29 August 2011

DANISH INTERNET!!

Internet at last, internet at last, thank God Almighty, I have internet at last!

Shamlessly corrupting the worlds of MLK Jr?  Check.  Not on the Bucket List, but it should have been.

Hello friends!  Look, I found the internet!  It took me 3 days, and I had to bike a grand total of 61 kilometers to find this stupid place.  That's 38 miles.  38 miles I biked for internet.  Jesus Christ, I have thigh muscles like fucking Goliath.  I battled insects, unmarked roads, and the setting Danish sun, and I also ran over a small frog, that's how much I love you.  And I am so glad I finally found it, because after nine days I have learned that without being able to talk to/facebook stalk you, I am really lonely.  So lonely I almost put socks on my hands and talked to them.  But not quite.

However, because upon arrival I anticipated not finding an internet cafe, I'd already prepared something special for you.  So I won't give too much away here, but I will hit you up with some interesting facts.

For starters, by virtue of my sheer and utter isolation on the Baltic Sea, Claire has somehow become my main source of American news, a fact which both saddens and highly entertains me.  But it's thanks to Claire I know you guys have all just survived an earthquake and a hurricane.  From the sounds of it, God is clearly punishing the east coast for something, my guess is the Tea Party.  If I were you, I'd start shaving the sacrificial goat's throat or something.

The weather here was beautifully hot at first.  I got sunburn and my year's worth of Vitamin D.  But I've recently come to the conclusion that I don't want wrinkles when I'm thirty, so I've liberally been applying sunscreen to my face, minimally applying it elsewhere.  This has had the unfortunate side effect of making my face a dramatically different color than the rest of me.

I thought Germans were blond, and then I came to Denmark, and then I was surrounded by sunburnt albinos.

My German language reading level is up from that of an 8 year old to that of a 12 year old.  Not bad in two months!  If this trend continues, I will be up to speed in no time.

Fun Danish keyboard letters!  å!  æ!  ø!

Last night I had a dream that Justin Bieber lost his Canadian citizenship.  Analyze that, bitches.

We have also hiked to waterfalls, climbed around castle ruins, and toured a round church, interesting only because it is round.  Biking through the Danish countryside is beautiful, but I'm ready to get abck to Germany.

And now...

Is It Gay or Is It DANISH!!

The scenario:  A guy in his mid-forties.  Tight, dark-wash jeans.  Really white shoes with hot green soles.  A pale yellow undershirt.  V-neck blue and pink striped polo, collar popped.  Jean jacket, collar popped.  Shell necklace.  Mustache waxed into two perfect curls.  He looked fabulous.       

My 30 Danish Kroner of internet time is ticking away, and I've still got to check Facebook.  I'll be back to the internet on Saturday, so hang in there my friends, and try not to die in any natural disasters! 

19 August 2011

First day of School/ Denmark

Today was Favorite Six Year Old's first day of school (ever), and it is a really big deal in Germany.  Usually, according to host mom, first days of school involve church services, concerts, and plays staged by the older kids, but FSYO goes to a really small school, as in, there are six kids in her class.  So first, we all gathered at the school where lots of pictures were taken, and children received their Schultüten--giant cone-shaped thingies filled with candy and school supplies.


Then we all went inside, where the teaches put on a short play about a cat who can't find her C.  Really a Katze who can't find her K, but I translate for you.


This was followed by a buffet lunch, and then we all went to FSYO's dad's house for more food.  FSYO was very pleased with her Silly Bandz gift, and also the pile of loot she got out of her Schultüte.

So tomorrow we're getting up at 4 AM to be in Denmark by the early afternoon.  We're staying in a rental house near the beach, that is, sadly, minus internet.  That means for the next two weeks, I have to find other things to entertain me besides facebook. Mostly I'm just sad I'm going to miss the Glee Project finale, which is tomorrow night.  Amy, DON'T TELL ME WHO WINS.

But!  Because I love you, I will hit up an internet cafe at least twice to blog about (read: make fun of) the Danes.  So please, all twelve of you that regularly read this, don't completely abandon me for the next two weeks, I promise I will get something up here.  See you for real again in September!

18 August 2011

General Life Updates

Quick Updates:

So yesterday I was off to Hannover to take the test that qualifies me to take the test that qualifies me to study in Germany.  It cost 20 Euros, lasted half an hour, and I got the result B2.  The German language levels go: A1/A2 (Beginner/Advanced Beginner), B1/B2 (Intermediate/Advanced Intermediate), and C1/C2 (Really Good/Mother of God You Might As Well Be A Native Speaker).  Host Mom is pleased with my results, because it means I'll at least be let in to take the main exam.  I am not so pleased. Two months I've been here, and I'm just a B2?  Shit.

On the plus side, I made friends with the guy giving the test, who was from Kyrgyzstan, which, if you count the Y's as consonants, has 8 of them in a row.  When I asked him where he was from originally he said "Not China," which I imagine he has to say that a lot.  Then he told me he was Kyrgyz, which is just fun to say.  Also, his native tongue is Russian (and Kyrgyz), which he demonstrated for me, and it's a bit weird seeing an Asian guy speak Russian.  I haven't even gotten used to Asians speaking native German yet.  That's not meant to sound racist, it's just that whenever I see minorities, I assume they're native English speakers, and then they turn out to be native Germans and it blows my mind.  Host Parents were disappointed that Kyrgyz friend didn't ask me out.  Sigh.

Favorite Six Year Old has her first day of school tomorrow, which is a huge deal in Germany, and we are invited because she loves me.  I am giving her the gift of Silly Bandz and my mom's pigs in a blanket.  I'm also super excited, because this is not a tradition I've ever had the chance to see.   

I took a look at my blogs stats for the first time today, and there is a Spanish-speaking blog about au pairing in France that links to me.  Hey, Spanish-speaking France au pair!  How's it going!

While I was on the page, I hit the audience button out of curiosity.  As of today, there have been 1483 views of my blog from America (that's you guys), 455 from Germany (that's me, Marina, and Dirk), 66 from Canada (that's the mounties), 32 from the UK (rioters/Shane), 24 from India (that's awesome) and 23 from Bermuda (I see you, Michael!).  There's also been quite a few from Italy and Russia, a few more from Argentina, the Ukraine, Australia, Switzerland, and Pakistan.  1 from Colombia, 2 from Singapore, 0 from Kyryzstan.  Where are these people coming from, and how are they finding me?  Hello, all you world people!  I think you're awesome!

In other news, I've recently had a couple of comments/emails/offhand remarks about my writing "style," which made me really happy because I always just assumed I was being obnoxious, but it's not obnoxiousness, it's style!  I consider myself entirely blameless for the fact that the act of typing completely negates the filter between my brain and my mouth (or hands, as the case may be).  Plus, I always imagined there was a Style to Fuck ratio, and I was terribly skewed in the wrong direction.  This assumption was further solidified after a particularly disastrous piece of writing, whereby I called Cleopatra a "mega-bitch on a pimped-out boat," and described Marc Antony as being entirely "pussy-whipped."  I thought it rather accurate.  As it turns out, on college Shakespeare finals, you're only supposed to use nice words.  Who knew?  But now I'm stylish, so bite me, humorless T.A.  And shave your face. Methink'st thou art a general offence and every man should beat thee.  Weather-beaten hedge-pig!

16 August 2011

Tests, Cards, Mustaches and IIGOIIG REVEAL!

So the crunch is beginning to start figuring out this language test so I can study.  My main problem at the moment is that the only available prep course for me to take, a) isn't very good, according to the guy who directs it, and b) would cost me somewhere in the neighborhood of a thousand dollars.  Which is a lot of money, especially when the guy in charge of it tells you that it's shit.  I appreciate the honesty, if not the price tag.

But before I can take the test that qualifies me to study in in this country, I have to take the test that qualifies me to take the test that qualifies me to study in this country.  Fuck you too, this country.

So I'm off to Hannover tomorrow morning to spontaneously take that.  Fun.

In other news, Claire just sent me two ridiculously hilarious cards, the first of which I am putting here without her permission:

Yo T-Money,

Hey Whore hope your well and that maybe your face has cleared up a little or something maybe in the future when I see you again we can be nice to each other but I guess thats a long shot because now we are compeeting EU nations and without my EU superpower status your little nation would be absorbed back into SPAIN!!!!  Ahhhahhhhh your just a wart off the coat of the internationaly known stripper pole of europe A dingleberry on the ibearian Peninsula welcome to the Whore House Bitch!!!!!

Love you
Lady Love Killah.

I miss this.  I miss you guys.  Please write me, it makes me happy.

In other other news, I invented retardedly delicious apple cinnamon pancakes today.  I listened to Doris Day while I ate them, and basked in my domestic triumph.

In other other news, here is my favorite song of the moment for you.  Aside from the lead singer's misguided attempts to grow a mustache, I am a Mumford and Sons fan. Note to British nationals (Claire), and all others: if your facial hair manifests itself as a Hitler 'stache, do the world a favor and scrap it.  Contrary to popular belief, that's not a look I need to see on the cover of GQ.  Love, Tina.


And now, the moment you've all been waiting for!  Remember this post, when I spotted a guy completed coordinated in powder blue in Berlin, and asked you all whether it was gay or German?  You all chimed in that he was, without a doubt, gay.  Well I have news for you, folks, he had his hands down some girls pants.  A full-time girl's pants, no less.

Thus, the IIGOIIG scoreboard is as follows:

German: 1
Crazy and Homeless: 1
Gay: 0
In Denial: 1

12 August 2011

The Worst Bedtime Story Ever.

Okay.  So.  First things first, reading, as in, me doing it.  To improve my German language reading skills, I started with picture books, and I've been working my way up from there.  Currently I'm reading at an 8 year old level.  Whatever.  Anyway, the point is, I just finished a really famous German children's book, and it was so horrendously sad, I don't know what to do with myself.  The book is called Die Brüder Löwenherz (The Brothers Lionheart), and let me break it down for you.

Chapter 1:  Younger Lionheart brother is really sick, and overhears that he's going to die soon.  His older brother makes him feel better by describing, in great detail, a land called Nangijala, where everything is perfect and beautiful and no one has any troubles.  So basically, heaven.  Then there's a fire, older brother carries sick brother out on his shoulders, saves his life...and then dies.

Chapter 2:  Sick brother is really sad about his brother dying.  Then he dies.

Chapter 3:  Both brothers reunite in Nangijala where everything is awesome until suddenly, it's not.  Because some big bad guy is being tyrannical the next village over, and they have to go stop him.

Chapter 4-Penultimate Chapter:  Lots of espionage, brothers saving prisoners, organizing an underground resistance to the bad guy, and then finally, fighting the bad guy.  Half their friends die, but they win.  But oh shit, look there's a giant bad dragon we need to get rid of, but it's okay, we have this magic horn that controls it, at least until we accidentally drop it into this river.  Shit.  Dragon chases the brothers, until it finally falls over a waterfall, gets into a fight with another monster, and they both kill each other.

Last Chapter:  Older brother realizes he can't move all of a sudden.  Because, while running from the dragon, he came in contact with the dragon's Super Paralyzing Until Fatal Breath.  Younger brother is like what the fuck I thought we were already in heaven, now what?  Older brother is all, don't worry, there's conveniently another heaven for if you die in this one.  It's called Nangilima.  That's where I'm going. Younger brother says he's coming too, but we have to take our horses with us because we are really attached to them.  No can do, says older brother, they died when you weren't looking.  So the younger brother picks up the older brother, slings him across his shoulders, and they jump off a cliff.

The End.

This is a children's book.

Jesus.

In other news, I am on a Bucket List streak this week, because I have just crossed off number 8, "stall out my manual transmission in a highly inconvenient place."  For the record, I have already done this numerous times, but I was waiting for Fate to kick me in the face with a really, really bad one.  Like today, when I was attempting to park in a parking garage (problem number one: I really hate them), and stalled out going up an absurdly steep ramp, with a million cars behind me.  Luckily, as soon as I started inadvertently reversing, they all backed up.  I first geared in the wrong direction, all the way back down the ramp.  I was successful the second time around, but when I got out of the car, my hands were shaking.  So I bought chocolate and made myself feel better.

Also, today I made chicken pot pie from scratch it was AWESOME.  I even successfully chopped up the deboned, deskinned chicken breast without a problem.  I also made a super epic blanket fort with the child.

I did not jump off a cliff.

The End.

P.S.  We'll be gone this weekend visiting host dad's family, but have a fabulous weekend my friends!

11 August 2011

A Beautiful Day

Today was a beautiful, beautiful day.  The sky was bright blue, the clouds looked happy and fluffy chilling up there in the sky.  The sun was out.  The breeze was just right, the air cool and crisp and smelling like leaves.  There was a lovely light rain shower in the late afternoon, the kind of rain that makes you happy when you walk through it.  I drank a hot chocolate in front of the open window.  It was a perfectly perfect November day.

What?  What?  What's that you say?  You mean it's only the beginning of August?

Well, fuck me then.

08 August 2011

A Collection of Hamburg Stories

Hold on to your hats my friends, cuz I gots stories.  Instead if doing a general rundown of the day, which is my usual plan of attack, I'm going to divide the stories so there's no confusion.

The Portuguese Consulate Story

So I hitched a ride into Hamburg this morning (he was very nice) and immediately hunted down the Portuguese consulate.  I arrived at 11.30, and was immediately instructed in Portuguese to write down my name, my business, and sit my ass down in the waiting room.  So I did.  And waited.  And waited.  For two and a half hours.  It was absolutely miserable, and I'd forgotten to bring a book, so I just stared at a wall and stewed in my own anxiety juices while I waited for them to kick me out.  The people around me, all Portuguese, were absolutely insane.  At one point, there was a guy right in front of me rubbing up really awkwardly on his morbidly obese wife, while his thirteen year old son really, really awkwardly rubbed up on him.  Then on my right, another couple was awkwardly feeding each other oreos over their sleeping baby, while to my left, a girl was awkwardly swishing the ratty end of her ponytail around on her boyfriend's face.  And I just wanted to stand up and scream "ALL OF YOU GO HAVE SEX SOMEWHERE AND LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE.  YOU TOO, YOU WEIRD INCESTUOUS FAMILY OVER THERE."

In the movies, this is the point when I would have been called in, but it wasn't, I waited another hour.  With my free time, and to distract myself from Incest Family, I started planning my lies.  Everybody and their mother knows that I am a horrible, horrible liar, BUT if I have enough time in advance to rehearse my lies until I make myself believe them, I'm practically CIA worthy.  So I had my whole story worked out: my cousins had invited me to live with them right outside of Coimbra, where I could take an intensive Portuguese-language course over the summer and start school there in the fall.  It was brilliant, and the lady I dealt with absolutely believed me, was 200% supportive, and didn't even give me shit about how we did everything in German. Everything from there on out was easy as pie.  I got signed up for an ID card (which I have to pick up in person next month) which was great.  But for one terrifying minute, I thought my story was going to go up in smoke, when this happened:

Lady:  So, would you like a security number?
Me:  A what?
Lady:  A security number, for when you live in Portugal.  Normally I don't recommend that people get them, since they all stay in Germany, but since you're planning on moving back to Motherland, you should have one.
Me:  (Fuckfuckfuckfuck)...Please, dear lady, tell me about this security number!

As it turns out, it's okay.  I don't have to pay for it, and it's just basically them putting me in the computer, in the event that I move to Portugal and take out an insurance policy there.  As long as I don't activate my insurance in Portugal, the number just sits on my card to remind me that I'm in the system.  And since the Portuguese health care system is absolute shite, that number is going to stay asleep forever.


The Bakery Story


With something of a high going just from standing up after nearly three hours of sitting in a chair, I eagerly bounded out of the consulate and looked around for something to eat.  Because it occurred to me, somewhere around 2 pm, that I hadn't eaten anything since 7 am, and my low blood sugar was punching me in the temples.  So I got out onto the main street, and there I beheld a beautiful site.  Cherubs sang, the gates of Heaven opened up, and I laid my eyes on a Starbucks.  But no, I sighed to myself.  I'm trying not to be American.  So I turned around and walked into the City Bakery. Looking at all my options, I started planning and grammatically correcting my order in my head, but there was Starbucks out of the corner of my eye, singing Handel's Messiah.  "No, Starbucks, not today," I said.  I got in line.  I decided on a croissant with jelly.  Oh, and a hot chocolate.  The girl at the counter looked up.  She opened her mouth, and I could see her lips forming around the words to call me over.  And I thought: Fuck this shit.  I just sat in the Portuguese consulate for two and a half hours, lied through my teeth, and tried not to stare at the incest that was going on right before my fucking eyes.  I have earned the right to be fucking American for twenty fucking minutes.  Fuck you, bakery.  And I marched right out, crossed the street, and triumphantly ordered myself a blueberry muffin and a vanilla bean frappuccino.  It cost me almost 10 US dollars, but I ate it and it was glorious.


The Walking Around Hamburg Story


Not really a story.  I had time to kill between when the consulate freed me and when my ride was leaving, so I ran around the city a bit.  Terrible weather, but I saw some attractive buildings, a nice church, and a horrendously terrifying statue in the harbor that I did not take a picture of, but found on the internet to frighten you.  Enjoy.







The Bucket List Story, Part I

Well Sam Barry, when I got in the car with my rideshare on the way home, he asked where I was from.  I said the US.  The whole car turned to stare at me in silence, until finally one guy said "No you're not."  "Yes I am."  "No, you're not."  "Yes, I am.  And I have my passport on my person if you want to see it."  They didn't say what ethnicity they mistook me as, but they clearly mistook me for something, so I'm counting it. That's 3 that I've been confused for, and only 3 more before I've fulfilled the Bucket List obligation!


The Bucket List Story, Part II, or: How I Gave My Flower Away

I was sitting in Hannover, waiting for my second ride share guy to pick me up, when two men in their fifties walked up to me.  The one said "What are you...wait.  Don't move," and promptly ran back inside the train station.  I looked at his friend and raised an eyebrow, but his friend shrugged and said nothing.  A few minutes later, the first guy came back out of the station, this time holding a white rose.  "A gift for you," he said.  "What is this for?" I asked.  "You look like you needed a flower.  A woman should never wait alone without a flower."  He smiled at me through his bad teeth, and I smiled back and said, "That's very kind of you.  It's lovely."  He said goodbye, and walked away.  

I stared at it for a few minutes, and then the light bulb went off in my brain and I was really excited.  Because, for those of you who have really excellent memories, task number 3 on the Bucket List reads: Give a stranger a flower.  Which, if you have retardedly amazing memories, was inspired by this occurence from Konstanz, when a Persian girl on the bus gave me a rose after we'd randomly bonded over how difficult it is to be a foreigner sometimes.  Clearly, I thought to myself, the universe is trying to tell me something.  With this random white rose that I have just received, I am meant to do good and complete a Bucket List task: give my flower away.  

Stop laughing, assholes.

Anyway, when I got to the main train station in Hannover, I eagerly looked around for someone I could give my rose to.  An old lady, I thought, who's having a bad day, or perhaps a couple on their way to reconnect in some distant city.  I tried to give away my goddamn flower to not one, not two, but FOUR people, and no one would take it. The first two old ladies stared at me like I was insane, and didn't even say anything. The couple angrily said, "We don't own a vase," and stormed off in the other direction, like I'd insulted their parents rather than offered them a flower.  So it was with a heavy heart that I boarded the train back to Celle.

"All I want to do is give my flower away, but nobody wants it," I said to myself. "Maybe I'm supposed to keep it."  But then the rain finally broke, and a lovely rainbow lit up the sky, and I said, "If I were the double rainbow guy, I would say: what does this mean? And then I would answer: it means I'm supposed to give my flower away."  I briefly debated handing it to the guy sitting next to me (dressed in all black, probably hates flowers), and dropping it as I went past the old lady a few rows up, then running when she tried to give it back to me (too much risk it would stay on the floor).  Then it occurred to me: I should take my flower into town, locate a female bike, and drop it into the bike basket.  But not stick around to watch the unsuspecting girl find it, of course, that would be almost as creepy as putting it in her basket in the first place. Upon reaching this conclusion, the sky once again lit up with a giant piece of vertical rainbow over the Hannover skyline, and I said, "Double rainbow guy, you might be on to something.  The universe thinks this is a good idea."

So, I took my flower into Celle, located a bike clearly belonging to a woman, dropped the flower into her basket, and ran.  It was so clean and professional, it was like a drive-by shooting, minus the shooting.  I went home content that I had fulfilled my Bucket List task.

And that, my friends, is how I gave away my flower: silently, covertly, and to someone who was totally unwilling.

Stop laughing, assholes.  This is serious shit.

05 August 2011

Au Pair Fail Round 2

So against all odds, the sun came out this morning and I said to myself "Damn the seventy-degree weather, I'm wearing shorts."  It's much easier to shave in the upstairs bathroom, so there I went.  However, it doesn't have a shower curtain.  Also, the door doesn't lock.  I failed to barricade it.  Child barged in, and I, half-shaven, had to convince him to get out.  But I learned something about myself: nakedly reasoning with a two-year old is not one of my strong suits.

This all happening, of course, less than twenty-four hours after he got into my underwear drawer and started putting my bras on his head, while dancing and yelling "This is my hat!  This is my hat!"

Au Pair fail.

I don't think his parent expected him to see that for a few years, but it is Europe, so who knows.

In other news, we're going to Berlin this weekend.  Unfortunately all my Berlin friends are away, but I really hope the one gets back from France in time to hang out with me. Have a lovely weekend, my friends.  Keep your clothes on.

03 August 2011

CV stands for Cry/Vomit

Before we get started, allow me to say I'm never having children.  Or if I do, I'm going to wait until genetic engineering is morally questionable enough to let me pick my child's gender.  At which point I will test tube myself a girl, because I never want to hear the phrase "Look!  I broke my penis!" come out of anybody's mouth ever again. 

Back to your regularly scheduled programming:

Just when I think I'm comfortable, culture shock punches me in the kidney with another piece of joy.  The name of the game is Grad School Applications.

Unfortunately, I've been really, really procrastinating  on starting because I've just kind of been stuck in this little black anxiety hole which eats me whenever I try to kick myself out of it.  I'd told myself that I would start applications July 1st, but that didn't happen, then August 1st, but that didn't happen, until finally, last night, I had a dream that I missed going to school because I didn't get my application on time.  Fine, subconscious.  You win.  Crack the whip and I listen. 

So today I sat down and wrote my CV.  I spent like two hours on this stupid thing, making it all sorts of hella-impressive, and I was feeling particularly pleased with myself when Host Mom at dinner casually threw out a "If I were you, I would do my CV in German."  "But Host Mom," said I, "it says an English one is fine."  To which Host Mom replied: "Do you want to look like an American?"  Fine, Host Mom.  You win. Crack the whip and I listen.

I went back, and dutifully translated by CV into German, rearranging everything to be in German format and re-making it look hella-impressive.  I sat Host Mom in front of it to look over, and it went like this:

"Why, Tina, you are amazing!  I only made one or two grammatical changes, but other than that, it's perfect!  You're fabulous!  You will most definitely get into grad school! Look how good you are at managing your life!  Congratulations!  May I blow more sunshine up your nether regions with this giant bellows that I have conveniently in my pocket?"

At least, that is what I pictured in my mind.  What actually happened was she took one look at it, went into Host Dad's office, came out with his CV and said, "Yours doesn't look like this.  And it has to."  I debated crying.  Because Host Dad's CV is, hands down, is the sleekest, sexiest piece of resume engineering that has ever graced the planet.  It's like a Lamborghini and Jesus sat down, got drunk, and made an illegitimate baby, which then goes on to slay so many dragons, save so many chaste virgins, and retrieve so many Holy Grails, that it's inherent bastard-ness is completely overlooked when it's crowned King of Everything and Your Mother.  A 500-year long reign, the last anyone can remember--a time of peace, prosperity, and well-paying jobs.  It's printed on expensive paper and bound, for crying out loud.  Who the fuck binds their resume? 

So Host Mom went through it with me, and we set about the giant task of making mine look, if not like Host Dad's CV, at least like it's smaller, nobby-kneed brother, who retreats to a monastery to get really fat and make beer all day.  It's still not finished. Neither is the beer.

Objectively, I know the American and German CVs are two different beasts, but I was surprised to find myself shriveling up on the inside (at best), and downright resenting (at  worst) some of the changes we made.  The American CV loves some padding. The German CV does not.  The American CV embellishes a little bit.  The German CV requires proof of everything.  The American CV loves to talk about the process of getting to the end result--all the ways you were creative, innovative, and generally fucking awesome to get the result you did, and why no one else can do it like you. The German CV took two paragraphs of lovingly translated text about how clever I was, and reduced it to three stark bullet points, each consisting of about six words.  And with each evil click of the backspace button, I hated the German CV a little more.

The German CV is, for lack of a better word, really, really German.  It's short, it's blunt, it's to the point.  It's all "This is what I did, these are the exact dates I did it on, and this OCD formatting heaven."

I am trying not to take the German CV personally--after all, it wasn't me we deleted, it was only all the extra padding and truth-stretching that comes equipped on even the most basic models of the American version.  But it irritates me that naked men can cavort across my tv screen in the middle of the afternoon, but if I say I studied race theory in college, I sound like a Nazi and I have to pick another topic.  Also, the fact that the German CV requires a head shot up against an attractive, natural background, deeply, deeply offends me and I don't even know why.  But whatever.  Fine Germany. You win.  Crack the whip and I listen. 

Thus do my grad school applications progress.  Slowly, and with lots of kicking and screaming on my part.  I figure if worst comes to worst and my box under the bridge is taken, I can always retreat to a monastery to get fat and make beer.  There are far worse ways I could turn out--like a crackwhore, for example.