Dear Everyone: Friends, Family, Acquaintances, Aliens, Sirens, Mermaids, Sphinxes, Greater and Lesser Demons, Unicorns, Sea Monsters, Cherubs, Imps, Zombies, and the like,
Hello!
In the very cornery technological multiverse that is the internet, this is my particular corner. I claimed this place in the name of King George way back in 2008, when I studied abroad for the first time. Blogness continued during my 2009 trip to Bolivia, and then again as I traveled around the US in 2011, culminating in a move to Germany in June. This blog has been a part of my life since way back in the day.
On that note, here are some things you should probably know about this blog:
1) There's a way you talk to your employers, your parents, your teachers, your close friends, your children, your distant friends, your significant other, homeless people, people in stores, ad infinitum. In our daily lives, we switch between speech patterns and the way we present ourselves without even realizing it. Some anthropologists actually study this switching between codes. They call the phenomenon "code-switching." I have no idea why.
But you should know in the electrical box of this internet corner, the switch marked "friend" is always, always on. I can't help it. I'm American, and we have a seriously loose definition of the world "friend." If you don't count yourself among my friends, or don't want to be spoken to as I would speak to a friend, please refer to number 5 of this list for the best course of action.
2) In person, there is a pretty solid censor between what goes on in my brain, and what comes out of my mouth. As I have stated on here numerous times, this censor is more or less completely negated by the act of typing. In my brain, not only does sarcasm reign with an iron gauntlet, it has a tendency to double fist brass knuckles and amuse itself by grinding together said brass knuckles to create sparks.
That being said, sarcasm has only two rules: use lots of big words, and over-exaggerate. Virtually everything you will ever read here ever is an over-exaggeration (unless it's pertaining to SHBF, in which case, there is no such thing as an over-exaggeration). I think, speak, and dream in over-exaggerations. If you are not a fan of sarcasm, over-exaggeration, or double fisting brass knuckles, please refer to number 5 of this list for the best course of action.
3) This blog is part travelogue, part humorlogue, part bakeologue. Basically, this blog is my life, in a blog. If you don't know me, then you should know that I am virtually incapable of taking anything seriously, not even Really Serious Events, like, events that are SO serious, they get capital letters. I see irony in things that are not ironic, and humor in things that are not humorous. On top of that, the anthropologist in me is at all times conscience of my own cultural views, and the child in me is incapable of sitting still. This means I skip through my life observing the way my own culture and worldview clash with the cultures and worldviews around me, and then--I mean, let's be honest, if you can't laugh at yourself, who can you laugh at?--I make fun of the resulting awkwardness and ridiculousness. I poke fun at everything and everyone around me to throw into relief how I myself am challenged to change, grow, and expand my horizons on a daily basis. I make fun of everything to make fun of myself. This blog is me, making fun of myself.
You should also know that one time, at my grandfather’s funeral, my uncle stood outside the church and made virgin jokes. So if I can’t take my life seriously, you can probably at least partially blame my bad genes. If you are not a fan of self-effacing silliness, a lighthearted view of the world, or virgin jokes, please refer to number 5 of this list for the best course of action.
4) With very few exceptions, nobody who makes an appearance on my blog is referred to by their real names. This is the internet after all, and contrary to popular belief, I am not an idiot. I give everyone nicknames, usually based on their nationality, or something particularly awesome or amazing they have done or said. For example, one of my roommates from 2008 is referred to here as "Vegemite," because, prepare for your mind to be blown...she loved Vegemite.
If you are not a fan of badass nicknames, please refer to number 5 of this list for the best course of action.
5) Thank you for referring to number 5 of this list for the best course of action.
If you are truly, deeply, personally offended by anything I write, I recommend you tell me. We're all friends here (remember the electrical box?), and I hate it when my friends are upset. Just be like, "Yo bitch, fix yo shit," and I will fix my shit. Because, and let's take a good, hard look at this--if you want to read this and be really angry about it and not say anything and stew in your own anger juices, that's your prerogative, but the only blood boiling is your own. Whereas you could just say "Bitch, fix yo shit," I could fix my shit, and everyone could be happy.
If you are truly, deeply, personally offended by anything I write here but for whatever reason still don't feel like telling me, I suggest you make yourself feel better. You can do this like so:
a) Breathe in.
b) Breathe out.
c) Take off the angry goggles.
d) Exit blog.
e) Read something else that doesn't make you want to stab yourself in the eye. The gods may have seen fit to grace you with a spare, Dilios, but Leonidas would prefer you kept both.
f) Burn me in effigy (optional step).
If you do all of these things, but also want to fill the gaping void in your soul left by your irritation with me, I encourage you to read one of these other blogs, which may help you on your way to feeling better. These are high-quality, well-written, serious-minded blogs that are meant to be taken extremely literally. Unlike the crap I spew here.
http://www.teapartypatriots.org/
http://www.ricksantorum.com/
http://www.theonion.com/
Peace, love, and fixing shit,
Tina
28 February 2012
26 February 2012
The World's Most Awkward Move-In
When you're me, life happens as awkwardly as possible. Usually this involves unintentionally embarrassing myself in social situations or making friends with strange Ghanaian men in the Frankfurt train station who follow me for the rest of the night*. But when you're me moving for the first time, you do it in awkward STYLE.
*this is a true story
I had two main problems when it came to moving. First, I arrived in Germany with two suitcases, a ukulele, and a bookbag, all of which could happily be stashed in the cargo hold of an airplane, or under my seat. However, while packing, I discovered that in the night, everything I owned had bred like bunnies, and I was leaving with two suitcases, two bookbags, a ukulele, a guitar, five big boxes, and numerous plastic bags. The second problem was that one of my barn friends gave me a bunch of furniture. Which in itself was not a problem, the problem mostly just had to do with transporting said furniture from Point A to B.
Now my host parents had graciously offered to take my stuff to my new apartment, but the furniture just didn't fit in the car. I briefly considered renting a truck, but they're so ridiculously expensive in and of themselves, not including gas, which is currently priced at nine dollars a gallon. Yes. So I asked around my army friends, to see if there was anything with a car big enough for all my crap and my furniture, and the Zimbabwean volunteered. Which was all well and good, except he has a super sexy car that is designed for a good many things (going fast, being shiny, picking up chicks), but not very well suited to other things (being loaded up with nine million boxes, containing furniture longer than the car itself, being a truck). Which brings us to another problem: I had never actually seen the furniture in question, and when he asked me how big it was, I guessed. Optimistically.
Lesson number one: Positive Thinking Cannot Vanquish The Laws Of Physics.
So, he and another Brit pulled up at the house yesterday morning, and we loaded the car up. At which point we discovered that even without the furniture, the car was riding so low to the ground that the suspension was threatening to commit suicide and bury itself in the asphalt in subcompact protest. We pulled (scraped) up to my barn friend's house, her dad starting bringing out pieces of the furniture, and it became quickly apparent that, short of breaking the windows, there was no way the furniture was going to fit.
Lesson number two: Know How Big Your Furniture Is.
We needed a new plan like yesterday. For about five minutes I just sat on the curb panicking, and then I remembered that the night before, one of my other barn friends had told me to call her if for whatever reason we couldn't make everything fit. So that's what I did. Her response: "Don't worry, I'll drive you! Come to the barn, I'll hitch up my car to the horse trailer, and while I'm finishing up, you guys can load all the stuff in the back."
Yes, that's right. My stuff was getting moved in a horse trailer. If you can think of anything more hilariously badass, and completely appropriate, let me know. In the meantime, I'm just going to sit here and be retardedly grateful the universe blessed me with friends in possession of horse trailers.
So, I headed over to the barn, the trailer got hitched up, and then she handed me the keys, gave me directions, and said "Don't forget the trailer is wider than the car itself."
Lesson number three: Be Thankful For Your Trailer Driving Experience.
But I've never driven a trailer before!
Lesson number four: Now Would Be A Good Time To Have Trailer Driving Experience.
The Brits followed me in their car, and they said later they were laughing at me the whole time. I drove in the middle of the street, never left first gear, and took my turns like a whale, but I DID IT. We loaded up all my things in the back, and then the Brits headed out. They wanted to stay the weekend in Göttingen, so they went on ahead to book a hotel and run around while I waited for my barn friends. After a while, everyone arrived, and we hopped in the car and off we went.
The ride over was a crap ton of fun, because we discussed everything from Stephen Hawking to the Jurassic Park movies to the upcoming end of the world--which according to Germany is going to happen as a massive flood. Which I had never heard of, but was very interested by. I know in the US we always talk about 2012, but do we discuss the means by which the world will end? In any case, it's quite possible Germany knows something we don't, so you guys might want to start looking into practical matters, like how much an arc costs, or what giraffes eat.
The best part, though, was pulling up onto my tiny street with a horse trailer. People were actually coming outside to stare at us, and I couldn't stop giggling. We carried everything up two flights of stairs, and even somehow managed to put all the furniture together. Then there were lots of hugs involved, and they left.
I briefly tried to organize my life, but quickly realized two things: 1) That I had more things than space to put said things, and 2) that I desperately needed to buy shelves. So I resigned myself to the chaos, and went food shopping with my roommate. Afterwards, we met up with the Brits in town and went out to an Irish pub, which was a pretty amazing time. In the course of the conversation, we learned that American accents are apparently attractive, Göttingen does not hate British soldiers, and the Zimbabwean speaks three Zimbabwean languages, one of which clicks, one of which whistles, and one of which clicks and whistles, which was so cool, I couldn't deal.
This morning, I organized some more, and then the Brits came over to hang out with me and my roommate. We drank tea and ate banana bread, it was awesome. They're planning on coming back in April, which I am hugely excited about.
Here, have some pictures of my room! I'll put up other pictures once it stops looking like a bomb went off.
*this is a true story
I had two main problems when it came to moving. First, I arrived in Germany with two suitcases, a ukulele, and a bookbag, all of which could happily be stashed in the cargo hold of an airplane, or under my seat. However, while packing, I discovered that in the night, everything I owned had bred like bunnies, and I was leaving with two suitcases, two bookbags, a ukulele, a guitar, five big boxes, and numerous plastic bags. The second problem was that one of my barn friends gave me a bunch of furniture. Which in itself was not a problem, the problem mostly just had to do with transporting said furniture from Point A to B.
Now my host parents had graciously offered to take my stuff to my new apartment, but the furniture just didn't fit in the car. I briefly considered renting a truck, but they're so ridiculously expensive in and of themselves, not including gas, which is currently priced at nine dollars a gallon. Yes. So I asked around my army friends, to see if there was anything with a car big enough for all my crap and my furniture, and the Zimbabwean volunteered. Which was all well and good, except he has a super sexy car that is designed for a good many things (going fast, being shiny, picking up chicks), but not very well suited to other things (being loaded up with nine million boxes, containing furniture longer than the car itself, being a truck). Which brings us to another problem: I had never actually seen the furniture in question, and when he asked me how big it was, I guessed. Optimistically.
Lesson number one: Positive Thinking Cannot Vanquish The Laws Of Physics.
So, he and another Brit pulled up at the house yesterday morning, and we loaded the car up. At which point we discovered that even without the furniture, the car was riding so low to the ground that the suspension was threatening to commit suicide and bury itself in the asphalt in subcompact protest. We pulled (scraped) up to my barn friend's house, her dad starting bringing out pieces of the furniture, and it became quickly apparent that, short of breaking the windows, there was no way the furniture was going to fit.
Lesson number two: Know How Big Your Furniture Is.
We needed a new plan like yesterday. For about five minutes I just sat on the curb panicking, and then I remembered that the night before, one of my other barn friends had told me to call her if for whatever reason we couldn't make everything fit. So that's what I did. Her response: "Don't worry, I'll drive you! Come to the barn, I'll hitch up my car to the horse trailer, and while I'm finishing up, you guys can load all the stuff in the back."
Yes, that's right. My stuff was getting moved in a horse trailer. If you can think of anything more hilariously badass, and completely appropriate, let me know. In the meantime, I'm just going to sit here and be retardedly grateful the universe blessed me with friends in possession of horse trailers.
So, I headed over to the barn, the trailer got hitched up, and then she handed me the keys, gave me directions, and said "Don't forget the trailer is wider than the car itself."
Lesson number three: Be Thankful For Your Trailer Driving Experience.
But I've never driven a trailer before!
Lesson number four: Now Would Be A Good Time To Have Trailer Driving Experience.
The Brits followed me in their car, and they said later they were laughing at me the whole time. I drove in the middle of the street, never left first gear, and took my turns like a whale, but I DID IT. We loaded up all my things in the back, and then the Brits headed out. They wanted to stay the weekend in Göttingen, so they went on ahead to book a hotel and run around while I waited for my barn friends. After a while, everyone arrived, and we hopped in the car and off we went.
The ride over was a crap ton of fun, because we discussed everything from Stephen Hawking to the Jurassic Park movies to the upcoming end of the world--which according to Germany is going to happen as a massive flood. Which I had never heard of, but was very interested by. I know in the US we always talk about 2012, but do we discuss the means by which the world will end? In any case, it's quite possible Germany knows something we don't, so you guys might want to start looking into practical matters, like how much an arc costs, or what giraffes eat.
The best part, though, was pulling up onto my tiny street with a horse trailer. People were actually coming outside to stare at us, and I couldn't stop giggling. We carried everything up two flights of stairs, and even somehow managed to put all the furniture together. Then there were lots of hugs involved, and they left.
I briefly tried to organize my life, but quickly realized two things: 1) That I had more things than space to put said things, and 2) that I desperately needed to buy shelves. So I resigned myself to the chaos, and went food shopping with my roommate. Afterwards, we met up with the Brits in town and went out to an Irish pub, which was a pretty amazing time. In the course of the conversation, we learned that American accents are apparently attractive, Göttingen does not hate British soldiers, and the Zimbabwean speaks three Zimbabwean languages, one of which clicks, one of which whistles, and one of which clicks and whistles, which was so cool, I couldn't deal.
This morning, I organized some more, and then the Brits came over to hang out with me and my roommate. We drank tea and ate banana bread, it was awesome. They're planning on coming back in April, which I am hugely excited about.
Here, have some pictures of my room! I'll put up other pictures once it stops looking like a bomb went off.
And...that's all I got! Have a wonderful day all!
23 February 2012
Speaking of epic!
So, I was Skyping today with the Other American, and this was our conversation:
"When do you get to Göttingen?"
"Saturday."
"And what do you have planned for March?"
"Nothing. Hang around, explore, fill out a lot of paperwork, and matriculate, all of which takes approximately a week."
"Hold on. I have a plan."
Then she disappeared. Half an hour later, she was back with this piece of awesome:
"So I just talked to the South African, and he just talked to the Zimbabwean, and...want to go to Amsterdam for a weekend?"
HELLS YES I DO!
Aaaaand...that's the new plan! We are roadtripping to AMSTERDAM! How ridiculously awesome is that! Right now we're looking at the first weekend in March, because it works for both the South African (his job on the base has him working 8 days straight, followed by 4 days free), and the Zimbabwean, who has a long weekend after coming back from exercise.
ZOINKS EXCITEMENT!
Clogs and prostitutes,
Tina
P.S. New favorite song of the day! More Ed Sheeran. And the video has Ron Weasley in it!
"When do you get to Göttingen?"
"Saturday."
"And what do you have planned for March?"
"Nothing. Hang around, explore, fill out a lot of paperwork, and matriculate, all of which takes approximately a week."
"Hold on. I have a plan."
Then she disappeared. Half an hour later, she was back with this piece of awesome:
"So I just talked to the South African, and he just talked to the Zimbabwean, and...want to go to Amsterdam for a weekend?"
HELLS YES I DO!
Aaaaand...that's the new plan! We are roadtripping to AMSTERDAM! How ridiculously awesome is that! Right now we're looking at the first weekend in March, because it works for both the South African (his job on the base has him working 8 days straight, followed by 4 days free), and the Zimbabwean, who has a long weekend after coming back from exercise.
ZOINKS EXCITEMENT!
Clogs and prostitutes,
Tina
P.S. New favorite song of the day! More Ed Sheeran. And the video has Ron Weasley in it!
19 February 2012
American Style Fails
This morning I went out for breakfast with Favorite Seven Year Old, her sister, and her dad. They'd found an American Style diner in Hannover, and invited me along for the full experience. And it was awesome and a really fun time, but it got me thinking about what "American Style" in Germany actually means.
I love any and all things branded "American Style," namely because American Style looks so different from what's actually American. It's almost like going to one of the countries in Epcot: a a packaged, plastic version of the country that's so over the top, it goes off the culture charts and into the Land of Make-Believe. It takes culture and turns it into a commodity, a brandable, marketable, sellable, edible thing. But American Style is not just any old thing, oh no. This thing has some very important, very selective qualities, which differentiate it from all other things. Lucky for you, I've had enough personal experience with such things to break it down for all of you happily cocooned in your American Style lives.
In order for something to qualify as American Style, it must have some particular attributes which set it apart. It must:
1) Be Boxed in Pride.
America is an economic and social mess. Inequality is the new black. The Confederacy never got over losing the war. Now take that America-Is-The-Best-Country-On-Earth shit, and wrap your food in it.
2) Contain as Many Images of the Statues of Liberty as it Takes to Get the Point Across, Dammit.
Not only is your product American, it's SO American that even Lady Liberty, patron saint of immigrants, French people, and Fievel, endorses it. And she does not fuck around. She wants you to give her your tired, your poor, and your insufferable seekers of authentic microwave pizza.
3) Resemble Actual American Food as Little as Possible.
Now in a jar:
That you have it. That's Germany's take on American Style. It's many things, none of it American. And breakfast? Breakfast was...adorably awesome. The girls loved it!
In other news I decided to go on a really long bike ride, because it was briefly sunny out. An hour away from my house, it started hailing--really, really, hailing. Which was actually pretty cool for a couple minutes, until hail bullets starting bouncing off my jacket and into my corneas. At which point I figured I'd just pull over into a bus hut and wait out the hail, but then I noticed that all the hail my eyes had been spitting out was collecting on my bike seat. Where it quickly melted, thus giving me the general appearance of one who has recently drunk seven gallons of Red Bull and was too amped up to bother thinking about finding a bathroom other than the one conveniently labeled "My Pants." So I didn't pull over, I biked like a champion through the hail and laughed about it all the way home.
New favorite song of the day! Still on a mega Ed Sheeran kick, so here we go:
I love any and all things branded "American Style," namely because American Style looks so different from what's actually American. It's almost like going to one of the countries in Epcot: a a packaged, plastic version of the country that's so over the top, it goes off the culture charts and into the Land of Make-Believe. It takes culture and turns it into a commodity, a brandable, marketable, sellable, edible thing. But American Style is not just any old thing, oh no. This thing has some very important, very selective qualities, which differentiate it from all other things. Lucky for you, I've had enough personal experience with such things to break it down for all of you happily cocooned in your American Style lives.
In order for something to qualify as American Style, it must have some particular attributes which set it apart. It must:
1) Be Boxed in Pride.
America is an economic and social mess. Inequality is the new black. The Confederacy never got over losing the war. Now take that America-Is-The-Best-Country-On-Earth shit, and wrap your food in it.
Things that are not ironically named: this.
Don't actually taste like brownies.
Too Much Flaggage For "Marsh"
Not only is your product American, it's SO American that even Lady Liberty, patron saint of immigrants, French people, and Fievel, endorses it. And she does not fuck around. She wants you to give her your tired, your poor, and your insufferable seekers of authentic microwave pizza.
Oh, "Hawaii" doesn't do it? Have you considered arbitrarily picking a state not actually known for it's pizza, and using that instead?
YOU GUYS THINK OF EVERYTHING.
Now in a jar:
Now the wrong shape:
Now caramel popcorn good:
Now a) referred to as 'french fry cream,' and b) something other than ketchup:
Now in existence:
In other news I decided to go on a really long bike ride, because it was briefly sunny out. An hour away from my house, it started hailing--really, really, hailing. Which was actually pretty cool for a couple minutes, until hail bullets starting bouncing off my jacket and into my corneas. At which point I figured I'd just pull over into a bus hut and wait out the hail, but then I noticed that all the hail my eyes had been spitting out was collecting on my bike seat. Where it quickly melted, thus giving me the general appearance of one who has recently drunk seven gallons of Red Bull and was too amped up to bother thinking about finding a bathroom other than the one conveniently labeled "My Pants." So I didn't pull over, I biked like a champion through the hail and laughed about it all the way home.
New favorite song of the day! Still on a mega Ed Sheeran kick, so here we go:
16 February 2012
A Normal Wednesday Night, or, How I Made Friends with the Mormon Missionaries
I made craptons of friends yesterday! Let's count them!
1) A British guy at the copy shop who makes suits for a living and offered to make my parents a suit at a reduced price because I was so nice and spoke such lovely German. We bonded over a discussion of the Greek economic situation, and how impractical pants with pockets down to your ankles would be.
2 and 3) Two Mormon missionaries who approached me on the street last night and asked in heavily accented German if I believed in God. I said, "That's a pretty heavy question for a Wednesday night," in English. Turns out they were from Minnesota and Utah, and they quite adorably tried to get me to come to a Book of Mormon study party at their apartment on Saturday. I can't battle with people that cute, so I just smiled and nodded as they told me all about how Joseph Smith translated the Book of Mormon, but did not mention anything about the angel giving him a pair of magic goggles to do it. Yes I have read Under the Banner of Heaven. I still love Mormons though, provided they're not the cast of Sister Wives.
4) The South African's Zimbabwean army friend. Those two together are non-stop hilarity, and Latvian Friend and I wound up taking them to the salsa bar. Being from Sub-Saharan Africa does not automatically bless you with dancing skills, for the record.
That's all I got! Adios!
14 February 2012
A German Valentine's Day
Being the very single person that I am, it was a huge relief to discover that in Germany, Valentine's Day is a non-day. I mean, they acknowledge it, and by "acknowledge," I am referring to the seven boxes of chocolate and one small sign they put in front of the drugstore. But I found that when you're not surrounded by sickening chocolate-fueled hormones and Edward Cullen posters, Valentine's Day is, if not enjoyable, at least bearable.
But just to be on the safe side, I decided to keep busy. This meant getting up at eight in the morning to have breakfast with Other American and the South African, and then being sad as she left to her new host family who are impractically located three hours away. Then I hit up the library to print out nine million different documents for my scholarship apps and matriculation. Which is how I wound up getting into a fight with the both the guy sitting next to me and the staff. Somehow the guy had messed up his printing job, because whenever I put my paper in the machine, it would print out his documents. So first I made him give me money for the pages, and then, after he refused to give me more than 10 cents, I took it up with the staff. The lady was yelling at me about how everything was my fault, they're my documents, and I have to pay for them, so I tapped the guy on the shoulder and said, "Sir, can you please explain to this lady why your documents keep coming out of the printer?" Then she went through his computer, discovered he had over 700 pages lined up in his printing queue, chewed him out, apologized to me, and gave me all my paper back.
Arguing like a proper German: check.
On a somewhat related note, I spent half of yesterday on the phone with my high school registrar's office, because Germany doesn't believe you when you show up with your bachelor's, and wants copies of your high school transcripts just in case. I thought we were having a normal conversation, but I could hear her bristling through the phone lines after about three minutes, in a way that looked remarkably similar to how I bristled the first four months I lived here whenever I had to talk to people. I don't want to jump to any conclusions, but I foresee problems with this new development.
Latvian Friend and I met up to watch a movie. The day called for a romance film, so we went through the top fifty romance movies of the last couple years, and I shot the vast majority down with all my Valentine's Day Harpy might. We wound up going with He's Just Not That Into You, because there was enough dysfunction in it to placate the harpy.
In other news, today I learned that in Germany, wisdom teeth surgeries happen through hospitals, and they keep you there for like five days. Also, whatever you do, you are under no circumstances allowed to eat ice cream, or drink milk/juice. Host Mom was absolutely appalled when I told her my mom drove me home ten minutes after I in my drugged-out state requested a burqa. When I told her that ice cream is pretty much the only thing you're allowed to eat for the first few days, she couldn't believe it.
In other other news, I heard from my future roommate yesterday, and...I HAVE A BED! This sounds less exciting in print, but it's one less thing I have to pay for. The guy moving out doesn't want it, and said if I didn't either, he would just throw it out, otherwise, I can have it for free. He suggested getting a new mattress, because the one it comes with is apparently really hard, but whatevs man, I've got a bed! It's like a giant queen-size bed too! I've never actually owned anything other than a twin bed or a hammock, so I've got to figure out what to do with all the extra space. Hold the jokes.
New favorite song of the day! I am on an absolutely ridiculous Ed Sheeran kick. As a general rule, I like songs, not artists, but Ed Sheeran has officially joined Josh Groban, Cat Stevens, and The Decemberists on my Short List Of Artists I Love All The Time. Here, have an Ed Sheeran song that won't let me embed it!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7EdnpWDDoq0
But just to be on the safe side, I decided to keep busy. This meant getting up at eight in the morning to have breakfast with Other American and the South African, and then being sad as she left to her new host family who are impractically located three hours away. Then I hit up the library to print out nine million different documents for my scholarship apps and matriculation. Which is how I wound up getting into a fight with the both the guy sitting next to me and the staff. Somehow the guy had messed up his printing job, because whenever I put my paper in the machine, it would print out his documents. So first I made him give me money for the pages, and then, after he refused to give me more than 10 cents, I took it up with the staff. The lady was yelling at me about how everything was my fault, they're my documents, and I have to pay for them, so I tapped the guy on the shoulder and said, "Sir, can you please explain to this lady why your documents keep coming out of the printer?" Then she went through his computer, discovered he had over 700 pages lined up in his printing queue, chewed him out, apologized to me, and gave me all my paper back.
Arguing like a proper German: check.
On a somewhat related note, I spent half of yesterday on the phone with my high school registrar's office, because Germany doesn't believe you when you show up with your bachelor's, and wants copies of your high school transcripts just in case. I thought we were having a normal conversation, but I could hear her bristling through the phone lines after about three minutes, in a way that looked remarkably similar to how I bristled the first four months I lived here whenever I had to talk to people. I don't want to jump to any conclusions, but I foresee problems with this new development.
Latvian Friend and I met up to watch a movie. The day called for a romance film, so we went through the top fifty romance movies of the last couple years, and I shot the vast majority down with all my Valentine's Day Harpy might. We wound up going with He's Just Not That Into You, because there was enough dysfunction in it to placate the harpy.
In other news, today I learned that in Germany, wisdom teeth surgeries happen through hospitals, and they keep you there for like five days. Also, whatever you do, you are under no circumstances allowed to eat ice cream, or drink milk/juice. Host Mom was absolutely appalled when I told her my mom drove me home ten minutes after I in my drugged-out state requested a burqa. When I told her that ice cream is pretty much the only thing you're allowed to eat for the first few days, she couldn't believe it.
In other other news, I heard from my future roommate yesterday, and...I HAVE A BED! This sounds less exciting in print, but it's one less thing I have to pay for. The guy moving out doesn't want it, and said if I didn't either, he would just throw it out, otherwise, I can have it for free. He suggested getting a new mattress, because the one it comes with is apparently really hard, but whatevs man, I've got a bed! It's like a giant queen-size bed too! I've never actually owned anything other than a twin bed or a hammock, so I've got to figure out what to do with all the extra space. Hold the jokes.
New favorite song of the day! I am on an absolutely ridiculous Ed Sheeran kick. As a general rule, I like songs, not artists, but Ed Sheeran has officially joined Josh Groban, Cat Stevens, and The Decemberists on my Short List Of Artists I Love All The Time. Here, have an Ed Sheeran song that won't let me embed it!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7EdnpWDDoq0
12 February 2012
Watching the British
Funny story: Yesterday Latvian Friend had a computer virus...and she called me. Yes, me. It's a sad day for the world when I'm the most technologically advanced person in my circle of friends--I mean, let's be honest, I never even figured out how iTunes works. Needless to say, I couldn't fix her computer.
Today she and I hit up an orchid house, for no reason other than we had nothing better to do and it was the only thing open. It was nice, flowers are always pretty. But I sometimes find orchids look way too much like vaginas for me to feel comfortable staring at them for long periods of time.
Other than that, I spent the weekend hanging out with the British. Yesterday, the Geordie picked me up for a day of movie watching on the army base with all the guys from the Irish pub (minus Little Adorable Dude, who apparently woke up in the hospital yesterday morning with no recollection of how he got there, so needless to say, he was too hungover to hang with us). We watched a Sean Connery James Bond movie (unintentionally funny), Dear John (almost as unintentionally funny as Twilight), and Coyote Ugly (unintentionally funny, but only because a) Tyra Banks thinks she can act, and b) it's half chick-flick, half weird male fantasy). Also an episode of How I Met Your Mother, which was unintentionally unfunny. Also we ate pizza, which was not funny, because we were eating it.
Here are some things I have noticed after a weekend of being locked in a room on the army base.
1) They do not introduce themselves. When they walk into a room and they know everyone but you, they will talk to everyone but you, and you run through the list of Standard Activities That Hopefully Make You Look Less Awkward Than You Feel, i.e, checking your phone, checking your planner, and then checking to see if what you've got on your phone matches up with what you've got in you planner. However, since my German phone is a WWII relic and by planner is still shamefully made out of paper, this doesn't work. See note above about being technologically advanced.
Anyway, this whole lack-of-introduction-thing has happened about fourteen times so far, which I find really strange for a country that's as obsessed with politeness as England is. The only time I even got a "Hello" out of the strange British guy walking in the room was yesterday, when one guy opened the door in a towel, in the process of taking said towel off. The look on his face when he saw me was almost priceless, and that particlar moment was so awkward, we were forced to greet each other just so we could move on to the much easier task of not looking at each other.
2) I don't know if it's the male-to-female ratio in play, or maybe it's that the British army base is suffering from a serious lack of estrogen you don't have to pay for, for all I know, it could be they're even more squeamish than I am. But every time, and I mean every time a sex scene came on in the movie, everyone in the room suddenly remembered something very very important they had to attend to on their phones. And only half the people in the room were straight.
3) Living on base pretty much feels like living in a college dorm, what with all the communal kitchens and bathrooms and everything. Except college dorms don't generally keep M16's locked in the basement.
4) Being a girl walking around a British army base, the general assumption is that if you're there, it's to have sex with someone. You can talk all you want about How I Met Your Mother, or the sexuality of the guys you watched it with, no one believes you, and no one looks at you, except to notice you just long enough to a) register that you're female, b) register your hotness versus the hotness of whatever guy you're with, and c) divert their attention elsewhere. You're just a strange girl with a stupid accent and some other guys' scent on her. For whatever reason, I find it really funny, and make a point to talk to as many strangers as possible, just so I can revel in other people being awkward for a change.
All in all, a highly informative, highly entertaining weekend.
Today she and I hit up an orchid house, for no reason other than we had nothing better to do and it was the only thing open. It was nice, flowers are always pretty. But I sometimes find orchids look way too much like vaginas for me to feel comfortable staring at them for long periods of time.
Other than that, I spent the weekend hanging out with the British. Yesterday, the Geordie picked me up for a day of movie watching on the army base with all the guys from the Irish pub (minus Little Adorable Dude, who apparently woke up in the hospital yesterday morning with no recollection of how he got there, so needless to say, he was too hungover to hang with us). We watched a Sean Connery James Bond movie (unintentionally funny), Dear John (almost as unintentionally funny as Twilight), and Coyote Ugly (unintentionally funny, but only because a) Tyra Banks thinks she can act, and b) it's half chick-flick, half weird male fantasy). Also an episode of How I Met Your Mother, which was unintentionally unfunny. Also we ate pizza, which was not funny, because we were eating it.
Here are some things I have noticed after a weekend of being locked in a room on the army base.
1) They do not introduce themselves. When they walk into a room and they know everyone but you, they will talk to everyone but you, and you run through the list of Standard Activities That Hopefully Make You Look Less Awkward Than You Feel, i.e, checking your phone, checking your planner, and then checking to see if what you've got on your phone matches up with what you've got in you planner. However, since my German phone is a WWII relic and by planner is still shamefully made out of paper, this doesn't work. See note above about being technologically advanced.
Anyway, this whole lack-of-introduction-thing has happened about fourteen times so far, which I find really strange for a country that's as obsessed with politeness as England is. The only time I even got a "Hello" out of the strange British guy walking in the room was yesterday, when one guy opened the door in a towel, in the process of taking said towel off. The look on his face when he saw me was almost priceless, and that particlar moment was so awkward, we were forced to greet each other just so we could move on to the much easier task of not looking at each other.
2) I don't know if it's the male-to-female ratio in play, or maybe it's that the British army base is suffering from a serious lack of estrogen you don't have to pay for, for all I know, it could be they're even more squeamish than I am. But every time, and I mean every time a sex scene came on in the movie, everyone in the room suddenly remembered something very very important they had to attend to on their phones. And only half the people in the room were straight.
3) Living on base pretty much feels like living in a college dorm, what with all the communal kitchens and bathrooms and everything. Except college dorms don't generally keep M16's locked in the basement.
4) Being a girl walking around a British army base, the general assumption is that if you're there, it's to have sex with someone. You can talk all you want about How I Met Your Mother, or the sexuality of the guys you watched it with, no one believes you, and no one looks at you, except to notice you just long enough to a) register that you're female, b) register your hotness versus the hotness of whatever guy you're with, and c) divert their attention elsewhere. You're just a strange girl with a stupid accent and some other guys' scent on her. For whatever reason, I find it really funny, and make a point to talk to as many strangers as possible, just so I can revel in other people being awkward for a change.
All in all, a highly informative, highly entertaining weekend.
11 February 2012
Short Stories!
I've spent the last few days collecting short stories that are somewhat worth sharing.
On Wednesday we went to the live music thing at a local cafe. Everybody there was really old, and we had to sit on the floor, but it was still a good time. We got to talk to the lady singing a bit, turned out she lived in Philadelphia for years. Also, from my accent, she didn't realize I was American. Damn.
This morning I went to the library to return some books, and as I was leaving, a random lady chased after me yelling "Excuse me! Excuse me, miss!" I stared at her. "Your braid looks really neat, and I was wondering if you could teach me how to do it? My daughter has long, straight hair, and we've been trying lots of braids out on her head, and I really like yours but I have no idea how to do it." I was most happy to oblige, which brings the total number of people I have taught to fishtail up to three or four in both Germany and Portugal. I wonder if Ambassador of the Fishtail Braid is something you can put on a resume.
Today I went out with Latvian Friend and French Girl. We had lots of fun at the bar, and even ran into the Czech Girl's boyfriend and his friend, who was sober. The last time we saw the friend, he was desperately trying to get Claire to show him her boobs.
Afterwards we decided to check out the Irish pub, which is famous for it's fights. As soon as we arrived I immediately made friends with a gang of soldiers, who, for lack of better names, are now being referred to in my brain as Flamingly Gay One And New Favorite Person Ever, Flamingly Gay One's Boyfriend, Little Adorable Dude, and Sort-of Geordie. I met them when Flamingly Gay One asked me if I was hiding a baby in my coat. They bought me lots of drinks, christened me Miss Philadelphia, and told me multiple times how sexy my accent is, which I can't really wrap my head around. I also discovered what happens when Oasis' "Don't Look Back In Anger" comes on in an Irish pub, namely, that everyone throws an arm around the person next to them, sways back and forth, and screams it at the top of their lungs. Then somehow the soldier gang wound up convincing me to go to the British club with them, which also proved to be highly entertaining. They're picking me up tomorrow for a How I Met Your Mother party on the army base, to remedy my being a bad American who's never actually seen that show.
Making friends with the British: apparently, one of my strong suits.
And now it's 3.15 AM, I need to shower, but I'm scared to go downstairs because I heard two loud bangs and the sound of glass breaking. I don't think it was at our house, but I'm still afraid.
New favorite song! Because I'm in a British mood.
On Wednesday we went to the live music thing at a local cafe. Everybody there was really old, and we had to sit on the floor, but it was still a good time. We got to talk to the lady singing a bit, turned out she lived in Philadelphia for years. Also, from my accent, she didn't realize I was American. Damn.
This morning I went to the library to return some books, and as I was leaving, a random lady chased after me yelling "Excuse me! Excuse me, miss!" I stared at her. "Your braid looks really neat, and I was wondering if you could teach me how to do it? My daughter has long, straight hair, and we've been trying lots of braids out on her head, and I really like yours but I have no idea how to do it." I was most happy to oblige, which brings the total number of people I have taught to fishtail up to three or four in both Germany and Portugal. I wonder if Ambassador of the Fishtail Braid is something you can put on a resume.
Today I went out with Latvian Friend and French Girl. We had lots of fun at the bar, and even ran into the Czech Girl's boyfriend and his friend, who was sober. The last time we saw the friend, he was desperately trying to get Claire to show him her boobs.
Afterwards we decided to check out the Irish pub, which is famous for it's fights. As soon as we arrived I immediately made friends with a gang of soldiers, who, for lack of better names, are now being referred to in my brain as Flamingly Gay One And New Favorite Person Ever, Flamingly Gay One's Boyfriend, Little Adorable Dude, and Sort-of Geordie. I met them when Flamingly Gay One asked me if I was hiding a baby in my coat. They bought me lots of drinks, christened me Miss Philadelphia, and told me multiple times how sexy my accent is, which I can't really wrap my head around. I also discovered what happens when Oasis' "Don't Look Back In Anger" comes on in an Irish pub, namely, that everyone throws an arm around the person next to them, sways back and forth, and screams it at the top of their lungs. Then somehow the soldier gang wound up convincing me to go to the British club with them, which also proved to be highly entertaining. They're picking me up tomorrow for a How I Met Your Mother party on the army base, to remedy my being a bad American who's never actually seen that show.
Making friends with the British: apparently, one of my strong suits.
And now it's 3.15 AM, I need to shower, but I'm scared to go downstairs because I heard two loud bangs and the sound of glass breaking. I don't think it was at our house, but I'm still afraid.
New favorite song! Because I'm in a British mood.
07 February 2012
Exit from Elba
I spent the weekend in self-imposed exile in my room, and refused to come out until I had finished the nine million required essays for one of the scholarships. But those are done now, so I guess that's a good thing.
Well, I lied slightly. I did come out long enough to go to a winter party at one of my two barns. I offered to help out, and originally got put on chocolate milk stirring duty, which morphed into the waffle station. German waffles are thin and served with powdered sugar, and also require basic knowledge of how the machines work. I told everyone the one machine was faster than the other, but the cooking time differences were actually due to the fact that I messed up the first waffle so badly, the machine wouldn't close properly after that. At the party I also did my first "Stockbrot," which is bread dough they wrap around a stick and you bake over a fire. The Germans could cook one in five minutes flat, but it took me two tries and almost an hour before I finally cooked one almost long enough to kill off the salmonella. Then I got impatient and just ate it.
Some entertaining things coming up! I might go to a ukulele meet-up in Hannover tomorrow, because I'm just that geeky. And on Wednesday, Latvian Friend, New Fabio and I are foregoing salsa in favor of live music at a cafe that caters to the crazy old crowd. Salsa also caters to a crazy old crowd, the difference being that the people who come to salsa move awfully fast for lacking that many marbles.
Here's my favorite song of the day. I realize the band's geographic proximity to Germany means I probably shouldn't have missed this, but somehow, I did. Now I can't get it out of my head. And since GEMA apparently stands for Germany is not allowed to Even go near Music videos, Alright? I'm stuck with awkward lyric videos made by fourteen year olds who favorite Justin Bieber videos.
Well, I lied slightly. I did come out long enough to go to a winter party at one of my two barns. I offered to help out, and originally got put on chocolate milk stirring duty, which morphed into the waffle station. German waffles are thin and served with powdered sugar, and also require basic knowledge of how the machines work. I told everyone the one machine was faster than the other, but the cooking time differences were actually due to the fact that I messed up the first waffle so badly, the machine wouldn't close properly after that. At the party I also did my first "Stockbrot," which is bread dough they wrap around a stick and you bake over a fire. The Germans could cook one in five minutes flat, but it took me two tries and almost an hour before I finally cooked one almost long enough to kill off the salmonella. Then I got impatient and just ate it.
Some entertaining things coming up! I might go to a ukulele meet-up in Hannover tomorrow, because I'm just that geeky. And on Wednesday, Latvian Friend, New Fabio and I are foregoing salsa in favor of live music at a cafe that caters to the crazy old crowd. Salsa also caters to a crazy old crowd, the difference being that the people who come to salsa move awfully fast for lacking that many marbles.
Here's my favorite song of the day. I realize the band's geographic proximity to Germany means I probably shouldn't have missed this, but somehow, I did. Now I can't get it out of my head. And since GEMA apparently stands for Germany is not allowed to Even go near Music videos, Alright? I'm stuck with awkward lyric videos made by fourteen year olds who favorite Justin Bieber videos.
03 February 2012
Weekend Update
Well, it's official: the cold has gotten so bad, people are writing articles about it and counting the number of homeless bodies every morning like it's a contest. JOY.
In other news, tonight I went to a Couchsurfing meet-up with the Other American, the South African, Indian Guy and French Girl from last time, and joining us this go-round was possibly the most adorable gay couple everywhere. In keeping with my mortally skewed gaydar, I had no idea until they told me, I just thought they were really, really nice for Germans.
Speaking of Other American and the South African, I met up with with them the other day for asian food, it was delicious and mostly asian.
So boring has my life become, that this is all the news I have. Scholarships are eating my soul. I've discovered that being foreign isn't good enough for most of the liberal scholarships, who want you to be foreign from a war-zone. I'm trying my luck with the Social Democrats, and also applying for just a normal I'm-smart-give-me-money scholarship. I've found that thanks to my mother, I can check off the "Immigration Background" box, so...yes.
That's all I've got. Adios!
In other news, tonight I went to a Couchsurfing meet-up with the Other American, the South African, Indian Guy and French Girl from last time, and joining us this go-round was possibly the most adorable gay couple everywhere. In keeping with my mortally skewed gaydar, I had no idea until they told me, I just thought they were really, really nice for Germans.
Speaking of Other American and the South African, I met up with with them the other day for asian food, it was delicious and mostly asian.
So boring has my life become, that this is all the news I have. Scholarships are eating my soul. I've discovered that being foreign isn't good enough for most of the liberal scholarships, who want you to be foreign from a war-zone. I'm trying my luck with the Social Democrats, and also applying for just a normal I'm-smart-give-me-money scholarship. I've found that thanks to my mother, I can check off the "Immigration Background" box, so...yes.
That's all I've got. Adios!
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