ago, and she's been behaving quite well since then, but I'm not holding my breath.
Well, maybe I should, all things considered. Six of one, half-a-dozen of the other.
The unfortunate thing is, the woman is terribly impatient with her own mother, who is not only aged, but suffers from Alzheimer's on top of it. Bad news.
But we're coping, and the grandmother and I have struck up a kind of commaraderie.
So, also because of our visitors I haven't been writing at all.
And in the midst of all this, we're still preparing for our move to the States. We're still waiting to get my husband's interview date in the mail, which should be arriving pretty soon. After we relocate, I'm hoping to go back to school and get my Teacher's Certificate. I'd like to teach grade school, and I'm thinking at some point I'd like to earn my Master's in education and teach at the university level.
And while all this is going on, of course, I'm still writing that phantom novel in my head. Well, about 8 of them, actually!
So, there's lots to do and think about right now. I don't think I'll have time to post on blogit with any regularity for the next little while, so I've cancelled my membership for the time being. I'm hoping that, once the dust settles, I'll be able to get back into it. I'm hoping that I can come back next month. I'm hoping that maybe I won't have to go away, after all. The fact is, I've had a blast here. I've enjoyed getting to know everyone and reading about your lives. I probably won't post again, but I will try to stop by between now and the end of my payment cycle (another week or so) to visit everyone and say goodbye. Hopefully, it won't be for long.
In the meantime, don't forget me.
Peace, light and love to everyone,SilverMoon7
Tuesday, January 3, 2006
I want to be a switch-hitter
A post from mysteria reminded me of something that had crossed my mind last night while watching the latest Star Trek, the Last Generation movie on TV. You know those Vulcans, who aren't supposed to have emotion... Well, some things that I should be doing have been a lot on my mind, lately. Looking for a part-time job is one of them. Working on my writing ideas is another. There's more. I'm sure you have some, too.
A lot of dark thinking gets in the way of accomplishing those things. Self-doubt, frustration, insecurity. Reluctance. Laziness. And I thought, wouldn't it be handy if we could simply turn off those negative emotions, and get done the stuff that needs to get done? Just flip a switch and all those nasty little emotions that we (all) allow to get in our way, at one time or another, no longer would be a hindrance...
Ahh. Wouldn't that be sweet?
But as I thought about it longer, would that device hinder our personal growth? Would it stunt our ability to get through the tough stuff? To buck up and dance to the music, even if it's our least-favorite tune?
Or would it bolster our confidence? "Whew, glad to get that out of the way." "That wasn't as bad as I thought it would be!" "Hey, I CAN do that, after all!" "Look at me, I'm flying!" And then next time we encounter a diffcult situation, we won't need to flip the switch, at all.
Maybe I can work on creating my own internal switch. The Don't-Think-About-It-Just-Do-It toggle. I'd get a lot more done that way, and I might even get some brownie points with the character-development people upstairs, or out there, or wherever they float around.
Do you have your own internal switch? What does yours do?
A lot of dark thinking gets in the way of accomplishing those things. Self-doubt, frustration, insecurity. Reluctance. Laziness. And I thought, wouldn't it be handy if we could simply turn off those negative emotions, and get done the stuff that needs to get done? Just flip a switch and all those nasty little emotions that we (all) allow to get in our way, at one time or another, no longer would be a hindrance...
Ahh. Wouldn't that be sweet?
But as I thought about it longer, would that device hinder our personal growth? Would it stunt our ability to get through the tough stuff? To buck up and dance to the music, even if it's our least-favorite tune?
Or would it bolster our confidence? "Whew, glad to get that out of the way." "That wasn't as bad as I thought it would be!" "Hey, I CAN do that, after all!" "Look at me, I'm flying!" And then next time we encounter a diffcult situation, we won't need to flip the switch, at all.
Maybe I can work on creating my own internal switch. The Don't-Think-About-It-Just-Do-It toggle. I'd get a lot more done that way, and I might even get some brownie points with the character-development people upstairs, or out there, or wherever they float around.
Do you have your own internal switch? What does yours do?
Sunday, January 1, 2006
Returning from the Land of Nog
After having vanished from the cyber-ether for nearly a month, I've returned, for the time being, from the Land of Nog. I hope your holidays were warm and joyful. After a rocky start, mine managed to settle into a relaxed rhythm that I'm sorry to leave behind today. My husband was home for eleven days, and after the initial Day of Decompression, things were very pleasant around here. Wish it could be so more often. I was sorry to see him leave for work this morning, because it meant returning to the Daily Grind and the usual stresses that make life difficult.
Our Christmas was pleasant. I made two Christmas dinners, one for us, and one for my in-laws a couple days later. We chose not to celebrate with them and my sister-in-law's family this year, because money is tight, and it seemed illogical for us to stress out about buying presents for five extra people we only see and hear from at my sister-in-law's Christmas gatherings. It also seemed unfair to impose present-buying on her parents and grandparents for our family for the same reason.
So, it was two turkeys for us, two batches of stuffing and mashed potatoes, and two pumpkin pies, and it occured to me to wonder, not for the first time, why are the Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners the same? I wanted to cook a ham for us, but my American friend from across the valley had sick children to contend with, in addition to her own celebrations to prepare for, so she didn't have the time or energy to escort me into the Commissary at Patch Barracks so I could get me some ham.
Germans, while big on pork, don't do ham. Which is really too bad.
I did make egg nog for the first time. After a little research, I found a recipe that involved only four eggs, a reduced amount of whipping cream, and while the egg whites got whipped to a frothy consistency and added raw to the mixture at the very end, the egg yolks, at least, were cooked during the initial process. Unfortunately, I have a weird allergy to raw eggs, and even the egg yolks caused a reaction. I had two cups of the stuff, plus a little glass with rum added, and ended up pouring the rest of the batch down the sink. It tasted good, but was mighty rich.
I think next time, I'll use less whipping cream, low-fat milk instead of whole, and nix the beaten-to-a-froth egg whites altogether.
We did not celebrate the holidays with my Dread Mother-in-Law, much to my intense relief. She's stuck in Greece, her homeland, watching after her elderly mother, who is stricken with Alzheimer's.
At least, I thought she was stuck in Greece for a good long time, until I learned that she will, indeed, be staying with us for a lengthy visit beginning January 14. She is a BEAST, and a spy, and a downright piece of work to experience. Chances are excellent that I won't be logging onto Blogit for the the duration of her visit. I've said repeatedly to my husband, How on earth does she think she's going to stay here for six weeks??? We can't have peace in the house for even a single day, when she's here!
So, we'll see where that potentially traumatic time will take us.
She thought she might bring her mother with, Alzheimer's and all, but when she called yesterday, I think I overheard that she'll be leaving the Greek über-matron at home.
I'm sorry to sound so unsympathetic about her and her mother. I just cannot convey the horror that this woman is. I was dreading having to listen to muttered insults about me in two languages, but it looks like I'll only have to endure it from a single source, in a single language.
My mother-in-law wouldn't mutter insulting things about me in Greek. No. She'd do it so I could understand it. Very considerate of her, don't you think?
Do I sound stressed out, already? How perceptive!
On the by-the-way side of things, remember when I mentioned being interviewed by a reporter from my hometown newspaper? Well, it came out shortly before Christmas, and my parents sent me a copy of it. What follows is the copy, only slightly edited for obvious reasons.
The author of the article wasn't very precise about quoting me ("I'm pretty sure I didn't say that quite like that..." ), but the article itself was nice, and sensitively written.
December 22, 2005
By A Writer from Silver’s Rural Village
When SilverMoon7 , formerly of our small town, decided to follow her heart, she didn't think she would end up half-way around the world. And she certainly didn't anticipate a long distance relationship ... with the life she used to know.
That's exactly what happened when Silver and her husband moved to Stuttgart, Germany, six years ago.
Silver’s dad and Silver’s mom of our small town said that when their daughter first announced the move to Silver’s hubby's native land, everyone was happy.
"It was exciting at first, I thought what an opportunity to move overseas and travel," Silver’s mom said. "But then she actually went and it was really difficult for me to adjust."
Although she still struggles with her daughter living far away, she said it was hardest the first year, when she would weep just thinking of her departure.
"I just missed her so much and then she got pregnant and it was exciting, but hard again," Silver’s mom said. "Fortunately we have a good phone plan, so we talk and e-mail a lot."
And with the addition of her new grandson, Alex, who is now 5, Silver’s mom said they have also become savvy with digital photos.
Although both families try to make the overseas trip once, maybe twice a year, Silver’s mom said it's still difficult to spend quality time together.
"There is a seven-hour time difference, so when we can visit we are seriously jet lagged," Silver’s mom said. "We want to be awake when they are sleeping and they are awake when we are sleeping."
Silver said she too struggles with the time and distance constraints. But she said she never anticipated this when her initial decision was made out of love and not with the "what ifs."
"I thought it (moving to Germany) was for good, but I knew there was a possibility for us to come back," Silver said. "Things happened very quickly. I had to quit my job and learn a new language, my life changed overnight," Silver said. "I was very independent and went from being someone who knew where I was going to being a foreigner, learning a foreign language and pregnant."
Although she said things are getting easier, she feels like she always will have to cope on some level with her new lifestyle.
"I knew it would be hard and I thought it would be a good thing," Silver said. "But it's going on six years and it's still difficult. I still get homesick and I still have some difficulty with the language."
If that weren't enough she said she is still treated differently by her neighbors.
"After this many years here, I still feel like a foreigner," Silver said. "And people tend to treat foreigners as if they have never experienced anything in their life, like suggesting that I get a winter coat because (German) winters are cold. Of course they are, I know that because I come from Chicago and (German) winters are actually more mild (than in Chicago)."
She said she is also left with a general impression that Germans think Americans are annoying.
"Based on their comedy skits, they show us as fast talkers, or obnoxious," Silver said.
She said that is a general perception that is hardly ever perceived on a personal level. In dealing one-on-one with German people, she said she is greeted with a warmer view of America.
"Most of the people I have met are very interested in me as an American," Silver said. "I hear a lot of 'I love America' or 'I've always wanted to go', and that's nice, especially when you hear all the anti-American sentiments (on TV)."
Aside from her treatment as a foreigner and mixed signals for her nationality, she said there are many other anomalies that also have surprised her about her home.
"The drivers here are more aggressive, even than in Chicago," Silver said. "Driving on the autobahn [the expressways in Germany] is very fast and in some stretches there isn't even a speed limit. You hear about a lot of accidents all the time on there."
She said she also was pleasantly surprised by the lack of skyscrapers and the unusually high numbers of pedestrians in Stuttgart.
Of course there are many other things she said she likes about Germany and was quick to point out their medical benefits.
"When I was pregnant I didn't pay for any prescriptions and when I gave birth we didn't have to pay for anything," Silver said. "But the social system is starting to break down, so I think things will change."
Along with excellent medical care she said she really enjoys the country's landscape. She said there are lots of trees and some of the attractive sitelines don't get turned into parking lots.
"They are very stingy with their land and there are a ton of forest preserves," she said.
Currently she said she is living with her family in Wildberg, next to the Black Forest, which she said is connected by forest all the way to Switzerland.
"Preservation here is amazing, south Germany is stunning," Silver said. "It's really a shame when you compare it to the U.S."
Despite the wooded view, she said she still misses living in the U.S., and if there is one thing Germany doesn't do well it's the pizza.
"The pizza here is made with gouda cheese (not mozzarella)," Silver said. "If you want mozzarella you have to specify and they only give you a little. It's (the mozzarella) different too, it's fresher, not aged and it comes in a ball that is in a bag of water. It's just not the same."
Even though she can't comfort herself with the taste of home, she said it's a comparable treat to run into someone who speaks English.
"When I hear someone speaking English, it's music to my ears because I really don't hear it that often," Silver said. "If I hear it, I always make a point to speak to that person."
In addition to a couple from New Jersey, she said she has met a near-area resident while in Germany.
"One time on the train I saw a girl with a very unique appearance sitting a few seats away," Silver explained. "I was talking to my son (in English) and she asked me, in a very mid-western and familiar way, where I was from. It was a nice surprise and a friendly outreach that I needed at that time."
She said although her life abroad is generally happy, she would ask her husband to move to the states if she could do it all over again.
"But I'm one of those people that thinks things happen for a reason," Silver said. "I have grown a lot in the past six years and have had a really unique experience, one that not everybody gets a chance to experience."
Actually, the pizza isn't bad, it's just different. It's really very tasty, though the gouda cheese makes it saltier, and comes with a much greater variety of toppings than commonly available Stateside. You can't get Italian sausage, though. Pepperoni is called Salami, and jalapeno peppers are called pepperoni, which catches me unawares, on occasion, to this day.
So, on the topic of Pizza, at pizza delivery places, there is not only pizza and Italian dishes on the menu, but Indian, Chinese, Mexican, as well. The Mexican is modified, and not quite as we know it in the US. And anything preceded by the word Amerkanisch, usually isn't. At least not according to my experience. Living 30 years on the outskirts of Chicago, I think I have a pretty good idea of what goes into a traditional pizza and Mexicana dish. And baby, that just ain't it...
But it's all good, anyway!
I hope your holidays were good ones. I'll see y'all around.
Our Christmas was pleasant. I made two Christmas dinners, one for us, and one for my in-laws a couple days later. We chose not to celebrate with them and my sister-in-law's family this year, because money is tight, and it seemed illogical for us to stress out about buying presents for five extra people we only see and hear from at my sister-in-law's Christmas gatherings. It also seemed unfair to impose present-buying on her parents and grandparents for our family for the same reason.
So, it was two turkeys for us, two batches of stuffing and mashed potatoes, and two pumpkin pies, and it occured to me to wonder, not for the first time, why are the Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners the same? I wanted to cook a ham for us, but my American friend from across the valley had sick children to contend with, in addition to her own celebrations to prepare for, so she didn't have the time or energy to escort me into the Commissary at Patch Barracks so I could get me some ham.
Germans, while big on pork, don't do ham. Which is really too bad.
I did make egg nog for the first time. After a little research, I found a recipe that involved only four eggs, a reduced amount of whipping cream, and while the egg whites got whipped to a frothy consistency and added raw to the mixture at the very end, the egg yolks, at least, were cooked during the initial process. Unfortunately, I have a weird allergy to raw eggs, and even the egg yolks caused a reaction. I had two cups of the stuff, plus a little glass with rum added, and ended up pouring the rest of the batch down the sink. It tasted good, but was mighty rich.
I think next time, I'll use less whipping cream, low-fat milk instead of whole, and nix the beaten-to-a-froth egg whites altogether.
We did not celebrate the holidays with my Dread Mother-in-Law, much to my intense relief. She's stuck in Greece, her homeland, watching after her elderly mother, who is stricken with Alzheimer's.
At least, I thought she was stuck in Greece for a good long time, until I learned that she will, indeed, be staying with us for a lengthy visit beginning January 14. She is a BEAST, and a spy, and a downright piece of work to experience. Chances are excellent that I won't be logging onto Blogit for the the duration of her visit. I've said repeatedly to my husband, How on earth does she think she's going to stay here for six weeks??? We can't have peace in the house for even a single day, when she's here!
So, we'll see where that potentially traumatic time will take us.
She thought she might bring her mother with, Alzheimer's and all, but when she called yesterday, I think I overheard that she'll be leaving the Greek über-matron at home.
I'm sorry to sound so unsympathetic about her and her mother. I just cannot convey the horror that this woman is. I was dreading having to listen to muttered insults about me in two languages, but it looks like I'll only have to endure it from a single source, in a single language.
My mother-in-law wouldn't mutter insulting things about me in Greek. No. She'd do it so I could understand it. Very considerate of her, don't you think?
Do I sound stressed out, already? How perceptive!
On the by-the-way side of things, remember when I mentioned being interviewed by a reporter from my hometown newspaper? Well, it came out shortly before Christmas, and my parents sent me a copy of it. What follows is the copy, only slightly edited for obvious reasons.
The author of the article wasn't very precise about quoting me ("I'm pretty sure I didn't say that quite like that..." ), but the article itself was nice, and sensitively written.
December 22, 2005
By A Writer from Silver’s Rural Village
When SilverMoon7 , formerly of our small town, decided to follow her heart, she didn't think she would end up half-way around the world. And she certainly didn't anticipate a long distance relationship ... with the life she used to know.
That's exactly what happened when Silver and her husband moved to Stuttgart, Germany, six years ago.
Silver’s dad and Silver’s mom of our small town said that when their daughter first announced the move to Silver’s hubby's native land, everyone was happy.
"It was exciting at first, I thought what an opportunity to move overseas and travel," Silver’s mom said. "But then she actually went and it was really difficult for me to adjust."
Although she still struggles with her daughter living far away, she said it was hardest the first year, when she would weep just thinking of her departure.
"I just missed her so much and then she got pregnant and it was exciting, but hard again," Silver’s mom said. "Fortunately we have a good phone plan, so we talk and e-mail a lot."
And with the addition of her new grandson, Alex, who is now 5, Silver’s mom said they have also become savvy with digital photos.
Although both families try to make the overseas trip once, maybe twice a year, Silver’s mom said it's still difficult to spend quality time together.
"There is a seven-hour time difference, so when we can visit we are seriously jet lagged," Silver’s mom said. "We want to be awake when they are sleeping and they are awake when we are sleeping."
Silver said she too struggles with the time and distance constraints. But she said she never anticipated this when her initial decision was made out of love and not with the "what ifs."
"I thought it (moving to Germany) was for good, but I knew there was a possibility for us to come back," Silver said. "Things happened very quickly. I had to quit my job and learn a new language, my life changed overnight," Silver said. "I was very independent and went from being someone who knew where I was going to being a foreigner, learning a foreign language and pregnant."
Although she said things are getting easier, she feels like she always will have to cope on some level with her new lifestyle.
"I knew it would be hard and I thought it would be a good thing," Silver said. "But it's going on six years and it's still difficult. I still get homesick and I still have some difficulty with the language."
If that weren't enough she said she is still treated differently by her neighbors.
"After this many years here, I still feel like a foreigner," Silver said. "And people tend to treat foreigners as if they have never experienced anything in their life, like suggesting that I get a winter coat because (German) winters are cold. Of course they are, I know that because I come from Chicago and (German) winters are actually more mild (than in Chicago)."
She said she is also left with a general impression that Germans think Americans are annoying.
"Based on their comedy skits, they show us as fast talkers, or obnoxious," Silver said.
She said that is a general perception that is hardly ever perceived on a personal level. In dealing one-on-one with German people, she said she is greeted with a warmer view of America.
"Most of the people I have met are very interested in me as an American," Silver said. "I hear a lot of 'I love America' or 'I've always wanted to go', and that's nice, especially when you hear all the anti-American sentiments (on TV)."
Aside from her treatment as a foreigner and mixed signals for her nationality, she said there are many other anomalies that also have surprised her about her home.
"The drivers here are more aggressive, even than in Chicago," Silver said. "Driving on the autobahn [the expressways in Germany] is very fast and in some stretches there isn't even a speed limit. You hear about a lot of accidents all the time on there."
She said she also was pleasantly surprised by the lack of skyscrapers and the unusually high numbers of pedestrians in Stuttgart.
Of course there are many other things she said she likes about Germany and was quick to point out their medical benefits.
"When I was pregnant I didn't pay for any prescriptions and when I gave birth we didn't have to pay for anything," Silver said. "But the social system is starting to break down, so I think things will change."
Along with excellent medical care she said she really enjoys the country's landscape. She said there are lots of trees and some of the attractive sitelines don't get turned into parking lots.
"They are very stingy with their land and there are a ton of forest preserves," she said.
Currently she said she is living with her family in Wildberg, next to the Black Forest, which she said is connected by forest all the way to Switzerland.
"Preservation here is amazing, south Germany is stunning," Silver said. "It's really a shame when you compare it to the U.S."
Despite the wooded view, she said she still misses living in the U.S., and if there is one thing Germany doesn't do well it's the pizza.
"The pizza here is made with gouda cheese (not mozzarella)," Silver said. "If you want mozzarella you have to specify and they only give you a little. It's (the mozzarella) different too, it's fresher, not aged and it comes in a ball that is in a bag of water. It's just not the same."
Even though she can't comfort herself with the taste of home, she said it's a comparable treat to run into someone who speaks English.
"When I hear someone speaking English, it's music to my ears because I really don't hear it that often," Silver said. "If I hear it, I always make a point to speak to that person."
In addition to a couple from New Jersey, she said she has met a near-area resident while in Germany.
"One time on the train I saw a girl with a very unique appearance sitting a few seats away," Silver explained. "I was talking to my son (in English) and she asked me, in a very mid-western and familiar way, where I was from. It was a nice surprise and a friendly outreach that I needed at that time."
She said although her life abroad is generally happy, she would ask her husband to move to the states if she could do it all over again.
"But I'm one of those people that thinks things happen for a reason," Silver said. "I have grown a lot in the past six years and have had a really unique experience, one that not everybody gets a chance to experience."
Actually, the pizza isn't bad, it's just different. It's really very tasty, though the gouda cheese makes it saltier, and comes with a much greater variety of toppings than commonly available Stateside. You can't get Italian sausage, though. Pepperoni is called Salami, and jalapeno peppers are called pepperoni, which catches me unawares, on occasion, to this day.
So, on the topic of Pizza, at pizza delivery places, there is not only pizza and Italian dishes on the menu, but Indian, Chinese, Mexican, as well. The Mexican is modified, and not quite as we know it in the US. And anything preceded by the word Amerkanisch, usually isn't. At least not according to my experience. Living 30 years on the outskirts of Chicago, I think I have a pretty good idea of what goes into a traditional pizza and Mexicana dish. And baby, that just ain't it...
But it's all good, anyway!
I hope your holidays were good ones. I'll see y'all around.
Wednesday, December 7, 2005
It's Christmastime in der Vaterland
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.
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.
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.
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