Blues and Sounds

Its really quite in the house today.

Well, actually it's semi quite. Because I have the I Love Lucy going, and Mila's little dog tags are clinking together as she snoops around the house looking for tissues and possible crumbs and socks and q-tips and whatever else it is that puppies eat that I will gingerly have to pick up in a poo bag soon. And its POURING outside, so I am also hearing the constant drumming that are no doubt similar to what Noah heard right before he hatched the plan to build the arc.

But my family left yesterday and the absence of the bickering and laughing and general sounds of a group of crazy people that love each other too much, is so deafening that it makes my heart hurt.

75!

That's right. Seventy-five days of wedded bliss. Or funf-und-zebzig for all you GERMANS out there.
Although I dont know if it counts though because 14 of those days I have spent married to Annie, my favorite co-army bride while our beloveds galavant around the world. So maybe I have only been really married for sixty one days, which is the actual number of days we have had to put up with each other.

It just occured to me that if army married life keeps going this way, I will be celebrating my silver anniversary in about 37 years. Which means I shouldn't hold my breath for that anniversary band because it wont fit over my ancient, arthritised fingers or do my liver spots any kind of justice.

But so far so good really. Im adjusting to fun facts like that my bed mate reaches blood boiling levels in his sleep, which means that even though there is an open window and a fan I just need him and his creepy hot hands on his own side of the bed, pleaseandthankyou. And that my pantry, once stocked with organic granola and fair trade black coffee is now an homage to every saturated fat that Nabisco ever dreamed up. Or that, surprise! I find it incredibly irritating when someone leaves peanut butter covered dishes to crust over in the sink.

And Geoff, in turn, is becoming accustomed to the fact that he married a CRAZY PERSON who yells at him for things like peanut butter dishes and the fact that his creepy hot hands are on her side of the bed, and that makes him buy embarassing, unmanly things like tampons! and throw pillows! and table cloths! Just think, if you walk into his house you might think a GIRL lived there. Gross!

Seriously though, seventy five days already. Time does fly when you are having fun.

Good News

I was skyping with my mother yesterday and couldn't wait to tell her the good news.


Mom! I have great news! (enthusiastic)

You're pregnant! (equally enthusiastic)

No! (nonplussed) We are getting a puppy! (regaining enthusiasm)

Mariana. That is a lot of responsibility. (disapproving)


Is it me? Am I seriously underestimating the commitment being a dog owner takes? Because although I plan to be fully dedicated to the cause, at least I dont have to birth the damn thing. Which is an all important deciding factor when choosing between the two. One will give you hemorrhoids, the other will arrive pre-birthed at your home. With fur!

I cant understand the reasoning that would cause my family to be thrilled at the prospect of my procreating, but worried as to whether or not I can handle the responsibility of dog ownership. Because anyone who sees human children as less maintenance than dog children should ask my mom what I was like as a toddler (read: redheaded nightmare demon child who gave her arthritis and her undying love for white bread).

Either way, Im getting a dog. And a pack of condoms.

Confessions of a Housewife

You know how when you were a kid you watched I Love Lucy on Nick At Night? And you were all, oh that Lucy, always trying to get into show business and causing trouble and getting random one episode gigs at various jobs where hilarity inevitably insues! Well. I am the new Lucy. Except my hair is naturally red, there isnt that much hilarity so far, and I dont have nearly as many cute outfits. Actually, the later fact might soon be remedied by how many hours I have spent online shopping while eating breakfast alone.

When Geoff gets home Ill have some 'splaining to do.

'Splaining about how even though I used to bitch about my job sometimes, I really loved having purposeful days filled with high heels and lunch dates and after work happy hour. If I drink during the day now, its technically considered alcoholism.

But seeing as how it might be a few months until I am once again gainfully employed, I am trying to make the most of it. I go to the gym for like 2 hours (as that is what trophy wives do), and go to the grocery store, and plan dinners, and do laundry. Its like weekends in my old life, but with less fulfilment. And more online shopping.

All Im saying is, no wonder Lucy got into trouble. Im just holding out for Vitameatavegamin to call me so I can be all YOUR PRODUCT HAS BOOZE?! HELL YES I WILL DO YOUR COMMERCIAL.

Hallo und Willkommen!

I know I know. It has been two months. As in eight weeks. As in seven weeks later than I promised promised promised I would stick with updating my blog every week.

But.

I have done some shit since then. Like got MARRIED. And moved to GERMANY. Like the country. That isnt the United States. Because it is GERMANY.

Firstly, I must tell you I feel like freaking Dorothy. Because one minute I was minding my own business in San Luis Obispo, eating Gobbler sandwiches with Mel and teasing Simon for being fat, and then the next...BAM. A tornado of moving and shipping and wedding and honeymooning and moving and lugging 40 boxes of IKEA furniture up two flights of stairs and unpacking and realizing I dont speak German in a country where that is a useful skill, and I find myself here. Looking around like Huh? All of that really happened? What are all of these spare parts to the IKEA bookshelf, and where in the hell is Toto?

And I am sitting on my GERMAN couch in my American chonees, still a little shell shocked what with all the life alteration that has exploded around me, writing in part to keep loved ones abreast of our comings and goings, as well as document this year of GERMAN adventures so that when I look back someday, I will perhaps write a book on taking giant fucking leaps off of rhetorical life cliffs and how to survive that.

But for now I have about 47 loads of laundry to do in our GERMAN washing machine that is roughly the size of a Barbie Dream Machine I had when I was like six, forage for groceries in a GERMAN grocery store, and then prepare said sustinance in the Easy Bake Oven that is my GERMAN stove/oven combo. Which begs the question, what do the damn GERMANs have agains normal sized appliances? And what is with the summer weather that randomly dumps buckets of rain the second one pokes their American nose outside?

Answers to that and much more coming up!

auf Wiedersehen, bitches.
xo
the GERMAN scrap.

You Were Expecting Something Demure?

I know that I should dedicate this post to the involved description of my bachelorette party weekend in sordid, tequila soaked detail. But I worry that the magnitude, the sheer enormity of the shit show and the ten WONDERFUL people that made it happen, cannot be captured by my amateur scrawl. Also Im pretty sure I could only retell about 1/3 of the weekend with any kind of journalistic integrity. Because I was, and let me know if you are shocked here, TANKED.

A note to the participants: Seriously guys, thank you. I will do everything in my power to make your parties just as raucous when the time comes. And it better come soon because there is only so much time I can spend without a peeny whistle in my mouth.

But in the meantime, I will recount scenes that I either find particularly hilarious, or well lets just be honest, I will share what snippets I remember, or have since been reminded of.

In a very rough idea of what I believe to be chronological order:

-singing deeply and with passion into a rotating dildo affectionately dubbed "the love spoon", the works of the grand duchess of pop, Ms B-Spears herself. Passing said love spoon around the limo so that everyone could get a chance at the limelight.

-being pushed around a winery yard in a child sized tractor while the rest of my party attempts to hit on the prepubescent boy behind the counter. Because we are cougars in training and thats how we roll.

-sitting cross legged on a cement floor petting a dog while poking Deitra in the ass with my wine glass when I wanted a refill. "I dont care, just make it booze!"

-rolling into a ritzy hotel looking like a cheap drunk tranny in a boa, a light up tiara, and a penis whistle in my mouth. Having my entourage look like much of the same, stealing bottles of champagne from our driver.

-wearing Kristy/Kerri/My chonees into the hotel hot tub.

-announcing to the MC and subsequent crowd at AsiaSF that my fiance was a one night stand gone wrong. Then flipping off the audience.

-telling my tranny lap dancer Chloe how freaking good she smelled. After sobriety hit this remains true. I remember her tits smelling better than anything I have ever smelled in my whole life. and I told her so.

-telling our cabby how good I thought Chloe smelled.

-having who I believe to be Biggy Smalls blow into my peeny whistle at the Cellar.

-accidentally spilling some of my tequila on some hapless bystander and telling him I was "doin' it for my homies".

-having my tragically tame sister drop it like it was hot not once, but TWICE on some random guy in a tie. And on anything else that would stand still. Woman is my hero.

-waking up with a half eaten pizza crust in one hand, and a tiara in the other.


And THAT my friends, is how you kiss singlehood goodbye RIGHT.

At Least I Didnt Get Him Addicted to Crack.

My heart sinks deep into my belly whenever I see puffy rosy baby cheeks. I get irresistible urges to snack on chubby, munchy little baby knees and elbows. Just the sight of tiny onesies and miniature converse makes my voice reach this insane decibel in which I INVOLUNTARILY COO. And the smell of baby makes my ovaries quiver.

All of these things are true. In fact, Geoff likes to tell people that I am prone to stealing their offspring. Fair? No. But likely.

So with all of these truths, all of these admitions, you think I would make a really awesome mother right? Like the kind of really, really, kick.ass. mom that Dr. Phil and Oprah call to write articles about balancing career and motherhood?

Because I got to work about three hours ago and realized I HAVE NOT FED SIMON SINCE YESTERDAY MORNING.