lulusbay

Wake up!!!!

2010-04-22T06:48:00.000-07:00

Ok... so it has come to my attention that LOADS of people are still clicking onto this blogger blog - when we all know that the action is taking place over on the other side of town. All the fun, the free valet parking... I will even get one of the kids to give your windscreen a clean.

This week only we have free cordial with a bendy straw!!! So what are you waiting for???

Come play on the wild side:

http://lulusbay.wordpress.com

If you don't hurry up, we are going to start taking names and there will be detention. And yes, you WILL have to sit next to that kid that smell's like that musty drawer in the bedroom at your nanna's house.

Paris fabulosity

2010-03-25T04:39:00.001-07:00

Did I mention I was in Paris last week?

Go here for all the fabulosity:

http://lulusbay.wordpress.com

PS Time to update your subscription, poppets… I know, I know, you hate change – but believe me – change is good – chocolate is also good… and wine too… and Italian leather boots – and cashmere….also partial to the odd lobster feast….mmmm warm donuts…

It's time to Move On...

2010-03-23T09:59:00.000-07:00

I am just going to do it. Have patience with me. It will be a study in patience. For a clever chick, I can be extremely thick when it comes to new playgrounds -- so glad they phased out the VCR... seriously, did ANYONE -- EVER --- learn how to program the VCR? Not this little brown duck - I tell you.

So tell your friends. Tell your grandma. Lulu doesn't live here, anymore.

If you are looking for me - I will be at the bar, drink in hand, but not eating the bar nuts... they are scary.

See you soon:

http://lulusbay.wordpress.com

hmmm... just a thought... what if nobody turns up??? does this mean that I have actually been typing to myself all these years? Could that be true? Nah... surely not... no.. hmmmm...besides.. I am offering free food.

I was out the door, I tell ya!

2010-03-23T07:50:00.000-07:00

How freaky is that!!! I spent the best part of the day sorting out my life over at WordPress - post over here at Blogger - only to discover that after all the tears, the tantrums and the trama - the damn comments are back!!

I don't get it.

Have I fallen into some weird matrix, is somebody playing mind games with me?

I dont' get it.

Now I don't know if I should stay here - or move over to the new house at WordPress -

What do you think?

Frustration.

2010-03-11T22:54:00.000-08:00

Now I am just irritated – damn comments!

Changed out Blogger comments for Disqus – but everyone complained it was too slow to load.

Removed Disqus – but Blogger didn’t come back.

Put Disqus back on – Then it was loading TWICE.

Removed Disqus again and spent the better part of a day trying to repair blogger… nothing, nada, zip.

So now I have tried IntenseDebate. If this doesn’t work – I am giving up and moving the blog someplace else… typepad I think.

Oh, and by the way…

I am running away and heading south for the weekend. Miss Eight and I are going on a road trip. Of course, this morning I woke up and the weather has gone from dry and blue skies to rain, ice, gray… and apparently snow down south.

Think I will go and hang out with Frau Beimer, she will make me a nice fried egg.

Have a good one – want me to bring back a souvenir?

Suffocating in Suburbia – Day 3 Group

2010-03-10T23:08:00.001-08:00

I don’t know what got into me… really. It was like I was possessed by a mad woman – nope, just looked in the mirror – that mad woman is me.

“I need to buy a phone. Just a phone. Nothing else. Don’t need it to be able to make tea or walk the dog. Just a phone.”

He got it. But the look on his face showed that he was not happy. The ultimate crap customer, the ones that take all the fun out of his job. I saw him size me up and find me wanting.

But who was he to talk, I ask you. Get this picture:

Metrosexual male, complete with at least an hour of hair styling in the morning. Oddly complicated facial hair – seemingly shaved by Picasso. A large thumb ring, a brown three-piece suit with coordinating shirt. Flashing bright blue eyes. There was no doubting he thought himself a pretty hot bit of stuff.

When he realised I was never going to fall for his charms, he resentfully pulled out the cheap & nasty phone and requested my credentials.

“Oh, an Australian passport – I have never seen one of those before.” Sure… everybody says that. “How long have you been in Germany?

I mumble something along the lines of a year or so.

“But your German is so perfect!”

“Yeah, well it is an easy language, I picked it up on a weekend course.” He was too afraid to ask if I was kidding.

“I could have had an American passport..” he boasted.

Oh yeah.. like how? Was your father born in America?

“Well not exactly…” he is shuffling a bit, and I have the feeling I had just asked him if he had changed his underwear that day.

“He was born in a country at the same time America was retreating.” His exact words (translated of course)

Hmmm… let me think about that for a minute…where could your father have been born? Berlin perhaps?

I decided not to torture the poor guy any further… bid him a ‘good day’, snapped up my phone and left, mouth agape, dazed and confused.

No fancy blue passport for you my friend!

Please use in a sentence…

2010-03-09T23:21:00.001-08:00

Journalists are slaves to fashion. I mean it. Every now and again they find a word that seems to set the tone for the world around them and before you know, they are all using it.

This week, the word is --- oligarch

Everywhere a I go, every paper I read, there is an article using this word. Up until today, I thought it meant this:

“Rich Russians that made a bucket load of money in the collapse of Communism, thus allowing them to now buy up all the Louis Vuitton on the entire planet.”

They need all those bags, for when they take over every resort town known to man kind, accompanied by *wink wink* Supermodels wearing mink coats over their bikinis.

Apparently oligarch can be used in other forms, as referring to a business tycoon, but in my mind it is set.

This morning I was wondering how I could fit it into casual conversation – you know, Word of The Week style, like in the 5th grade:

“Oh hi!, how have you been? I see you have an oligarch in your pocket.” Nah… that won’t work

“Have you met my fiancé? He is an oligarch.” (Only if he intends to keep his future mother-in-law in a way she could easily become accustomed to!)

At the hairdressers -- “Could you please give me a oligarch do?”

Come on, help me out here! When was the last time you used oligarch in a sentence? And seriously, does ANYONE really know how to pronounce this word? I know how it sounds in my head, but then I was 37 before I realised there was a difference between the pronunciation of the words TOMB & TOME…

Suffocating in Suburbia – Day 1, Therapy

2010-03-08T22:14:00.001-08:00

When I am feeling a little ‘ornery, one of my favourite pastimes is to torture small children. I tell, they ask for it!

Play Dates (what a stupid name, who came up with that!) are big with the 8-year-old set. They fly thick and fast throughout the school week, and considering that twice a week the kids are out of school at 11:30am…that makes for plenty of time to make me nuts when I can no longer avoid my obligation to reciprocate.

But revenge is sweet and best served up by a strange mother speaking a foreign language.

One child in particular likes to show me she thinks she is the boss. We have had a couple of Wild West Style, Mexican stand-offs that would make a lesser mortals toenails fall out. An example? Sure, how about the time I baked delicious Oatmeal Cookies and sent them along to a group meeting. When I arrived at the end to collect the my midget, Little Miss Bossy looked me right in the eye, bit into the cookie and then proceeded to act as if I had given her rat-bait-laced-arsenic. In front of ALL the other mothers she spat out the offending cookie and proclaimed it ‘the worst thing she had ever tasted!’ Game On Biiiaaatch!

Today she sat at my kitchen table, having come home with Miss Eight. After lunch they were to do their homework before they could cut loose and play ~~pagan blood sacrifice~~ barbie/nintendo– and Little Miss Bossy was having a hell of a time with her Math. “Can’t you help me?” she begged. “Can’t you do it for me?” Miss Eight rolled her eyes and stifled a laugh – she knew full well what the answer was going to be.

“Well what would be the good in that? I have already passed the 3rd grade – you haven’t” she knew we were having a power struggle...and she was sizing up the competition. “Its up to you honey… if you don’t want to do, then don’t do it. What would your mother say?” And here is the corker – her mother makes me look like Carol Brady (I would have said June Cleaver, but she didn’t have a maid). Miss Bossy’s mother scares the pants off everyone, and I have noticed her child keeps a healthy respect (and distance) should there be any ‘smart-mouthing’ goin’ down.

“Oh my mother wouldn’t care, she would just tell me I could do it later…” with all the nonchalance of a professional card shark, down to his underwear in Vegas.

A-haaaa…yeah, right.

“Um by the way, what is your home phone number again?” I have wandered over with the phone in my hand. “Why? Why do you want to know?” Her face is suddenly flushed and there is fear in her eyes. I have you now, my pretty.

“Because I am worried you are going to squeal!” Her exact words – I kid you not. (of course she said it in German)

Oh little one, when will you learn you can’t compete with the master. That time you played with Miss Eight and decided to see what would happen if you tried out all my lipsticks – then didn’t roll them down before putting the cap on… did I squeal? Noooooooo, where I live, we save up juicy facts like that for a rainy day. I will just add it to your tab.

You may call me Mrs Fields… next time, eat the damn cookie!

Ps: Photo is from Coraline – if you haven’t seen it, go watch. The 5 girls I took to the movies thought it was the scariest movie EVER (including my own), but I personally think it should be required viewing for all Eight Year olds ;)

Suffocating in Suburbia – The next day.

2010-03-08T03:17:00.001-08:00

Made a point of getting a good night sleep. Tucked myself into bed at 9:30pm, only to spend most of the night dreaming I was one of Justine Timberlake’s groupies. In my dream I didn’t want Justin to think I was ‘just like the others’ so I played hard to get…now where did THAT come from, I ask you?

Being ripped from a dream by a wakeup alarm is never good…but I had decided to try and pull myself out of my slump. Jump in the shower, wash that misery right out of my hair. Then I did something stupid. I know, I have done other stupid things, but this was really stupid. I stood on the bathroom scales. Misery has added 2 kilo Aaaaaggghhhhh! I have been comfort eating. Funny how we think those tidbits eaten in the cool light of the refrigerator door don’t count.

Determined not to let it get to me, I shook out my freshly washed hair and bravely tried to copy the style I had when I returned home from the salon not so long ago. Styling hair is not one of my strong suits… I ended up looking like this:

Yes… REALLY like that, sans the purple tint and the glasses. It was not a good look. Vigorous brushing didn’t help and I finally gave up, what the hell! Life goes on. I can go though life with weird granny hair, a spare tyre and STILL think that Justin Timberlake has eyes ONLY for me.

Then it was off to investigate a store I had seen in a catalogue, one of the million or so that are shoved through the post box each week. The photos displayed a promise of stylish clothing at a somewhat reasonable price. LIARS! that is all I can say…LIARS! Nothing in that store lived up to any of the pictures in the catalogue. Most of the pants had elastic waists and even with my 2 extra kilo, I am not going down that path yet. The whole place had a vague scent of Eau de Sweat Shop about it… I did try on one pair of pants… but the mirror seemed to take my 2 extra kilo and make me look like something should not be seen in daylight. Not pretty.

There was nothing for it but to head home. On the way back to the car, I thought about the salad I was going to make myself for lunch and the long hike I had planned for this afternoon. Then, from behind a counter, this jumped out and into my mouth:

Resistance is futile…. abandon ship. LuLu and children first.

PS Scary thing is… this is a true story.

Suffocating in Suburbia

2010-03-07T12:29:00.001-08:00

"Remember: no matter where you go, there you are."

It is all I ever wanted.

For the first 20 years of my life I was tossed from pillar to post. New house, new schools… nothing permanent.

Then I met Mr Dear Husband. He comes from OLD stock.. not that he is old, but grew up in a house where his mother was born. Where everybody on the street knows everybody. Where 80 year olds meet up regularly with the friends they met in pre-school. His childhood bedroom, a shrine left untouched since the day he went out into the big, wide world. It was the fantasy I had always dreamed about.

But for the past 20 years, that feeling of ‘home’ has always just been out of reach, no matter how hard I stretched.

Eight months ago, life changed – we ‘settled down’. This was supposed to be it, the one, our time. I thought all my dreams had come true. Excited by the idea of building a life where I would never again have to send out ‘change of address’ letters.

So here I sit. Sunday afternoon. A beautiful, cold, crisp day. Loathing in my heart. I can’t explain it. It is all so ordered – I don’t know how to live without the chaos. It is the insanity that makes me feel alive. This perfect world does not fit. It is that gorgeous dress you saw in the store window, but when you tried it on, it looked like a sack of potatoes.

Am I willing to take one for the team? Is this what the wives in the 50’s went through? Miss Eight is happy – happier than I have ever seen her. Mr Dear Husband seems happy.

I am not equipped for the game. I am playing golf with a tennis racquet. Everyone can see it, yet, no one is brave enough to say anything. Lost.

Tucked in.

2010-03-07T01:17:00.001-08:00

It is a titanic struggle of epic proportions.

Winter V’s Spring V’s Winter…

Just when you think it is safe to go outdoors without a St Bernard at your side… BOOM! It’s back.

But Oh So beautiful:

The yellow flowers appeared overnight last week. One after another we all noticed, each of us saying the same thing “Oh look at the yellow flowers in the garden!”

And now they all have little ermine stoles, like white blankets tucking them in.

Not sure I have ever noticed this part of the year before. The sun, glinting off snow, sitting on the flowers. Incredible. Mother Nature is really turning on a show.

Why…

2010-03-05T04:59:00.001-08:00

…is it, that when I open the cupboard above the stove, the one thing that happens to fall out is a pack of toothpicks that isn’t closed?

Why…

…does it happen when I am racing to get a meal ready for the about to arrive Out-laws?

Why…

…do I then spend the next couple of minutes picking up 200 tiny pieces of wood off the floor, and stuffing them back into a container that seems to be a distant relative of Dr Who’s Tardis. They came out of that container, so they must fit back in…right?

Why…

…do I then notice that my kitchen floor is in desperate need of a good scrubbing?

Why…

…at the end of lunch, on all days, having never before given it a second thought, does the Father Out-law ask for a toothpick!

P.S. If you don’t know who Dr Who is… well, I am not sure we can really be friends. Personally, I still have a little crush on Tom Baker. Exterminate! Exterminate!

It’s just a phase…

2010-03-04T00:46:00.001-08:00

Confession:

I love reading tabloids. The highlight of a trip to the hairdresser – unlimited tabloid magazines.

Perhaps I will alienate my more high-brow mates, but there is something so delicious about tabloid journalism. Pretty sure I wouldn’t want to be the object of their affection, lord knows I have enough problems getting out of the house without looking like an unmade bed.

Today, this cover caught my eye:

“Why is Angelina turning Shiloh into a boy? Come on guys… gimme a break! Most mothers will get a laugh from this.

When Miss Eight was Miss Three, she accompanied me on a quick trip from Australia to Germany. Somewhere between Singapore and Frankfurt we picked up some stowaways. A collection of imaginary friends. All had names that was some derivative of ‘Rebecca’. There were seven of them in total. This caused many problems when it came to fitting them all in the car. We had to extend the dining table so they call all have a place, and Opa developed a fear of his own sofa after being reamed out for sitting on one of the ‘friends’. This lasted for several months, all of them came back to Australia with us, until they were eventually retired one by one.

When Miss Eight was Miss Four, she changed her name. Within a week she had everyone calling her Emma. We don’t know anybody called Emma, we don’t know where she heard it, but she was Emma. If you called her Miss Eight, she wouldn’t respond, there was no budging her. This too passed after a few months.

When Miss Eight was Miss Eight (this was yesterday) she woke up and announced that she would like to wear all black to school. HUH? My little Strawberry Shortcake snookems has turned into a bad-assed-gangsta-rap chick. As luck would have it, I happened to come across a black hoodie at Aldi, two sizes too big. She loved it. Today she has toddled off to school looking like she just fell out of a 50 Cent video. As a friend asked me today, “When did eight year olds become the new teenagers?”

Seems to me, that Angelina is just going through the same phases that we all do. Besides, I think that little Shiloh looks like she is a real character.

We…have arrived.

2010-03-03T03:33:00.001-08:00

I’ll set the scene for you:

The Outlaws are about to celebrate their Golden wedding anniversary, and have kindly invited their nearest and dearest (and me) to join them for a lush weekend at a hotel. I pretty much had my bag packed before they had finished saying the words ‘Spa facilities’.

It was planned with military precision. Everyone knew that the Saturday night festivities would begin with a visit to the local catholic church. Traditional in these parts. The Mother-Outlaw had arranged it all so that the priest knew we were coming.

Now, here is were the story went a little awry. This hotel is situated in a small town, 45 minutes drive from the nearest Autobahn, and that is really extreme for Germany. We gussied ourselves up in preparation for the feast after church, slapped on some lipsticks, straightened ties and all looked about as glamorous as it was possible to be (even me).

There was a little hitch when we arrived at the church and found it surrounded by mountains of snow, somewhat of a challenge when you are wearing 6-inch heels, but overcome nonetheless.

The Mother-Outlaw swanned in first. Her full length mink coat pulled snugly up around her ears. This is a determined woman. Without missing a beat, she marched directly to the first pew and sat down. We followed in her wake.

As the church started to fill up, it became obvious that there was a problem. People shuffled past us, peering at us with as much discretion as they could muster. We stood out like sore thumbs. People were bundled up in their snow/work gear. Boots were the order of the day. Flashing diamonds and fur coats were not often seen in these here parts. Turns out we were sitting in the pew usually occupied by the children receiving their first communion lessons.

As we were leaving, my sister-in-law turned to me, we looked at each other and shouted “Dynasty!” The rest of the evening was spent laughing and both wanting to be Linda Evans. Lord knows I would probably be more suited to the role played by Joan Collins, but Linda was so pretty.

I bet we were the talk of the town for the next week.

Who is Marion Ravenwoods?

2010-03-01T03:08:00.001-08:00

The phone rings again. (Just like in the last post… get with the program people)

“I can’t get home. There are no trains, no planes… no escape. I am going to have to live at the airport like Tom Hanks.” He is snivelling a bit.. I can hear it.

“Well I will just come get your cute butt then, won’t I!” I am good like that… a problem solver. “Stay where you are, I will be there in a hour and a half – give or take a couple of stops for snacks and such.

Now, under normal circumstances, this would have been no problem, but yesterday, Hurricane Xynthia hit land and blew it all to hell. It was chaos.

“Mama, will you please stop saying that!” She is protesting after I have shouted at the top of my lungs for the 27th time - "Sit tight Daddy, we are comin’ to getcha!'” She also mentioned something about hearing them say on the radio that the Airport was closed to all traffic. I just ignored that bit. I was on a rescue mission – I was going to save my man.

After we had circled the airport FOUR times, I had to admit that Miss Eight was correct. The airport WAS closed… there was no way in. I was being held back from my mission by a mere 2.2km according to ‘Lisa’ our resident know-it-all or TomTom as it said on the box.

What to do? What to do? I know, let’s stop for snacks. A pee would be good around now. Thank goodness for German Service Stations. As we were perusing the selection of fine bottled waters, I could see the airport reflected in the fridge door. I paid the guy behind the counter five bucks to use his mobile phone (because I don’t have one…. I know, only person on the planet without a mobile phone… get over it)

“Um honey, not sure if you know this, but you are locked in. That airport finds you so darn cute, they have decided to keep you! Ok, I know this isn’t funny… and as I have just ordered a low-fat mocchacino, do you think you could jump in a taxi and come to me?”

Sometimes, I scare myself with my own genius.

Once I had all my chicks back under my wing, we headed home. I was starting to come down from my ‘Indiana Jones’ high (or maybe that was the 3 double mocchacinos I drank at the petrol station) – and the full impact of the storm called Xynthia started to hit home. Trees down everywhere, all trains, planes and automobiles cancelled. Massive pileup on the other side of the Autobahn (the side that Miss Eight and I had skipped through a mere hour earlier). It was not pretty.

Nothing like a little rescue mission to get the blood pumping.

Lucky he is cute.

2010-02-28T07:03:00.001-08:00

The phone rings.

“Hi honey, just wanted to let you know that the plane is delayed and I am going to be about an hour late. I will give you a call when I am on the train.”

Pretty considerate really, it is blowing up a storm outside and I am not looking forward to the drive to the train station to collect him.

“Ok, so where exactly are you now?” He is calling from his mobile phone, so I am guessing he has landed already and need to calculate how long I have before I need to pick him up.

“I am sitting somewhere around the middle of the plane.”

…Cue the crickets chirp, chirp, chirp…chirp, chirp…

Not quite the answer I was looking for.

Tone Deaf

2010-02-28T02:38:00.001-08:00

“Psychiatry enables us to correct our faults by confessing our parents' shortcomings.” Laurence J. Peter

“You are supposed to be singing!” I have said this in that weird stage whisper that seems the only way I can talk when I am in a church.

“But you are not singing, so why should I?” I love that my youngest progeny is so forthright in her opinions, except, when she turns them on me. Then I have to remind myself that it is not ok to eat your own offspring.

At the front of the church are the contingency of women that make up the Choir. I can see their mouths moving, but there doesn’t seem to be any noise. It is like they are behind a wall of soundproof glass. I notice a tiny, fluffy white dog that is just outside the door… It is rolling around on the ground in obvious agony. Its paws are clamped firmly over its ears and there is a look of torture on its face.

“I can’t sing this high.” Miss Eight gives me that quick flick look that could wither steel.

I would like to be able to sing through the top of my head like the other mothers, but it is not going to happen anytime soon. The last time I tried, a whole flock of birds dropped out of the sky, stone cold dead.

So I revert to what I do best in the parenting department.

“Well it is your First Communion we are practicing for, not mine. Nobody is going to be looking at me in the church!”

She rolled her eyes a little and slid further down the pew…away from me.

Me?

I continued to open and close my mouth… but not a sound came out.

Probably for the best.

The Old LuLu and the Sea

2010-02-26T05:44:00.001-08:00

I am not homesick. Really. Seriously, I mean it… hey stop doing that thing with your eyebrows, it makes you look like Joan Crawford. I just want to see water. And if you knew me better, you would know that I just said something that does not compute.

I don’t like sand. Never have, never will. It gets into places it has no right to be.

I don’t like blazing sun. Or sunburn.

I don’t like the combination of sand & sunscreen.

I don’t like the looooooooooong, hooooooooooot walk from the car to the beach, over the dunes… where the sand is too soft to wear shoes, but is hot enough to grill the soles of your feet to a nice Medium Rare.

I don’t like it when the wind picks up on the beach and your legs are attacked by a million tiny little fencing swords of sand.

I don’t like the crunch of sand between the lettuce of my sandwich. Or the grittiness between my teeth from a swallow of warm, flat mineral water.

I don’t like the walk back to the car, where everything is filled with sand, every crevice, every nook and cranny. Each grain delighted at the idea that it can now take a ride in my car, where it will stay for months until someone (that would be me) managed to spend 3 hours with a vacuum cleaner.

And of course, there is the car. Having sat in the blazing sun for several hours, it is now at roasting temperature. The steering wheel is so hot that you spend the next 20 minutes driving with your fingers dancing around, barely touching, and wishing the damn A/C would finally kick in.

When you grow up with the Pacific Ocean no further away than a 20 minute car ride, you learn to take it for granted in the same way that the people do that work in the Lindt Chocolate factory don’t want to eat chocolate anymore… well perhaps they do, but I can dream.

Recently I realised that I am landlocked. In fact I am not even sure how long it would take me to drive to see a huge expansive water, complete with pounding surf. I stare at this picture on the wall, every time I sit at the computer, and for all the things I dislike about the beach… walking at sunset is not among them.

I feel the need, the need for sea.

She said what?

2010-02-24T23:15:00.001-08:00

Quietly sipping tea with my companions, the conversation turns to ailments, in particular, aging. A litany of conditions hit the table, each person exclaiming their own more painful than the next. Germans over a certain age take great pride in giving out each and every detail of their diminishing youth/health.

Of course, I need to stake my claim as well:

“Well, it is possible I have a little arthritis in my right thumb. It does seem to be affected by the weather, and my grandmother had arthritis in her fingers.” I hold up the offending digit for inspection.

The woman sitting beside me, leans over, pokes my thumb (which I now have sticking up as if I am planning to hitchhike my way across the table), then leans back in her chair with a satisfying sigh.

“Then again,” she says, “it could be Gout.”

Well hello?

Where is Blogger the frog?

2010-02-24T01:14:00.001-08:00

We found a stowaway.

It wasn’t until we arrived in Bad Marienberg (we are in Germany, people) that we discovered a creature of the green and fluffy persuasion in our luggage. He immediately hopped out and made himself at home (on my side of the bed):

What Blogger the frog didn’t figure on, was that this particular hotel is smack-bang in the middle of a WildPark… i.e that means full of frog-eating-animals. Things got a little hairy around the donkey, who quite frankly thought we were sending him some tasty afternoon tea.

And really didn’t improve when Blogger the frog decided it was time to give the Alpaca a big kiss. Who knew that those guys with the gorgeous eyelashes could be so snotty!

There was an unfortunate incident with an ostrich, which left Blogger the frog feeling less than loved. Anyone that made reference to ‘lunch’ would be shot a dirty look that could have cut glass:

After so much adventure, Blogger the Frog found himself a nice cosy spot to chill out… “Hey! Where did everybody go? Hmm sort of quiet here… and a little spooky… seriously, a lot of trees… can you say ‘Witch from Hansel & Gretel?’ … after all, we are in Deepest Darkest German Forest here…

It was all too much for Blogger the frog, so following Lulu’s lead… he headed for the closest watering hole, and enjoyed a long, cold Bier (Beer), some sauerkraut and a tasty pork knuckle…with his new best friend!

To find out where else he has been and request a visit from him, please visit Jamie over at Mommy's Camera she will be more than happy to get the message to Blogger. You can also find Blogger on Jamie's Community on the BlogFrog You can also see a map here of all the places that Blogger has been, and I will be checking that map out to see where he is going after he leaves here.

Put that down, now!

2010-02-19T02:30:00.001-08:00

“But officer! His head just ran into that cast iron frying pan… twice… it was a terrible accident!”

I had a bit of a ~~breakdown~~ breakthrough last night. It began around the time I was putting my un-manicured hands into the third load of dishwater in the past eight hours. It festered as I carried the fourth load of washing from the cellar, up two flights of stairs. It bubbled when I went into the bathroom and discovered combination shaving cream/toothpaste decorating the double sinks.

There was a gradual slow simmer… it almost escaped into a full blown rice-boiling-over episode around lunch time. But finally could no longer be contained at 7:08pm.

“Hi, honey. What’s for dinner?” It’s not like I expect him to ask about my day…

“It’s not ready yet… it will take another five minutes or so.” I know this because I just checked the oven 11 seconds ago.

Cue – kitchen cupboards being opened and closed, packets being rustled, cutlery drawers slamming… refrigerator door…

“What are you doing?” I haven’t actually dared to enter the kitchen, but I am pretty sure I know what the answer will be.

“Just getting a little snack.”

“But I just told you that dinner will be ready in (checking my watch) four minutes.”

“I know, but I am hungry.”

And I blew… Mt Vesuvius has got nothin’ on this kid.

The rant went on long after the first eruption.

Everyone showed the whites of their eyes…

And the response? How does the male of the species see the world, I hear you ask?

“Has it ever happened that I haven’t eaten everything you have ever cooked?

Are you being served?

2010-02-18T05:38:00.001-08:00

Along with the ‘Wisdom of the Elders’… comes ‘Fine Lines around The Eyes’. Morning, I notice that my old beauty routine is perhaps not up to scratch. Well, then again, perhaps it never was. Considering that most of the tricks and tips that I use today came from Cosmopolitan Magazine in 1980.

So I bit the bullet and took myself to the TOTALLY intimidating Perfumery in this One Horse Town. It is not my first visit, usually I just slip into buy a nice soap or a shower gel as a gift (yep, if you invite me to your party… you are getting soap!). Today, I decided I needed something to hide the multitude of sins that have taken up Squatter’s Rights on the face I present to the public.

“Hi, I was wondering if you could help me choose a new foundation make-up?” I was trying to be charming, all the while, wishing I had thought to wear something other than my muddy walking boots and the comfy argyle knit sweater with the hole in the sleeve.

She was all eyelashes and perfect complexion. You just know when someone has sized you up in the blink of an eye. Terminator III had nothing on this girl.

“Well, what brand would you like?” As she speaks, she surreptitiously glances at her own reflection in the many mirrors that surround us, and, with her little finger, dabs at the corner of her perfect red lipstick.

“I was hoping you would help with that…” At this moment she has caught sight of my ragged fingernails and dishpan hands. A little sigh escapes, a glimpse of tiny, shiny, white teeth… like you might find on a piranha.

“Yes, of course, but what I suggest is a good product might not be the same for one person, as it is for someone else..someone else might find it does not suit them.” Then nothing. I don’t quite know where to go with this.

“But could you at least tell me if it is the right colour?” I vaguely point in the direction of We-Promise-Miracle-And-Take-Your-Money, Paris office, hoping this will not cost me more than my last car.

With a brisk nod, she starts opening and closing drawers. Those tiny white teeth come out and start to chew on her perfect red lips. I study her carefully and am delighted to notice that she has a little earwax peeking out.

“Either of these two would be suitable.” And immediately starts to use my face as a palette. Slapping first one side with make-up and then the other with a shade darker. With a quick about face, she marches over to a round mirror situated near a bright window. “Perhaps the light is better for you over here?”

Obedient child… I follow in her perfumed wake. Bend at the waist and peer into the mirror she is holding. Gasp! Who is that woman. This is the mirror from hell. The fine lines around my eyes are now tantamount to moon craters. The spidery red lines on my cheek have become raging red rivers. My ungroomed eyebrows, an overgrown black jungle, complete with, what I now believe, is a smear of toothpaste. Did I really leave the house looking like this.

“Fine, I’ll take it!” I want out.. fast. I point to the right side of my face, hoping to god that I don’t look insane. I don’t ask how much, I don’t care… I just want to get away.

“Would madam like a sample?”

Sure, whatever… just let me out.

When I arrived home, I discover a little gift at the bottom of the bag. Concentrated Anti-Wrinkle Eye Cream.

Subtle… Me thinks not.

“Careful, she might hear you!”

2010-02-17T07:13:00.001-08:00

“You have to forget about what other people say; when you're supposed to die, when you're supposed to be lovin'. You have to forget about all these things. You have to go on and be crazy. Craziness is like heaven.” Jimi Hendrix

Sleepy, sleepy Sunday afternoon.

When I hear certain ‘other’ members of the household whispering, I crack open one eye to see what they are up to. Whispering. Sunday. Never a good combination.

They think I am asleep. I like it that way. I watch them through my eyelashes. They are definitely planning something. I can only hope, that this time, it doesn’t end up like the never-to-be-mentioned-again ‘green paint & Mum’s best cashmere’ incident…

I hear them slip open the door to the garden.

“You go first!”

“No, you first”

“Let’s hold hands.”

You would be forgiven for thinking that we have a few little fairies flitting about…but this is what I found:

“Ooooh… it is a wee bit cold on my feet…but it’s ok!”

“Yes, I see what you mean, quite refreshing… but are my toes supposed to feel so numb?”

“Ummm… maybe it will be better if I just put one foot in the snow, and hop?”

“Ok.. so now I have no feeling in that foot and will need to switch…are you SURE this is a good idea?”

“Aaahhhh… I think we should call a helicopter to come and get us… IT’S FREEEZING!”

“Whose stupid idea was this!! Call mum, tell her to come and get us… she should bring a St Bernard with her…”

“No response from the MUM SNOW RESCUE UNIT… we better make a run for it!”

Like real fairies…some days, it is better not to let on that you can see them.

Salt on my Skin

2010-02-11T07:09:00.001-08:00

It seems like it has been winter for, like… forever. My childish joy when the first fat snowflakes drifted down has now turned to a groan. All day I have resisted the pull to go and shovel the front path. I imagine the three retiree neighbours around me are having a field day grumbling about my lack of unity.

Instead, I have focused on other matters, like changing the linen, cleaning the shower recess and making a batch of No-Knead bread dough. It was at the moment I put my fingers in the water to check if it was ‘lukewarm’ that I drifted off…

…and landed here:

Before I knew what was happening, I could feel the warm wood under my feet. The gentle lapping of the water against the jetty urged me to walk forward. Until I arrived...Here:

Crisp sheets, fresh flowers. The smell of salt in my nostrils. I turned my face up to meet the sunshine… discarded layer after layer of winter clothing, releasing my body to bask in the warmth. The Shock! as I plunge my tired and worn body into the cool water, pushing myself toward the edge… I look up and am greeted by a sweet, smiling attendant. The robe she hands me is soft, silky cotton. I slip it on and follow her to here…

Firm, yet gentle hands work on the angry knots in my back and neck. I feel my whole body start to relax. Delicious smells waft past, lavender, orange blossom. I start to feel lighter, but my eyelids are getting heavier… heavier…feeling sleepy……….“MUM!!…. are you listening? I said I need a drink of water please… MUM!!! What are you doing! You have been stirring that dough for hours!”

Oh.. but it was nice while it lasted…everyone should take a little ‘dream’ holiday. Go on, just do it. Your credit card will never know.

*Thanks to Banyan Tree Seychelles for their beautiful photos…if you ever need a resort tester.. I am your girl.

Mind the step!

2010-02-10T23:37:00.001-08:00

It is the early 90’s. I am young and lookin’ good. I roll with the cool gang. I live in Istanbul. I know, right… exotic!

One of the 5 Star Hotels is opening a new nightclub. The buzz on the street about this incredible new venue, has been hot. Tickets to the opening night are like the Holy Grail. And I have them.

It is grand, greater than grand. There is one room after the other, each more dramatic, each more stylish than the other. The music is loud, all the beautiful people are holding court. Champagne flows. It is exclusive, no ‘little people’ allowed until after midnight.

We could see the queue winding down to the car park as we gathered our coats to leave. Our time had come, now the gates would be open to the public. Coats in hand, headed toward the foyer, where a line of ‘primed and hair-sprayed’ youth were champing at the bit for their chance to enter the Life Style of the Rich and Famous.

I strutted past them, clearly the envy of them all… after all, I had the golden ticket. I tossed my long hair, and with a grandiose flourish, swirled my cape-like, full length coat into the air, slipping it on. Then it happened.

I felt myself falling, that sickening feeling that you get when an aeroplane hits an air pocket. That drop in your stomach, when you put your foot out and discover their is nothing there…

Flat on my face. It was so quick, I don’t actually remember the fall… just the landing. It would have landed me an Oscar for Best Slapstick Comedy Fall. I stayed where I was. Considered for a quarter second that perhaps no one had noticed.

A lot can run through your head when you are face down, lying spread-eagled on a marble floor. With a crowd watching. There was silence. Nobody said anything. Nobody moved. I could hear the blood rushing through my veins, most of it making its way to my furiously blushing face.

Someone picked me up. I looked down at the damage. What was before, a chic & sexy pair of black stockings, now resembled the designer wardrobe of an emo/grunge/I have no money bands’ lead singer. My knees were skinned and a trickle of blood was winding its way toward the white marble floor.

I pushed my hair out of my eyes, turned my head to the right. They were all still there… the before labelled ‘little people’ had now become my judge and jury… their cold, hard eyes sentenced me to a lifetime of uncool goofball, with no possibility of parole.

Pride comes before a fall, never seemed so apt.

Well! That is disturbing…

2010-02-10T02:25:00.001-08:00

“A family is a unit composed not only of children but of men, women, an occasional animal, and the common cold.”Ogden Nash

Between Christmas and New Year, I took a little trip down south. Down to the kingdom of Lederhosen and Weiss Bier.

During a visit to a teeny, tiny museum, the following interaction took place at the cashier desk:

Lulu: “Hi! Could I please have tickets for two adults and three children.”

The cashier looks over her glasses, shuffles some papers, looks over her glasses some more.

Cashier: “Oh… do you have a man with you?”

I am now pulling that face that they do at the end of each episode of The Bold & The Beautiful. The one where they are holding the suspense, only I am trying to figure out what the hell she is getting at.

Lulu: “Um, no… just us, and the kids.” I indicate my sister (aka KuKu … ).

Cashier: “Well, that is a shame, because I could have sold you a Family Ticket,” she is tutting and shaking her head.

LuLu: “In that case, WE are a family.” When it comes to saving a few bucks… honey, I would admit to being family with Courtney Love.

Cashier: “Oh no… a family for us means a man and a woman!!”

She has said this with a straight face. Kuku, who doesn’t have any idea that she has just had her civil rights violated in a foreign language, continues to smile and nod at the sweet little ol’ lady.

LuLu: “OK… then give me two adult and three children tickets please.” My jaw is clenched and I am breathing right up in my throat.

As we pushed the kids up the winding staircase, I translated the event to KuKu. It was a narrow, stone staircase. Her response could be heard throughout the building and down to the Alps:

“SHE SAID WHAT!!”

Weeks have passed since this incident, and I still wish I had been able to pull out a business card saying something like ‘LuLu, Expert in Discrimination Law’. Sort of like Denny Crane on Boston Legal.

Of course, I did nothing. I let it slide. I opened the door for the next same-sex couple to visit that museum, with their kids, to be placed in a box. And that makes me sad.

The weird thing… the tickets only cost 3€ and children 1€. How much cheaper could a ‘family’ ticket possibly be?

Fried Rice and Sauerkraut

2010-02-09T00:52:00.001-08:00

“Reminds me of my safari in Africa. Somebody forgot the corkscrew and for several days we had to live on nothing but food and water.” W.C. Fields

To date, I have been sorely disappointed by Asian food in Germany. Sorry guys, but YOU just don’t get it.

My first experience was the local Chinese restaurant in Karlsruhe. A favourite of my Sister in Law and her family. I was excited. I missed Asian food.

We are spoiled for choice in multicultural Australia. Want a quick bite to eat? No problem! Pop into any number of small Chinese/Asian takeaways, and a steaming bowl of delicious, fresh, Asian green vegetables and health restoring soup is yours. Rushing home from work, grab a succulent roast duck, chopped up and ready to serve. Like I said…spoilt.

As we all opened our menus, I felt a tingle of excitement. It looked good on paper. A large group at a Chinese restaurant in Australia is a treat. It means you can order lots and lots of different dishes, all placed in the middle, all shared. I couldn’t quite get a handle on what the others were ordering, so when it came to my turn, I requested the Chef Recommends - Five Spice Crispy Duck.

We waited… and I watched in horror as no less than 12 portions of Five Spice Crispy Duck were placed on the table. I looked across the table at Mr Dear Husband. He looked back at me. He raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders. I waited for the other ten people to notice the huge mistake. No reaction.

They just each reached across to ‘their’ portion, pulled it a little closer to their bowl and dug in.

There is no sharing. And all the dishes have a distinctly German flair. The only vaguely Asian green that I saw was a lone bean sprout.

The meal was completed with Deep Fried Ice-Cream.

Can you say 1974, people?

Are they Real?

2010-02-08T06:02:00.001-08:00

“Loyalty to petrified opinion never yet broke a chain or freed a human soul.” Mark Twain

“What are you watching?” Mr Dear Husband plonks himself down beside me. We sit quietly, together for a few minutes, until he starts to fidget and making that weird ‘clearing the throat’ sound.

“Seriously! What ARE you watching? His face is screwed up in concentration. He is leaning forward, toward the television, his mouth slightly agape.

“The Real Housewives of Orange County.” Don’t ask, sometimes a girl just needs a little Bling-Bling.

He turns and looks at me, puzzled. “Please tell me what is REAL about THOSE women!”

He has a point. I find myself mesmerized by their faces. Their faces and their breasts. Neither of those body parts appear to move. Ever. And they are all over forty.

Mr Dear Husband leans back, crosses one leg over the other at a 45 degree angle. He is still squinting. It is possible he might need new specs, but probably more accurate to assume he is confused.

“Why don’t their faces move, and why do they all look the same?” He has a point.

I couldn’t help myself. A lazy weekend afternoon, something mindless. I got hooked and continued to watch these women parade their lives for the world to see. After three episodes, I started to like them. Not what I was expecting.

Imagine what it would be like to put in that much time and effort, to have shiny white teeth and Pamela Anderson Hair. And those boobs! Wow. It had taken me at least two episodes to work out why all those gals could strut around in tiny, spaghetti strap tops, with no visible sign of the usual mechanics it takes to hold ‘the girls’ in place.

Strangely, it was some of the most honest television I have seen for ages. They are pretty straight up about WHO they are, and where they want to be. There is no pretence. It was refreshing. And they love a glass of wine… what’s not to like!

Sort of hoping that Mr Dear Husband doesn’t EVER get transferred to Orange County. They would take one look at my “No Shaving Legs in Winter” policy…or “Has it been 12 weeks since my last hair cut…whoops” and I would be run out of town.

Mr Dear Husband sat with me for another few minutes… then Miss Eight happened to drift past…

“Oh pretty! Barbie Dolls!”

Yep, baby, REAL LIVE Barbie Dolls.

Officially Stupid.

2010-02-05T02:05:00.001-08:00

Yep folks, that is right. I am going to go out and buy a brass plate, a big one, and have it engraved.

Here lives Lulu, Officially Stupid.

No one will dispute it. This morning I started cooking some beef stock. I have done it at least a million times. I think I am pretty clever when I do it. People are always impressed.

I start my stock. I go and start cleaning my bathroom. I come back to the kitchen and am immediately alert to the fact that something is not right. Where is the good, hearty smell? Where is the comforting bubbling pot. The kitchen is cold and still. The gas has run out. Long story, but we are currently on bottled gas. Annoying as hell, but a makeshift solution until the new kitchen is installed.

Ok, I think, I can do this. I run downstairs to the storage Cellar and grab my Slow Cooker. I grumble as I walk up the stairs, because it is covered in fine dust, residue from when Mr Dear Husband put up the new shelving. He claims that ‘clean up’ after doing renovations does not fall into his job criteria. One day I will give him a big dose of ‘job criteria’.

I wash my slow cooker carefully… don’t want any silt in my soup. Plug it in, grab the heavy pot of half cooked stock… and carefully pour it into the slow cooker. Then I watch as all the precious liquid starts to run through the slow cooker… over the kitchen bench, down through the dishwasher and on to the floor. Aaaaaaaaagggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhh!

I had forgotten to put the ceramic pot back inside.

Don’t kid yourself, if this ever happens to you, cancel everything on your calendar for the next two days. That is how long it will take you to clean up the mess.

A perfect end to a diabolical week.

I am going to search the house. Somewhere, someplace is a Voodoo Doll with my name on it. Not sure who I annoyed, but they got themselves some mighty powerful magic happening.

If you need me today, I will be Out for Lunch.

What is that?!?!

2010-02-04T23:10:00.001-08:00

Age is not for the weak of heart.

Perhaps it has something to do with the Winter, that appears to have taken a Narnia pill, and become endless.

Standing in Oh-So-Flattering fluorescent light of our bathroom this morning, I took stocktake. I was in shock at how many parts of me need replacing or at least a little bodywork. Seems like a minute ago I was 30 & sexy (oh yes I was), now I am starring down the barrel of a full body makeover that would make Cher cry.

Let’s start at the top:

Dandruff – Huh? I even dreamt about it, dreamt that someone told me I had dandruff and kept brushing it off the shoulders of my black sweater.
Age spots. I did try to kid my self that it was just a large freckle (freckles are cute, right?) But no, that thing is no freckle. It is matched only by the ONE black hair that keeps sprouting from my chin. Should I ever end up in a coma, I want one of you to make it your business to get thee to the hospital with a pair of tweezers. No, I am not joking.
Turkey Chin. There was some guy in Ally McBeal that found a wobbly chin erotic… he was off his meds.
‘The Girls.’ Two children, breast-feeding… and suddenly they are heading south for the winter… but not coming back.
I don’t even want to know what that weird spot is on my right thigh.
Saggy knees. A family of hedghogs could make their winter home in the folds of skin on my knees. I have been tempted to do a little self-surgery… I could clip that skin together with a clothes peg…and for seven seconds ..Instant SJP Knees.. and then I start screaming from the pain.
The feet. Not pretty. You know it is bad when you start eyeing off the microplane grater in your kitchen drawer…

There is no hope. But none of that matters anyway. Because I have recently discovered that I am invisible. Yes, I am THAT woman. I could walk around with my knickers on my head and I am almost certain that nobody would notice.

If I hear one more reference to MILF or Cougar, I am likely to go nuts. Who the hell comes up with this crap… Are we never to be given the chance to age without being pulled and shoved and starved? Susan Sarandon recently started her ‘mid-life crisis’ at 63. Seen ~~snogging~~ playing with a much younger man. What would be the point? Didn’t we just spend the last 20 years telling men how stupid they look dating girls half their age?

How do you think they say goodnight?

“Good night Susan, you are looking HOT!”

“Good night Toy Boy, have you brushed your teeth and put in your retainer?”

Good Night.

That’s so true!

2010-02-04T01:26:00.001-08:00

I laughed so hard a few minutes ago, that the neighbour banged on the wall. I think she thought I was having a fit.

I like laughing, but stopped doing it in public after a nasty boy in high school said something that really put a damper on my hilarity:

“Do you know, that when you laugh, it looks like you have a spring-loaded bum?”

What the hell?

But we get older, and wiser… and we use Google to discover that the evil grunt that ruined my belly laughs for years has:

Lost his hair (and not in a sexy Sean Connery way)
Obviously eats more doughnuts than are healthy
Obviously does not go to the gym after eating doughnuts.
Obviously still lets his mother buy his clothes

(bitter… who me?)

But back to my current laughing clown self. It was suggested to me on FaceBook that I look up my name on Urban Dictionary. So I did. This is what I found:

Lynda:

Sexy woman from up north. Is a frog. Also is a enemy of Mr.Roboto (don’t ask me…I have NO clue)
A sexy fox. She says ribbit when she is being a frog.
Very small bird like squawking creature
Aka: evil midget on wheels
An evil horrible maid who has successfully ruined her deceased "best friends" family...a.k.a SATAN
Can you believe that she married him just for his money?....What a lynda!

Yep… that about sums me up.

But what is it with the frog?

The Pets.

2010-02-03T22:27:00.001-08:00

Ok, so Miss Eight has been at school here in Germany since August. It can’t have been easy to switch languages at the beginning of the 3rd grade, but she did, and she made it look simple.

I would like to take full credit for her spectacular use of the German language, but as it has now become a LuLu Household National Sporting Event to correct my German grammar, pronunciation and how I sneeze… well, you get the idea.

So when Miss ‘IT’ came home with a spectacular Mid-Year School report, I wasn’t too surprised. That was until she informed me that all the other kids get money for grades.

“What do you mean money?” I am squinting up my eyes, guarding my loins and pushing my wallet to the top shelf in the kitchen, as I speak.

“Well, they get 5 Euros for a 1, 2 Euros for a 2 etc…” she has noticed me tucking the twenty I keep for emergencies deep inside my left sock.

“Hmmm.. yeah, well… I don’t think it is good to pay for grades. It sets the wrong tone. How about a reward?” At this stage I am thinking a glass of cold milk and a piece of the chocolate cake I baked last week – which remains suspiciously uneaten.

A huge grin breaks out on her face. “Great!! Can I have a pet? All the other kids have pets. They have dogs & cats, hamsters and one boy in my class has a pet snake. Can I? Ha! Can I?”

Yikes… the pet gig. I don’t want pets. I have enough trouble looking after myself and the rest of the crew.

“I’ll think about it.” She knows this means about as close to NO as it gets, gives me the ‘you-are-meanest-mother-in-the-world-death-stare”, turns on her heel and stomps up the stairs to jump in the bath I had just run for her.

Freshly scrubbed, hair washed, and smelling sweet. We are combing through her long, blonde tresses when I happen to catch a little movement. I peer closer, drop the hair brush, grab my Granny Specs.

“Well, my darling, it would appear that your wish has been granted! You have finally got the pet you always wanted. Only it would seem that you have more than you were expecting, and they are already setting up home, complete with a maternity ward, a crèche, and I believe they are opening a Starbucks behind your right ear.”

Her scream of anguish could be heard throughout the quiet streets of this one horse town. Worst nightmare come true.

Head Lice.

Can you say…scratch, itch..scratch…itch….

It’s 4:19pm

2010-02-03T08:01:00.001-08:00

And I have just cracked the top off a bottle of delightful pinot grigio, cooled to a perfect temperature. I intend to drink a big glass of it very quickly. I want that spin feeling to hit me as fast as possible.

Wafting throughout the house are the delectable sounds of Miss Eight and her latest piano piece. It is gorgeous and she loves it so much that she has learnt it in record time.

I want to feel happy about this. I should be happy. I have everything thing I need and then some.

But today, I have the overwhelming urge to runaway.

Those of you that have hung out here for a while now (and you know who you are) will remember that this melancholy state hit me once or twice when we were living it up in Cairo. Usually, it is triggered by some random event that pushes my delicate psyche over the edge.

Frustration is the name of the game here. I have all the tools I need to make it work, but every time I get on top of my game, they change the rules.

Why are you not laughing? Am I not being funny enough? I swear, the woman at the Post Office today had magical powers - the ability to suck the ‘funny-ness’ right out of my bones. Is it really so difficult to be a little pleasant. Where in gods name is the humanity! They have ‘mis-placed’ one of my parcels. By my reckoning, it is either both mine, and Miss Eight’s new Australian passport (which means a whole lot of crap will now unfold). Or, it is the box of new clothes that I have ordered for Miss Eight, who is currently down to her last pair of respectable trousers - - what the hell is in the chicken here that makes her grow so fast, and why can’t they wear a school uniform!

Apparently it is my fault. First because I don’t have an Ausweis (a German Identity Card) – no I don’t. Why? Because I am an immigrant and wouldn’t be granted one until I have lived here continuously for eight years (like that is EVER going to happen) and/or I give up my Australian Passport – chances of that? Higher than Saddam Hussein winning the Nobel Peace Prize posthumously. So it is that I am without any real form of identification that the Post Office will accept. And boy, do they make me pay.

If you are still with me… and I will forgive you if you wandered off to get your own tipple… I will have you know that I really do try to play nice.

But they are making it hard.

I will try for funny tomorrow.

I think…

If I get my parcel.

Or I happen to catch ‘that woman’ from the Post Office shagging her boss at the end of the street – take photos – and publish them all on the internet.

Glass number one.. down.

Aaaaahhhhhhhhh……………

It’s 4:57pm

Plotting Revenge.

2010-02-02T22:25:00.001-08:00

Hold on to your britches Mildred, this is going to be a bumpy ride.

Disclaimer: For those that are faint of heart… look away now. Or get out your smelling salts. This post is never going to make it to Martha Stewart Living.

Some days just don’t go the way you want. It’s a like black fly in your chardonnay – as Alanis would say.

Do you know what this is?

This is a little bugger that had the audacity to park her green arsed car half across my driveway this morning…

And this?

Might not look like much now that I have had to run my car over it 4 times… it is the mountain of gutter snow that I had to negotiate because little arsed green car parked half her arse across my driveway.

Every time I drove in and out of my driveway today… I cursed that little arsed green car.

“What did you say, mummy?” Nothing dear… just talking to myself. Can’t have Miss Eight repeating anything that might get me into big trouble with Dear Mr Husband. It is bad enough that she learnt to say SHIT at the appropriate time….when she was three. Hey! At least she used it appropriately.

But back to the little arsed green car.

I sat in my kitchen, drinking my cup of tea, and starting thinking about all the things I was going to do to that car. I gave that little arsed green car my evil eye for all I was worth. I considered using my ‘so my neighbour maintains’ woefully inadequate snow shovel to bury it. I reckon I could have turned that whole car into one of those nice ice carvings you see in China.

But that was too good. I wondered what would happen if I poured a year’s supply of red cordial into that little gap in the window – then stuck in paddle pop sticks.. she would have a giant icy pole on wheels!

At 5pm, just as I had finished negotiating that HUGE pile of snow and the narrow gap to my driveway for the 7th time today…a lanky brunette strutted across the street, pulled out her keys, jumped in her little arsed green car and drove off.

I stood on the side of the street and waved my tiny fist in the air….

“Yeah! baby… run, run away… you want some a this!!! I brought two kids into the world…. I have no problem taking out your little arsed green car!”

She was scared….. I could tell….. shakin’ in her boots. I swear she nearly swerved off the road in fear… or maybe she just hit that patch of black ice at the end of the street.

I showed her!

There is something very liberating about saying ‘arsed’. I think I should say it more often.

A Non-Single Expat Marriage or “What was your name again?”

2010-02-02T00:19:00.001-08:00

That pretty much sums it up. And has done for over 20 years.

It’s not like I didn’t know what I was getting myself into. I had worked in the same industry as Mr Dear Husband, so knew what it was like to be caught up in the tidal wave, glance at my watch and think “Holy Cow… I just pulled a 18 hours shift!”. The scary bit was having the energy to then go ‘out for a drink’ after work, where I was on a first name terms with barmen that didn’t start work until the wee hours of the morning. There was none of this wide-eyed, fantasy stuff about my marriage.

Two decades later, I still wonder how I managed and why my children have turned out to be such well-adjusted human beings, lord knows, they certainly have grounds to want to wring our necks for all the changes we put them through (and still do).

One of our most exotic postings, where we both worked full-time, we had a phenomenal social life. Both of us were constantly invited to all manner of grand and wonderful gatherings. We had been in the country for over a year when we happened to be attending the same event, and somebody tried to introduce us to EACH OTHER! Many people had never seen us working the same party at the same time.

Now I find it tough when he is here all the time. There are moments when he sits on the sofa, switches on the TV (to a sporting event, what else) and I instantly find myself tensing up. I think “Hey, who said you could chose what is on the TV!”. Yesterday I was mad because he didn’t fluff up the sofa cushions before going to bed… nuts or what!

And so, here we stand. For the first time in over 20 years, we have to learn how to BE with EACH OTHER. All the time. Perhaps I will start introducing him as my boyfriend… that could put a little spark into an everyday, normal as Joe, married life.

The Visitor

2010-02-01T03:27:00.001-08:00

“Could you possible mind my baby for an hour?” Her voice wavered a little…

“Was I the only one you could reach?”

“Ummmm…yes.”

“Ok, see you in 10 minutes.” There didn’t seem any reason to make her sweat.

“Ummm, hi!…. so I guess it is just you and me. I would appreciate it if you could wait to fill your diaper until your mother returns. Deal?”

“And you might have everyone else wrapped around your little finger, but I will let you know right now, I am no push over, buddy.”

Well, maybe I am, but I thought it best to assert my authority right from the get go. I know how it is with these little guys, one minute they are all cute and smelling like sunshine, and the next, they have the key to the liquor cabinet and a tattoo that says “MOM”.

“No! you may not borrow the car tonight! If you can’t hold your own head up, how on earth do you expect to be able to reverse out of the driveway.”

Jeeezzz kids today! I’ll just make myself a coffee, don’t get up to anything while I am in the kitchen.

“That better not be your baby version of giving me the stink finger!”

“Ha! there you go, getting that happy face on, but I can smell the reason you are looking so joyful, and I thought we had a deal!”

“Just for that, you can read me a couple of chapters of Harry Potter. And I want ALL the silly voices too….so no skipping…. hey! did anyone ever tell you you look a little like Dobby the house elf?”

“Oh yeah…that was the doorbell. Seems your mother came back to get you after all. Quick hide the Jack Daniel and the cigars….”

Lessons in Snow Etiquette

2010-01-28T09:31:00.001-08:00

If you are going to use an Egg Flip to clean the ice off your car windscreen…

…don’t get caught by the neighbour who already thinks you are a little weird. Telling him you ‘couldn’t find the ice scraper’ will win you no love.

When shovelling your front path, do not enter into a competition with aforementioned neighbour…

…he is a pensioner (senior citizen), having the cleanest path in the street is the highlight of his day and he will keep going until he breaks you.

If you are going to open the boot (trunk) of your car BEFORE you clean off the snow…

…be prepared to spend the next hour shovelling snow OUT of your boot before your husband finds out.

Should you run out of grit or salt to stop your paths from icing up…

…using that expensive salt from your last holiday in the South of France, is not a good choice.

Mis-judging the curb when crossing the street during a partial thaw…

…can result in EXTREMELY cold ankles, your child will learn words that are NOT age appropriate and a squelching sound that attracts unnecessary attention in the library.

When you are walking down the street in Germany and you see this sign:

...do NOT look up! It took Miss Eight 10 minutes to stop laughing before she asked, “Would you like a tissue?”

I am still trying to work out why I even bothered leaving the house today.

Jack of all trades…

2010-01-28T00:02:00.001-08:00

"What's an expert? I read somewhere, that the more a man knows, the more he knows he doesn't know. So I suppose one definition of an expert would be someone who doesn't admit out loud that he knows enough about a subject to know he doesn't really know how much." Malcom S Forbes

Jack of all trades, master of none. I seriously considered putting that on an application this week. Instead, I wrote in, “the lady that puts pickle bottle labels on pickle bottle jars.” Will they be impressed, do you think? The saying comes from my Nanna. It was her greatest training tool. “Learn your times tables or you will end up putting pickle bottle labels on pickle bottle jars!!!” I wonder if she could see me now, would she reconsider her motivational skills.

Many times, I have thought, “Hell, I am just going to become a doctor, so that at the next cocktail party, when Hans Von Smellybottomholesinhisunderpants asks me “what do YOU do?” I will be ready for him. “Oh me?” Here I will just try to brush it off like it is nothing, toss my long, golden locks, take a sip of my wine… “I am a doctor, I save people’s lives everyday.” Hmm maybe that last bit was laying it on a bit thick. He will be so impressed that he will immediately leave me in peace to finish demolishing the hosts supply of white wine and potato latkes.

Germany brings all my insecurities to the surface. Last year, during an interview with ‘the authorities’, the beamter (public servant) was trying to enter my employment history into her computer. It went something like this:

“I have tried to enter in ALL the different qualifications and positions you have held in the past 25 years, but unfortunately, they don’t fit our strict parameters. Unless I am able to tick at least one box, I will not be able to process your application.” Then she just sat there, stabbing at her computer and making a tisk-tisk sound. Until finally, she looked up at me and said:

“Well… I could put you down as a cleaner, because that does not have the German requirement of at least a 4 year university degree, followed up by a 2 year unpaid apprenticeship, and finished off by another 1 year probation period, where you will be required to wear a giant P on your back during working hours.”

And she was deadly serious.

Dear Mr Husband was squeezing my arm VERY TIGHTLY, as if he instinctively knew that I was about to jump across the woman's desk and start pounding her head into her exasperating keyboard. Tears sprang into my eyes, and a deep, red blush rose up from underneath my collar and filled my face. I tried to concentrate on the tacky pictures of angels she had pinned on the walls of her windowless cubical, so as not to allow the tears to start rolling down my face.

“I see you have a picture of Machu Picchu behind your desk?.” This was Mr Dear Husband, ever the diplomat, and probably trying to save my tormentor from spending the next 3 years in the company of her plastic surgeon. “Have you been there?” He can be so polite.

“OH NO!” Gasp, horror showing on her face. I love to look at the picture, but I would never go there… it is a terrible thing that all those dreadful tourists do to such wonderful sites.”

We left the office. It was very quiet as we walked down the stairs.

“What a fruitcake!”

He knew just what to say… and I felt a little better.

The Original Expat Brat

2010-01-27T01:21:00.001-08:00

“When I was in therapy about two years ago, one day I noticed that I hadn't had any children. And I like children at a distance. I wondered if I'd like them up close. I wondered why I didn't have any. I wondered if it was a mistake, or if I'd done it on purpose, or what. And I noticed my therapist didn't have any children either. He had pictures of his cats on the wall. Framed.” Spalding Gray

There are not a lot of references to LuLu’s Big Daughter. Mainly because she now lives a happy and productive adult life in (the witness protection program) Australia, and I haven’t asked her if she minds being fodder for my blogging. OK, OK… so maybe it is because she said something like, “Mum, if I EVER read about myself on your blog, I am cutting off your allowance and you are grounded for a month!” …or words to that effect… I never listen to threats… nah, nah..

But…Someone reminded me about some of her early episodes as an expat brat, and I figure that she won’t REALLY mind if I relate a couple of them. As the original Expat LuLu babe, she went first. Big Daughter was all of 20 months old when we got on the “Let’s get outta here train.” Raising her was often more than any normal parent should have to deal with, let alone, doing it in crazy, new countries where you can’t drink the water.

*****

Floating around in a swimming pool. The Island is Lombok (before it turned into a mad tourist infestation). It is warm, soothingly warm. The service is sublime. The air is clean. I have a drink with an umbrella in it… and an orchid behind my right ear…

Says the American businessman to then Miss 7(older version):

“I have been listening to you for sometime, but I can’t pick your accent, young lady. Just where DO you come from?”

I don’t open my eyes, but my ears prick up and I wait for her reply…only remembering to breath when I start feeling faint.

“Well…” Miss 7(older version) was never shy. Some would say she could talk the leg off a wooden chair.

“My mummy comes from Australia. My daddy comes from Germany. We live in Bombay, India…. but I think I might be Turkish.”

Mr American businessman looked confused… shook his head and swam away to try his luck at the pool bar.

I kept my eyes closed and decided that it was best to just remain silent.

She was obviously already confused enough without my weighing in.

Truly a child of the united nations.

The things you learn…

2010-01-26T00:55:00.001-08:00

All it takes is someone to put an idea in my head and it can take me ages (sometimes years) before I can get it loose.

I totally nicked this photo off the net… I wonder if these boys know that when you Google ‘baggy pants’, their ‘boxered bums’ come up more than any other?

In response to yesterday’s post about German School Kid Fashions, the gorgeous and baby-upped (I know that is not a word, but it fits the language of the style we are discussing… besides, it makes me hip, slick and cool…right?…RIGHT!) Miss Global Librarian told a little story and it would be such a shame not to share it.

Mind you, I will never be able to look at those boy’s with the droopy pants in the same light again:

“When I worked as a public librarian in Kansas City (US), I worked in a gang neighbourhood. (They were not gangsta-wannabes. They were the real thing.)
I did not allow the droopy pants and gang colors in the library. Partially because library was neutral territory and I didn't want them fighting with each other. But also because I thought the look disrespectful and they should treat the library, its customers and its staff with respect. (I was well-known in the neighbourhood. And gang activity of any kind DID NOT happen on My Watch.)

I used to enjoy explaining to the young boys how the droopy pants thing came to be. See, in prisons, where young men are locked up for long periods of time and "anything goes," wearing droopy pants signals to the other prisoners that you are a "bitch" and your back side is "open for business." The young men would always pull those pants up quite quickly.

I really, really wish I knew enough Swiss German to explain this to the young men I see wandering about Zürich. If those silly white boys ever appeared in my old neighbourhood, they would get their asses whipped by the real gangstas.”

Just too good a story to let slide.

Have a good one, people!

The German Conspiracy

2010-01-25T01:24:00.001-08:00

We live near a school. In fact, we are surrounded by schools, which is a good thing on the weekend, but not so great if you are looking for a car parking spot around pick up time.

From the warm comfort of my kitchen window, I like to observe the world going about its business. The kids strolling up, timing their entrance -- not too early, not too late – chatting, smoking (I know, but what can I do!) and generally being cool (is that still a word that means cool?)

Germans don’t wear school uniforms. They don’t like to be seen as being too conformist. But they are. They have little secret rituals that provide them with the same comfort we Aussies enjoyed during our childhood. The Germans think they are being covert, but more and more, I am discovering their secrets…

If we can’t have school uniforms… then we will conform in every other part of our lives.

All the high school kids wear jeans. Jeans and boots… jeans and boots and short jackets - which in my opinion offer absolutely no protection against the bitter weather we have had lately. The boys all have floppy hair… it looks like The Beatles gone wild. I have visions of the ozone layer getting thinner each morning with the amount of product that is being used to hold those elaborate hair-do’s in place.

Eyeliner is very popular with the girls, and I suspect that there is a local shortage of blonding kits. Contrary to public belief, there are not that many blonde-haired, blue-eyed Germans.

But my favourite part is watching the boys trying do their impression of Ghetto Street Fashion. I love it. They saunter down the road with their freshly, laundered-by-mum, underpants showing, their shoelaces undone and their caps turned sideways. When Miss Eight and I are walking behind a gaggle of these Rapper Replicas, she will whisper to me, “Go on Mum, tell him to pull up his pants and get a job…go on!”

I truly believe she thinks that one day, I will grab one of them by the ear and give him a good wash.

Expat, Immigrant or Beam Me Up Scotty!

2010-01-23T03:39:00.001-08:00

“When you travel, remember that a foreign country is not designed to make you comfortable. It is designed to make its own people comfortable.” Clifton Fadiman

When I realised I hadn’t spoken to another living soul except Miss Eight for two days, I got a jolt. What is going on? Sure enough, it has been a busy couple of months. Actually, I have been head down, bum up since September 2009, so a few weeks of less social interaction and time for a little inner reflection were in order.

It is easy to kid myself that I have a full and busy calendar when you spend time online. I chat to other bloggers, read and write comments, read the dailies, update my FaceBook, answer my emails – hell I am constantly talking in my head, there is just no sound for the outside world.

Normally, as an expat, I hit the ground running. Join the local groups, meet the mums at school, find my place among the other wives at Mr Dear Husband’s place of employment. But this time, it has been different. Germans keep their work and private lives separate. Never the two shall meet. There could be ‘other’ wives in the same boat… but I will never hear about it.

German mum’s don’t walk their kids to school… there is not a great deal of “let’s go for coffee” call. And to add fuel to the fire, because this is a small town, everybody knows everybody, and has done since kindergarten, leaving little room for ‘Lulus-come-lately’.

There is none of that: ‘Expat Wife + Bottle (or two) of Wine = Instant New Best Mate’.

As it stands, I also don’t need the usual level of support that happens in other countries. I speak the language, so no ‘Quick! Must sign up for Turkish/Hindi/Arabic course so I can tell off the Taxi drivers’. I can read the language, so shopping is not an issue. Many a friendship has been made over asking questions. “Where do I find ‘A Victorian Costume/Halloween Decorations/Christmas Decorations/Pork products/A new hose for my washing machine". All can be Googled.de

Mr Dear Husband returns from Upper Mongolia (or perhaps the moon) tonight. Might be time to talk to him about making the Madagascar office his permanent hang-out. So much for ‘finally settling down’.

*****

This post could have had a completely different title:

Once a gypsy, always a gypsy.

“When my wife has nothing to do, it is like coming home, walking through the door and finding a pistol pointed at my head.” Mr Dear Husband

They should be Recalled

2010-01-22T00:22:00.001-08:00

“I hate the word housewife; I don't like the word home-maker either. I want to be called Domestic Goddess.” Roseanne Barr

During the course of the last few days, it has crossed my mind that had I had the foresight to invest in an extended warranty, there is a good chance that a certain eight year old would be heading back to “You-Don’t-Know-What-You-Are-Getting-Yourself-In-For” Headquarters, Australasian Division.

We are sitting at breakfast and I am leafing through a bunch of junk mail. Mainly catalogues for the local collection of supermarkets (the older generations of Germans are a little nuts about their ‘catalogues’… but that is another story). So there I am, sorting; tossing the furniture and whitegoods into the recycling, flicking through the grocery pages, frowning at the “Have you got your Funeral Insurance covered”. Miss Eight leans across her muesli bowl and slides one of the catalogues over for a closer inspection. Then with wide eyes, looks at me and says, “Hey mum, you need to get this stuff, then you will be really happy and love doing housework!”

I peer over my specs to see what she is referring to, only to find myself confronted by this picture:

Further more, she is deadly serious and I am gobsmacked.

“You do know that sweeping the kitchen floor is still work, even if the broom is pink!” I am having serious doubts about whether or not I will keep this particular child once the lease expires.

“Of course I do, but if you also wore the pretty gloves and put on some lipstick, then you would be just like the lady in this picture, and she looks really happy.”

And to think… I could have bought a goldfish.

The Nose Knows or You Can Pick It

2010-01-21T02:01:00.001-08:00

“Smell is a potent wizard that transports you across thousand of miles and all the years you have lived.” Helen Keller

That is what I am going to write about today… Smell. Get over it, it’s not like you have a choice. I suppose you could send me ideas (it would appear I can weave a story out of just about anything), but for today, you are stuck with my topic.

I read recently that memory is attached to adrenalin. That would make sense to me. Most things that have terrified or excited me are planted well and truly in the filing system that is my brain. But for me, there is a whole other world to explore.

I have often been caught saying “Hmm… that doesn’t smell right to me..” and usually I am spot on. Let’s not mention the time Miss 16 decided she wasn’t going to show me her Mid-year school report and concocted the most elaborate deception this side of the Gaza Strip. I said, let’s not mention it!…. but can you say “1 month house arrest with hard labour.”

Ask me about my first day of school and I have a sudden rush of open lunch box with a cheese sandwich and a green apple. It could have been worse, much worse. The boy sitting next to me chose that day to forget his toilet training… big time. I can still see him squirming about and the teachers look of horror -- well there you go… smell.

We spent two years living in Bombay (it was Bombay then and will stay that way for me… Mumbai sounds like something a Telly Tubby eats) We had an apartment in a 5 star hotel, compliments of Mr Dear Husbands’ employer. There was only one thing missing, nothing crucial I suppose, if you live on astronaut food and mini bar selections… we had no kitchen. Oh, I could boil water and make a cup of tea… but all other meals were eaten in one of the many restaurants – or out of the snack boxes that I filled up each morning from the breakfast buffet. I lost weight faster than a B Grade starlet on a cocaine binge. Without the smell of onions being sautéed, or fresh bread straight from the oven, there were no juices flowing. No appetite.

Break the skin of a mandarin, and I am instantly transported back to a water skiing weekend as a kid… camping on a river bank. We gorged ourselves with mandarins from the neighbouring orchard. We ate and ate and ate… then we filled the back of the car with our ill-gotten gains. And continued to eat all the way home, tossing the peels out of the car window. I am pretty sure I didn’t eat another mandarin for about 20 years.

There are a million memories wrapped around my olfactory system. Some great, some not so great. But whatever you do, when you come to my house for breakfast, don’t burn the toast… it sets me off for the rest of the day and you will never hear the end of it.

Little green balls of horror

2010-01-19T03:11:00.001-08:00

I found myself sitting at the lunch table of my future in-laws, not understanding a word that was being said and watching with growing distress as an enormous bowl of Brussels sprouts was placed directly in front of my plate. Oh No! This could no be happening. But sure enough, my smiling mother in law picked up the overflowing bowl and offered it to me. There was no escape…

*****

As a child, there were many things that could tip me over the edge, but there was only one that would follow me through to adulthood.

Raised as one of three daughters, by a widowed father, life looked nothing like the Brady Bunch from where I sat. There was little else to do other than pick up a broom and learn to keep house from an early age.

Cooking would come later. Until I was tall enough to be able to see into a pot on the stove, this crucial part of life was left to my father. He had a few specialties, one of them was Brussels sprouts, cooked until they were dead, grey and revolting.

Meals were eaten at the table. Plates were cleaned before leaving the table, and nights when Brussels sprouts featured, were small lessons in hell.

We did eventually learn how to outfox the perpetrator of our torture. By sitting long enough, pushing the nasty little critters around our plates, we could ensure that eventually our father would give up in disgust, push back his chair and declare us an ungrateful pack of brats…then troop off to watch the evening news. This was our chance. By packing our cheeks full of the offending vegetable, we could make a break for the bathroom…one after the other…and spit the sludge into the toilet. It is a wonder that we didn’t manage to block it, considering how often this act occurred. And so it was that I declared my ever lasting loathing for Brussels sprouts and a promise that I would never eat them again.

*****

I should have been suspicious after she vigorously offered it at least five times. I at least, should have twigged when I noticed that Mr Dear Husband would not make eye contact. The little beasts seemed to glow with kryptonite like potency… urging me to “eat up, eat up”. I chopped those little beggars into a million pieces. I hid them in my napkin, in my pocket, under a lettuce leaf… anywhere other than my mouth. Still, no eye contact from Mr Future Dear Husband.

Back in our room, I gagged and coughed and made all manner of fuss. “Why would she do that!” I cried. What could have possessed the woman to force feed me the one food on earth that I could not stomach?

“Well….” and he started scratching the back of his head, the tips of his ears warm to a ruby red and he is clearing his throat.

“Perhaps because I told her that Brussels sprouts are your favourite food…” He steps back a couple of paces and brings his hands up to protect his head.

“I’m sorry, it was just meant to be a joke. I thought it would be funny.”

I let him live. But believe me when I tell you that his little joke would cost him dearly across the next 20 years of his life.

Arch nemesis…

2010-01-18T04:21:00.001-08:00

“You can discover what your enemy fears most by observing the means he uses to frighten you.” Eric Hoffer

It fair took my breath away. Like Rod Taylor in the Time Machine, I felt myself fall down, down, down… and I was back there. That crippling, punch in the guts, flushed cheeks, wave of humiliation.

All it took was a Google. A stumble upon. I wasn’t looking for anything remotely close to what came. Before my eyes, grinning and laughing was the girl, now a woman, that had made my high school days a misery. A YouTube clip. Links to her life showed that she is accomplished. A self-starter, a go-getter. Right out there in the world.

The internet can unearth all matter of information. People that were thought to be long lost, can suddenly appear back in your life, whether you want them there or not.

There was always an air of success about her. A contentment that had been her aura over 25 years ago. Such confidence, the mirror of my own tortured soul. If I were to have a mishap, she would be there as witness. A trip down the stairs of slapstick comedy proportions, yep, I can still hear her loud and hearty laugh ringing in my ears. No sooner was I complimented by an English teacher, and there would be a catcall from the back of the class, just loud enough for me to hear and no-one else.

There was no way that she could have know of the heartache and agony that was my childhood home life. No way could she have known that her words cut me to my very core. But no doubt that she saw a wounded animal and took pleasure in playing with me like a cat and a mouse.

I watched out for her constantly. A deer in a meadow, ever alert should she come close enough to be able to cause me pain. If she went right, I went left. In class, I would sit at the polar opposite. Managed to avoid being lab partners for 4 years straight… believe me when I tell you that it took co-ordination of mastermind proportions to achieve.

So we meet again. The sight of her caused the girl in me to shrink back behind my heart. I consider contacting her, after all, I am now an adult, also accomplished, in my mind. What would her reaction be? Would she remember. Would we be friends today?

It makes me wonder if somewhere, out there, one day, I will discover that I too, had such an impact.

If I hurt you, I am sorry…

And that is that.

2010-01-16T03:29:00.001-08:00

Miss Eight requires a new German passport. It was necessary to take her with me, so that she could be finger printed.

On the way…

“Why do they need to finger print me?”

“Well, they need to fingerprint everybody because… hmm let me think about that… in fact, I can’t really answer that…let me get back to you.”

“Ok.”

It would seem that yet again, my ‘oh so clever’ daughter has come up with a question I can’t answer.

“So where exactly are we going?”

“We are going to the Rathaus (Town Hall).” Ha! finally I manage to get it right.

“I know what they do at the Rathaus.” She seems to be chewing on the inside of her cheek.

“Oh, you do?” I can feel it coming…

“Yes, when you are born, they SIGN YOU ON at the Rathaus, and when you die, they SIGN YOU OFF.”

Ok, that wasn’t quite what I was expecting.

“Um, how do you know that?” Actually, I was scared to ask…

“Well mother, what DO you think I learn in school!”

Bamboozled yet again.

First Impressions Do Count.

2010-01-13T23:23:00.001-08:00

Some times in life, I just have a knack for ‘pooping in my own nest’ (how Australian is that!). Usually it is caused by not thinking through my actions. I am all about enthusiasm, less about long term affect.

It is now 22 years since I first planted my foot on German soil. I can still remember how scary the machine-gun toting police looked at Frankfurt airport. And it was my first meeting with the parent’s of Mr Dear Husband. All I could think of was making a good impression. Hoping they would like me, really like me (hello Sally Fields) and therefore, accept that this Non-German, Non-German-Speaking, Non-Catholic Australian girl was good enough for their Golden Boy (believe me, for them he is).

It didn’t start well.

All I could think about after a 24 hour flight was a hot shower, comfy pants (preferably with elastic waist and maybe holes in the knees), and flaking out. But the parents had other ideas. Straight from the Airport we went to their graceful home. I saw the glint of crystal and antique china cups. A beautifully pressed damask tablecloth. All set for ‘a little bite to eat’.

The bathroom mirror was not my friend as I frantically tried to make myself suitable to sit at such a regal table. I scrubbed my face, pulled my hair back and slapped my cheeks. It would have to do. Smiled and nodded as I took my place, and accepted a delicately made open sandwich. Watched as my cup was filled with a dark, evil looking, black liquid. I can still smell it now. My eyes started to water and I took my first sip of real German coffee.

Before I could stop it, the taste overpowered my tongue and went into involuntary spasm. This was no ordinary coffee, this coffee had been brewing since Golden Boy had left 3 years ago. The unfamiliar strong acrid taste of the coffee caused my lips to contort into a fish mouth and I watched helplessly as a long, thin stream, shot out, leaving a perfect arc of brown half way across the pristine white table. Silence. This is the moment when aliens could have come to collect me and I would have offered myself up to their probing.

To their credit, the parents didn’t say a thing. Mr Dear Husband had those little red spots on his cheeks that come only when he wants to be someplace else, and I just tried to pretend that nothing had happened.

Not a good start.

With a slight of hand, Mr Dear Husband’s mother surreptitiously moved a few of the plates around to cover my disgrace. Nothing was ever mentioned. I should have realised right then and there that I had just shown them my true self – and they were never going to let me forget it.

Today, I am still a tea drinker, and have never been offered coffee since.

PS: Thinking I might make this a regular feature of my blog, telling you all about the ridiculous calamities I have managed to get up to over the years. And believe me when I say there were plenty… what do you think?

Big Mistake

2010-01-13T02:02:00.001-08:00

It doesn’t happen often. Mr Dear Husband will tell you I never make mistakes. It is his #1 rule to surviving in this marriage. I am always right, he is wrong. But yesterday, I will admit, my halo slipped a little and I did something that completely demoralised me. I spent two hours reading the Martha Stewart website.

What was I thinking! I know, right… it’s not like she is perfect, we all know that now. Martha went to prison, not even I have done that, although I will admit to a few close calls…one particular incident at an airport in India, resulted in Mr Dear Husband uttering the words, “Please sit down and be quiet, or you are going to end up some butch axe murderer woman's cell mate, where she will refer to you as her Sugarpie".” You wouldn’t have recognised me, I was as quiet as a mouse.

Martha, Martha, Martha, what are you doing to me. I looked to you for some solace. My house is in that 87% stage of unpacked boxes and renovation and I have just plain run out of steam. I needed inspiration. What did you give me? A big damn dose of inferiority syndrome.

Nobody can be that perfect. The woman has a ‘craft’ loft (not room, but loft). Neatly divided up into separate areas, with all the necessary equipment, stored, labelled and ready to go. It doesn’t work like that here. I am still looking for the sticky tape from before Christmas, thus resulting in all my Christmas parcels being tied up with kitchen string – I told them it was artistic and a reflection on the economic climate – nobody bought it.

This morning I was standing in the cold and nasty room of our cellar that is The Laundry. I kept seeing the bright, shiny laundry room that Martha has. With its neatly labelled baskets, bottles and boxes. A special padded table for ironing, wire baskets on wheels for sorting (with padding around the edge so as not to bump and scrape the furniture), industrial lighting and recycling bins with wheels. Hey, Martha’s laundry is nicer than my bedroom… that can’t be right.

So here you see Martha’s Cellar – then LuLu’s Cellar

And again Martha – LuLu. My laundry looks like the kind of place that certain Austrian’s like to keep their ‘family’ for 24 years.

But here is the clincher. This is the point where I broke down and started sobbing at the impossible goal that Martha has set me. In her Guest Bathroom, sat two small, dark green towels. Each embroidered in gold with the words, MAKE UP.

“Martha likes to leave these special towels for the guests so they can remove their make up without fear of marking up the other towels…”

Please kill me now.

The Culling, or…

2010-01-12T14:04:00.001-08:00

…it’s not you, it’s me.

Had a little time on my hands, not doin’ much, just messin’ about. This can often lead to Mr Dear Husband looking anxious.. you know the drill, where he starts scratching the back of his head and doing those big sighs.

Peering over the back of the sofa, where he was attempting to watch some sporty thing on the TV, he asked me what I was doing.

“Just a little sorting. Why? Is it annoying you?”

“You are making that funny little click-clack noise with your tongue, the one you make when you are choosing the fruit at the grocers, or a new pair of shoes.”

And so I was… choosing, that is.

I was, in fact, playing God with all your lives. I was parting the Sea that is Google Reader. I was Culling.

For a while now, I have been mildly irritated by the ridiculously long list of blogs that I had collected, many of which have long sat dormant, and many of which, I no longer read. There I said it. And there I go again, spouting off like someone declared 2010 “Year of the Beat-Me-With-A-Stick Honest”. But Hey! What can I tell you…

A walk down memory lane. I was plunged back to times when Mr Dear Husband would come home and say something like, “Hey Honey, how would you feel about moving to Moscow/Jordan/Kuwait/Dubai/Upper Mongolia (I made that last one up).” And off I would scurry to my trusty keyboard, to search out local bloggers that would give me the low down, the real truth about real life. But some of these adventures were shelved, and along with them, my skulking in the shadows, sucking out the marrow of other peoples’ lives in foreign lands.

Not all the culling was my fault. Do you guy's have any idea how many of you just leave me waiting at the corner and never come back! No wonder I have abandonment issues. It is like a whole section of bloggers just got sucked up by aliens. The next we will hear from you will be a reality TV program in the USA… ‘Bloggers from Outer Space’. News at 11.

I did actually take the time to re-read the last post (some as old as 2 years ago) before I hit the unsubscribe button. Often there was no warning at all that tomorrow would never come. More often than not, the last post would read something like this: “Someone reminded me that that I haven’t updated my blog for 3 weeks/months/years. Can’t think of anything to write. Nobody reads this anyway. Anything I do write is lame.”

Then nothing, nada, zip. Gone.

In the end, what seemed to stick out more than anything else, is just how fickle I am. My Google Reader was a mismatch of special interests. One week I would be snaffling up any blog that would tell me how to turn an empty egg carton into a new 3-piece suite, the next I was teaching myself how to cut my own bangs (believe me… it is not worth it, don’t even go there). I am like a bumble bee in a rose garden. Every time I had a thought, I would search for clever people out there doing it, and read what they had achieved. Then when I had my fill… I moved on. So many clever people, so little time.

Google Reader is slimmer now, more streamline. Now I can start the glorious task of refilling her again.

Why aren’t Germans funny?

2010-01-12T05:51:00.001-08:00

“Friendship is born at that moment when one person says to another: What! You too? I thought I was the only one.” C. S. Lewis

I was having a little chat this morning… a cyber chat that is, with a fellow blogger. We met online over two years ago. It was when I was still in Sydney, before I moved to Cairo. I asked her lots of questions about what it was like to live in Egypt. I read all her blog posts, I made comments on all her blog posts. I suspect she thought I was stalking her, and in my own way, I was.

It didn’t start to get weird until I arrived in Cairo, and she very kindly offered to meet me for coffee… at a place where there were lots of people, and many exits. I liked her right away. She kept her pepper spray in her pocket and sat close to the door in case she needed to make a quick get away.

At the end of our coffee, she said she had enjoyed meeting me, didn’t give me her phone number and turned to walk home.

“Oh, are you walking, me too!.”

She stuck out her hand, making sure to be far enough away so that she could give me a quick karate kick to the head if I tried anything. “Ok, then bye.”

We both turned left… then continued walking… we both crossed the road. We both continued walking down the road, side by side. There was that sort of awkward silence that happens when you really think you are about to head off in the opposite direction.

“Umm, are you following me?”

By now, even I have got the idea that this is looking very suspicious.

“No, I am going home… I live at the end of this road.”

Here, she turned sharply on her heel, cocked her head to the side and did that squinty thing with her eyes…

“Where exactly do you live?”

Turned out, I not only lived across the street from her, but my bedroom window looked directly into her bedroom window. What were the chances! From Australia to Egypt, and this poor lass ends up with me being able to watch her brush her teeth each morning.

Eventually, she softened and decided that I was not an axe murderer. We became friends, the sort of friends that say, “Hey, I have just put the kettle on, come and have a cuppa.” Or the sort of friends that call up and say crazy stuff like, “My maid is driving me insane today, can I come and hang out at your house until she is gone.” (seriously, now that I am back doing all my own housework… I miss having a housekeeper…and can’t believe I ever complained…spoilt brat that I am) Even the sort of friends that say, “I think I have a lump… what do I do?”

One of the topics of this morning’s conversation was our ‘dry spell’ in the blogging world. It occurred to me that we had often laughed together at some manic Egyptian episode, and then there would the race home to see who could put up a blog post first. “Now that is a blog post just waiting to be written!”, we would say.

There just don’t seem to be so many funny ‘blogging’ moments here. Everything is too clean and orderly, people are predictable and do the right thing. There is not that level of insanity that helped to keep a constant stream of witty anecdotes flowing.

Perhaps I need to start looking at this country through the same eyes I saw Egypt, or for that matter, Turkey, India etc. Perhaps it is time to shake things up a bit.

PS: If anyone is interested in reading any of the LuLu in Egypt adventures, you will find the rough ‘saved’ version sans photos here: LuLusbay in Egypt It is really just a stream of words now, one day I will try to put it back together.

PPS: If you don’t know what happened to LuLusbay in Egypt… you can read about it here: Disaster!!!!!!

It’s all about the Journey

2010-01-08T01:00:00.001-08:00

“As you journey through life take a minute every now and then to give a thought for the other fellow. He could be plotting something.” Hagar the Horrible

I love a good autobahn. There, I said it. Exposed myself for the non-green, environment-destroying villain that I am. But I do.

My first encounter with the German road system was terrifying. Not only was a I fairly new to driving, but the first time I sat in the car, I discovered the steering wheel was on the wrong side… and worse, people were driving on the wrong side. The wrong side if you come from Australia, that is.

It took time. Time to adjust. Time to remember to get into the drivers seat on the left, time to look up to the right to find the rear vision mirror. But most of all, it took time to lose the all blood draining terror that came from having to merge into traffic travelling at about 140km per hour… Holy crap! One false move and I would be little less than road kill.

There is also the small matter of Stau (traffic jams). These can really mess up your day. Get stuck in a Stau on the way home from having your bikini waxed and there is a good chance it will have all grown back before you get home.

One particular occasion, on the way to Frankfurt Airport, we were doing good time, heading out to places yonder. About 5km before the terminal, the traffic just stopped. Nothing, nada, zip. Nowhere to go. And my bladder was full. That uncomfortable full that makes you sort of cross and uncross your legs. It makes you wriggle about a bit, but not too much. It makes you try to think of something else, but that doesn’t help. Finally, I could hold no more. My German in-laws were sitting in the front of the car. Why else could I do? We had been sitting in the car for 3 hours. I could see the lights of the airport, where toilets flowed in abundance. There was no other solution.

My father-in-law driving… we opened the front driver’s door, and the back passenger door… and I peeded, right there and then, right on the Autobahn, right beside my father-in-law, with all those car headlights behind us, illuminating my big, white bum.

Ever the gentleman, my father-in-law politely turned his head, and hummed some Bavarian folk song… Mr Dear Husband stared into space, wishing with all his might that he was someplace else. I tried to imagine that all the drivers behind us were actually looking at something else…anything else.

I wonder why you never hear about these things happening to members of the royal family. Or Madonna.

Frugal LuLu McScrooge

2010-01-07T00:43:00.001-08:00

“The tooth fairy teaches children that they can sell body parts for money.” David Richerby

Not one to make New Year’s resolutions. What is the point, I don’t smoke, and I am not giving up anything else. I thought I was set for the year, then the first mail delivery of 2010 arrived, and with it, the latest bank statement. And I stopped breathing, just for a minute.

Now, many of my mates will tell you that they have seen me do the happy dance over a bargain. Mr Dear Husband is of the opinion that it wouldn’t matter how much money I had, I would still be happiest digging to the bottom of the bargain bin. He is right. To a point. I had a lot of fun over Christmas, so much so, that now my bank balance has balance-anorexia.

Time to pull in the belt. Start keeping those nasty dried up end bits of bread that nobody ever wants to eat. Making my own candles, and saving the little pieces of soap that end up in the shower recess. Not that I know what the hell I am going to do with bread and soap bits? Might have to learn to sew… oh God, even worse, I might need to learn to knit! Have never been able to sit still long enough to do those things well.

This morning, Miss Eight was complaining about having to put on her boots to walk to school, and out of my mouth came these words:

“Well, I suppose you could go barefoot, through the snow, and just pop your feet into the warm cowpats along the way.” She was no amused.

I suspect I am about to turn into Ma Kettle. Pa, Paaa, PAAAAAAA!

Miss LuLu’s feeling for snow…

2010-01-04T04:35:00.001-08:00

“Advice is like snow; the softer it falls, the longer it dwells upon, and the deeper it sinks into, the mind.” Samuel Taylor Coleridge

If you grew up in Sydney, or spent most of your adult life in Asia or the Middle East, then snow is something you still find enchanting. Well I did, until everyone left after Christmas and today arrived.

We have a thick blanket of snow on the ground here and a steady –3 degrees. The snow makes everything look wonderful, even the garbage bins look sweet. My unfinished efforts in the garden seem just right with a blanket of white. The trees that didn’t get trimmed last Autumn, weigh heavy, dragged down by their powdery load.

But today, it was the first day of something resembling normal life. Mr Dear Husband was shipped back to his place of endeavours, where we hope he will earn enough money to pay for our holiday festivities. Those stragglers still hanging on, were loaded into the Outlaws car and sent on their way to a day of sledding. Me, I considered going back to bed, then decided that perhaps it would be a good idea to check the laundry…. BIG MISTAKE! any visions of flopping on the sofa and staring dreamily out the window were blown to smithereens.

The next shock was my storage cellar… empty. The fridge, empty, the cupboards, empty… and so it was that I was forced outdoors. And this is where the fun started. A simple trip to the supermarket, when snow is involved, takes a level of military planning that I was just not ready for. We won’t talk about the windshield scrapper that seems to have mysteriously disappeared (can you say Mr Dear Husband?) or the bollocking I got from the Father Outlaw when he discovered that we didn’t have any window anti-freeze in the house. I am sure it was on a shopping list at some stage… some where… who knows!

It took me 20 minutes to get the car out of the driveway. By the time I had cleared the snow off the car, scraped the windows, shovelled the snow away from the back of the car, and cleared my front path… I was sweating like Rambo under-fire, but my toes and fingers where turning black with frostbite.

The supermarket car park was just as much fun. A choice of driving over huge mountains of snow, or parking in a lake of grey slush. And I didn’t have a Euro coin to put in the slot to get a shopping cart. All the time there was a little voice in my head saying… “Hmmm didn’t you just say you loved living in Germany? Isn’t this the year that you embrace life and run with the bulls?”

At about the same time I was searching my pockets to find a coin that would save me from doing the shopping as a juggling act, I noticed a man talking to his bicycle. First to his bicycle lock, then to his shopping bag, and inside the store I saw him select a loaf of bread, give it a hearty kiss…then do a little jig.

He seemed pretty happy and normal to me.

I want to be that guy… just today, just until I find my feet again.

My Love Affair

2010-01-03T06:25:00.001-08:00

“I love being married. It's so great to find that one special person you want to annoy for the rest of your life.” Rita Rudner

My favourite thoughts are the ones that catch me when I least expect. Cleaning out the lint filter of the dryer, and suddenly from nowhere, you start thinking about the boy that sat next to you in the 3rd grade, who always seem to smell like caramel.

Or likewise, trying to drown out the sound of the extended family, as we are packed into a mini van, hurtling along an Autobahn… it suddenly occurred to me that I was in love. I had given my heart away, and didn’t even realise it.

It has taken me over twenty years to acknowledge this, and it has not always been an easy path. There were times when the hatred I felt for this ‘new love’ could have outshone the blitz from a nuclear bomb drop. There were many times that I would dip my big toe into it, feel the temperature, and decide to leave it well alone. But this ‘love’ persevered until it captured me. We would cast shy glances, under our lashes. We would bicker, we would make up.

This love is called Germany.

The good lord knows that I have resisted with all my might. I have vocalized my dissent to all and sundry. You may have seen me? I was the wild haired girl that skipped through customs at Frankfurt Airport, grinning like a village idiot, filled with the sheer relief that I felt about being able to leave Germany behind… racing off to some place more exotic.

People asked me all the time, “Wouldn’t you like to live here?” My reply did nothing help gender relationships, “I would rather stick Ebola laced needles in my eyes that live here.” It stopped them in their tracks, they never asked me again.

It was a small child that brought my secret love to light. The smallest of all the ‘guests’. With her tiny hand tucked into mine, we spent Christmas striding through castles and snow… up hills and along over bridges, until one day, she turned her dear sweet little face up to mine, and with her squeaky voice (sort of like Mickey Mouse after sucking on a helium balloon) she asked me, “Aunty Lulu, do you know EVERYTHING about Germany?”

And it struck me, that I had been talking incessantly, constantly telling little anecdotes and stories. Pointing out hills and houses, giving lectures on the history of everything from cemeteries to churches. I was, in fact, doing exactly what a woman does when she is in love. Talking non stop.

We have an uneasy love, Germany & I, but I believe that this is the place that I am meant to be. And like all relationships, we will need to find a way to live together in harmony. Right now, Germany has on its most beautiful dress, a thick blanket of crisp, cold snow. And a quiet calm that is just what the doctor ordered.

Lulu’s Feast

2009-12-23T23:42:00.001-08:00

23rd December……… Last minute shopping. Shoulder to shoulder in the trenches. Squabbling over the last tub of Goose Fat. I won… never underestimate an Aussie girls’ ability to feed her family. She will go to wall.

The ENOURMOUS turkey arrived. Unfortunately, I wasn’t home. So the efficient DHL man left it with my neighbour. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the friendly neighbour, but rather the one that has been peering at me through her net curtains since the day I moved in.

I rang the bell.

“Guten Morgan, Frau Whipplebottssternhagen. I believe you have a parcel for me?” Picture me with my most winning smile, desperately hoping that she doesn’t stuff a chloroform rag in my mouth and drag me into the cellar.

“Ya… but the box says ‘Fresh Produce’… does that mean that it is alive?” She is peering at me with little beady, blue eyes, and I begin to wonder if she is sizing me up as to whether I will fit through her mince grinder.

“Well actually, it is our turkey for Christmas dinner.” And here, I made a BIG, BIG (I typed that in upper case, just to ensure that you get it… BIG! mistake.

“I hope that you took it out of the box and let it have a walk around your garden, I am sure he is feeling a little cramped cramped in there…”

The blood rushed out of her face. Her mouth made a perfect ‘O’. Her eyes started darting backwards and forwards between me and the box.

“But I didn’t know!!” she said, very serious. “You should have told me… it is not nice to stuff a large bird into a box for so long.”

Never in my wildest dreams did I think she would believe me.

“Ha, ha,(that is the laugh that comes out of me when I know that I have screwed up and need time to formulate an excuse that will sound vaguely plausible) don’t worry, I was just kidding you…” as I am edging toward my bird, in the vain hope that she is going to let me escape with him or her.

“Oh, I see.” But she didn’t, she didn’t see one little bit. With pursed lips, she handed me the offending box, sniffed once, and closed the door, barely missing the tip of my nose.

The curtains twitched with more than their usual vigour until I managed to find refuge back inside my house.

Moral to this story: Making jokes about mailing live animals in a box is not going to get you elected president of the Straße.

Not Missing, Just Busy…

2009-12-23T08:27:00.001-08:00

Still here..
Still Christmas (can’t quite believe that it hasn’t be been and gone yet.

All ‘the guests’ were collected and installed, the big ones, the little ones and the middle sized ones too.

Mr Dear Husband needed to jet back to Madagascar for a few days, and this little brown duck drove him to the airport. It was snowing… A LOT, more than a little, did you hear me, A LOT. Not getting out of 3rd gear on the AutoBahn is a weird experience. I took one of the guests with me, not sure why, he doesn't speak a word of German, but he is one of those ‘handy’ types, and I figured that having a man with me to dig me out of the snow was a smart move.

All went well until after drop off, there I was leaning into the windshield, like that would make it easier to see through the blanket of white that was being smashed in my face, dodging other Lulu’s that were all doing the same… and it happened. Whoops! I took the wrong Autobahn and got caught up in a mass migration of Lulu’s… all leaning into the windscreen, all hoping that would help… but in TOTALLY the wrong direction.

“Whatever you do, don’t panic!” I started repeating, like a mantra, only it wasn’t putting me into a nice dreamy meditation, more in the direction of manic anxiety…

At about the time that I thought I might need to tell ‘the male guest’ that we were going to need our passports, I found a place to turn around and head in the other direction. I mumbled something like “Did you enjoy the scenic tour? I have been planning that for months!” No way did he buy it, but was quite gracious in his silence. When we finally made it home, I needed a pair of pliers to pull his fingernails out of the dashboard… but I don’t think he ever really noticed his close shave with certain death.

Merry Christmas to one and all… Let’s hope it’s a happy one, without any tears….whoops! I feel a poem coming on… here is something for you all to pop under your tree…from me!:

Christmas

I've been getting ready for Christmas
I'm revving up for the great day
my credit card's cracked and my freezer is packed
'cause I started my shopping in May

The mistletoe's hanging in bunches
'cause the odd Christmas kiss isn't wrong
and the Vicar I've found - quite likes calling round
and exploring my crowns with his tongue

The bin men have gotten quite friendly
they're after a present I fear
they won't feel so chuffed when I tell them - get stuffed
'cause they don't speak the rest of the year

The family is coming for dinner
last year it was quite a good laugh
we ate fairly late - dished the veg on the plate
found the turkey was still in the bath

The kids are all pink with excitement
'cause Santa will come so they say
their lists are extensive - extremely expensive
and they'll break it all by Boxing day

But it's worth all that fuss Christmas morning
when their little eyes are all aglow
when we're all feeling merry full of goodwill and sherry
and suffering from wind Ho Ho Ho

But please don't forget why we do it
why each year we must go to this fuss
for that guy up above who brought peace and brought love
and who probably owns Toys R Us.......... Liz Garrad

I’m just saying…

2009-12-17T01:53:00.001-08:00

“I used to be Snow White -- but I drifted.” Mae West

This time tomorrow ‘the guests’ will be here. For about 10 seconds this morning I felt bad. Bad that they were already sitting in a sardine tin hurtling through the atmosphere, while I was snuggled up, toasty warm, in my Super Duper Extra Comfy Cosy Bed. But then I got over it, because there is much to do!

Started the pastry for my mince pies last night. The recipe said to chill the flour and butter for 20 minutes in the freezer. Are you kidding me! Have you seen the size of a German fridge? No way could you ever hide a dead body here… hmmm not sure where that came from. After spending 10 minutes trying to fit the bowl of my Kitchen Aid into a small drawer, I found another solution (also makes an excellent beer cooler):

And ‘the guests’ now have a bed. I wasn’t sure that was going to happen. I can show you, because, like I said, ‘the guests’ are currently cruising at 20,000 feet, eating with plastic cutlery and being kicked in the back of the seat by a little fat kid who likes to press the button to summon the ‘cabin attendant"’, often.

Now here it gets interesting. Not one to toot my own horn or anything (yeah right), but the one thing ‘the guests’ requested, seeing as they come from a little town in the middle of nowhere, and the temperature has been a constant 42 degrees… was snow. “Could we please have some snow?” they said… Oh sure, no problem… I can do that. And I did.

Ok, ok… yes it does look like I just dropped a bag of flour out there. And those of you that live in Minnesota and have been shovelling 5m high snow drifts all week… well just stop sniggering, I can hear you from here!! We are expecting more on Saturday, but at least it will be a nice welcome gift.

Should nuclear war start tomorrow, or those Aliens that chased Tom Cruise all over in War of the Worlds (still can’t believe that didn’t manage to eat that little shrimp) arrive… we are prepared. The cellar is fully loaded.

Now all I need to do is get my cute butt to Frankfurt to collect everybody. They all very conveniently booked to arrive at 6:00am (god bless their little cotton socks), and as it is at least a two hour drive (if we are lucky), and it is snowing… Mr Dear Husband has booked us in to sleep in a hotel near the Airport tonight. I hear it has an excellent Japanese restaurant… I will think about ‘the guests’ as I am sipping my Sake and supping on Sushi, while they enjoy their 17th meal of ‘chicken or fish?”

And then what?

2009-12-15T04:14:00.001-08:00

“My life has no purpose, no direction, no aim, no meaning, and yet I'm happy. I can't figure it out. What am I doing right?” Charles M. Shulz

I know, I know, it might seem a bit premature to start indulging thoughts of New Year’s Eve, especially for those of you that have yet to give ANY thought at all to the madness/deliciousness that is Christmas. But here I go…

This morning, I had a long Skype call with a lovely friend. It has been a while, both of us busy with lives that revolve around work, kids, husbands, family and the million other details that equal = ‘collapse into bed each night'”. My relationship with her goes way back. She has seen all aspects of me, and I know, loves me anyway (not easy, but she makes it look like fun). And, she has a magical power, a power so amazing that it should be launched on the New York Stock Exchange.

The power to make me step up.

There, I said it. Her gentle words and prods, remind me of where I am in life, and where I need to go. A chat with her can make my self-esteem go off the Richter Scale. All thoughts of self doubt, misery and failure just fly away.

So, I say to myself, Where Am I Going"? What is the next step on the path of life?

I like a challenge. I like a reason to jump out of bed in the morning. I like a project. A purpose.

I need a job. Or I need to create a job.

How about I write a book? Maybe a column, something witty and worthy of comment. End up on the New York Times Bestseller List? That would be good…

“Highly recommended!” Time Magazine. “Couldn’t stop laughing.” Vogue, London. “A delight! Should be made a national treasure!” The Observer. “Where has she been hiding? Wonderful stuff.” The New Yorker.

Shame Oprah is closing up shop, because an invite to her Book Club would do the trick.

I’d like a mailbag full of fan post. Even better, I could write an ‘Agony Aunt’ column. Most of my life I have been called a Know-it-All, what better way to put that all to good use. How about coming up with an idea like Frank at PostSecret. He gets 200-300 postcards a day, has published four books and is on the speaking circuit. Now, I could rock that.

Or I suppose I could teach English. Sure to find takers here. But as I have just had a bit of a run in with Miss 8’s English teacher.. perhaps I should step carefully. Scout out the territory first… don’t want to tread on any toes.

What else? Don’t you just admire people who find their passion early in life, people that sleep, eat and breath their craft. People who tap out tunes in their sleep, or doodle on every cocktail napkin. Amazing women, who have managed to turn their family recipes into multi-million dollar earnings. Hmm, that sounds good.

Making money. Then I could be a philanthropist. Giving it all away. That appeals. Yes, when I grow up, I want to be Lulu the Philanthropist.

Yep.. that will do.

And if that doesn’t work out? Well, I will just be famous, or a fire fighter, or a train driver…. or a Lion tamer.

Guests

2009-12-14T04:36:00.001-08:00

“A great marriage is not when the 'perfect couple' comes together. It is when an imperfect couple learns to enjoy their differences.” Dave Meurer

In four days, I will have guests. Tired guests, guests that have crossed half the world to come see me. I suspect they will not only be tired, but a bit stinky too. Might want to give them a bath. They will certainly want a bed. Hmmm… guests.

Sometimes I have visions of what it would be like to be the lady of a grand country manor house, complete with huge roaring fireplaces and secret panels. To stand at the massive oak front door and greet my weekend guests, directing each to their room:

“Oh Demi and Ashton, so lovely you could make it. Please, make yourselves at home. I have prepared the Blue Room in the East wing for you. I hope you find everything to your satisfaction.”

Yeah… something like that.

Reality is a WHOLE other picture. At the risk of ending a 20 year veteran marriage, I collected Dear Mr Husband from the airport last Friday night, hugged and kissed, asked if he was hungry, then whisked him off to IKEA. He didn’t even see it coming.

“But you did say you were hungry!” I am pulling my most winning, big-eyed, puppy dog, innocent look.

“Sure, but this isn’t quite what I had in mind!” I start moving him faster toward the big yellow and blue sign because I can see that he is starting to put two and two together, and coming up with Swedish meatballs.

It was cruel, I know. He didn’t deserve it. But I was desperate. Guests need beds… and I don’t have enough. Normally I would just smack down the credit card on the keyboard and have it delivered. But not even my cajoling emails could convince anyone to deliver before the guests arrive. “You have left it too late, madam.” Nuts!

I know, I know… I can hear you saying, “But you are such a power frau, Lulu, why didn’t you just do it yourself?”

Something odd happens the moment I walk into IKEA. My brain turns off, well not OFF, per say, more like I seem to mimic a small child with ADD who has just drunk a gallon of red slushie.

“Oh look.. nice chair… hmmm if I had that shelf, I could put up that picture…huh, oh that one is even better, and if I lived in 35 square metres, I could have the bed in the kitchen like they do here.. oh and I need more plastic cups… oh and look at all the candles.. oh, quick look over here… and at this … and hooks… and that nifty little doodat….” It is sad.. really sad to watch. Distracted by the shiny lights, I have, on almost every occasion, come home, dazed, confused and empty handed.

He walked, with purpose to the sofa bed department (if you can call it a department, rather a stop on IKEA version of the Yellow Brick Road), he selected, he pushed the cart through the checkout (after a 45 minute wait in line), he arranged delivery … then he stalked to the car and didn’t talk to me for at least 3 minutes.

He is a good man.

The guests have a bed.

I was made to sign, in blood (ok in red slushie), a promise never to hijack Mr Dear Husband to IKEA, ever, ever, again.

…til next time, that is…

I think I love Bing Crosby

2009-12-11T01:28:00.001-08:00

There are days when all it takes to make me happy is an email.

Dear Lulu,

Just to let you know that I have finished running the world (for the time being) from Madagascar, and will be returning home to you and ours, tomorrow.

Best Regards, Mr Dear Husband

The stress levels dropped back to normal… that is my normal stress level, which would be the equivalent of being held hostage during a bank hold-up for anyone else.

With the load lightened, I found my second wind. The night was young, the kidlet tucked up in bed, and Bing Crosby was warbling away on the iPod. Time to do a few chores. It started with another batch of Christmas cookies, I had prepared the dough earlier, so this was very satisfying:

Last weekend, I was given some gorgeous new decorations made from Felt. who knew you could do so much with Felt. This doesn’t look complicated, but it fell off about a dozen times while I was putting it up and was christened with flood of choice words! Remember those felt picture games we had as kids? I loved those:

What do you do with a glass vase and an abundance of Christmas tree ornaments? Well you shove them all together, add some lights and Hey Presto! Magic! Ok, maybe not magic… man, you are a tough crowd.

Once I started, I couldn’t stop. More things needed to be sorted, and I was wide awake. Tackled the cupboard with the Christmas stash next. I think we might have enough now?

Found this little Gingerbread house, just waiting to be put together, but my eyes were starting to get heavy and I was beginning to change lyrics to Bing’s tunes… and some of them weren’t very Christmasy at all. Bing would have blushed!

Left the Pepparkakshus house for another day… oops! it is already ‘another day’, and in just four hours I would be listening to the wake up call of the German weather report on the radio alarm. An odd collection, redistributed to accommodate Christmas decorations, greeted me on the way to bed. I always like to say “it takes all kinds”… and in this house, we have them all. Good night. Sleep tight…

Oooooooooh the weather outside is frightful
But the fire is so delightfuuuuuuul
And since we've no place to goooooooooo
Let It Snow! Let It Snow! Let It Snow!

Kneading Help

2009-12-08T23:33:00.001-08:00

“Love doesn't sit there like a stone, it has to be made, like bread: remade all the time, made new.” Og Mandino

Just in case it looks like this blog is going to become all whinging or whining. Or perhaps something like the local newspaper for the North Pole, I thought it might be time to toss in a few other thoughts.

I lived in Germany over 20 years ago, just for 18 months, with a small baby girl on my hip, in a tiny town outside Munich. It was tough. My German was limited, and I was pretty much alone. In this small town, everybody was about 15th generation, and outsiders were looked at with suspicion.

My first trip to the bakery ended in tears as I tried desperately to explain that I wanted 6 Brötchen. A shrug of the shoulders from across the counter. I could feel my face starting to colour up and my heart thumping in my chest.

“Ich möchte sechs Brötchen bitte”, I tried again, using my most winning smile. Nothing, nada, nix. So I tried pointing. Doing that weird thing that we do when trying to convey a message, all exaggerated and campy. It never occurred to me EVER to use English, that just felt like it would aggravate the situation even further. Finally, she took pity on me, gave a little snort, stuffed the bread rolls into a bag and handed them to me. I threw some coins in her direction and fled.

By the time I got home, I was rapidly heading into hysteria (as I am wont to do under stress). The words tumbled out of my mouth as fast as those bread rolls were chucked on the table. Mr Dear Husband was staring at me with that expression we normally reserve for the insane.

“Oh, I should have told you that down here in the South of Germany, they don’t call them Brötchen, they call them Semmel.”

He is lucky to be alive today.

In the end, as soon as we got the marching papers to move to Istanbul, I had our bags packed and waiting in the car before he had time to change his mind.

Today, it is different. I am different. The language is no longer a struggle (although it continues to have its moments). And I have lived in enough countries to recognise just how great it is here. I spend a lot of time noticing the little things that make life easier.

Like, window sills. Yep, love’em. Big wide window sills that make excellent spaces to put pots of flowers. Or pots of fresh herbs, or a few pretty things to look at…

“A little bit chatty”

2009-12-07T05:56:00.001-08:00

“By learning to discover and value our ordinariness, we nurture a friendliness toward ourselves and the world that is the essence of a healthy soul.” Thomas Moore

“A little bit chatty” was written on the first report card that Miss Eight ever brought home. Even today, I can’t tell you what else the report said, most of it wonderful I suppose, but this, I remember.

It struck home with a blow. Most of my life, I had pretty much the same thing written on every report card I ever brought home too. The sound of my voice seemed to aggravate my teachers beyond despair, to the point, that a certain math teacher once resorted to throwing a chair at me, in a vain attempt to get me to shut up.

Recently, in a passing comment to Mr Dear Husband, I mentioned that people don’t seem very friendly at the supermarket.

“Well, what are you doing to them?” He inched a little to the right, and put up his hands into a classic boxing pose.

“What do you mean doing? I just chat to them while I am waiting in the queue!” I am feeling a little indignant… could I have made another blunder in the complicate world of German etiquette?

Mr Dear Husband cleared his throat a little, took a deep breath… “It could be, in fact quite possible, well maybe…”

“Oh get on with it please!!” Now I am sensing that something unpleasant is coming.

“Honey, people just don’t chat with complete strangers here.” He started doing that squinty thing with his eyes… and twisting his hands together.

HUH? Confusion. “How can it be that they don’t chat… what else is there to do while you are waiting in a queue? It’s not like you can flick through the latest magazines as your groceries are shot-gunned through the Aldi checkout.”

Mr Dear Husband did that tiny shake of his head and slight nibbling on his bottom lip. That is code for ‘No chance she is going to let me get away with this one’. I let him go… very Diane Fossey of me.

But the more I thought about it, the more I realised he was right. The reactions to my ‘chattiness’ have ranged from a half-way friendly nod to outright hostility. On one occasion, there I was just chatting away about some product or other with the lady in front (she was a non-German born chick too), when she mentioned that it wasn’t her groceries we were discussing. I turned slowly to find the tallest woman on the planet staring down at me with such a grim face that it gave me nightmares for a week. I didn’t even attempt to chat to her…

It is something so Australian to chat when you are standing in a queue, be it about the weather or the lousy service, what you are cooking for dinner tonight… it doesn’t matter, you just chat.

Germans don’t do chat, it would appear. It goes a long way toward explaining why I get strange looks when they see me coming… the sort of looks usually reserved for the weird, wild-haired lady that lives with 47 cats.

Full as a Boot

2009-12-06T09:36:00.001-08:00

Too full of cookies and goose to write anything worth reading, so I will just give you a photo post. My camera is playing up, at least the Macro seems to be doing something weird, so they are not great, but you get the picture.

Went for a walk yesterday and ~~fell over~~ came across this branch. It gave me an idea. Turned out pretty good, I think! I can enjoy a few minutes of self appreciation before Mr Dear Husband arrives back from Madagascar and asks why there is a stick hanging in his living room.

This morning got off to cracking start. Not sure if I dreamt it or it was real, but my door bell rang at 6:30am. I lay in bed trying to work out what was real and what was not. Figured that if there really was someone at the front door, they would press the button again… nothing happened so I went back to sleep… for about 14 minutes, then Miss 8 decided it was time to check out whether St Nikolaus had paid us a visit. He had!

Once we had eaten our body weight in chocolate and biscuits, it was time to head over to the Outlaws for Lunch. Miss Eight decided try on the Nikolaus decoration boot… then couldn’t get it off! Whoops! She pulled the “If you take my photo I am going to beat you up” face… so I did… Never dare me to do anything…

So then I suggested that we might look into cancelling Christmas this year, and she pulled her “this is what Mum looks like when she comes down for breakfast every morning” face…

You get what you pay for when shopping in discount stores for children. It never pays to pick up the last kid on the shelf, marked down to $19.99

When the Mother Outlaw says “Your goose is cooked!” I get nervous. I am pretty much everything she ‘didn’t’ want in a daughter-in-law. It is a credit to that woman just how much she endures and still manages to smile when she is around me (personally I think she is plotting all the ways she can hook up her son with a good, catholic, German girl). But hell! The woman can cook!

When everyone else passed out after lunch, Miss Eight and I ploughed our way through another 20 batches of cookies. My edible tree ornaments turned out fabulous… shame I forgot to put a hole in them before baking… guess we will just have to eat them all.

The big guy in Red

2009-12-05T07:40:00.001-08:00

Being a mix of Australian and German, the whole deal with Santa, Nikolaus, Weihnachtsmann, Kristkind, etc has always been messy.

So we just enjoy ALL the Big Guys in Red.

The first is coming tonight. He sometimes brings a mate… a dark character called Knecht Ruprecht. It is the day of reckoning, when children are called on anything that Mum might have missed during the year. Before they go to bed, they polish their boots (hmmm gortex and boot polish, hello?) and leave them neatly in front of their bedroom door… with the hope they will wake the next morning and find them filled with lovely goodies. Nuts, clementines, chocolates, cookies and small gifts are the norm.

We started early. Jumped out of bed and fired up the oven. So far, we have managed to shake together a couple of batches of coconut macaroons (Miss 8 loves them), Vanilla Kipfler, and we have the dough resting in preparation for the edible Christmas tree ornaments. And just to make the house smell nice, we stuck cloves into oranges and mandarins, wrapped a ribbon around them and tied on a cinnamon stick.

George Michael (half of WHAM… who was the other guy?) is warbling away on the radio. Come on, sing with me. It has been ages since we had a singalong:

Last Christmas, I gave you my heart
But the very next day, You gave it away
This year, to save me from tears
I'll give it to someone special
Last Christmas, I gave you my heart
But the very next day, You gave it away
This year, to save me from tears
I'll give it to someone special

Turkey in a Yellow Sack

2009-12-04T06:28:00.001-08:00

“I'm happy that I have brought laughter because I have been shown by many the value of it in so many lives, in so many ways.” Lucille Ball

So here is how it went down.

There was a few more hours of frenzied panic, of measuring ovens, of searching for over-sized baking dishes. Then I could contain no more. When in doubt, pass the buck. There was an email sent:

Dear Mr Husband,

It would appear that I have made a slight error. In place of the golden, delicious roast Turkey we were planning for Christmas lunch, I may have ordered a Pterodactyl. Not sure that it is going to fit in the oven. I know you are out running the world from Madagascar, but when you have a minute could you please fix it.

Signed, The Wife

And he did. There is a lot to be said for having a husband that knows how to keep himself and his children safe from a marauding, hysterical female.

With that little job out of the way, it was time to move on to the next job on the list. Rubbish. Yep, it has become the bane of my life. I can remember living in Germany 20 years ago and being tormented by my vegetarian, eco, Greenie, bio, tree-hugging, organic, hand-woven, unwashed neighbour. She would regularly go through our garbage bin, and selectively lay out any offending, incorrectly recycled items for the rest of the street to view. I developed such an animosity toward her, that I often dreamt of sneaking down to her apartment and cutting the tassels off her undyed, hand-spun, hand-knitted beanie… for no other reason than it was just plain ugly and made her look like she was walking the earth with a dead squirrel on her head.

Sorting your garbage is almost a full time job in Germany. Normally I wouldn’t make such a fuss, but after taking delivery of 160 boxes packed full of plastic and paper, well, quite frankly, I have recycling coming out the waazoo. In addition, each delivery of white goods has included a substantial amount of polystyrene, which needs to be broken down and put into a ‘Gelbe Sac’. By the time I had used up all the yellow bags, the cellar was looking like a birthing centre for that creature that had its arse kicked by Sigourney Weaver in Alien. But finally it was my turn to put them all out for collection. I waited until after dark, in fear that the reaction from the neighbours would be more than I could take after the Turkey drama. Then I stood nervously at the kitchen window waiting for the ‘truck’ to arrive… and at 6:54am this morning, it did. Arrive that is… then it just kept driving… right on by my house…

PANIC!!! What the hell! I pulled my coat over my PJ’s and dived through the door, ready to give chase to the incompetents. As I turned through the front gate and started to sprint down the road in hot pursuit, I tripped over something. A Yellow Sac… and not one of mine. The blinking lights of the garbage truck turned the corner and I looked up the street to see that, in fact, ALL the Yellow Sacs were still there. Hmmm… oops… “Oh Hi Mr-Neighbour- leaving-for-work & your lovely Mrs-Neighbour-who-likes-to-watch-through-the-net-curtains—Yep, just out for a little jog, yep… have a nice day too!”.

Twenty minutes later another truck arrived and dutifully collected all the ~~pods~~ yellow sacs. The birthing centre is now closed for the holidays, and the people across the street were heard whispering something about ‘Lucille Ball” as I passed them by today.

Heartectomy

2009-12-02T23:46:00.001-08:00

“Something about being with my mother for longer than an hour turns off my heart. For 24-48 hours after seeing her I feel nothing for nobody. Really. Nothing. I am like Spock. It is as if being with her gives me a heartectomy. I can't even feel love for He-weasel. It is always scary when it happens. Happily, my heart always comes back---at least so far it has.” La Belette Rouge

I read this on another blog, and it has stuck with me ever since. This morning I was grouchy, seriously grouchy. The sort of grouchy that can make a small girls’ beautiful, big, brown eyes fill up with tears and hurt. Inside of me is a pressure that I am creating myself. It is the ‘I want a Doris Day perfect Christmas’ syndrome. When, in fact, it is looking more like a ‘Marge Simpson Christmas’.

Mr Dear Husband has done a bunk. He is off running the world and won’t be back for two weeks… just four days before half of Australia arrives on my doorstep. You can imagine how that conversation went…

“Honey, I have to go to Madagascar (made that bit up to protect the innocent) again tomorrow.” He laid this on me about 9:30pm the eve before.

“Aha…” My nanna always told me, if you can’t say anything nice, say nothing at all… But inside my head, I was having a serious wig-out. Visions of stuffing mince pies up his nose danced in my head.

Christmas without resentment. That would have to be the goal for the day. Resist the urge to curl up on the sofa and do nothing. To not eat all the chocolate that has been safely hidden away for St. Nikolaus in three days. I’m thinking I might need one of those poodle skirts that Doris always wore, and some Gwen Stefani Red Lipstick… perhaps that would help my heart to ‘come back to me’.

More important than that, I need someone to reassure me that I have not ordered a turkey that will be too big to fit in the oven!! Might have gone a little overboard, we are 9 adults and 2 children and I have a 7.5kg (or 16 pound) beast being delivered. Too much? What have I done! It’s freaking me out!

Mince Pies and Mess

2009-12-01T23:33:00.001-08:00

“Christmas is a holiday that persecutes the lonely, the frayed, and the rejected.” Jimmy Cannon

Nobody could say I am a quitter. I will complain, whine, whinge, nag, spout a few tantrums or cry a tear or two, but I rarely give up. I am a veteran wife with a 20 year badge on my lapel.

That mincemeat was driving me insane. So I had another stab at it. Eventually, the currants were found at the local Turkish shop, and my search for brown sugar was exchanged for Zuckerrübensirup… a German version of molasses. Thanks for all your suggestions, I did try the Reformhaus (local health food store), but they were all sold out, and the shop assistant was so nasty she made me want to shout at her… something along the lines of “Oh, go eat a hamburger!” (you can see that I am doing my best to blend in).

Of course, as chance would have it, I didn’t read the recipe properly. This meant a little improvising. In place of the 300g Fresh or Frozen Cranberries, I had ONE… did you read that… ONE packet of 125g dried Cranberries. Not good. Oh well, she says… I tossed them in and made up the difference with some spare dried figs and dates that were lurking in the back of the pantry.

By this stage, I have started to feel the effects of the port that has cooked off… the fumes have made me a little light-headed, resulting in a bit of a haphazard tossing of ingredients into the pot. Not sure what I was doing when I wrote the shopping list, imagine my surprise when I realise the recipe also required dried cranberries… but as I had already used those, I put in some dried apricots… and took a good long sniff over the pot. Hic, hic…

A dash of this and sprinkle of that… another slurp of brandy. Seemed like a small amount of mincemeat for so much effort. But left the house was smelling sublime!

It will sit for a few days to mature, in the meantime I have solved the problem of the Wreath on the front door. Well, not me personally, but Mr Dear Husband. He managed to put a screw/nail on the top of the door and hung the wreath with some fishing wire (now why didn’t I think of that!).

Thanks to the multitude of generous blog readers that offered to either have Magnetic Wreath Hangers sent to their homes in the US/Canada (still trying to work out how it would help to have it sent to Australia?? but thanks anyway) and then ship it on to Germany. Sweet, sweet… very sweet. I am touched… If you are passing, come and have a cup of tea with me… and a mince pie.

Magnetic Wreath Hanger

2009-12-01T11:04:00.001-08:00

I need help…please… just a little… I have never asked you for anything!

I need one of these:

http://www.amazon.com/A-M-Leonard-Magnetic-Window-Hangers/dp/B0018D9DHO/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&s=industrial&qid=1259693820&sr=8-3

My Front door wreath fell off… it was not pretty… I am not happy.

And Amazon will not deliver this to Germany.

Come on guys… help me! Happy to pay ALL costs.

…I don’t do grovelling well… but I am…well.. grovelling.

This means the difference between a perfect Christmas and a So-so Christmas….

My future happiness lies in your hands…

Yes… I am deadly serious.

I mean it…

Stop laughing! Help me!

I want a Shopping Mall!

2009-11-30T23:40:00.001-08:00

The title says everything.

My shopping list, which I had actually remembered to take with me, was pretty long. Mincemeat for Mince pies has a lot of ingredients.

There are several supermarket choices in this town, all have their virtues, but none are ‘one stop shop’. Not such a bad thing unless you are biking it, like I do. This becomes complicated and visions of hands on shoulder as I slink through checkouts, start to plague my good, honest self. I carry a back pack… German supermarket operators are, on the whole, some of the most unhappy people on the planet. The only thing that can lighten their mood is making me open my backpack and show them the items + receipt, yep, those bought from the rival supermarket.

After I had searched through 2 out of the 3 stores, I gave up. It was all too hard. Most of the items on my list remain unfilled. Don’t get me started on Brown Sugar! In the end I was saved by the bottle of Ruby Port. I was so frustrated by the time I came home, I was tempted to knock the top off and give it a good guzzle. So no mince made yesterday.

But with December knocking on the door, it was time to get that wreath ready. Can’t say that I was all that enthusiastic about it. Miss Eight helped by tying bows, and we tossed a few decorations on. Biggest problem was how to hang it up on our new front door… she of glass and steel. I picked up a stick-on-hook and had the idea that I could stick it on the inside of the door… of course I messed up the first attempt by ‘not putting the hook above the red line’. Miss Eight saved the second attempt when I cleverly hung the hook upside down. Thank goodness she can read. At the point that I was turning red and blowing steam out of my ears, she started shouting at me, “Mummy! Don’t touch anything!! Don’t pull of the hook…you can change it!” and she was right… so you could.

I wonder why Nigella Lawson never has days like this…

Do Nothing

2009-11-29T23:31:00.001-08:00

At breakfast this morning, Mr Dear Husband asked what my plans were for the day.

“Oh I have a whole day of washing ahead of me…” I whined and made that pained expression that all Keepers of the Haus make when facing a mountain of dirty linen. This attracted the attention of Miss Eight.

“What is so hard about that? All you have to do is put the clothes in the machine and turn it on!”

Hmmmm, now it is one thing to be a stay at home ~~blogger~~ mother, but a whole other ball game when the recipients of your labours take you for granted.

“Ok, so how about this. For the next month, I will do nothing, and then we can see how hard it is. For the next month I will do no washing, hanging up washing, taking down washing, sorting washing, ironing or putting away of clean clothes. I will leave beds unmade, dirty clothes will no longer mysteriously be collected from off the bathroom floor. No shopping, no cooking, no cleaning toilets. For a month, the toilet roll will not be magically replaced. Vacuuming, dusting, dishes will sit untended. Windows will collect fingerprints from small children until we can no longer see through.”

“No problem.” she said. “I will just go to McDonalds for lunch.” There is a good chance she could pull it off too. Underneath that sweet, blonde little head of hers, lies the cunning and intelligence to create havoc in small African countries. She has a rather cynical view of life for someone so young. It wasn’t until my next comment that I managed to get her proper attention.

“Oh, and I will not be the morning alarm clock that gently wakes the child in time for school…”

“What!!! Nooooo, you have to wake me up, I can’t be late for school!! Sorry mum, please, please don’t stop for a month.”

Nice to know where her priorities lie.

On top of all the things I am NOT going to do today, I have plans to NOT do a little shopping. I have decided NOT to make my own mince pies. Germany has the greatest collection of Christmas biscuits know to mankind, but I have a hankering for Mince Pies. The fruit mince has about 30 ingredients, and needs to sit for a few days to ripen. Now all I need to do is NOT find that bottle of brandy.

Pre Xmas Training

2009-11-29T06:16:00.001-08:00

Right. So off we went, armed with garden shears and biscuits.

The Church hall was full. Not sure why, but when we are told to “be there at 4pm”… we always seem to be the last ones to arrive.

There were a couple of ‘cheap seats’ left, and those nasty branches that nobody else wanted. But we were a force to be reckoned with. Never underestimate the power of an Aussie when it comes to finding her place at the table.

I had managed to drag Mr Dear Husband along. Drag, being the operative word. Each Saturday afternoon, there is football in Germany… no man worth his salt wants to be dragged off to make Advents Kranz.

We worked like little demons and caught up with the others. By 4:45pm the fun was over and men (those that had also been dragged along) were seen peeling off in their hurry to make it home before the 2nd half.

I liked it. There was a nice Christmassy feel in the air. The children were less interested, mainly because we, over achieving parents, took over the winding of the green around the ring. All the Advents Kranzen were placed together in preparation for the big event.

This morning they were collected and carried by each child to the church. The priest blessed them. Now it has pride of place on our dining room table.

In the run up to the Big Event, I decided to start earning some brownie points with the Out-Laws. As I have managed to wrangle away half of their traditional Christmas, replacing it with my own home made Australian-cum-International ideas, I thought it only right to invite them to Sunday lunch.

Roast leg of Lamb, mash potato, ratatouille, followed by baked apples…these were spiced up with some left over Crème de Marron from our summer holiday 2008. All went well and I even managed to talk ‘others’ in to doing the dishes.

Ready for the oven….

The crafty Lulu

2009-11-28T05:54:00.001-08:00

My little town here has really hit the ground running. Christmas cheer is pouring out of every window.

Last night was the opening of the local Weihnachtsmarkt or Christmas Market. It gets the whole show off to a bang. The smell of Gluhwein wafting through the little wooden houses, filled with sparkly goods.

It certainly transforms the whole (and I must admit rather dreary) local market square. Children were singing carols and I resisted the call of the chestnuts roasting over an open flame… This is, of course, NOTHING compared to the wonders that can be found in Bonn and Cologne. My first ever Christmas market visit was Cologne, Altstadt. It was snowing and cold. Like a picture book. I will never forget it.

This afternoon we are off to prepare the Advents Kranz. Sitting in the local church hall, drinking coffee and eating biscuits, in the company of all the other parents guiding their children toward their first Communion next year. I am not catholic, but the rest of the mob are. So I get to enjoy the bits that are fun. First Advent falls tomorrow, the first candle will be lit, followed by one each Sunday though to Christmas Eve. The wreath seen in the photo was prepared by my clever father in law. As we will end up with two, I am thinking of decorating and hanging this one on the front door.

I suspect my neighbours have been reading my blog. First thing this morning, they were up and about, going about the task of bringing Christmas cheer to our street. Here are a couple of features that were NOT there yesterday:

Not only were the lights not there yesterday… but the tree has suddenly appeared overnight! As for Santa… I had to do a little super spy work and nicked a photo from behind a tree because they were still in the process of putting up the lights.

Step by Step Christmas

2009-11-27T06:34:00.001-08:00

“Next to a circus there ain't nothing that packs up and tears out faster than the Christmas spirit.” Kin Hubbard

Indulge me this. We have a whole lot of family coming over Christmas, and I couldn’t be happier. We have done Christmas with the Germans in Sydney, a lovely warm, King Prawn, boxes of white peaches Christmas. But never in reverse.

I have always loved Christmas in Germany. It is softer and kinder than in Australia. The early evenings lend themselves to candles, open fireplaces, and twinkling lights.

So one could be prone to thinking that I am over the moon about this upcoming celebration, and I am, but … and isn’t there always a but… I having been pushing pretty hard just to make my new house liveable in time for the festivities (lets not talk about the leak in the stairwell coming from the upstairs bathroom that I discovered today) and haven’t had much left over when it came to the logistics of the actual event. Until this week. This week I decided it is time to start ‘getting my Christmas house’ in order.

There are about a million things to think about. My lists are legendary in this family, but I think I might outdo all previous lists when I am finished with the “Christmas 2009” list.

So here is where YOU come in. In an effort to push myself harder and faster, I am going to try and post each day, something that I have done to prepare for the holidays. I warn you now, I can get a little obsessive about such things. There is a deep yearning for perfection when I entertain, and nothing short of a miracle will pull that off, this year.

Here is where we stand as of today; Friday, 27th November 2009. Tonight is the opening of the Christmas Market in my hometown. I will be there to cheer on the carol singers and taste the Gluhwein and hopefully bring back some photos for tomorrow’s post.

I put together this little collage so you could see where I stand at home. There is much to be done.

Top Left: My Xmas light, hanging in the kitchen window. It guides the children to school in the dark, early mornings.

Top Left: A Poinsettia. These just look all wrong in the heat of Australian Xmas, but here they are all right.

Middle Left: Yes, I ordered it on Amazon and it arrived yesterday. I am desperate and she makes it look so easy.

Middle Centre: Be impressed, carried this home on the back of my bike… it looks lovely on the terrace at night, and hides the fact that the garden is still a building site.

Middle Right: Pomegranate, just looks Christmassy sitting in that bowl. And tastes great with Lamb!

Bottom Left: Christmas Crackers. No Aussie family would be without a cracker and a silly hat on the big day. Cost an arm and a leg, but they are mine… all mine Hahahaha

Bottom Right: Not sure what sort of flowers these are, but they were a gift from a neighbour as a Housewarming present and I think they look very festive indeed.

Cake anyone?

2009-11-25T04:26:00.001-08:00

I know, I know… a little off the beaten track, but sometimes a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.

A friend recently had her third babe. Brave, from my perspective. With all the moving, renovating, unpacking etc, I have been a little remiss in my congratulations. In fact, this newborn is now over 2 weeks old… and they only live around the corner!

So I am inviting them to come and celebrate a little, my first real guests in fact, and join me in some wine and nibbles tomorrow.

The third child is the deal breaker, in my eyes. Those of you who chose to go down this path are made of stronger stuff that moi. Cars are built to seat three kids in the back. But as one of three sisters, all I remember about our Summer holidays, were the ferocious arguments about WHOSE turn it was to sit by the window, the middle spot being clearly marked LOSER!

But, I digress, in preparation for tomorrow, and putting aside all the myriad of chores that are piling up around my ears, I decided to tackle a Diaper Cake…that is a Nappy Cake if you come from Down Under.

I think it turned out pretty good… and only took me three hours… who knew that rolling nappies could be so time consuming!

I’m livin’ in a box….I’m livin’ in a cardboard box.

2009-11-23T03:23:00.001-08:00

“I'm moving, but don't worry! [Someone once] told me we're all on the same planet, so I'll be okay!” Takayuki Ikkaku

So, there I was with a little time on my hands. Not doing much in particular, just daydreaming. My fingers started to twitch as I started counting, striking off with each memory. When my fingers ran out, I used my toes. I made it to the big toe on my right foot. “Sixteen times! Oh lord make it not be so!” But it was true, and here I was, waiting for the big truck to arrive, again.

In over 20 years of being married to Mr Dear Husband, I have packed up and moved house so often, that the only place that truly feels like home is any airport terminal in the world.

Those of you that have been reading here for a while (you know who you are and I still LOVE your comments) will remember when my household was boxed up for the trip from Sydney to Cairo (what was I thinking!!):

And then we spent a bliss filled 3 months with nothing but a couple of suitcases. It is so much easier to live without material possessions. You save yourself a heap of time when it comes to housework. No dusting, whip over those floors lickety-split when you don’t need to negotiate furniture. And the good lord know how often those Cairo floors needed to be cleaned. But there was no putting off the inevitable, the boxes arrived: I seriously contemplated NOT unpacking at all, but once the beast is unleashed, it cannot be contained. Before I knew it, we had started riffling through looking for this and that…then there was no stopping the flood. What I wasn’t to know at the time was just how short our sojourn in Cairo would be. After a year, the call of the wild was heard and answered and we were shipping out again. About here would be the photo of the boxes repacked again, if I had actually been in the country at the time. I made an executive decision…left Egypt for Christmas, and didn’t go back. This meant that for the first time in all 16 moves, Mr Dear Husband was going to have to ‘go it alone’. Of course, on this occasion packing was little more than a phone call.

And so we come to last Saturday. The boxes finally arrived here in Germany, after being stored in Cairo for almost 12 months. Eight of those months were fraught with stress and uncertainty, as we negotiated our way through the mess created by the Financial Crisis. So here they are again: If you look carefully, you will be able to see that each box brought with it, a little piece of Egypt. A layer of Cairo dust has permeated my entire house. The boxes are not as pretty as the ones from Australia, but they survived the trip. Two days of non-stop unpacking has resulted in something resembling a home, just don’t look in the Cellar or the Attic.

Today it became just too much, I couldn’t face another box so I set out on my trusty cycle to gather supplies at Aldi. Although the sky seemed ominous, I decided to give it a whirl, anything to get away from those dreaded boxes.The bike was a gift from an elderly family friend, ‘elderly’ being the operative word. When she told me she hadn’t ridden the bike for ‘a good while’ and then in the next breath mentions, ‘it is almost brand new’, I really should have put 2 + 2 together… But she gets me where I need to go, and as I discovered today, works remarkably well in wet weather. If you happened to be driving through Germany today and saw a wild-eyed woman peddling for her life, loaded up with groceries, looking like a half drowned rat, on a clapped out bike circa. 1945… yes, well, that was me!

Hola Back Gal

2009-11-20T08:40:00.000-08:00

"I tell you, it's time to write that book and sell millions! Stop telling the world for free and make them bloody well pay for your laughs!!" Mama Lisa

What to do, what to do? In the midst of the 'settling into the new house' stage, I find myself in serious need of some mojo... please send in Austin Powers. I can hear what you are thinking, even those of you that walk around with tin foil on your head, that I have a new house, therefore a blank canvas. And this is true. Unfortunately, to date, it has been all hard slog, broken fingernails, paint streaked hair... not much in the creative line.

Bemoaning my fate (if you stick around long enough, you will learn that I am whinger...whiner..complainer....never happy type gal), well I suppose it was more like screeching at Mr Dear Husband down the telephone line, he managed to come back with a reply that floored me.....in fact, I went so quiet that he thought I had fainted. At about the point where he was ready to call the local doc to come and see if I was still alive, I answered, "ahmmm Ok!"

Mr Dear Husband has a hard life, lots of travel, lots of meetings, lots of stress (and he is married to me). But it has been difficult to have a whole lot of compassion for him recently. You see, he has been hang'in down in Mallorca... a whole 3 weeks now. As we have just had 4 degrees and rain for the past two weeks, him sprouting off about 25 degree, warm, sunny days did not go a long way toward easing my self-evolved melodrama.

Truth be told, before he had time to change his mind, I had booked a flight on "Think yourself lucky we don't strap you to the wings" Airline... enrolled the Outlaws in a little One-On-One time with the terrorist Miss 8....packed my bag and ran like hell to the airport. Two hours later I was ripe and ready for three whole days of bliss. Spanish wine, fresh fish, fresh air and nothing to do....

I won't bore you with all the details, only to say, it is incredible what a change of scenery can do to reverse the condition of melancoly. And it beats spending 20 minutes lying under a sun bed.

Poppies and Puffer

2009-11-12T10:51:00.000-08:00

There are an assortment of events on the 11th of November. Each year, without fail, it comes around and each year, I celebrate my 29.5th birthday, again.

This year, was no exception. But then there are the priorities, right? Must not forget to pause at 11:00am and take a moment to remember those gallant soldiers that fought so hard so that the future generations could have a life filled with Nintendo Wii, Starbucks & Microwave Cheeseburgers.

Overshadowed by that solemn occasion if you live in Cologne is the beginning of Karneval. In the days when I was being 'a-courted' by Mr Dear Husband, he casually enquired as to when my birthday would fall....

"On the 11th of November," I replied, visions of candlelit dinners and small shiny packages danced in my head.

His face fell.....

"What is it?" I asked.

"You're kidding me, right?" he whispered hopefully.

"No, it has always been on the 11th of November....pretty sure...Yep, the 11th." By now I am watching his handsome face starting to contort with excruciating pain.

"What is it? Is something wrong?"

"Well, it is like this....." he took a deep breath and in a rush came the words that would rule my birthday for the rest of my married life.

"On the 11th of the 11th, at 11:00am, in Cologne, is the opening of Karneval....and it is my favourite day of the year...." His eyes misted up as memories of past 11th of the 11th rush past his eyes... memories of him drinking copious amounts of Kolsch within the shadow of the Cologne Cathedral, and usually dressed in some insane costume. I thought his eyes were misting up because he was being romantic and was overawed by the idea of marrying a girl born on his favourite day.

He cleared his throat, leaned forward over the table, took my hand... "I am sorry to say, it seems that you will be spending your birthday alone, I LOVE Karneval and never miss it."

I thought he was joking. Twenty odd years later, let me tell you, he wasn't.

But all was not lost. Before the son, came the endearing father... now my father-in-law. When I am here in Germany, he never fails to come up with something to please on the 11th of the 11th.

This year, it was this:

Now, be honest, how many of you have ever been given a hand built Kartoffel Kiste for your birthday!! I just know you are keeling over with jealousy.... Can someone please tell me how long I need to leave the potatoes there before they turn into vodka........... preferrably in Grey Goose bottles.

Chocolate Box Town

2009-11-10T01:16:00.000-08:00

Not feeling very funny today, so I thought I might show you some photos I took in the Summer. Not far from our town is a castle town. Built up high on a hill, the original inhabitants lived within its walls and I suspect some of them are still there.
It makes for a lovely walk, little houses nestled up against each other and cradled by the remaining walls. One of the members of my family was born in this tiny place and speaks (even today, some 50 years after moving down to the 'big smoke') a rough dialect that takes all my concentration to understand.

The people from this town are loyal to their ways. They know the history of the area, they know who was born and who is a relative. I suspect that knowing the geneology is a good thing, considering how few of them there actually were 50 years ago... never good to marry your brother. Sometimes, I hear the guitar riff from Deliverance in my head when I am walking around the castle walls.....

Entry to the town is either through a steep uphill, hairpin drive (terrifying in winter) or from the other side...but then there is the stone wall entrance, which is tiny, suitable only for Fiat Pandas or Smart Cars. It would be hopeless to try and bring in any heavy machinery. So everything is handled through small loads.

I think the town dwellers like it this way, it keeps the tourist buses away.

Oben and Up

2009-11-07T04:25:00.000-08:00

Hey, where did the Summer go? As if by magic, things have changed here. It seems to have happened overnight, or was I just too busy to notice. My neighbours have buttoned up their garden houses, tucked up their stone statues and raked up all their leaves.

Don't know why I am pretending, all the signs were there, clear as day. The first happened when I woke up and found that Mr Frost had come to visit. He left behind his card. All the lovely summer Geraniums killed with a single stroke.

Then the water buckets iced over. Miss 8 found this exciting, but it reminded me that I have now made my home in a country that requires you to change your tyres over according to the season -- unheard of in Australia. Why, we only change our tyres when the rims start scratching the driveway (or is that only in Queensland heeeeheehee)

And so it was, that we decided to start investigating indoor activities. There are massive indoor sport halls here on every corner. Clubs that meet at pubs (more my style), dancing, singing, more drinking, more singing.... all of this will eventually lead to Carnival, which is just about to come a knocking. I will post more about that later. As Miss 8 is still too young to take much pleasure in the drinking, singing, more drinking, more singing club, we took off to the movies.

I wasn't sure what to expect. The first shock being the prices... I did try explaining that I only wanted 2 seats, not buy the whole cinaplex, but it didn't help. Then there was the usual or might I say, not so usual Movie Snacks. Popcorn... the first mouthful almost landed on the back of the head of the person sitting in front of me. It was SWEET... blerk! No salt, no butter... I scanned around to see if anyone else had discovered this devilish mistake, but they all seemed to be stuffing it down as if normal. The then was the 'shared armrest' protocol. Hmmm... would this be different. Which drink holder belonged to me? Very confusing. As if that wasn't bad enough, it was a 3-D movie, which required me wearing funny glasses, and resulted in me embarressing myself when I kept constantly trying to swat things out of the air....that weren't there. This caused much merriment for 13 year old boy on my right....and distracted him enough so that I could plant my elbow firmly on the armrest!

In the end, it was fun, but I miss watching movies that haven't been dubbed. Somehow that little out of sync mouth movement v's sound distracts me from the movie. Might be time to invest in a home cinema.

PS. Photo of Miss 8 taken just after I had tried to swat a bird out of the sky, at the same time upending my bucket of SWEET (just can't come to terms with that) popcorn into the lap of Mr smartypants 13 year old spotty youth. She is NOT amused! More and more often lately she wears that same expression when she looks at me.....should I be concerned?

I am a Doughnut!

2009-11-06T04:04:00.000-08:00

We haven't had a story lately, would you like another? I thought as much. Ok, get cosy, put your feet up...hey! not on the coffee table! Good, ready?
As a fresh young bride, I was whisked out of Australia, all the way to Europe, landing squarely in Germany. It was exactly 30 days after I got married. Everything was new, new husband, new country, new language. It seemed every conversation I overheard was about to explode into a full blown blood bath. The gutteral utterings all but nonsense for me at the time.

An exciting time to be in Germany, whispers of revolution were in the air and I was delirious with sensory overload. Finally the chapters of my well-thumbed history textbooks were coming to life. Names like Helmut Kohl and Honecker infiltrated my everyday conversations. I felt worldly beyond my tender years.

Watching the Berlin Wall fall was like sitting in a Master class. Even way before I tangoed with the German Mr Dear Husband, I had a unfathomable interest in everything to do with WWII. Triggered, I suspect, by two books read during my impressionable teen years. Diary of Anne Frank, and One day in the life of Ivan Denisovisch by Alexandr Solzhenitsyn.

As life rushes by, it took us until the Summer of 1990 to finally have the chance to cross the border and take a look around The East. A trip was planned, heading through Frankfurt, toward Dresden, then on to Prague. It was our 1st wedding anniversary. In preparation, there was much discussion about whether I would need a Visa or not. Nobody seemed to know the answer, and that summed up the whole country, doused in confusion. The merging of East & West was still in its infancy.

Being a worrier, I took hold of the reins and asked Mr Dear Husband to drive me to Bonn. I would just go to the East German Embassy and ask them. Now, I am not sure what it was like before the Wall went down, but I could swear I saw a tumble weed rush down the driveway as we approached. No cameras, no guards, and nothing to indicate if we should go in or run for our lives. As we hesitated, a man in a East German police uniform opened the front door and beckoned us inside. At this stage, I am seeing pictures from John Le Carre books in my head.... we followed him into a large room. The room empty, except for a small, battered table and chair, placed deliberately in the centre.

Mr East German Policeman, sat behind the desk, straightened his shoulders, coughed once and said, "Passport".

By this stage, I had started to shake, having worked myself into an imaginary frenzy. I held out my little blue Australian passport, with the fearful worry that I would never see it again. Visions of KGB were dancing through my head, high-kicking to the title music from Hogan's Heroes.

Mr East German Policeman took my passport with his thumb and forefinger, a slight curling of the top lip and and ever so tiny sniff. He laid it on the table, and opened it to the first page, looked intently at the photo, then back up to my face. That curled lip remained.

Then, in a manic rush, he flipped the lid of a small cashbox by his side, containing a stamp, and a stamp pad. "Twenty Marks!" It sounded more like a barked command than a request, and we reacted accordingly, each of use stumbling to turn out our pockets and throw money at him. With a slight of hand, the money disappeared, there was a quick STOMP, and my passport was slid back across the table, again, using the least amount of bodily contact possible.

We did not talk or look back until we were at least 20 minutes away. To this day, I have no idea if the stamp was legitimate or not. On no occasion during the trip through East Germany was I ever stopped by anyone, nor did anyone ever request to see the stamp.

For all I know now, there is a good chance that we were scammed... but it made our trip to the DDR all the more exciting. A fruitful imagination is a wonderful thing.

Now let's me hear you..... get that David Hasselhoff hip action going.... come on, The Fall of the Berlin Wall will be forever linked to this song....

I've been lookin' for freedom
I've been lookin' so long
I've been lookin' for freedom
still the search goes on
I've been lookin' for freedom
since I left my home town
I've been lookin' for freedom
still it can't be found

Falling...Falling...Fell

2009-11-04T23:37:00.000-08:00

"It was one of those perfect English Autumnal days which occur more frequently in memory than than in life." P.D. James

It started off simply enough. Riding my bike back from the market, taking a shortcut through a bike path. A perfect leaf, drenched in the colours of Autumn, drifted down and landed almost on my face. I grabbed at it, managing NOT to fall off the bike, and tucked it into my pocket. I rode on, and found myself giggling like a small child. A strange delight at finally being able to experience a whole European Autumn. There are memories tucked away from when I was nothing but a skinned-kneed girl, a yearning for the changing of the leaves, a pleasure that growing up in Sydney did not provide. My special leaf sat on my windowsill for a few days until someone decided to toss it out.
On the odd occasion I have come up for air in the past 6 weeks, from my daily toil of painting and wallpapering, I have noticed that the trees in my backgarden were slowly changing from lush green to gold. Each time I glanced at them, I felt a tingle of pure childlike delight...my very own Autumn leaves. A few minutes each day spent in the gentle art of raking, was better than any meditation, soothing for the soul. Satisfaction that the garden could be so easily restored to lush green. Then the wind arrived. It wasn't so much a storm, as a determined long winded gusting. It started in the morning and continued throughout the day. On this occasion, I was entrenched in clearing out the cellar... no windows and no chance to see that what was taking place outside would soon change my romantic notions forever.
It stopped me in my tracks. HUH? What was that? Had someone dumped a plush persian carpet on my lawn? It took me hours, of raking, bagging, raking, bagging.... the whole time muttering under my breath, "What the hell... grumble, grumble....damn leaves....damn Autumn...as if I don't have enough to do...grumble, grumble." Not even the crisp, clean air and sparkling blue sky could distract me from the massive piles of leaves that built up. My beautiful leaf had decided to throw a party and invited every mate within kicking distance.

What is it about life that all those romantic notions need to be knocked out of you, does this mean I have to grow up?

The Window Brothers

2009-10-12T00:44:00.000-07:00

Usually, I look forward to the school holidays, the chance to sleep a bit longer is always a bonus. As Winter approaches and the mornings are gettng darker and colder, I was extra happy about this term break. Until I got the email telling me that between 8am and 9am, this coming Monday morning, the 'boys' would be arriving to install my new windows.

The punctuality reputation that Germans have, is not mis-deserved. For all the complaining you hear, German trains run pretty much on time. Businesses open and close on the exact minute that they state on their door, and tradesmen, generally arrive when they say they will.

It seemed to be tempting fate to NOT be at the house before 8am. And so I was. It is cold today, 10 degrees, rainy, and gray. All the lights were switched on, well at least those that that are more than wires hanging out of the ceiling. To kill time, I fiddled about trying to make as much space as possible, clearing paint sheets, and cleaned up paint rollers.

9am on the dot. Not a minute sooner and not a minute later. Two large vans arrived.

"Guten Morgen! My name is Pancakesoupmaker (or something like that)."

We did a quick tour of the house, he expressed his delight that the windows were easily accessible etc... and all was well.

Then the driver of the other van came in... "Guten Morgen!" My name is Pancakesoupmaker."

"Oh, you are brothers!" I said.

"Yes, don't we look alike?"

"Hmmhm yes, you are both very good looking!" said I, deciding that this was my chance to curry favor in the hope that they would do a great job, and do it quickly. They seemed pleased.

I have left them too it. Fingers crossed.

Lady GaGa & her Big Brass Band

2009-10-10T05:48:00.003-07:00

Overheard....then roughly translated into English, but you will get the gist.

It is a rainy, misty Autumn morning. The kitchen is warm and cosy, there are wonderful smells drifting through the house as the clock inches its way toward midday lunch.

Miss 8 is sitting at the kitchen table, she is peeling the skins off a bag of hazelnuts, which she triumphantly collected from our garden, chatting away to her Oma (Miss 82). The radio is playing softly in the background.

Miss 8: "Oma, can you please turn up the radio, this is my favourite song." Miss 8 has managed (with French Resistance style skill) to switch the radio station from WDR4 (Tunes to grow your nose hair by) to SWR3 (hip, slick and cool appealing to precocious 8 year olds).

Oma obliges, and then continues stirring the red cabbage.

Miss 8: "Oma, this is Lady Gaga, do you know lady Gaga?"

Oma continues to stir, and makes a non-commital sound, something like "hummhoom".

Miss 8 sings along to the song on the radio.....

Miss 8: "Oma, do you like this song? Do you know what it is called?"

Oma is no fool, she has been listening to her bilingual grandchild, and has the tune down.....

Oma: "Yes, I can even sing a bit." A slight clearing of the throat and out came "Ompah pa pa Ompah pa paparazzi, Ompah pa pa Ompah pa paparazzi...."

You can bring the English to the Oma, but you can't take the German out of her!

2009-10-10T05:48:00.001-07:00

Mary, Mary quite contrary

2009-10-09T01:39:00.000-07:00

"Let us be grateful to people who make us happy: They are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom." Marcel ProustIn Australia, I have always considered gardening an extreme sport. Once you manage to hack your way through the Lantana, there is the very high possiblity of turning over a branch or a stone and having something dangerous jump out and give you a nasty bite. Something like a Funnel Web spider or a Red Belly black snake, both of whom, lived happily in our bushland suburb. So gardening was never really my thing. Hard earned cash was happily paid out to other, much braver souls.

Gardening in Germany is a whole other ball game. We have inherited a wildly overgrown garden at the front and the back of the new house. On first inspection, is seemed like a team of crack SAS Gardners would need to be installed, just to find the back fence. None of this is helped the fact that we are flanked on both sides by garden perfection. Seems our neighbours take their little piece of the world very seriously, down to every blade of grass growing in the same direction. It must have been their despair to see our jungle creeping closer and closer toward their tiny little piece of the Chelsea Flower Show.

We are having a wonderful dose of Autumn weather, so yesterday, I just couldn't bring myself to paint another wall, instead I wandered outside and picked up a rack....and something incredible happened. I became a gardner! There was something so exciting about clearing the first garden bed, sitting back on my heels and inspecting my work...something to do with instant gratification. I started to get bolder, the fear of ending up in the poisions unit of the local hospital having passed. Borders were pulled apart, bushes trimmed, roses cut. I raked, and hoed, I hacked and carted. Before my very eyes, magic happened.

It was not without it's moments. There was the struggle and subsequent swearing, after a close encounter with some well hidden Brennnesseln (Stinging Nettle). Innocuous looking, but it gives a nasty sting, this time right through my gardening gloves. My last meeting was when I took an extravagant fall from my bike, as if the shock from the fall wasn't bad enough, the pain from landing in the Brennnesseln had me jumping up quick smart. Mr Dear Husband's suggestion was that I "pee on the stings"......I don't need to tell you my response, do I?.

As I was putting away my tools, and feeling a touch of self-appreciation, I swear I saw the curtains twitch in the neighbour's window.. and perhaps a little smile in the corner of his mouth. Whether it was from watching me do the 'damn I just got another rose thorn in my thumb dance' or he was trying to encourage me to continue, I'm really not sure.

Don't mention the war...**

2009-10-08T00:12:00.000-07:00

"If you want creative workers, give them enough time to play." John Cleese

I am in the mood to tell a story. Are you in the mood for a story? Good, I thought as much. Bear with me, it's a little longer than usual.

During my time in Cairo, there were some stories that were just too explosive to blog. It is well know that Egypt takes a particularly tough stance against anyone sassy enough to critisize either Islam, the government or Mr Mubarak himself. Bloggers that do cross the line, can be found hanging out in gaols that make Midnight Express look like a Disney film. And so it is that I choose to stay away from controversy and play in the meadow, with butterflies and bunnies.

Until I experienced an extreme dose of 'lack of internet access' rage caused by We-Take-Your-Money & Sons (Cairo Division). Bloggers will have full sympathy with me when I say that writing a blog post only to lose the whole thing seconds after completion due to an unstable connection, can cause major stress. This happened to me for six days, each day worse than the next. Each day I would phone up the Customer Non-Service Centre of We-Take-Your-Money & Sons. Each day I would report that my internet had become erratic, I think it is the modem, and would they please fix it. Each day they would say, "Thank you for calling, but the problem lies with Tellicom Egypt, we will report it, they will call you back to check the line". And call me they did. It went something like this:

Ring, ring.....

"Hello, Lulu speaking".

"Alo, Alo....". (slightly disembodied voice on crackly telephone line)

"You phone work now?" (voice is pleased with itself for constructing sentence)

"Well yes, it is working, but the internet comes and goes constantly and it is driving me nuts!"

"aagrrhrump". (sound of voice trying to work out what the hell Lulu just said)

"So, is work now? (voice is hopeful)

"Yes, but it could turn off again any minute", desperation is creeping in as Lulu realises her chance to have this repaired is slipping through her fingers.

"Good, so work, thank you, goodbye". (dial tone)

The gutteral scream that slipped out of Lulu's mouth after the 5th day of this conversation, could be heard in Israel.

On day 6, I begged. Yes, I am not ashamed to admit it. I begged for help. "Please, please, help me to fix my internet connection!". And it worked. The man at the Customer Non-Service Centre took pity on me, and said "Ok, I will send someone to take a look at it for you, they will be there in 20 minutes". Huh? Just like that? And 20 minutes later the doorbell rang.

Two likely looking characters, poked about for a minute or two and then said "Well it is clear, you need a new modem, it will be sent to you in two to three weeks." I felt gutted, I turned to show them to the door, and saw Mr Dear Husband coming down the stairs. Before I knew it, huge, hot, salty tears spilled down my cheeks. "What is wrong?", said an anxious Mr Dear Husband, scanning between his sobbing wife and the two Egyptian versions of Dumb and Dumber. "Whaaaaaaa, sob, sniff, sniff, sob......they said, sniff, sob....3 weeks... sob......." He got the message. And it is what happened next that could not be told while we were still in the country.

Now for all intents and purposes, Mr Dear Husband is a mild mannered, and gentle sort. It is only when he slips into his Mr Super Dear Husband tights with underpants on top, that he can be a little intimidating. He is, after all, a German.

"You two, sit down." And they did.

"Get on the phone and call your office, I want to speak to your boss." And they did.

What ensued was a 45 minute hostage situation.

Within minutes, Mr Dear Husband had worked his way from the Call Centre to the Ceo, "We live in Cairo, your office is 5 minutes drive from my house, in Cairo I can have ANYTHING I want delivered within 20 minutes (traffic withstanding)...and my wife wants a modem NOW!" Cairo is a fabulous city to live if you are agoraphobic.

"Ok, we will send someone with the new modem, he will be there in 20 minutes, could you please release our technicians, they have other work to do."

"No, they can stay here until the modem arrives."

During all this, I was hiding in the kitchen with Busy Brenda, saying naughty things like .... "Well, nobody takes prisoners like the Germans!"... and my sobbing had turned to rib-breaking, shaking, contained laughter.

"Please sir, can we go downstairs to smoke?" asked, the now more than bewildered, dynamic duo.

"No, you can smoke on the balcony", opens the door, and I am sure I heard him muttering under his breath words like escape plan...etc etc

"Please sir, can we have some water?"

"Yes, you can have some water...but nothing to eat!"

At this point I am starting to worry that Mr Dear Super Husband is taking this role a little too serious.

Twenty minutes later, I had a new modem, a stable internet connection, two very relieved We-Take-Your-Money & Sons employees, and a Mr Dear Husband that, I do believe, was strutting...if only a little.

** If you are curious...http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vgAi7DYHA94

The Cable Guy 2.0

2009-10-05T23:22:00.000-07:00

"God gave women intuition and femininity. Used properly, the combination easily jumbles the brain of any man I've ever met." Farrah Fawcett

Years of expat life have sharpened my 'settling in' skills. I pretty much now have it down when it comes to the priorities of setting up a new home. Right up there with hot, running water and clean sheets, comes the communication trilogy. Phone, Internet & TV. Experience has taught me that it is best to start sorting these things from day one, and as we are hoping to move in by the end of the month, time is a-ticking.

The call was made to We-Take-Your-Money & Sons. Seems they have the best deal on offer, so we asked them to come and 'hook us up'. What I didn't bargain for, was a good healthy dose of German discipline. Within minutes, we had an email, an appointment for the next day, and even a time frame of 'between 1:00pm and 1:27pm'. Hmm all good, I think to myself, although slightly disbelieving.

At exactly 1:19pm the next day, lo and behold I get a call saying "I will be there in 5 minutes".

I hop on my bike and take off at the speed of custard, peddling for all I am worth. Just as I turn into our new street, I realise that something very important is missing...THE HOUSE KEY. Bugger! Quick U-turn... race back...leaving in my wake, open mouthed people, trying to work out why there is a wide-eyed, red-faced, maniac-cycling 'almost' middle aged woman racing down the street and simultaneously muttering very bad words.

Now I feel that first impressions are important. Most people have it all tied up within the first 30 seconds of shaking your hand. So what did I get from The cable guy? He looked like he had just fallen out of bed, his hair could have housed two owls and a family of field mice. There are 'comfy' clothes and then there are the clothes that have gathered at the end of the bed and are able to stand up on their own, thus allowing the wearer to simply slip straight out of bed and slide right on into his pants.

Where he really caught my eye, was when he started to scratch his head... he would look at bits of cable, then scratch his head. He would let out a long, low sigh, then scratch his head. As you well know (dear bloggers), I have experience with 'head scratchers', having been married to one for over 20 years. The classic male head scratching, is a dead giveaway. It is like a flashing, neon billboard. It means "Holy cow, what has she done this time!!!!"

Words started to tumble out of his mouth, words like.... long cable, no electricty to the amplifer, thick walls, drilling holes in walls, 4-6 hour job...........all the time, scratching, scratching, scratching.

What happened next had to be seen to be believed. Before his bloodshot and bleary eyes, the woman causing his scratching, transformed into a Southern Belle of Steel Magnolia proportions. My usually passable German, dropped an octave, become more whispery and took on a distinct drawl mixed with a dose of Aussie twang. My hip popped out and my shoulders were pulled back. A classic toss of the head and a batter of the eyelashes.

"Please have a little patience with me, my good sir." Battering those eyelashes and popping that hip for all I was worth. "I am Australian, and I don't really understand how this all works, but I am sure that a clever and educated man, such as your self, would know all about it."

He stopped scratching. He started muttering again... "well perhaps... with some help....could pick up drill from xyz...hmmm still 6 hour job..." Two and half hours later, he had drilled through two walls, laid cables throughout the entire cellar and hooked up the phone, the modem for wireless internet and we have cable telly.

I am shameless in my pursuit of internet access. Now you know it. At least he had a great tale to tell his mates when he went to the pub on Friday night.

BTW: The character I relate to the most in Steel Magnolia's is Ouisa, played be Shirley MacLaine. The scene where she is at the funeral and gets offered up to be slapped, still makes me laugh/cry everytime.

Granny Nap

2009-09-30T23:37:00.000-07:00

"You can't help getting older, but you don't have to get old." George Burns

During this past year, I have spent an inordinate amount of time with the 'Pensioner Brigade'. A selection of fine specimens, all of whom, are well past the age of consent and rapidly heading toward the age of drinking your lunch through a straw.

With so much activity this past week, I have noticed something odd . Some new habits that have crept in to my repetoire. It would seem, by pure osmosis, that many of the day-to-day rituals that come with advanced age, have now become part of me. How odd!

Feeling very Wonder Woman yesterday after finishing the painting of the kitchen all on my own, I took a few moment to evaluate just were I am at in life.

Here are a few of the items that came to mind:

The word "new-fangled" seems to pop into my head whenever I am near any form of technology. The scary bit is, it happened around the toaster last week.

Regular meal times have become as important as regular 'toilet' times. Let me fill in the details. As a child, I loved staying at my grandparent's house. Life seemed good and simple, and you knew exactly where you stood. Shortly after breakfast, everyday, my grandmother would walk around the house asking everyone if they need to go to the toilet. "Are you sure?", would be the reply if you said no. After she was certain that it was all clear, my Grandfather would head off to the bathroom for his daily 'session'. I see him now, with his newspapers tucked under his arm, and his reading glasses on his head. He would still be wearing his wool tartan dressing gown and slippers. Once that door was closed and locked....forget about it....there was no way he was coming out until he was good and ready. Now those of you with children will know that there is nothing like the absence of a bathroom to promote the desire to pee. We knew there was absolutely no point hammering on the door, it was shut up tighter than Joan River's face lift. One learns to improvise, and I am sure my grandmother never quite knew why her Hydrangea bush died.....

It just seems right to take a 2 hour nap after lunch. Even if you don't need it.

You start telling other people to put on a jumper, or socks, or "something around their neck", because you are feeling cold.

Meals seem to involve more food groups from the 'puree' family, and less from the 'raw foods' family.

Tutting about 'the youth of today', can take up a good part of the afternoon.

I could go on...and on...and on, but you get the idea. As I was standing in the new white kitchen, having a few moments of self-appreciation, I decided to start acting MY age.....which I will do, just as soon as I find my support stockings and woollen underwear.

Hanging by a thread

2009-09-28T22:55:00.000-07:00

"Hope she's got a heifer heights! Stranded Lulu is airlifted home by cable car" *

That was the headline that was splashed across my early morning dose of tabloid newspaper. And it seems quite fitting. I know I said I would be blogging again, but at the moment, I am up to my armpits in white paint, spackle, wallpaper, and trying to work out how to dispose of the overgrown garden I have inherited.

Don't get me wrong, I am overjoyed to finally be back in the home-maker saddle, but the muscles are a little sore. The weekend was spent hauling furniture from one part of Germany to another, with many humourous stories collected along the way. My knees hurt, my back hurts and I suspect I am starting to get that vein-y arm look that Madonna promotes (I wish!).

With all my precious finds under dust sheets and plastic sheeting, it is time to remove the 1970's wallpaper, the door handles...which for some odd reason are upside down??? There is the 'home-made' loo roll holder in the upstairs bathroom.... and I still need to find some ceiling lights that I can live with.

In Australia we slap on a bit of paint.. then gloss the trims and Hey Presto.. good as new. In Germany...there was two days spent scraping wallpaper... Then we will put up a sort of New wallpaper.. which we will then paint over. I don't understand, but my mentor tells me this is the way it is done, and as I am terrified he will leave me to do it myself, I toddel along behind, looking agreeable.

Then there is the 20 years of Ivy that had taken over the front of the house. As we stood on Sunday morning, arms folded, scratching chins, wondering what the best plan of action would be to take it down, Mr Dear "GI Joe" Husband took off upstairs, opened one of the big windows, and just pushed the Ivy off the wall. It fell into a huge, but satisfying heap, and was quickly bundled, ready for the BIO collection. Now the house looks naked.. but ready for its new windows and front door.

So, would love to stay and chat, but I have a kitchen to paint this morning. Must find a shower cap so that I don't end up with a head full of white paint!

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1216157/Hope-shes-got-heifer-heights-Stranded-Lulu-airlifted-home-cable-car.html#ixzz0STLPBlpf *

Inches DO count...

2009-09-25T04:31:00.000-07:00

"My formula for living is quite simple. I get up in the morning and I go to bed at night. In between, I occupy myself as best I can." Cary Grant

"But it didn't look that far of Google Maps!", cried an anguished Lulu. Mr Dear Husband was doing 'the face' thing...you know the one, where his eyes suddenly get so big that it looks like they are about to jump out and start doing a can-can on his nose.

"Did you check the location before you put in the bid?"

"Of course, what do you take me for... do I look like someone that doesn't cover all the bases? At this point he started doing the Big Eye thing AND scratching the back of his head...that is never a good sign.

"Well, it is going to be a 300km round trip, we will have to hire a truck and YOU will need to get up at 6:00am on Saturday morning to come with me."

Hmmm.... now that didn't sound good. For the past couple of weeks I have been struggling to drag my lazy bones out of bed at the ungodly (and unLuLuly) time of 6:30am each day to get Miss Seven (but almost Eight!) to school on time. What in the world was the German school system thinking when they start decided in their infinite wisdom to have school start at 8:00am? And what's more... what were they thinking when they decided to send them back home again at 11:30am? There isn't even time to play a good round of tetris before grubby hands are hankering after hot meals. To add insult to injury, this week the early morning starts have been enhanced by the pitch black morning non-light. Oh Joy. My body keeps telling me to go back to sleep, well actually more like "Are you insane!!!" screaming in my head as I switch on lights and try to pretend it is morning.

But back to Mr Dear Husband. I am pretty certain I caught a glint of demonic pleasure pass through his boggling eyes,when the realisation hit home that I would be losing my sleep-in day...and it was all my own fault. For many years I have searched through Ebay.de and discovered treasures beyond my wildest dreams. Beautiful objects that seemed to be almost given away. "If only I didn't live on the other end of the earth", I would think to myself.... And now, finally I am in a position to hunt and gather. My first score was a stunning, hand painted, set of bedroom furniture for Miss Seven...the happy dance never felt so great.

"I swear, when I looked on Googlemaps.de, it was only an inch or so away from where we live!"

The eye bulging has stopped and I haven't seen him scratching his head for the past 24 hours, but everytime he looks at me, he sort of purses his lips and lets out a deep, loud sigh.

It really didn't seem all that far....

Who turned out the lights?

2009-09-23T03:59:00.000-07:00

"If you don't know where you are going, any road will take you there." Lewis Carrol

There once was a LuLu who lived in Australia, Germany, Turkey, India, Sri Lanka and Egypt, which was where we last heard from her good little self. Many tales of gross exaggeration were conjured to entertain the fawning masses. But one sunny day, Mr Dear Husband came home and said "Pack your bags, oh most beautiful of all wives....", (ain't he just a charmer). And LuLu did just that. Unfortunately, on this particular occasion she neglected to enquire as to the destination, and before you could say Camels and Pyramids, she was whisked off to the unknown.

At about the same time, all over the world, families were sitting down to dinner, tucking into their meat and three veg. As they were digging into their neopolitan icecream scoop, the gentle and merciful father at the head of the table tapped his spoon against his plate and annouced:

"Due to the current financial crisis gripping the world, it is with great difficulty that your mother and I have decided that we are going to have to let one of you go."

As the panic erupted across the shiny mahogany tables, and the children scrambled to assert their right to stay, there was one quiet child (the one that had been furiously mixing the chocolate/strawberry/vanilla combo to create a dirty milkshake) that stayed still ...and waited for the storm to pass. That was LuLu.

Promises of Aladdin's treasure and great glass palaces in the sky did not appear. Calls were left unanswered and emails disappeared into the great ether that is the net. Let's call this the *Mushroom Period, shall we?

One day, a quiet little man, with an accent that could cut through soap scum on a shower screen, knocked on the door and asked "Would you like to come play with us?". There was much discussing and debating... many questions and not many answers. Could this work? Oh what the heck. What we now know to be true is that all life is relative i.e. Maadi, Cairo was a great place to live....if you had just spent two years in Bombay.

And so it was, before you could say "Faltenwegcollagenauffüllergesichtscremes", all the visions of wild sand dunes were replaced by green forests. World's largest Shopping Mall replaced by Thursday and Saturday Farmers' Market. Jimmy Choo by Deichmann. Hmmm reading that back makes me wonder if this is a good thing, certainly doesn't sound like I will be getting out of cattle-class anytime soon.

At least the view from my (albeit temporary) Kitchen Window has dramatically improved! What do you think...we have come a long way from the satellite dishes and the dust.

*The Mushroom... kept in the dark and fed on bullshit!

Re-setting up House, again...

2009-09-22T04:37:00.000-07:00

"My mother used to say that there are no strangers, only friends you haven't met yet. She's now in a maximum security twilight home in Australia."

Dame Edna Everage

....and again, and again, and yet again. Not sure that I remember the part in my wedding vows where it mentioned that I would be packing up, moving house, unpacking, packing up, moving house, unpacking...continuously through out this glorious union we call marriage. Maybe it is my fault, I should never have let that gypsy vampire bite me when I was putting out the garbage, one dark and misty night, in Transylvania.

You figure I would be good at it by now, wouldn't you? I suppose on some levels I am, although it it rapidly becoming clear to me that my favourite part of moving is the plane ride....from the moment I check-in to the moment I disembark...the glorious lack of control, the wonderment that comes from having no decisions to make other than "Chicken or Fish?" (does it show that I fly cattle-class? One day I might like to like to be asked "Moet or Dom?) There is something brilliant about the act of just sitting and letting a group of very "capable professionals" (must keep on the good side of people who can make your life a pure misery simply by forgetting to bring you a blanket) cater to your every need. I like to fly. I am the one that will ask for a toothbrush, just because I can. I will be the first up when everyone is asleep to scour for the basket of midnight snacks that the staff place cunningly out of the line of sight of passengers (Go JAL.. always the best nibbles). Even if I am so exhausted that I have to do it with one eye closed, I will manage to plow my way through as many 'on-board entertainment' films as it is possible to do. You have probably heard a moanful cry of pure angish when the captain tells us it is time to land, just about the time that Brad Pitt was about to.....yep, ,that was me. When it was announced that we would soon be able to use our mobile phones onboard, I threw mine out at 30,00 feet!

So where was I going with this? Oh yes, my wings have been clipped. At least for the time being (until I can conive my way into a new country). I have been given orders to stay put. Those that know me might ask "Where? Paris, New York, Bombay?" Weeelllll...not quite....*shuffle feet in the dirt a little, stuff hands into pockets and look uncomfortable* ... no, it would seem that life has determined that it is time for me to spend a little time in a town with a population of less that 20 million. Quite a bit less... No, even less than that... yep...a small town in Germany.

If you thought that Cairo was a blast... hold on to your hats, ladies and jellybeans! Here we go again.

*Foto: Teusch

Squeaky Hinge

2009-09-18T06:26:00.000-07:00

"The young man who has not wept is a savage,and the old man who will not laugh is a fool." George Santayana, Dialogues in Limbo

So the simple act of revealing oneself to the world is harder than it looks. It is not like I can just don a Burberry trenchcoat and head off to the park. The human soul is a fragile and delicate flower. Our hearts are like velvety, soft roses that bruise at the slightest mishandling. When this part of us is hurt, it is a natural defence to close down, shut out, lock the door. No, you may not come close. No, I will not let you in. And there we sit, just aching for the right look, or a kind word, for the magic that will allow us to let the sunshine back inside.

Now before we start getting all soppy here, let's get one thing straight. During the past ten months, it would appear I have learned a thing or two....

"It is not always necessary to express every thought that passes through your head."

This can often lead to people wanting to run you over when your cross the street...or when you are sleeping in your bed... whichever is easier for them.

Ahhhmmm... is there anybody out there?

2009-09-17T01:42:00.000-07:00

'But I don't want to go among mad people,' Alice remarked. 'Oh, you can't help that,' said the Cat: 'We're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad.' Lewis Carrol, Alice in Wonderland

For the past couple of days I have been reading blogs. Lots and lots of blogs. I have been wandering through the wierd and wonderful trails of other people's lives. And it made me want to write. Again.

Not sure that any of the old crowd are out there anymore.. are you there?

It has been almost a year since I fell down a rabbit hole and suddenly life started to look like a cross between a Tarentino film and Heidi (that is Heidi of the Swiss goat girl variety, not Heidi of the Klum variety). That last comment will need extensive exploration, which might make for some mighty fine blog posts. Do people blog anymore? Have I fallen so far off the radar that my idea of technology is now on the shelf along with 8-Track cassettes and platform shoes? Oh, hang on... didn't I see platform shoes in the Summer catalogues this year?

My camera finger is itching again and my creative juices have started to flow. The time has come to get back on the horse.

Have patience with me. The muscle is rusty and the joints ache...baby steps.

Licking the wound

2008-12-13T05:49:00.000-08:00

"The art of war is simple enough. Find out where your enemy is. Get at him as soon as you can. Strike him as hard as you can, and keep moving on." Ulysses S Grant

It would appear that I have had long enough to pout and stamp my feet. I had hoped that my blog would have come back by now, but alas, the good people at Blogger/Google have decided that I am of little interest to them, and have, as yet, neglected to answer my begging emails.

Just to show a little of my vanity petticoat... in two years of blogging, I have literally ached for the day when I hit the right nerve and opened up to find almost 40 comments! Seems one should be careful for what one wishes. Thank you for the kind words... they helped ease the pain...and those that offered advice, please note that I will be taking up each and every suggestion.

So... where was I? Oh yes... Cairo, Egypt... Hmmmm, let's look out the window, shall we? Gray skies...Christmas Markets, red, drippy nose.... Hey, where in the world is carmen... I mean...LuLu? Seems that the suitcases are a little overloaded for a short trip.....

And why is there an airline ticket in her pocket? Could this photo be a clue? LuLu never seems to do things by halves.

DISASTER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

2008-12-01T00:19:00.001-08:00

"While grief is fresh, every attempt to divert only irritates. You must wait till it be digested, and then amusement will dissipate the remains of it."
Samuel Johnson

This is the temporary home of LuLu's Bay.

Here is what happened:

Disrupted sleeping patterns for the past two months have led me to sitting at my computer around the 4am mark. On this particular morning, I decided to do a little 'house-clean', a general tidy up of the computer. There was an old Blog that belonged to a business I once owned.

"I will get rid of this!" I thought to myself -- so I hit the SIGN IN button at the top of the screen and went directly to SETTINGS page. Scrolled down... hit DELETE and then YES.

Suddenly, in front of my eyes, were the words YOU HAVE NO BLOGS. Whattttttttttttt!!!!!!!!!!

It took a few minutes to sink in.... NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO!!!!!!!!!!!!!! But it was true. I had just deleted 2 years and over 250 posts with the flick of a finger.

A frantic search gave me a screen to request a restoration of said blog. Would this work? Would there actually be a real person that would care enough to grab my blog out of the server trash can and pop it back?

After an hour, I crawled back into bed.... "Are you OK?", asked Mr Dear Husband.......

This resulted in another hour of great gulping, heaving, snotty filled, salty tears.... I cried like a two year old that had dropped her ice cream in the dirt. Mr Dear Husband was bewildered.

Too his credit, he got up and spent the next couple of hours searching for people on the web that had been through this experience, he then created a document to hand to me that gave evidence that people DO get their blogs back --- sometimes --and ALMOST good as new. That is love, coming from someone that still, after 20 years, cannot grasp the concept of how to attach a document to an email.

I am bereft. There is no way to explain this to non-bloggers. This blog has been a work of passion and creativity, and in so many ways, my savior. This blog, started during turbulent times, has helped to keep me sane.

Now I miss the comments - I didn't realize how much they helped get me through the days - Hey! perhaps I need to go to a celebrity Rehab for comment addiction?

I haven't even tried to recreate - although I have saved all the cached pages I could find. So this is it... fingers crossed that someone, somewhere will read my email and give me back LuLu, please?

If you have any words of wisdom (or would like to send condolences.. money, alcohol or chocolate will do) I am here : lulusbay@gmail.com