We've done a lot of outdoor meandering since Mom's been here, and she has the gorgeous pics to prove it. Have a looksee for a glimpse of goldener Oktober in the Pfalz!
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Friday, October 24, 2008
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Eye, part II
So I have to add an addendum.
Reading that last post, I sound pretty high and mighty, scorning the poor fools who check out my apparently irresistible backside. This isn't quite how I meant it (though I was pretty mad).
People being attracted to each other is one thing. I have no problem, for example, with flirting. A guy or girl who goes out on a limb to engage another in lighthearted talk is not only taking a risk, they're also showing a willingness to interact (on some level) with the other as an individual, a person. Flirting can be flattering.
What is not flattering is the wordless staring from a distance that is nothing more than cold appraisal. There is a difference. Men don't flirt with mannequins and images, which is what they make you feel like when craning around to evaluate anything vaguely female.
I'm also aware that an alternative is simply to be overtly ugly. One scornful response to my griping could be, "Well, imagine if nobody looked!" But really, that's not a solution, either. "Get used to being disrespected and objectified, because hey, your other option is to be hideous!"
How about we just teach our men better manners, instead?
Reading that last post, I sound pretty high and mighty, scorning the poor fools who check out my apparently irresistible backside. This isn't quite how I meant it (though I was pretty mad).
People being attracted to each other is one thing. I have no problem, for example, with flirting. A guy or girl who goes out on a limb to engage another in lighthearted talk is not only taking a risk, they're also showing a willingness to interact (on some level) with the other as an individual, a person. Flirting can be flattering.
What is not flattering is the wordless staring from a distance that is nothing more than cold appraisal. There is a difference. Men don't flirt with mannequins and images, which is what they make you feel like when craning around to evaluate anything vaguely female.
I'm also aware that an alternative is simply to be overtly ugly. One scornful response to my griping could be, "Well, imagine if nobody looked!" But really, that's not a solution, either. "Get used to being disrespected and objectified, because hey, your other option is to be hideous!"
How about we just teach our men better manners, instead?
Eye of the beheld
Much of the time -- despite the claims of industries, like entertainment and politics, who benefit from insisting the contrary -- I don't believe there's such a yawning chasm between the way men and women think. Sure, the production of different quantities of hormones is bound to translate into varying group behavioral patterns; but for the most part, if you show a nice sunset to a man and to a woman, both are pretty much bound to think, "hey, nice sunset." Both would enjoy a scoop of ice cream. Both would be disappointed not to be rewarded for hard work. The friends I know who are most capable of yakking on the phone for hours are actually dudes. Behind the eyes, people often are just people.
The obvious and most visible differences, however, appear when sexuality is involved (of course). And it is here that I do believe there are vast differences between the way men and women think.
For example, if a guy is walking down the street and a woman cranes her neck around to take a better look at him, he'd likely be flattered. Perhaps this is why men think it's okay to do the same to women. And although it's quite likely that the behavior isn't really conscious enough to have thought it through that far, I would still like to take the opportunity to announce to all the men in Western society, from my own personal blog-soapbox, that this is NOT ACCEPTABLE.
Okay? Please. Stop doing it. It's not flattering; it's not unnoticeable. Even if it's unconscious, show some self-awareness and just stop it.
The thing is, from the moment girl-children grow to a sufficient height to be possibly mistaken for women from a distance, we are evaluated and watched by every man who drives, walks, or bicycles by. It occurs regardless of attractiveness, age, race, or any discernable attribute beyond your identification as "female." They can't possibly get a good enough look at you to gauge whether you're actually attractive or not; they just see a non-male-looking outline on the side of the road, and crane their necks to get a better look. You could be quite plain and they'd still check you out, just to make sure. So again, it not in the least complimentary or flattering; it is only because you're not a guy.
For those few who clearly do get a good look at you and then stare mindlessly as you pass each other on the sidewalk, it is just as offensive. Being rated "acceptable enough to stare at" by someone whose opinion you didn't ask for -- and, frankly, don't give a rat's ass about -- is not compensation for the indignity of being rated in the first place. It's the attitude I object to: the idea that women, sheerly by virtue of being women, are rightfully subject to physical appraisal by any man who shares their public space. It's like the choice to walk to work is the same thing as agreeing to put yourself on display -- or at least that's how every driver and male pedestrian seems to interpret it.
And I mean it. I'm not exaggerating. I sat down to write this because I just arrived home after deciding to enjoy the weather, reduce my carbon footprint, and get some exercise by walking home from work; but the entire thirty minutes was one long ordeal of watching every single face crane around to stare at me. Their thoughts were as clear as if written in bubbles floating above their heads: "Is she hot?" "Is she hot?" "Is she hot?" "Is she hot?" "Is she..."
The maddening part is that I'm quite sure they don't realize they're doing it. Which makes it feel even more as if they're just mindlessly looking at a thing instead of a person with a name and identity.
And yes, I know, supposedly it's just natural behavior. Males in the wild are programmed to fertilize as many wombs as possible for the survival of the species, thus they're eternally on the lookout for any nearby wombs. But you know what, a big kid pushing over a little one to get his toy is also "natural behavior." We're not in the wild. Being explainable and being acceptable are not the same thing.
So to all the inconsiderate, self-absorbed, oblivious people who ogled me today:
WATCH THE DAMNED ROAD.
The obvious and most visible differences, however, appear when sexuality is involved (of course). And it is here that I do believe there are vast differences between the way men and women think.
For example, if a guy is walking down the street and a woman cranes her neck around to take a better look at him, he'd likely be flattered. Perhaps this is why men think it's okay to do the same to women. And although it's quite likely that the behavior isn't really conscious enough to have thought it through that far, I would still like to take the opportunity to announce to all the men in Western society, from my own personal blog-soapbox, that this is NOT ACCEPTABLE.
Okay? Please. Stop doing it. It's not flattering; it's not unnoticeable. Even if it's unconscious, show some self-awareness and just stop it.
The thing is, from the moment girl-children grow to a sufficient height to be possibly mistaken for women from a distance, we are evaluated and watched by every man who drives, walks, or bicycles by. It occurs regardless of attractiveness, age, race, or any discernable attribute beyond your identification as "female." They can't possibly get a good enough look at you to gauge whether you're actually attractive or not; they just see a non-male-looking outline on the side of the road, and crane their necks to get a better look. You could be quite plain and they'd still check you out, just to make sure. So again, it not in the least complimentary or flattering; it is only because you're not a guy.
For those few who clearly do get a good look at you and then stare mindlessly as you pass each other on the sidewalk, it is just as offensive. Being rated "acceptable enough to stare at" by someone whose opinion you didn't ask for -- and, frankly, don't give a rat's ass about -- is not compensation for the indignity of being rated in the first place. It's the attitude I object to: the idea that women, sheerly by virtue of being women, are rightfully subject to physical appraisal by any man who shares their public space. It's like the choice to walk to work is the same thing as agreeing to put yourself on display -- or at least that's how every driver and male pedestrian seems to interpret it.
And I mean it. I'm not exaggerating. I sat down to write this because I just arrived home after deciding to enjoy the weather, reduce my carbon footprint, and get some exercise by walking home from work; but the entire thirty minutes was one long ordeal of watching every single face crane around to stare at me. Their thoughts were as clear as if written in bubbles floating above their heads: "Is she hot?" "Is she hot?" "Is she hot?" "Is she hot?" "Is she..."
The maddening part is that I'm quite sure they don't realize they're doing it. Which makes it feel even more as if they're just mindlessly looking at a thing instead of a person with a name and identity.
And yes, I know, supposedly it's just natural behavior. Males in the wild are programmed to fertilize as many wombs as possible for the survival of the species, thus they're eternally on the lookout for any nearby wombs. But you know what, a big kid pushing over a little one to get his toy is also "natural behavior." We're not in the wild. Being explainable and being acceptable are not the same thing.
So to all the inconsiderate, self-absorbed, oblivious people who ogled me today:
WATCH THE DAMNED ROAD.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Did I understand that right?
Did McCain really vow he'll "whip" Obama's "you-know-what"? Really? Was this shortly before the threat to give him a wedgie and take his lunch money, too?
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Happy Bert'sday!
Berti turned 30 on Friday!
And you know, 30 has so far proved the yummiest age for guys. Or maybe it's just that as the years go by, the peer group that I find attractive keeps the same pace. Whatever. Suffice to say that somewhere around their mid-twenties is when long-necked boys become bewhiskered, sexy, broad-shouldered men, and that Saxon is no exception.
To honor the occasion, I kidnapped Bert to a hotel in the spa town of Baden-Baden, directly across from the Roman bath house (Friedrichsbad); and we spent his birthday in our birthday suits.
Yep -- no better way to say, "hey, check me out, I'm 30!" than being naked in front of a bunch of rich people! It was really fun. At the top of an enormous, carpeted marble staircase are two separate doors for the men's and women's changing rooms, so we had to part ways for the first couple steps of the fourteen-part ritual; but the lady at the posh front desk assured us we'd meet up in the main baths around step six, so I pushed open the frosted-glass door and stepped into... opulence.
Chandeliers, mirrors, cushioned seats, hairdryers, fluffy towels on heaters. Simple, elegant signs posted at each step inform you exactly what is to be done at each station and for how long ("16 Minuten," "3 Minuten" -- adorable Germans, even relaxation is timed and organized!). I follow the instructions to the changing booth, hang my clothes on the hangers, attach the locker key to my wristband, and step out. Naked. Okay. We are supposed to be naked at this point, right? I look around, but don't see anyone else in order to check their be-robed status. Gingerly, nakedly peek around the corner which leads to the baths. See someone!
She's dressed.
Er.
She spots me and waves me over. "Good day!" she says. "Do you speak German?"
I nod (nakedly).
"Then welcome to to the Friedrichsbad! Here is the first step, the shower room. After you've finished, you can take a sheet to lay on the bench in the next room, the hot-air bath. Just follow the signs, they'll take you through. Any questions?"
Since I still didn't see any other bathers, I couldn't help asking. "Just one. I see you're fully dressed. Am I supposed to be this, well, nude??"
Her, feigning surprise: "Certainly not!"
Before my heart could quite stop, she burst out laughing. "Haha, just kidding! The Friedrichsbad is of course entirely in the buff. Enjoy your visit."
I cracked up. I mean, who plays such a joke on visitors? How could you not? Her laid-back attitude dissolved any remaining sense of self-consciousness and I stepped on through into another world.
The hot-air sauna was particularly wonderful: pinkly glowing women recline on wooden benches in peaceful silence, and after around minute 3.46 you feel your bones start to melt. Enjoyable as it was, though, by step six (the steam sauna) I started looking for Bert. This is where the baths were supposed to mix, and I wanted to find my birthday boy! So I pushed the door open to the next room and found a hot pool.
Full of soaking middle-aged men.
Who turned and looked at me.
Feeling a little bit sheepish again, I scuttled into the next room. Here only one person, also a guy, was stewing in some bubbles. Still no Bert. So I had a seat in the bubbles, too, and tried to act natural. (Ha, very natural!) But finally, a tall gorgeous figure appeared through a side door, and from then on the evening was perfect.
It's funny how quickly you get used to a bunch of nekkid folks. In fact it's quite pleasant, much more so than at some public pool where we're trying to self-consciously stuff ourselves into spandex and wire in an attempt to simultaneously cover and flatter our bodies. When really, we humans are a rather nice-looking species already! Women especially are much prettier au naturale than in pinching, bulging, garishly-colored swimsuits: their curves are allowed to flow in smooth, uninterrupted lines that make hippy girls in particular look like lovely ripe pears. Unabashed, Bert and I soaked and swam and bubbled and frolicked and steamed until our fingers were so wrinkly we probably could have gained enough traction to gecko up the walls. We'd been hanging out for almost three hours by the time we reluctantly went back to our respective dressing rooms, applied warm towels and lotion and hairdryers, and re-emerged, damp and pink-cheeked, into the real world.
Dinner was a cozy Sicilian place with about six tables and Italians yelling their southern dialect back and forth into the kitchen. "Maria! Lelinguineaifruttidimare!" (We even heard one waiter yell, "Capisch?!") The food was of course delicious. A short walk through downtown took us back to our posh hotel and we slept until the last minute before going down to a china-served breakfast.
Pleasant as Baden-Baden is, though, we realized it's not one of those places we'd really want to live. Most German towns take their sense of belonging from a nearly tangible shared heritage; Baden-Baden residents, though, seem to share only the fact of their wealth. We went for a walk the next day and had a seat on a bench next to a path where rich mothers clopped by in their high heels to pick up their kids from some Saturday-morning program. All the same fashionably-dressed, blond-highlighted women in their early forties with the same Esprit-backpack-carrying schoolaged children. We had fun speculating about their jobs and wondering where the fathers were (playing tennis, we decided). They were probably perfectly nice people; but not quite our crowd.
On your 30th, you've gotta do something posh. But for my 28th, we'll probably go camping. (Maybe naked.)
Happy birthday, darling!
And you know, 30 has so far proved the yummiest age for guys. Or maybe it's just that as the years go by, the peer group that I find attractive keeps the same pace. Whatever. Suffice to say that somewhere around their mid-twenties is when long-necked boys become bewhiskered, sexy, broad-shouldered men, and that Saxon is no exception.
To honor the occasion, I kidnapped Bert to a hotel in the spa town of Baden-Baden, directly across from the Roman bath house (Friedrichsbad); and we spent his birthday in our birthday suits.
Yep -- no better way to say, "hey, check me out, I'm 30!" than being naked in front of a bunch of rich people! It was really fun. At the top of an enormous, carpeted marble staircase are two separate doors for the men's and women's changing rooms, so we had to part ways for the first couple steps of the fourteen-part ritual; but the lady at the posh front desk assured us we'd meet up in the main baths around step six, so I pushed open the frosted-glass door and stepped into... opulence.
Chandeliers, mirrors, cushioned seats, hairdryers, fluffy towels on heaters. Simple, elegant signs posted at each step inform you exactly what is to be done at each station and for how long ("16 Minuten," "3 Minuten" -- adorable Germans, even relaxation is timed and organized!). I follow the instructions to the changing booth, hang my clothes on the hangers, attach the locker key to my wristband, and step out. Naked. Okay. We are supposed to be naked at this point, right? I look around, but don't see anyone else in order to check their be-robed status. Gingerly, nakedly peek around the corner which leads to the baths. See someone!
She's dressed.
Er.
She spots me and waves me over. "Good day!" she says. "Do you speak German?"
I nod (nakedly).
"Then welcome to to the Friedrichsbad! Here is the first step, the shower room. After you've finished, you can take a sheet to lay on the bench in the next room, the hot-air bath. Just follow the signs, they'll take you through. Any questions?"
Since I still didn't see any other bathers, I couldn't help asking. "Just one. I see you're fully dressed. Am I supposed to be this, well, nude??"
Her, feigning surprise: "Certainly not!"
Before my heart could quite stop, she burst out laughing. "Haha, just kidding! The Friedrichsbad is of course entirely in the buff. Enjoy your visit."
I cracked up. I mean, who plays such a joke on visitors? How could you not? Her laid-back attitude dissolved any remaining sense of self-consciousness and I stepped on through into another world.
The hot-air sauna was particularly wonderful: pinkly glowing women recline on wooden benches in peaceful silence, and after around minute 3.46 you feel your bones start to melt. Enjoyable as it was, though, by step six (the steam sauna) I started looking for Bert. This is where the baths were supposed to mix, and I wanted to find my birthday boy! So I pushed the door open to the next room and found a hot pool.
Full of soaking middle-aged men.
Who turned and looked at me.
Feeling a little bit sheepish again, I scuttled into the next room. Here only one person, also a guy, was stewing in some bubbles. Still no Bert. So I had a seat in the bubbles, too, and tried to act natural. (Ha, very natural!) But finally, a tall gorgeous figure appeared through a side door, and from then on the evening was perfect.
It's funny how quickly you get used to a bunch of nekkid folks. In fact it's quite pleasant, much more so than at some public pool where we're trying to self-consciously stuff ourselves into spandex and wire in an attempt to simultaneously cover and flatter our bodies. When really, we humans are a rather nice-looking species already! Women especially are much prettier au naturale than in pinching, bulging, garishly-colored swimsuits: their curves are allowed to flow in smooth, uninterrupted lines that make hippy girls in particular look like lovely ripe pears. Unabashed, Bert and I soaked and swam and bubbled and frolicked and steamed until our fingers were so wrinkly we probably could have gained enough traction to gecko up the walls. We'd been hanging out for almost three hours by the time we reluctantly went back to our respective dressing rooms, applied warm towels and lotion and hairdryers, and re-emerged, damp and pink-cheeked, into the real world.
Dinner was a cozy Sicilian place with about six tables and Italians yelling their southern dialect back and forth into the kitchen. "Maria! Lelinguineaifruttidimare!" (We even heard one waiter yell, "Capisch?!") The food was of course delicious. A short walk through downtown took us back to our posh hotel and we slept until the last minute before going down to a china-served breakfast.
Pleasant as Baden-Baden is, though, we realized it's not one of those places we'd really want to live. Most German towns take their sense of belonging from a nearly tangible shared heritage; Baden-Baden residents, though, seem to share only the fact of their wealth. We went for a walk the next day and had a seat on a bench next to a path where rich mothers clopped by in their high heels to pick up their kids from some Saturday-morning program. All the same fashionably-dressed, blond-highlighted women in their early forties with the same Esprit-backpack-carrying schoolaged children. We had fun speculating about their jobs and wondering where the fathers were (playing tennis, we decided). They were probably perfectly nice people; but not quite our crowd.
On your 30th, you've gotta do something posh. But for my 28th, we'll probably go camping. (Maybe naked.)
Happy birthday, darling!
Sunday, October 05, 2008
My mommy is here!!!
She arrived on Friday, October 3rd -- a.k.a. "Tag der deutschen Einheit," the national holiday celebrating Germany's reunification in 1990. Well, we had our own reunification to celebrate! Namely, by running around the Frankfurt Airport (and environs) in an attempt to ransom the cat, Lucy, from the Evil Bureaucratic German Customs Office. Who actually turned out to be quite nice. While still very bureaucratic. It took about three hours from start to finish, and we covered quite a lot of ground running from Office A to Office Z to Room X to Storage Unit Y to Vetrinary Service L and back to Room X. But in the end, we had a healthy, curious kitty and a towel full of healthy, curious cat poo (kindly presented to us as a gesture of thanks while still trapped in her kennel in the back of the taxi).
This was made up for the next day when we zoomed off to the Deutsches Weinlesefest in search of Neuer Wein:
We also poked around a farmer's market, and today, Sunday, we found The Perfect Apartment. Really! Perfect! One of my colleagues at the Fachhochschule mentioned that her kids don't come to visit so often any more, leaving her with a rarely-used, furnished apartment upstairs in her house that does nothing but gather dust. So I asked if a nice American lady can come rent it from her... We met up today to have a peek, and it's fabulous. Adorable, two-bedroom, hardwood-floored, newly-renovated, furnished, with an attic for storage and a washer downstairs and a cat-friendly garden. Not to mention the nicest landlady you could wish for. We walked in and fell in love. And then found out that the rent is completely reasonable and includes utilities! The house is in a nice residential neighborhood in eastern Mannheim -- on the other side of the Neckar river -- and only 40 minutes away from our place by Strassenbahn. It's also a mere 15 minutes away from downtown Mannheim... we're already fantasizing about meeting up of a Saturday afternoon for shopping and coffee downtown.
Life is good!!!
This was made up for the next day when we zoomed off to the Deutsches Weinlesefest in search of Neuer Wein:
We also poked around a farmer's market, and today, Sunday, we found The Perfect Apartment. Really! Perfect! One of my colleagues at the Fachhochschule mentioned that her kids don't come to visit so often any more, leaving her with a rarely-used, furnished apartment upstairs in her house that does nothing but gather dust. So I asked if a nice American lady can come rent it from her... We met up today to have a peek, and it's fabulous. Adorable, two-bedroom, hardwood-floored, newly-renovated, furnished, with an attic for storage and a washer downstairs and a cat-friendly garden. Not to mention the nicest landlady you could wish for. We walked in and fell in love. And then found out that the rent is completely reasonable and includes utilities! The house is in a nice residential neighborhood in eastern Mannheim -- on the other side of the Neckar river -- and only 40 minutes away from our place by Strassenbahn. It's also a mere 15 minutes away from downtown Mannheim... we're already fantasizing about meeting up of a Saturday afternoon for shopping and coffee downtown.
Life is good!!!
Wednesday, October 01, 2008
Amy and John
...are a great pair. I knew the perfect Mr. Amy was out there; I'm just so happy she found him so soon.
John, thank you for taking care of my loved ones.
John, thank you for taking care of my loved ones.
My Right to Vote
A little follow-up to Mom's post of the same title:
I opened the mailbox yesterday to find a fat package from the Pima County Recorder's Office. Across the top was a cute little banner that said "Official Election Mail", and inside was indeed an official election ballot.
I went immediately inside, sat down at my desk, got a thick black pen, and filled in the most perfectly complete oval the election office has ever seen. Then, sealed, signed, and adorned with about a billion Euros worth of postage (or maybe it was just four), I sent that bad boy right back to the Pima County Recorder.
And damn that felt good. Thank you, thank you, Alice Paul and everyone else who suffered jail and indignities so that I could be counted a citizen, too.
I opened the mailbox yesterday to find a fat package from the Pima County Recorder's Office. Across the top was a cute little banner that said "Official Election Mail", and inside was indeed an official election ballot.
I went immediately inside, sat down at my desk, got a thick black pen, and filled in the most perfectly complete oval the election office has ever seen. Then, sealed, signed, and adorned with about a billion Euros worth of postage (or maybe it was just four), I sent that bad boy right back to the Pima County Recorder.
And damn that felt good. Thank you, thank you, Alice Paul and everyone else who suffered jail and indignities so that I could be counted a citizen, too.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Getting political
So on this side of the pond, I dig out American media coverage of the elections through youtube. Not that there aren't plenty of soundbites on the radio over here -- not to mention magazine and newspaper articles -- but there's something to be said about listening to the sound of candidates' own voices instead of German voiceovers.
Besides, Saturday Night Live (<-- fyi, a video) isn't broadcast over here. :oP
Anyway, so one of the tidbits I found was a recent interview of Obama -- by Bill O'Reilly.
I've found O'Reilly's bullying, arrogant style off-putting in the past; and as I clicked on the interview, I cringed to think of that petty nastiness in the same room with reason and dignity.
But if you have time, seriously check it out. The two are great opposite each other. O'Reilly is aggressive, but not mean; he interrupts a lot, but remains respectful and self-deprecatory enough to balance it out. And Obama handles himself like a pro. His responses are pointed, educated, honest, and wise (I think it's safe to say I'm now quite in love with him). You can see how the two enjoy the duel; at the end, O'Reilly even spontaneously challenges Obama to a basketball game. "You've got height," Obama shoots back without missing a beat, "but I've got speed." O'Reilly returns with, "If I win, I get to be Secretary of State." The interview is tough; but, impossibly, ends up leaving both parties very likeable.
Too bad we don't see this more often in American political discourse.
Besides, Saturday Night Live (<-- fyi, a video) isn't broadcast over here. :oP
Anyway, so one of the tidbits I found was a recent interview of Obama -- by Bill O'Reilly.
I've found O'Reilly's bullying, arrogant style off-putting in the past; and as I clicked on the interview, I cringed to think of that petty nastiness in the same room with reason and dignity.
But if you have time, seriously check it out. The two are great opposite each other. O'Reilly is aggressive, but not mean; he interrupts a lot, but remains respectful and self-deprecatory enough to balance it out. And Obama handles himself like a pro. His responses are pointed, educated, honest, and wise (I think it's safe to say I'm now quite in love with him). You can see how the two enjoy the duel; at the end, O'Reilly even spontaneously challenges Obama to a basketball game. "You've got height," Obama shoots back without missing a beat, "but I've got speed." O'Reilly returns with, "If I win, I get to be Secretary of State." The interview is tough; but, impossibly, ends up leaving both parties very likeable.
Too bad we don't see this more often in American political discourse.
Friday, September 12, 2008
Happy Birthday Dad!
The world has now officially been a better place for 50 years, since my Dad was born on September 12, 1958.
There are lots of things I wish I could do to honor the occasion.
For one thing, I would give him this:
Which of course would be in the middle of: 
Where we could go for a walk in: 
After which we'd race our: 
But I guess all of those things would be rather heavy to ship overseas.
So instead on your birthday, I wish you:
And
And
Wish I could be there to celebrate with you! Have fun until I can get there in a couple months!
Love you, Dad.
There are lots of things I wish I could do to honor the occasion.
For one thing, I would give him this:
Which of course would be in the middle of: 
Where we could go for a walk in: 
After which we'd race our: 
But I guess all of those things would be rather heavy to ship overseas.
So instead on your birthday, I wish you:
And
And
Wish I could be there to celebrate with you! Have fun until I can get there in a couple months!
Love you, Dad.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Catching "cold"?
So everyone here still seems to adhere to that old folk wisdom that being cold will make you sick.
You've all heard it: "Don't go out in the rain without an umbrella, you'll catch a cold." "Put on a jacket, you don't want to catch cold." Part of the reason Germans won't let you walk around their houses without slippers on is that allowing your bare feet to come in contact with the cold floor will certainly mean having your death of pneumonia on their consciences.
Yet I've just never quite been able to buy this. I understand how being cold might make you feel susceptible to bugs and viruseses -- you're shivering and weak, just like you also shiver and feel weak when you have a fever. In addition, if a fever heats you up to fight off bugs, then perhaps it could stand to reason that, conversely, not enough heat means not enough bug-fighting.
But even if we accept that being cold weakens the immune system, don't you still have to come into contact with an infectious disease before you get infected? Can you really just pick up a cold out of nowhere because your socks get wet? I can see how wet socks might correlate with other factors that have historically encouraged sickness, such as poor/unhealthy living conditions, but I can't believe that it's the wet socks themselves which spontaneously generate a virus.
So enter last weekend, when we were in the Erzgebirge to celebrate two of Bert's friends' birthdays. In a fit of sentimentality, everyone decided to engage in an old pasttime: sneaking into the village swimming pool after midnight and skinny dipping under the starlight.
It was actually really fun. The stars were bright and thick that far away from any city, and the night was warm -- but the water was icy cold! So naturally, Alex was just sure that we'd all get sick. "Quatsch!" I retorted. "Temperature does not make you sick. Germs make you sick!"
Well... am I just as clueless as I'm accusing everyone else of being? Yesterday, I started to feel a tickle at the back of my throat; and today I'm pretty sure my body's fighting something off. Is this coincidence? Or was Alex right?
You've all heard it: "Don't go out in the rain without an umbrella, you'll catch a cold." "Put on a jacket, you don't want to catch cold." Part of the reason Germans won't let you walk around their houses without slippers on is that allowing your bare feet to come in contact with the cold floor will certainly mean having your death of pneumonia on their consciences.
Yet I've just never quite been able to buy this. I understand how being cold might make you feel susceptible to bugs and viruseses -- you're shivering and weak, just like you also shiver and feel weak when you have a fever. In addition, if a fever heats you up to fight off bugs, then perhaps it could stand to reason that, conversely, not enough heat means not enough bug-fighting.
But even if we accept that being cold weakens the immune system, don't you still have to come into contact with an infectious disease before you get infected? Can you really just pick up a cold out of nowhere because your socks get wet? I can see how wet socks might correlate with other factors that have historically encouraged sickness, such as poor/unhealthy living conditions, but I can't believe that it's the wet socks themselves which spontaneously generate a virus.
So enter last weekend, when we were in the Erzgebirge to celebrate two of Bert's friends' birthdays. In a fit of sentimentality, everyone decided to engage in an old pasttime: sneaking into the village swimming pool after midnight and skinny dipping under the starlight.
It was actually really fun. The stars were bright and thick that far away from any city, and the night was warm -- but the water was icy cold! So naturally, Alex was just sure that we'd all get sick. "Quatsch!" I retorted. "Temperature does not make you sick. Germs make you sick!"
Well... am I just as clueless as I'm accusing everyone else of being? Yesterday, I started to feel a tickle at the back of my throat; and today I'm pretty sure my body's fighting something off. Is this coincidence? Or was Alex right?
Wednesday, September 03, 2008
Zwei Jahre in Deutschland
Two years ago yesterday -- September 2, 2006 -- I landed in Germany with Shauna (and a bladder infection, haha!).
Funny how I ran across our flight itineraries just now while reorganizing some old papers. Tucson to Köln. How can you feel so old looking back at yourself from only two measly years ago? I remember dragging those huge bags to the Tucson Airport in the dark of the early morning; Mom taking pictures; the three of us giddy with nerves and excitement and exhaustion and the attempt to avoid looking too closely at impending separation. Sitting jetlagged in the window of the hostel in Köln, staring at the Rhein river and the unknown future.
It was a pretty self-conscious reverie, too. "Gosh, in a couple years I'll look back at this and think of all that's happened since then!" Well, you called it, self.
Bert and I just got back from an absolutely amazing ten days in Greece. (I'll have to blog about the trip in another post!) But landing in the Frankfurt Airport this time was a weird experience, in that it was so... absolutely un-foreign. Not quite like coming home -- that's more of a landing-in-Seattle feeling -- but definitely similar. We were walking from the baggage claim out to the trains and I was struck by Frankfurt's sheer normalness compared with the hot, wild, ancient, Mediterranean culture we had just left, with its fascinatingly unfamiliar alphabet and undiscovered corners; and I was surprised by a sudden itch to pick up and move to Athens, to go do it all again and start from square one and figure out how people live their lives there as well as here.
And then I looked at my tall bearded Saxon. And I heard the announcer in the train thank us for "träweling vis ze Deutsche Bahn;" and I realized that Athens can wait, I'm exactly where I want to be.
Funny how I ran across our flight itineraries just now while reorganizing some old papers. Tucson to Köln. How can you feel so old looking back at yourself from only two measly years ago? I remember dragging those huge bags to the Tucson Airport in the dark of the early morning; Mom taking pictures; the three of us giddy with nerves and excitement and exhaustion and the attempt to avoid looking too closely at impending separation. Sitting jetlagged in the window of the hostel in Köln, staring at the Rhein river and the unknown future.
It was a pretty self-conscious reverie, too. "Gosh, in a couple years I'll look back at this and think of all that's happened since then!" Well, you called it, self.
Bert and I just got back from an absolutely amazing ten days in Greece. (I'll have to blog about the trip in another post!) But landing in the Frankfurt Airport this time was a weird experience, in that it was so... absolutely un-foreign. Not quite like coming home -- that's more of a landing-in-Seattle feeling -- but definitely similar. We were walking from the baggage claim out to the trains and I was struck by Frankfurt's sheer normalness compared with the hot, wild, ancient, Mediterranean culture we had just left, with its fascinatingly unfamiliar alphabet and undiscovered corners; and I was surprised by a sudden itch to pick up and move to Athens, to go do it all again and start from square one and figure out how people live their lives there as well as here.
And then I looked at my tall bearded Saxon. And I heard the announcer in the train thank us for "träweling vis ze Deutsche Bahn;" and I realized that Athens can wait, I'm exactly where I want to be.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
In the pink
Mmm, it's Thursday evening Feierabend. You know that feeling when you come to the end of the week, and realize that you've tidily completed not only all your work but also a ton of to-do's, both big and small, and now it's still light outside and the aroma of neighbors' barbecues is floating on the lovely summer evening, through the open balcony door, and right into your neat, cozy home office? And your boyfriend is laughing on the phone outside while he waits for you at the table on your new balcony, a spot which has quickly become your communal wind-down point to share Hefeweizen, the sunset, and the day's stories? Gosh, can a person marinate in any more contentment??
I wonder if this is why I've noticed a tendency of late to reach for the color pink. Weird; I was never drawn to this color before. But I just now pulled my shiny, dark pink memory stick out of the computer and regarded it for a moment. Why had I chosen this one at the hardware store sale last week, and not the silver?
Well, because pink is just such a happy color.
And I sure am happy.
Love to all... :)
I wonder if this is why I've noticed a tendency of late to reach for the color pink. Weird; I was never drawn to this color before. But I just now pulled my shiny, dark pink memory stick out of the computer and regarded it for a moment. Why had I chosen this one at the hardware store sale last week, and not the silver?
Well, because pink is just such a happy color.
And I sure am happy.
Love to all... :)
Friday, August 08, 2008
Multitasking
Aren't women supposed to be good multitaskers? I'm a terrible multitasker. I can't focus on even two different stimuli at once -- listening to music while trying to work, for example, is asking for failure. It's one of the reasons I'm not good at talking on the phone: unless I'm in an empty white box, I can't focus on the conversation and my surroundings at the same time. Even if said surroundings are not asking me to interact with them, it's the sheer fact of their being there that distracts me. Interesting ad goes by on the side of a bus? I trail off mid-sentence. And god help the person on the other end if the TV is on! I'm like one of those toads who are easily hypnotized by blinking lights. This can't be normal. Help!
Thursday, August 07, 2008
Meanwhile -- new specs!
I don't wanna go to bed, yet! I wanna show you my new glasses from Capitol Hill in Seattle! (Thaaaaank you, Shauna!)
Here are the ho-hum old ones. Quiet in the library, please.
But oh dear, look how cute now, I just have to take a mirror picture! In this terrific bathroom lighting! Yeah!
Now the Strict English Teacher role-playing can really commence. (Did I just publish that...???)
Here are the ho-hum old ones. Quiet in the library, please.
But oh dear, look how cute now, I just have to take a mirror picture! In this terrific bathroom lighting! Yeah!
Now the Strict English Teacher role-playing can really commence. (Did I just publish that...???)
June: Baguettes, Döner, and Fajitas
Well, ain't I suddenly just the blogging fool?
Sorry for the neglect of late, dear blog. These last few weeks -- wait, months -- have just been fantastically intense.
Let's go back a few of those weeks to when Mom arrived in Mannheim (go free ticket vouchers!) on June 19th, and when we, about 3.5 seconds after she de-trained, hopped right back on an ICE headed for Paris.
Yep: Paris. Ooh, that sounds nice, I'm gonna say it again: Paris. Heee. And you know what, in accordance with all gushing cliche over the last two centuries, I will confirm that that freaking city is freaking beautiful. Where else can you casually point your camera upwards and shoot a photo like this?
I'll let Mom tell you about most of our adventures, including the sweetly naive American soldier dudes who asked us if there were any good jazz bars in town. I'll just say that we always have the best time together, whether it's ooohing over Rodin sculptures or making up complex histories for random passersby and seeing how long we can "converse" about them while keeping a straight face.
("Oh, I'm glad she's up on her feet again," Mom would say, suddenly nodding at a lady strutting by with a poodle.
I'd look up and catch who she was talking about. "Who, Francesca there? Yes, that was pretty tragic about the lion-taming accident." Here I'd shake my head sadly.
"Well," Mom continued, "at least Paolo was there to fight the lions off. Who knew that his sneaking into the circus to see Francesca would have been such a stroke of luck?"
And so forth. We're so weird. But at least one of us knows where she gets it from...!)
That Sunday, we got back to Ludwigshafen just in time for the Germany-Turkey game in the European Cup. I gotta admit to some nervousness leading up to the game: there has been no little social friction between the two communities in the past, and Ludwigshafen itself has the largest Turkish population in Germany. And if previous games were any indication, there was going to be some riotous celebration long into the night afterward, regardless of who won. I just hoped no hotblooded drunken soccer fan took it as an opportunity to pick a long-awaited fight with his neighbor.
Thankfully, no one else was in the mood for brawling, either. The game was certainly suspenseful; Mom, Nadja, Bert, and I watched it in a beer garden with a projector and giant screen. After Germany won 2-1, the town did indeed erupt -- but fortunately, fans on both sides were almost painfully conscientious to avoid provoking each other. Goes to show you how weird the communities' relationship is when the biggest reports on the news the next day were that, hey, nobody set anything on fire last night!
Ludwigshafener celebrate peacefully in Berliner Platz, the city center
The following weekend, because we just decided, hey, we're not exhausted enough, Mom helped Bert & me move into a lovely new second-storey apartment in Friesenheim.
Friesenheim is still a part of the greater Ludwigshafen amoeba, but unlike Lu-Mitte (where we were before) it is decidedly lacking in ugly highrises. And the apartment is brilliant. Built in 2002, everything is spacious and bright and very well designed, including an enormous balcony that runs the entire length of the place and looks out over greenery. And -- I have my own office! It's cozy and neat and painted a warm terra cotta. As I sit here, I'm watching the evening descend through the double glass doors that access the balcony. It also moonlights as a guest room... hint! hint! ;)
The move took place on a Saturday, and Mom was a champion helping to unpack and settle us in while Bert & I had to work the next week. Specifically, I had been contracted by the Fachhochschule in Heidelberg to give a 4 1/2 hour lecture on German Society & Culture to a group of international visiting business students. Piece of cake! said my brain. Foolish brain. Turns out, four and a half hours is a really long damn time! But it was worth it in the end. After the lecture, some students even came up to say it was the most enjoyable session they'd had in the program so far!
I felt bad having to work so much while Mom was visiting, though. Happily, Bert, shedding his Clark Kent attire and donning his tight Superboyfriend underoos (in this case, bike shorts), rode to the rescue by taking off from work to lead Mom on a little bike tour of Ladenburg, one of the cutest towns on the Neckar.
Then that evening, Heidi and Jens arrived from Chemnitz for a weeklong visit; and the day after that, we picked up Nigel at the Mannheim train station. Seems we moved to a bigger place just in time! And just to top the numbers off, a few more friends came over that night to sit on our new balcony and enjoy Mom's delicious spaghetti for ten, and help us create a colony of empty bottles with which to christen the kitchen.
I should mention that my friends and Mom got on like a house on fire. She's so laid-back and funny that I don't think anyone really notices that "someone's mom" is there; she's just one of the group. Bert's mom is kind of like that too, actually... in fact, Bert even commented on that, saying that although they barely speak each other's languages, the two "würden sich trotzdem gut verstehen." :D
Alas, all good things come to an end... I had to take her back to the train station the next day, Friday. We would have been sadder about it, had we not known that we were going to see each other a week later in Seattle!
But first there was more wine to be drunk. The next day, we were joined by two more weekend visitors: Bert's friend Christina and her partner, Stefan, both of whom had just returned from bicycling around the world for two years (!) in order to take pledges for cancer research (!!). They had the most amazing stories and pictures, including one of a city rising before them through a mountain pass: Katmandu, the capital of Nepal (!!!).
In return for regaling us with tales of high adventure, Nigel fed everyone fajitas:
They were a hit.
We like-a the sal-sa!
With seven people, however, even our spacious new apartment had reached its capacity, and Christina and Stefan happily pitched their well-used tent on the balcony for the night.
All of this was over the course of about two weeks. Two days after hugging the last of our guests goodbye, I was packing a bag myself to head off to the States until August.
But that is the stuff of another blog entry...
Sorry for the neglect of late, dear blog. These last few weeks -- wait, months -- have just been fantastically intense.
Let's go back a few of those weeks to when Mom arrived in Mannheim (go free ticket vouchers!) on June 19th, and when we, about 3.5 seconds after she de-trained, hopped right back on an ICE headed for Paris.
Yep: Paris. Ooh, that sounds nice, I'm gonna say it again: Paris. Heee. And you know what, in accordance with all gushing cliche over the last two centuries, I will confirm that that freaking city is freaking beautiful. Where else can you casually point your camera upwards and shoot a photo like this?
I'll let Mom tell you about most of our adventures, including the sweetly naive American soldier dudes who asked us if there were any good jazz bars in town. I'll just say that we always have the best time together, whether it's ooohing over Rodin sculptures or making up complex histories for random passersby and seeing how long we can "converse" about them while keeping a straight face.
("Oh, I'm glad she's up on her feet again," Mom would say, suddenly nodding at a lady strutting by with a poodle.
I'd look up and catch who she was talking about. "Who, Francesca there? Yes, that was pretty tragic about the lion-taming accident." Here I'd shake my head sadly.
"Well," Mom continued, "at least Paolo was there to fight the lions off. Who knew that his sneaking into the circus to see Francesca would have been such a stroke of luck?"
And so forth. We're so weird. But at least one of us knows where she gets it from...!)
That Sunday, we got back to Ludwigshafen just in time for the Germany-Turkey game in the European Cup. I gotta admit to some nervousness leading up to the game: there has been no little social friction between the two communities in the past, and Ludwigshafen itself has the largest Turkish population in Germany. And if previous games were any indication, there was going to be some riotous celebration long into the night afterward, regardless of who won. I just hoped no hotblooded drunken soccer fan took it as an opportunity to pick a long-awaited fight with his neighbor.
Thankfully, no one else was in the mood for brawling, either. The game was certainly suspenseful; Mom, Nadja, Bert, and I watched it in a beer garden with a projector and giant screen. After Germany won 2-1, the town did indeed erupt -- but fortunately, fans on both sides were almost painfully conscientious to avoid provoking each other. Goes to show you how weird the communities' relationship is when the biggest reports on the news the next day were that, hey, nobody set anything on fire last night!
Ludwigshafener celebrate peacefully in Berliner Platz, the city centerThe following weekend, because we just decided, hey, we're not exhausted enough, Mom helped Bert & me move into a lovely new second-storey apartment in Friesenheim.
Friesenheim is still a part of the greater Ludwigshafen amoeba, but unlike Lu-Mitte (where we were before) it is decidedly lacking in ugly highrises. And the apartment is brilliant. Built in 2002, everything is spacious and bright and very well designed, including an enormous balcony that runs the entire length of the place and looks out over greenery. And -- I have my own office! It's cozy and neat and painted a warm terra cotta. As I sit here, I'm watching the evening descend through the double glass doors that access the balcony. It also moonlights as a guest room... hint! hint! ;)
The move took place on a Saturday, and Mom was a champion helping to unpack and settle us in while Bert & I had to work the next week. Specifically, I had been contracted by the Fachhochschule in Heidelberg to give a 4 1/2 hour lecture on German Society & Culture to a group of international visiting business students. Piece of cake! said my brain. Foolish brain. Turns out, four and a half hours is a really long damn time! But it was worth it in the end. After the lecture, some students even came up to say it was the most enjoyable session they'd had in the program so far!
I felt bad having to work so much while Mom was visiting, though. Happily, Bert, shedding his Clark Kent attire and donning his tight Superboyfriend underoos (in this case, bike shorts), rode to the rescue by taking off from work to lead Mom on a little bike tour of Ladenburg, one of the cutest towns on the Neckar.
Then that evening, Heidi and Jens arrived from Chemnitz for a weeklong visit; and the day after that, we picked up Nigel at the Mannheim train station. Seems we moved to a bigger place just in time! And just to top the numbers off, a few more friends came over that night to sit on our new balcony and enjoy Mom's delicious spaghetti for ten, and help us create a colony of empty bottles with which to christen the kitchen.
I should mention that my friends and Mom got on like a house on fire. She's so laid-back and funny that I don't think anyone really notices that "someone's mom" is there; she's just one of the group. Bert's mom is kind of like that too, actually... in fact, Bert even commented on that, saying that although they barely speak each other's languages, the two "würden sich trotzdem gut verstehen." :D
Alas, all good things come to an end... I had to take her back to the train station the next day, Friday. We would have been sadder about it, had we not known that we were going to see each other a week later in Seattle!
But first there was more wine to be drunk. The next day, we were joined by two more weekend visitors: Bert's friend Christina and her partner, Stefan, both of whom had just returned from bicycling around the world for two years (!) in order to take pledges for cancer research (!!). They had the most amazing stories and pictures, including one of a city rising before them through a mountain pass: Katmandu, the capital of Nepal (!!!).
In return for regaling us with tales of high adventure, Nigel fed everyone fajitas:
They were a hit.
We like-a the sal-sa!With seven people, however, even our spacious new apartment had reached its capacity, and Christina and Stefan happily pitched their well-used tent on the balcony for the night.
All of this was over the course of about two weeks. Two days after hugging the last of our guests goodbye, I was packing a bag myself to head off to the States until August.
But that is the stuff of another blog entry...
Fun videos
Thanks to Amy for the hilarious Paris Hilton for President ad!
And to Sven for the jammin' We Germans. "Football play vee better zan you..." Cuuuute!
And to Sven for the jammin' We Germans. "Football play vee better zan you..." Cuuuute!
Monday, August 04, 2008
Heat of Summer
As the name suggests, the "World Spice Merchants Herb & Tea House" in Seattle looks like Marco Polo's cellar. It's reminiscent of some ancient apothecary shop, its walls lined with mysterious glass orbs filled with beguiling powders and leaves, and the cozy sitting area, replete with a large picture book of ye olde historickal mapps of the worlde.
The moment you step in, you're sucked into a swirling orgy of olfactory sensation that makes you understand why cats run around in circles when they smell catnip. There are pure spices, spice mixes, rubs, teas, salts, herbs, all in various forms of ground or dried or whole, all arranged in beckoning rows with an invitation to open each jar and have a whiff. Most conversation in the shop consists of, "Wow, what is that one?" and "Ohmansmellthisone!" and "Oooh, imagine this on salmon -- I mean pork ribs -- I mean in a curry -- I mean from a spoon!" They give you a notepad to record your desired purchases, which you then take to the counter to collect your hoard.
It was while we were standing in line that my brother reached over and plucked one particular glass from the wall. It was full of what looked like some sort of whole, plum-sized fruit, oddly dried and wrinkled like a jarful of shrunken heads.
"What's that?" asked Shauna. I could already see her calculating its potential culinary value, recipes and spice properties flashing by her eyes like a vegetal terminator.
"This," said Michael, producing the jar with the pleased academic demeanor of an archaeologist exhibiting a particularly coveted artifact, "is the bhut jolokia, the hottest pepper in the world. You know the Scoville scale for capsaicin content -- in other words, pepper heat units? Well, bell peppers rank zero on this scale; jalapenos, around 10,000. The mighty habanero pushes the 100,000 mark. This little puppy" -- he turned the lid gleefully -- "weighs in at over one million Scoville units."
Shauna's and my eyes bugged.
Michael stuck his nose in it.
"Hm, kind of fruity," he pronounced. We tentatively sniffed. He was right -- it smelled vaguely plummy, and not hot at all. We nodded appreciatively.
Then Michael looked up at us and a slow, mischievous smile spread across his face. "Ohhhh, no," I said, reaching for the jar. He evaded me and glanced around to be sure no one was watching. We were morbidly curious, anyway, although continued to murmur vague warnings as we leaned forward in fascination. Michael carefully extracted the tip of one evilly wrinkled fruit and nipped off a corner with his fingernail -- a speck about the size of a grain of coarse sea salt. He glanced around once more, eyed the speck, and popped it into his mouth.
For a couple of moments, he chewed thoughtfully while the three of us stood there looking at each other. Then beads of sweat began popping out on his forehead. His eyes began to water. He inhaled deeply through his nose and blew softly out his mouth. "Are you okay?" his sisters asked tentatively.
But Michael continued to look thoughtful, the only evidence of bhut jolokia ingestion being that he was slowly turning redder and shinier than the other jars of peppers behind him.
"I think so," he finally croaked. "Well... actually, no. This is one of the most painful experiences I've ever had."
"What's it like? Should we get you some water?"
"No, no. But it does feel like my tongue is being pounded with porcupines."
"Is it getting worse?? Can we do anything??"
"Yes," he croaked again. "Buy two of them."
The moment you step in, you're sucked into a swirling orgy of olfactory sensation that makes you understand why cats run around in circles when they smell catnip. There are pure spices, spice mixes, rubs, teas, salts, herbs, all in various forms of ground or dried or whole, all arranged in beckoning rows with an invitation to open each jar and have a whiff. Most conversation in the shop consists of, "Wow, what is that one?" and "Ohmansmellthisone!" and "Oooh, imagine this on salmon -- I mean pork ribs -- I mean in a curry -- I mean from a spoon!" They give you a notepad to record your desired purchases, which you then take to the counter to collect your hoard.
It was while we were standing in line that my brother reached over and plucked one particular glass from the wall. It was full of what looked like some sort of whole, plum-sized fruit, oddly dried and wrinkled like a jarful of shrunken heads.
"What's that?" asked Shauna. I could already see her calculating its potential culinary value, recipes and spice properties flashing by her eyes like a vegetal terminator.
"This," said Michael, producing the jar with the pleased academic demeanor of an archaeologist exhibiting a particularly coveted artifact, "is the bhut jolokia, the hottest pepper in the world. You know the Scoville scale for capsaicin content -- in other words, pepper heat units? Well, bell peppers rank zero on this scale; jalapenos, around 10,000. The mighty habanero pushes the 100,000 mark. This little puppy" -- he turned the lid gleefully -- "weighs in at over one million Scoville units."
Shauna's and my eyes bugged.
Michael stuck his nose in it.
"Hm, kind of fruity," he pronounced. We tentatively sniffed. He was right -- it smelled vaguely plummy, and not hot at all. We nodded appreciatively.
Then Michael looked up at us and a slow, mischievous smile spread across his face. "Ohhhh, no," I said, reaching for the jar. He evaded me and glanced around to be sure no one was watching. We were morbidly curious, anyway, although continued to murmur vague warnings as we leaned forward in fascination. Michael carefully extracted the tip of one evilly wrinkled fruit and nipped off a corner with his fingernail -- a speck about the size of a grain of coarse sea salt. He glanced around once more, eyed the speck, and popped it into his mouth.
For a couple of moments, he chewed thoughtfully while the three of us stood there looking at each other. Then beads of sweat began popping out on his forehead. His eyes began to water. He inhaled deeply through his nose and blew softly out his mouth. "Are you okay?" his sisters asked tentatively.
But Michael continued to look thoughtful, the only evidence of bhut jolokia ingestion being that he was slowly turning redder and shinier than the other jars of peppers behind him.
"I think so," he finally croaked. "Well... actually, no. This is one of the most painful experiences I've ever had."
"What's it like? Should we get you some water?"
"No, no. But it does feel like my tongue is being pounded with porcupines."
"Is it getting worse?? Can we do anything??"
"Yes," he croaked again. "Buy two of them."
Saturday, August 02, 2008
Hello, jetlag, my old friend...
...It's going now on five a.m.
The alarm is far fro-om beeping
And I'm laying here, u-u-unsleeping
Wide awaaaake since a-round two-thir-ty
Or was it three?
In this dark and silence.
Fool I was, I took a nap
Falling into that old trap
Now my brain knows not if it's here or there
Or still over the ocean somewhere
Well, screw thiiiiis, I guess I'll just get up
Before sunup.
Wow, this house, is silent.
Let's see how quietly can I
Take this thing off "standby"?
Maybe I can catch up on the blog!
Or on some of this email backlog!
I'll sit here waitiiiing to feel lively and inspired
Oh man, I'm tired.
And it sure is silent.
Clacking typing echoes through
This slowly-light'ning livingroom
While I keep glancing toward the bedroom door
Through which lightly emanates a snore
And I wonderrr, should I get up aaand make some tea?
Or first go pee?
Some birds break the silence.
Stirrings come from down the hall
And the thump of a footfall
Announces that it's fin-al-ly morning!
That'd be great -- but against all warning
I think now I just want to get back in bed.
And sleep like the dead.
But it's no longer silent...!
The alarm is far fro-om beeping
And I'm laying here, u-u-unsleeping
Wide awaaaake since a-round two-thir-ty
Or was it three?
In this dark and silence.
Fool I was, I took a nap
Falling into that old trap
Now my brain knows not if it's here or there
Or still over the ocean somewhere
Well, screw thiiiiis, I guess I'll just get up
Before sunup.
Wow, this house, is silent.
Let's see how quietly can I
Take this thing off "standby"?
Maybe I can catch up on the blog!
Or on some of this email backlog!
I'll sit here waitiiiing to feel lively and inspired
Oh man, I'm tired.
And it sure is silent.
Clacking typing echoes through
This slowly-light'ning livingroom
While I keep glancing toward the bedroom door
Through which lightly emanates a snore
And I wonderrr, should I get up aaand make some tea?
Or first go pee?
Some birds break the silence.
Stirrings come from down the hall
And the thump of a footfall
Announces that it's fin-al-ly morning!
That'd be great -- but against all warning
I think now I just want to get back in bed.
And sleep like the dead.
But it's no longer silent...!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)