31 December 2011

IIGOIIG Reveal! Fuck the ß contest! And 2011!

First things first, the IIGOIIG Round 7 Reveal!

There wasn't actually a consensus, but my gut says straight.  However, I can't put him as definitively German, seeing as how he was bound of Amsterdam.  He could be Dutch.  Therefore, I'm adding him to the list as:

German: 1
Crazy and Homeless: 1
In Denial: 1
Danish: 1
Poor Taste in Music: 1
GAY!!: 1
Impractical Backpacking Gear: 1


Secondly, the Fuck the ß contest!  The winner is JON (Different one, Philly).  Congratulations, Jon!  Not only was your ß wonderfully creative, it was also the only one sent to me, so congrats, you win by default.


CLAIRE IS HERE CLAIRE IS HERE CLAIRE IS HERE AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

And now, on 2011: I'll take it.  Fresh out of Austin's death at the end of 2010, 2011 started out superbly shitty, but it got better. I almost got fired from Red Lobster for telling the manager his new policies were communist.  I was a bridesmaid in Becca's wedding.  I bee-bopped around the midwest, saw a lot of old friends, and made a bunch of new ones.  I quit my shitty job, and got an au pair one instead.  I moved to Germany.  I made friends with Swedish vikings, froze my ass off on Danish beaches, and explored Portugal with my super awesome family.  I passed the DSH exam.  I got into grad school at a university currently ranked #149 out of the entire world, which really isn't too shabby.  And I'm ending 2011 with Claire in BERLIN!, where we will be setting off fireworks, hanging with the SHBF, and going to crazy techno parties with our blanket-fort building couchsurf, even though Claire is still convinced he's an axe murderer.  All in all, this has been a good year.  I'm sorry to see the world end in the near future.

My last favorite song of the day in 2011!  Eliza Doolittle is one of those artists that I don't like, but I have like nine of her songs on my playlist.  Go figure.  Here's what's been stuck in my head recently, mainly the whistling part.  I can't watch the video (thanks, Germany) but you can!


And on that note, adios, 2011!

Everybody else, see you on Tuesday!

23 December 2011

A Christmas Update

Hi all!

Sorry for the two-posts-one-day thing.  But I just wanted to let you guys know, we're visiting both sets of grandparents for the next few days, and I'll be back to the internet on the 27th.  My Christmas this year is the 30th, when Claire arrives, which, when I think about it, I run out of words, so I just dance.  In addition, I've got everything arranged for our Super Secret New Year's destination!  Don't give it away if you know it, I plan on telling Claire when...well, I haven't worked that part out yet.

In the meantime, I'm giving myself until January to be excited about getting into Uni Göttingen.  After that, the real freak-out work begins: matriculation, apartment hunting, finding a job, actually being a student.

Favorite song of the day I listened to with my cousin and her boyfriend, and now I can't get it out of my head. The video is 4 minutes and 43 seconds of dramatic slow-mo reminiscent of bad Telemundo, but who's counting?



At any rate, I hope you guys have an amazing holiday filled with alcohol and chocolate, and distinctly lacking in octopus (sorry, Amy).

ZEUS BLESS US, EVERY ONE.

22 December 2011

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

I GOT INTO GRAD SCHOOL.

ASDFGMH;J:KBYKBN XM ölJGSKHGNVM-LB ;VKHOAÖÄ:-MJNJAOmbVBSDETGZIJÖLJHGFSXCVBNM;FDSXCVBNMLIUZGFV BNM;LÖL

I DON'T--

I CAN'T--

HOW DID--

BYE.

21 December 2011

Adventures in the Motherland Part II!

MORE PORTUGAL!

Day 2 continued!

That evening, my cousin and her boyfriend picked me up for a trip to Caldas da Rainha, a nearby town with super fancy gardens and a nice statue of the queen.  The way there was highly entertaining: there were amazing pantomimes (involving shooting cows and yelling HAMBURGER!), there were Portuguese lessons (my accent is apparently good, but I can't do the Portuguese 'r'), and also a futile attempt at explaining the subtle linguistic difference between "the Black Forest" and "the black florist."  It was brilliant.

Caldas da Rainha turned out to be awesome.  We ran around town,

explored the gardens,


made fun of what my cousin's boyfriend called the "cheeneese" bear,

and I made them pose for pictures so I could document how adorable they are.

We also said hi to the queen,

and tried on gas masks in a uniform store.  Then we hit up a local shopping mall, where I got to listen to a Portuguese choir put their own spin on that particular gem of colonial holiday cheer, "Do They Know It's Christmas," which I have historically mocked mercilessly for it's willful ignorance of second grade science (equatorial climates get little snow) and geography (Africa is a continent).  Basically, it was the perfect song to listen to fifteen teenagers sing with accents.  I also purchased this monstrosity:

Originally intended as Host Mom's Christmas present, but after much consideration, I bought her something else that a) goes with the house, and b) doesn't look possessed.  

Oh, and in case anyone was wondering what Portugal does with its palm trees over Christmas, the answer is, "puts Christmas lights on them."  Duh.

Afterwards, we drove to a really cool local double-beach, with the ocean on one side, and a lagoon lake thing on the other, before hitting up the cousin's boyfriend's hometown to meet his family.  Who are absolutely adorable, told me I was beautiful, and made me swear that next time I come back to Portugal, I will come over for dinner. They may be loud and drive like lunatics, but one thing the Portuguese have got in the bag is warmth.  If the Germans looked up from their bratwurst, they could learn a thing or two.

Day 3: Sunday, December 18th

I took the morning to go run around Rio Maior a little bit and go Christmas shopping. This resulted in the following exchange (in Portuguese), between me and a sales lady:

Lady:  If you're interested the back table is 50% off.
Me:  Thanks.
Lady:  Here, let me show you everything.
Me:  Eughm...sorry, I don't speak Portuguese.
Lady:  You don't speak Portuguese?
Me:  No.
Lady:  Are you sure?
Me:  Yes.
Lady:  You really don't speak Portuguese?
Me: Ehrlich gesagt, ich kann gar kein Portugiesisch.  
Lady:  You look like you do.

Yay for not looking foreign!

Then my cousin came over, and we ate lunch with the tias.  Afterwards, Guy I Thought Was My Uncle But As It Turns Out Is Actually My Cousin drove us to Alcobaça.  There, we ran around an antique flea market,  


and explored the monastery.  Which is AMAZINGLY beautiful:


I got to hear all about the story of Don Pedro and Inês de Castro, whose love affair is more or less the fourteenth century's (pre)answer to Romeo and Juliet, except it actually happened.  In a nutshell, Pedro, the prince of Portugal, was married to some chick, but actually in love with Inês, a noblewoman apparently not noble enough for Pedro's dad.  After Real Wife died, Pedro and Inês had lots of sex and babies, to the point where it started to make everyone a little nervous.  So the King was like, "Son, you should probably stop," and Pedro was like, "Nah, I'll keep this broad around," and the King was like, "If you don't break up with her, I will send some assassins to behead her in front of her children," and Pedro was all, "You're bluffing."  Except then Inês got beheaded in front of her children, and Pedro was like, "I HATE EVERYTHING IN THE WORLD," so he built her a crazy tomb, executed the assassins publicly by ripping their hearts out, and hated his dad for forever, or at least until his mom said to stop.  Then he built himself a crazy tomb, and now they sit opposite each other so they can gaze into each other's eyes when they rise to heaven.  Or something. The end.

More monastery pictures!






There was a castle, but alas, we did not have the time to play amongst the rocks.

And we finished the expedition by buying some pastries for the tias.

After dinner, the cousin's boyfriend came over, and we all went into town for some hot chocolate.  Except the hot chocolate bar was closed, so he called his cousin to take us somewhere else.  The cousin of the boyfriend is a DJ whose nickname means "Little Chicken," so it took me all of about forty seconds to start referring to him as DJ Chicken, which everyone found extremely entertaining.  Especially when it was revealed he doesn't eat chicken.  Somehow in this discussion, I learned that the cousin's friend (who was also with us) taught himself English by watching movies in the fifth grade, and also that the boyfriend's mom raises ducks and rabbits for food.

Suffice to say, I was sad to say goodbye to them, especially to the cousin's boyfriend, who, despite speaking about 100 words of English, somehow manages to be one of the most hilarious people I've ever met in my life.

Day 4.  Monday, December 19th.

The tias and my cousin and I took pictures, and then drove me back to the airport, and I was SO SAD.  Lots of hugs and kisses and general being miserable went down.  I think I hugged my cousin like nine times, and we pinky swore to see each other again soon.  I miss them, and I can't wait to go back.


Tuesday, December 20th.

Goddammit.  It's snowing in Germany.

Wednesday, December 21st.

There's a letter from my grad school program sitting underneath Lord of the Rings.  It has been there since Friday.  I am too terrified to open it.

20 December 2011

Adventures in the Motherland Part I, and IIGOIIG Round 7!

PORTUGAL!  I LOVE YOU!

Let's be honest, who saw that one coming?

Yes.  Portugal.  It was wonderful and my family is kickass and I have lots of fun stories!

Day 1:  Friday, December 15th.

My flight was at 6 AM, but unfortunately, I discovered that the earliest train didn't get me there until 5 AM, which I thought was cutting it a bit too close.  The next earliest train got me there at midnight.  So I opted for Door Number 2, and slept in the airport. Which was more or less okay, minus the hourly "Attention:  Please do not leave baggage unattended" announcement, repeated in four languages, which they apparently do not turn off even when the airport is closed.  The irony was that I discovered the check-in for my flight didn't even open until 5 AM, so basically, I slept in the airport for absolutely no reason.

But as one last parting gift, Germany gave me my favorite thing of all:  a questionably gay man.  Which brings us to

Is It Gay Or Is It German?  ROUND 7!


The scenario:  Toe socks coupled with flip flops.  Skin tight jeans.  A bizarre breed of neon yellow backpack, so narrow it would choke on an Agatha Christie novel.  And all this at five in morning.  What do you think?

After a really long layover in Amsterdam that I more or less slept through, I arrived in Lisbon, and wandered around for half an hour trying to find the exit.  When I walked outside, there was Tia Mina, Tia Odete, and the taxi driver, holding a sign with my name on it.  When Tia Mina saw me, she jumped up and down and clapped in exactly the same way I do--who knew such things were genetic?  Suffice to say, they are possibly the most adorable creatures on the planet and I love them.

Then we all piled into the taxi for the hour-long drive to Rio Maior.  Tia Mina speaks a little English, and the taxi driver a little more, so we were more or less able to have a conversation, the highlight of which was the taxi driver letting me know, "Your mother called to tell us you've had really bad skin since coming to Germany."  "I know," I said, "I'm going to a doctor for it."  "Well, it's probably the weather."  Facepalm.  Wanting to crawl into a very dark hole and die: check.  And I did it in under half an hour, which is a new record for me.

First impression of Portugal:  it looks a lot like Bolivia, only there are no dogs, and a slightly higher percentage of the roads are paved.  There is most definitely an economic crisis, and it is most definitely evident in Portugal, which has not stayed on the sinking ship nearly as well as Germany.  On the playground, Germany is like the fat happy child with one out of work parent who's still expecting presents for Christmas.  Portugal has been wearing the same clothes for a week, has a precocious understanding of how the economy works, and knows the names of the CEOs in two-thirds of the Fortune 500 companies.  If you know what I mean.

Second impression of Portugal:  oh my sweet Jesus.  I look exactly like everybody else.

Third impression of Portugal:  except I'm taller.

Later that evening, I met my cousin, who is drop dead gorgeous and surprised everyone by actually speaking conversational English.  Then her boyfriend came over to take us to a hot chocolate bar.  I wish I could have had a camera on hand to capture the horrified expression on his face when she told him they'd have to speak English at me.  But to their collective credit, they spoke English the whole weekend.  By the end of it, my cousin was accidentally speaking English to her parents, and I laughed very hard at her.

After the hot chocolate bar, they decided we were going to the salt mines, because they mine salt here.  We went at night, so I wasn't able to get any pictures, but they look like this:

The area surrounding the mines consists of tiny little wooden shops and restaurants, that look like this:

And it was into one of these we went for another round of coffee.  When we walked in, we effectively doubled the amount of people in the place, and I was introduced as, "The cousin from American who studies in Germany."  "Does she speak Portuguese?"  "No."  "Does she understand Portuguese?"  "Yes."  

Let me throw in a disclaimer right now.  My understanding of Portuguese can roughly be broken down like so: 50% decoding what people are saying about me, 30% grasping at cognates, 20% intimate experience with the rhythm Portuguese takes when it's being angry, argumentative, or relating something stupid, thus signifying you need to go into the other room.  If you haven't grown up in a Portuguese household, listen carefully the next time you're in a supermarket in Newark.  If you hear every syllable go up the scale, and then drop half an octave on the last one, it's time for you to leave.  Rendered it text, it looks something like this:

then I was like, "Bitch, please."

If you hear it, you will know.

Back to the salt mines.  So there we were, sitting in this tiny restaurant, talking in a strange mixture of Portuguese and English, and discovering the girl behind the counter and I both have relatives in Newark, which we decided probably know each other. Then, the other lady there turned to me and asked in Portuguese, "Wait, did she say you speak German?"  I nodded.  A voice from the corner yelled in German, "I do too!  I lived in Germany for ten years!"  My cousin, her boyfriend, and counter girl almost fell over themselves in hysterics.  And that's how six people spoke three languages in the middle of nowhere, Salt Mine Land, Portugal.

Day 2: Saturday, December 17th.

Day 2 started out with an uncle coming over.  At least, I think he's an uncle.  As an American, I am pre-programmed to comprehend family as Parents, Children, one or two Aunts and Uncles, and a small smattering of Cousins.  Trying to understand family in Portugal is an exercise in blowing your brains out: everyone in related to everyone, everyone knows how they're related to everyone, and you get lost during the explanation of this ever-expanding familial bubble because you can't count that high. So yes.  Guy I Think Is My Uncle picked me and the tias up, to take Tia Mina to her doctor's appointment.  While we waited for her, he took us on a drive through the surrounding countryside, which, as I said, looks just like Bolivia.  Lots of small little villages tucked in between hills.  Also, his car is named Austin, and is lacking in seatbelts.  Anyway,  our drive was lovely, and ultimately culminated in climbing up up up up a mountain, and we did not turn around until smoke started pouring out of the steering wheel.




We picked up my tia and then went to lunch, where I ate duck for the first time, and tried some Portuguese cheese they put on the table as an appetizer, which tastes like a wet cloud.

Then Tia Odete and I went for a walk, so I could be a total tourist and take pictures. We also went into a pharmacy, where I discovered Portugal places lube and vibrating cock rings on the shelf labeled "control."  On that note, here, have some pictures of the town.  You will notice that the sun is actually shining.  And it was so warm, I could walk around in long sleeves without a jacket.  So it was basically a German summer:







Tomorrow, Day 2 continued, and Day 3.  The three amigos go to Caldas da Rainha and Alcobaça.  Hilarity ensues.

15 December 2011

Giant Pressing Matters

So today is the one year anniversary of Austin's death, and it is not a good day in Tina-world.  I've been running around like a guillotined chicken trying to not think about anything, and I told the barn I can't ride today because I'm sick, but I'm grateful I at least had the foresight to schedule my Portugal trip for tomorrow, so I'd have Giant Pressing Matters to think about, such as "wait, do I speak Portuguese?" and "why the fuck haven't I learned how to pack light already."  I also just realized that I left exactly six months ago today, on June 15th, which makes me wonder if my arbitrary selection of that particular date was as arbitrary as I thought it to be, or if the 15th of the month is, in my brain, permanently tied to leaving.

At any rate, I'll be posting Portugal madness on Tuesday, so we can all look forward to stories that involve me being embarrassed, me being awkward, and me being groped.

Anyways.









Actually the greatest horse ever.

14 December 2011

DSH=my bitch

Today I woke up ridiculously early to go into Hannover for the oral part of the DSH test. To say that I was off my game would be an understatement--I was up until one-thirty AM on the phone with my mother, and then laid in bed panicking in the dark until about four thirty, when I may or may not have fallen asleep.  Then, two hours later, it was out the door for me.  So when my train pulled into the station at 8 AM this morning, I was upset, exhausted, completely unfocused, and barely coherent enough to buy a ham and cheese croissant, let alone take major tests.  At 8.30 AM the sun came up over the university (which is in a castle), and under any other circumstances, it probably would have been a sight to behold, but today, I just wanted to stab it in the face.

When they put the chart that I had to talk about in front of me, and set the twenty minute timer, my panic levels hit the red zones, because I didn't understand it--not any of it.  I spent most of my given prep time looking up what the words in the title were in my dictionary.  With three minutes to go, I gave up, closed my dictionary, put my pen down, and more or less bid adieu to the cold, cruel world.

As far as the test itself went, I sat down in front of two ladies, introduced myself, explained the grafik, and prayed to the High Gods of Spoken Word that the test-takers were more interested in me talking than in what I was actually talking about.  To my surprise, they barely asked me about the chart, which wound up having something to do with factors that positively and negatively affect how much money people make, like education, job training, and whether or not you have boobs and/or British soldiers to buy you drinks.  The only thing they asked me after I talked about everything was how would I clarify the difference between a university education and practical job education?  I said, "To be honest, I didn't really understand this part of the chart.  Our educational system in the US is different, and we don't really have the practical job training that is standard in Germany.  But if I had to guess..." and then I made up some bullshit answer, which wound up leading to a discussion on how long bachelors degrees in the US vs Germany take, which lead to a discussion of why I don't speak Portuguese anymore, which lead to a discussion in which I explained my deep burning desire to work in Australia, which I more or less made up on the spot.  Then they kicked me out.

I sat in the hallway with three Palestinians and a Tunisian (no, being American in this situation is not awkward, why do you ask?) as we waited for our results.  When they called me back in, the lady said, "Listen, unfortunately I don't have a lot of time, so I'm going to make this as painless as possible."  I collapsed internally.  So much for kangaroo praising getting me through major exams.  Curse you, Australia.  "Basically, you speak at near-native fluency, your mistakes are so minor they're not even worth mentioning, you express yourself wonderfully, and you'll have no problems studying at a university.  We gave you a 96%, which means you're still a DSH-3, and you in fact did better on this portion than on the written portion.  Apparently, you speak better than you write.  Here's your official record."

I don't really remember what happened after that, but I'm pretty sure I hung out briefly with the Palestinians and the Tunisian, and I may or may not have at some point opened my mouth to do something other than squeak.  And while I think the examiner was far too kind in her assessment of my language skills, I'm not in the habit of looking horses in the mouth, gift or otherwise.  That's what horse dentists are for.

After arriving back in Celle, I decided to celebrate by watching Glee.  I clicked on a link.  Next thing I knew, my computer went black, and then a very official looking page popped up: "Use of your computer has been suspended by the German government due to illegal activity."  Panicked, I shut it down and restarted.  Same thing.  This time I took a closer look at the suspension notice, and realized that in 2011, bleeding heart liberalism and Sarah Palin jokes probably do not count as links to terrorism, even in Germany.  And while I'm no expert on how these things work, I am relatively sure that as a general rule, you can't buy your way out of terrorism-links for the low low price of 100 euros.  Fabulous.  ANOTHER goddamn virus.

I don't think I posted about this on here, but last week I somehow managed to contract a virus that wouldn't let me access the internet, open up anti-virus software, or do anything other than cry.  Zack, in all his amazing magical computer powers, walked me through the idiot-proof steps, then hexed my computer, crushed it under his tech-savvy iron thumb, and avada kedavra-ed the virus DEAD, all the way from America. Because that boy is amazing.

But the German government's offer to buy myself out of this bind was expiring, and it was six AM his time, so I thought maybe I could take myself back through what he had me do last time, and, if not destroy the virus's soul in a flash of dramatic green light, at least tar and feather it.  And it worked!  I killed it dead!  Where would I be if not for Zack's idiot-proof computer genius?  Dead in a ditch, I tell you, with my computer burning merrily next to me.

And that's how I destroyed the DSH exam and a computer virus, all in the same day.

And Australia lived happily ever after.

13 December 2011

Apologies and the Weekend!

Sorry for the extended absence, and by "extended," I mean "normal" for any blog that's not mine.  To recap the weekend:

Saturday was Host Dad's birthday, which meant a pizza party at our house complete with lots of small children that kept trying on my shoes and yelling at me in Hungarian.

Sunday I was ridiculously sick all day, didn't get out of bed, and watched three movies (Spiderman I and II, which I'd never seen, and Chris Hemsworth Thor, which I'd seen, but have zero problems watching again) in addition to the final two episodes of the British X-Factor.

Monday I was better, but nothing of consequence happened.

Today is Tuesday.

I have the oral part of my language test tomorrow and I am FREAKING THE FUCK OUT.

Thursday I have lots of errands to run.

Friday I leave for Portugal.

AHHH.

And on that note, here, have my favorite song of the day!  From Tim Halperin, who I knew from the internet even before his disastrous (and short-lived) run on American Idol.  Sorry, I don't know why it's so big.



Don't worry, I'll fill you all in on tomorrow's insanity.  I keep thinking, "what if I get this far, only to drop the ball at the last minute?"  And that's why I'm not sleeping tonight.

Until tomorrow!

10 December 2011

The Best Friday Ever

Hello everybody!

So I have had pretty much the best two days ever.  Thursday I had a perfect perfect jumping lesson on the crazy mare, and a singing lesson with the new lady.  She's nice, even though she makes me sing old-lady Italian arias from the seventeenth century.  She has probably never seen a musical.

Then yesterday started out with me being so nervous about my test results coming out in the afternoon, I forgot I knew how to steam rice, resulting in a stick, tasteless, highly disgusting rice mush that Host Mom graciously ate with her burnt fish, because she's awesome like that.  Then County Cork wound up spontaneously having time to kill before his 6 PM train to the airport, so I met up with him in the center of town.  About half an hour into coffee and hot chocolate, he said, "Is everything okay?  It seems like you're thinking really hard about something."  I said, "To be completely honest, my giant language test results come out in twenty-three minutes, and I'm panicking.  Do you want to go to the library with me and check out my grades?"  So that's what we did!

Aaaaaaaand...I PASSED!  Not only did I pass, I passed at the highest level (DSH-3) with the third-highest grade out of everybody!  I scored really high on everything, had almost a perfect score on reading comprehension, and failed at grammar miserably, and by miserably, I mean out of 100 points, I got 55.  But I scored so high in everything else, it was kind of okay.  Clearly my grammar is not a shambles, because you require good grammar to complete all the other sections, I'm just terrible at rewriting arbitrary sentences for no reason.  And just in case you don't believe me when I say this test was DAMN MEGA HARD, I did some math:

Out of 224 participants:

11 (including me) scored at a DSH-3 level
44 scored a DSH-2, which is the next highest level and the minimum you need to get into university.
66 scored a DSH-1, which is basically useless.
123 failed.

So when you combine all the fails with all the DSH-1s (which might as well be fails, seeing as they're basically useless), three-quarters of the participants didn't pass.

I'll take your 24,5% success rate, and I will PUNCH IT IN IT'S FACE.

Now on to the spoken part on Wednesday, and then I am done with the godforsaken test, unless I fail the verbal and have to retake everything!  YAY.

Anyway.  After I was done jumping up and down and squeaking over my test results, County Cork and I hit up the castle, which is free on Fridays, and therefore the only way you would catch me in the boring-ass museum.  We ran around like morons, making fun of the people in the portraits, playing with all the interactive children's exhibits, and inciting the ire of the museum staff, who coldly informed us that the museum insurance would not cover the damage we inflicted upon ourselves if we continued to use the floor-protecting slipper shoes they make you wear as a chance at sliding races.

After I put the boy on the train, I met up with Latvian Friend, Czech Girl, and her boyfriend, to barhop in Celle.  Hilarity ensues.  I got made fun of mercilessly because I lose the ability to speak English when I drink.

New favorite song!  This is from James Vincent McMorrow, who a) has a super hero name, and b) is Irish.  Win.


Have a great weekend all!

07 December 2011

Bad American Parenting!


I love my host parents, I really do.  They are warm-hearted, kind individuals, who pay for my health insurance, put candy from St. Nikolaus in my hot-pink stripper heels, occasionally let me drive their car, and actually like me.  But, for better of for worse, they've got a parenting style that's very...special.  They have their beliefs that they stick to, they want their child to be raised in a certain way, and they eat organic, all of which is perfectly fine.  But they're also really fond of telling me exactly where my parents fucked up raising me, and how I'm still suffering today from their parenting errors.  And it's so mind-numbingly hilarious, I can't even be offended.  Instead, I just document it. Welcome to my (long overdue) New Occasional Series, Bad American Parenting (BAP)!

Goals: 
--Make you aware of bad parenting practices.
--Demonstrate through example how you can avoid said bad parenting practices.
--Spare your children the horrors my parents inflicted on me, which have scarred me for life and made me virtually incapable of functioning in normal society.  Thanks, Mom and Dad.  Thanks.

Round 1

The scene: Host Mom and I eating lunch together.

Host Mom:  Oh, I nearly forgot!  The kids are getting dental check-ups at the kindergarten soon.
Me:  Wait...dentists go to the schools?  And give the kids their check-ups there?
Host Mom:  Of course.  And doctors do it too, that's where the kids get their vaccines.
Me:  Jesus!  The kids get shots in the school!
Host Mom:  Really not that big a deal, Tina.
Me:  Jesus.  I'm so glad I wasn't a German child, I'm terrified of needles and would have embarrassed myself in front of the whole school running away from the doctor and screaming.  I have legit panic attacks when it comes to all things medical, I get light-headed and can't see and throw up.
Host Mom:  That's because your mother socialized you poorly to the doctor.
Me:  I'm sorry, what?
Host Mom:  Had your mother done a better job of socializing you, that wouldn't happen.
Me:  Are you telling me I suffer from medical-induced panic attacks because I'm not well socialized?
Host Mom:  Yes.
Me:  Well then.


Round 2

The scene:  10 PM, sitting at the table with the host parents and family friends.  I am hungry and want a rice cake.

Me:  *sits down with rice cake smeared with peanut butter*
Family Friend:  Are you pregnant?
Me:  I'm sorry, what?
Family Friend:  Are you pregnant?
Me:  What is that supposed to mean.
Family Friend:  You're eating a rice cake with peanut butter on it.
Host Mom:  Don't worry, it's an American thing, Tina always eats weird things.
Me:  It's just a rice cake?  With peanut butter on it?
Family Friend:  You shouldn't eat at night,
Me:  I ate a slice of bread four hours ago, I'm hungry.
Host Dad:  No, really unhealthy is how the Americans always eat hot food at night.
Me:  For fuck's sake, I ate a slice of bread four hours ago.  I'm hungry.
Host Mom:  That's probably why you always stay up late, because you had hot dinners for so many years.  If your parents had fed you correctly, you wouldn't have this sleeping pattern.
Me:  Are you trying to tell me that my sleep schedule is the result of my parents putting something other than cold bread and cheese on the childhood dinner table?
Host Mom:  Yes.
Tina:  My rice cake and I are going upstairs now.

Round 2.5

The scene:  Same time, next evening.  The host parents have ordered pizza.

Me:  Ya'll realize you're eating a hot dinner, right?


Round 3

The scene:  Eating dinner with the host family

The background information:  On weekends, my host family likes to sit down at the table around 3 PM and drink tea, eat cake, and listen to music, for two hours. Unfortunately, at 3 PM in a German December, it's dark, so they light a candle. Unfortunately, sitting in the dark with only a single candle gives me a headache. Unfortunately, I am 23, American, and, after some forty-five minutes, capable of thinking of about seven million things I'd rather be doing than that.

Host Mom:  Potty training is so stupid.  Why do people do it?  If you just leave the kid long enough, they potty train themselves, but when adults try to do it, it turns the kid into nervous, anxious, wrecks.
Me:  I, along with everyone else I've ever known ever, was potty trained, and I turned out perfectly normal.
Host Dad:  Not really.  You're hyperactive.
Me:  I'm sorry, what?
Host Dad:  You're hyperactive.  You can't sit still with us for long periods of time and just enjoy the comfortable atmosphere.
Me:  ...Are you trying telling me that the reason my life is run at a slightly faster pace than yours has nothing to do with me being American, and everything to do with the fact that I was potty trained?
Host Dad:  Yes.
Me:  Wow.  Just...wow.


To recap:
I hate needles because my mom socialized me poorly.
I stay up late because my parents fed me hot food.
I run my life at a fast pace because my parents potty trained me.

Well, now you know.

Germany: Land where the people come to ridiculous conclusions.  Land where they're better at doing it than even me!

05 December 2011

Shoe Fail, Hat Win.

Apparently there's a custom with a lowercase 'c' in Germany where the night of December 5th, you clean your shoes and leave them by the door so that somebody (Santa, Jesus, Hillary Clinton, I'm not clear on this point) can come by and put candy in them.  But I came home from the barn quite late, and wasn't in the mood to clean shoes.  So I decided to be smart about the process, and put out shoes that were already clean, thereby saving me labor, time, and the embarrassment of having sparkling-white Converse sneakers.  Practical thinking?  Check.  Practical shoes? Not so check.

Here's the shoe line-up.  I bet you have NO IDEA which ones are mine.


Well, depending on what appears in them tomorrow, I can probably guess who came by.  If I get a bible, it was probably Jesus.  If I get a Democratic presidental nomination, it was probably Hillary.  If the shoes are gone, then the mystery as to whether or not Santa is a drag queen has been solved.    

In other news, sometimes, when I'm bored on the internet, I look at my own stats. Sometimes, I even learn new and amazing things.  Such as that one person has found my blog through a search for "a biography kozzii spikey flower," two with "starbucks storage room," and one particularly amazing individual with the exceedingly eloquent, "german mother fuked and boys," which I daresay sounds like the pope's Google search for free porn.

In other other news, as much as I love my Swedish hat, it's not cutting it for long distance bike-riding, German wind is just too good at diving between the woven Swedish fibers and punching me in the face  So at the Christmas market yesterday I bought a new AMAZING hat, which looks like I skinned a mammoth and put it on my head.  Win.

I'm going to Portugal in a week and a half, and Claire is coming in TWENTY DAYS OH MY GOD I'M SO EXCITED.

New favorite song of the day!  I've kind of been on a Decemberists kick lately, which means I've spent most of today bee-bopping to this:

03 December 2011

Me the Apple Juice Whore, and other Hamburg stories

HAMBURG!

Yesterday I took a 3 PM train to Hamburg, to meet up with Marina for the Johannes Strate concert.  But first, it was Christmas market time!  When Marina puts her pictures up, I am stealing them, but suffice to say, it was awesome.  I love love love the German Christmas season, because it has all of the Christmas minus the mass produced Hallmark gadgets imported from Vietnamese sweatshops.  Really, it's something to experience.  If you guys ever get the chance to check out a Christmas market in Germany, DO IT.  I drank hot chocolate, ate a fish sandwich, and argued with drunk guys who kept trying to tell me my Swedish hat isn't totally badass.  Good times!

Then, as we got off the U-Bahn on our way to the venue, we were met with something neither of us had ever encountered before: an entire police force standing at the top of the stairs, checking tickets as you walked out, and fining people for being black Tolkien riders left and right.  As you may remember from this post, Marina, Chris and I got caught without train tickets in Köln, but due to our foreign-ness, we walked (skipped) ashamedly (gaily) away, after we were collectively fined 40 Euros, and not each bitch-slapped individually with the fine.  Since then we have more or less learned our lessons, and I had purchased a ticket for this trip.  Unfortunately, I hadn't purchased enough ticket, and my ticket cost too little for the trip we had taken.  I almost had a heart attack out of principle.  When the guy said "I need your ID and forty euros," I pulled the foreign card like nobody's business, and was all "Oh, man, I tried to buy a ticket, but I misunderstood the machine!  Why am I so stupid!  Why is Fate such a fickle German mistress?  EVERYTHING IS SO HARD BECAUSE I AM FOREIGN AND SAD."  And that's how, instead of charging me forty euros, the police officer took me to the ticket machine and we bought the correct ticket together.

Being a foreigner.  Works every time.

And then it was time for the concert!  Johannes Strate has made a couple of appearances on this blog, mostly as the lead singer of Revolverheld, but now he's got a solo album out.  On top of being a super awesome musician, he also gives out wine to audience members, yells "What the FUCK" in English whenever he has tuning problems, and rocks Swedish hair.  Here, have a picture!


So other than the fact that I am buying his album, the concert was noteworthy because Marina and I were standing behind a mother/daughter tag team who looked like they were raping each other.  Not awkward or anything.

Afterwards, we hit up an Irish pub to get out of the cold and kill time before my 5 AM train back to Celle.  There, we made friends a French airline worker, who was superbly cool and assured me that the French do not hate you if you speak French at them.  In fact, they are highly appreciative.  He makes me want to go back to France, as long as I don't have to leave my french-mocking at the border. 

And then along came Drunk Old Guy (DOG?).  To be completely honest, it was my fault he sat next to us, because I offered him an empty chair at our table while he was standing there looking lost.  And I regretted it instantly, as he went on a slurred tirade about our inestimable beauty and his accounting job.  He looked to be about forty (and I had my fingers crossed he'd ask about our ages, just so I could say seventeen), but he acted like a sad drunk intern watching Apollo 13 blast off without him, and consoling himself later with the leftover fermented rocket fuel.  But I talked to him. Because I wanted an apple juice.  

Most whores work for such trivial things like money, drugs, or the temporary fantasy that they are not actually whores.  They get beaten by their pimps, a full Rolodex of STDs, and occasionally stabbed and thrown in the Delaware River.  I work for apple juice.  I was a twenty-minute verbal whore, pretending to be interested in DOG's accounting anecdotes, and acting like Marina had just said something very interesting requiring my attention in order to fend off the ask-out requests, all because I didn't feel like a) getting up to buy the apple juice, or b) buying the apple juice.  I'm sure it was a very interesting conversation we had, but I can't actually say, because while drinking apple juice, I can tune out everything.

At 3 AM we finally made our way over to the train station, where I attempted to get two hours of sleep next to a guy with a broken nose.  By the time I finally got home at 7.30 in the morning, I was operating under a warped sense of reality, brought on by a complete lack of sleep.  In my blurry, confused, and exhausted state, stupid things like trash cans and roadkill turned into meaningful Post-It notes about my life from another world, which required intense, silent stares if I wanted the full moon to reveal to me the super-secret gravestone runes, written in Odin's own hand.  Suffice to say, I more or less collapsed into bed as soon as I got home, to sleep for three wretched hours, and promptly forgot all the secrets of life I'd gotten from the roadkill.   

But then County Cork came over!  We baked pumpkin cookies, which came out delicious, and watched O Brother Where Art Thou.  Friday he heads back to Ireland for a month, and I get my DSH results, which I am superbly unexcited about.

New favorite song of the day!  Courtesy of Shane.  BRITISH THINGS.

01 December 2011

I hate German Customs

I hate German Customs.  Not lowercase customs, such as three days of Christmas, cloth shopping bags, and making unmarried forty-year-olds ride donkeys backwards through town.  I hate uppercase Customs, the German Zollamt, that controls packages and makes you pay taxes on them.

I've already run into trouble with German Customs once, when I had to pay 33 dollars in taxes on a package from my mother.  Luckily the guy I dealt with took pity on the fact that I was foreign and unaware of the policy, and only charged me half the tax he should have.  It was still annoying, but at least I learned something very important: you can order ten million dollars worth of sex toys and weaponry, as long as it's domestic, but don't let anyone send you anything from abroad that costs more than 60 dollars.

Except today I got a letter in the mail, that my friend Kim had sent me a (lovely!) necklace, that I had to pay taxes on--despite the value of the necklace on the package being under the limit.  I said the words "fuck," and "Sweden," a lot, hopped on my bike, and pedaled to the office while mentally taking out my hoop earrings and smearing my face with Vaseline.  "Hello," I said politely, "You guys are retarded."  And I explained the situation.  The same nice guy from Round 1 brought my package out of the back, and asked if it was really a gift.  "Yes," I said, "look, she even crossed out the box that says 'Gift.'"  "That doesn't mean anything," he said, "they all do that."  I looked him dead in the eye and said, "...So you're going to make me pay taxes on a gift marked as a gift that is under the gift limit because you don't believe me when I tell you it's a gift?"  We stared at each other for thirty seconds.  Then he said:

"What is your relationship to the sender?"
"We play the ukulele together."
"What's a ukulele?"
"It's like a little guitar."
"Anything else?"
"We met in Indiana."
"Where's Indiana?"
"In America.  We played Margaritaville together."
"What's Margaritaville?"
"A song by Jimmy Buffet."
"Who's Jimmy Buffet?"
"Give me the damn package or I put your face through Jimmy Buffet's guitar."

Then he made me unpack the box so that we could admire the necklace together.  He asked me what the values of the materials it was made with were.  I glared at him.  He started signing forms.

On the plus side, I got the package, I got to yell at people, I didn't pay taxes, and the necklace is beautiful, Kim!  On the down side, if any of you asshats send me sex toys or something embarrassing, and Customs makes me unpack them in front of their all-male staff, I will put your face through Jimmy Buffet's guitar.  SO DON'T GET ANY IDEAS.

Love,
Tina