Dear Everyone: Friends, Family, Acquaintances, Aliens, Sirens, Mermaids, Sphinxes, Greater and Lesser Demons, Unicorns, Sea Monsters, Cherubs, Imps, Zombies, and the like,
Hello!
In the very cornery technological multiverse that is the internet, this is my particular corner. I claimed this place in the name of King George way back in 2008, when I studied abroad for the first time. Blogness continued during my 2009 trip to Bolivia, and then again as I traveled around the US in 2011, culminating in a move to Germany in June. This blog has been a part of my life since way back in the day.
On that note, here are some things you should probably know about this blog:
1) There's a way you talk to your employers, your parents, your teachers, your close friends, your children, your distant friends, your significant other, homeless people, people in stores, ad infinitum. In our daily lives, we switch between speech patterns and the way we present ourselves without even realizing it. Some anthropologists actually study this switching between codes. They call the phenomenon "code-switching." I have no idea why.
But you should know in the electrical box of this internet corner, the switch marked "friend" is always, always on. I can't help it. I'm American, and we have a seriously loose definition of the world "friend." If you don't count yourself among my friends, or don't want to be spoken to as I would speak to a friend, please refer to number 5 of this list for the best course of action.
2) In person, there is a pretty solid censor between what goes on in my brain, and what comes out of my mouth. As I have stated on here numerous times, this censor is more or less completely negated by the act of typing. In my brain, not only does sarcasm reign with an iron gauntlet, it has a tendency to double fist brass knuckles and amuse itself by grinding together said brass knuckles to create sparks.
That being said, sarcasm has only two rules: use lots of big words, and over-exaggerate. Virtually everything you will ever read here ever is an over-exaggeration (unless it's pertaining to SHBF, in which case, there is no such thing as an over-exaggeration). I think, speak, and dream in over-exaggerations. If you are not a fan of sarcasm, over-exaggeration, or double fisting brass knuckles, please refer to number 5 of this list for the best course of action.
3) This blog is part travelogue, part humorlogue, part bakeologue. Basically, this blog is my life, in a blog. If you don't know me, then you should know that I am virtually incapable of taking anything seriously, not even Really Serious Events, like, events that are SO serious, they get capital letters. I see irony in things that are not ironic, and humor in things that are not humorous. On top of that, the anthropologist in me is at all times conscience of my own cultural views, and the child in me is incapable of sitting still. This means I skip through my life observing the way my own culture and worldview clash with the cultures and worldviews around me, and then--I mean, let's be honest, if you can't laugh at yourself, who can you laugh at?--I make fun of the resulting awkwardness and ridiculousness. I poke fun at everything and everyone around me to throw into relief how I myself am challenged to change, grow, and expand my horizons on a daily basis. I make fun of everything to make fun of myself. This blog is me, making fun of myself.
You should also know that one time, at my grandfather’s funeral, my uncle stood outside the church and made virgin jokes. So if I can’t take my life seriously, you can probably at least partially blame my bad genes. If you are not a fan of self-effacing silliness, a lighthearted view of the world, or virgin jokes, please refer to number 5 of this list for the best course of action.
4) With very few exceptions, nobody who makes an appearance on my blog is referred to by their real names. This is the internet after all, and contrary to popular belief, I am not an idiot. I give everyone nicknames, usually based on their nationality, or something particularly awesome or amazing they have done or said. For example, one of my roommates from 2008 is referred to here as "Vegemite," because, prepare for your mind to be blown...she loved Vegemite.
If you are not a fan of badass nicknames, please refer to number 5 of this list for the best course of action.
5) Thank you for referring to number 5 of this list for the best course of action.
If you are truly, deeply, personally offended by anything I write, I recommend you tell me. We're all friends here (remember the electrical box?), and I hate it when my friends are upset. Just be like, "Yo bitch, fix yo shit," and I will fix my shit. Because, and let's take a good, hard look at this--if you want to read this and be really angry about it and not say anything and stew in your own anger juices, that's your prerogative, but the only blood boiling is your own. Whereas you could just say "Bitch, fix yo shit," I could fix my shit, and everyone could be happy.
If you are truly, deeply, personally offended by anything I write here but for whatever reason still don't feel like telling me, I suggest you make yourself feel better. You can do this like so:
a) Breathe in.
b) Breathe out.
c) Take off the angry goggles.
d) Exit blog.
e) Read something else that doesn't make you want to stab yourself in the eye. The gods may have seen fit to grace you with a spare, Dilios, but Leonidas would prefer you kept both.
f) Burn me in effigy (optional step).
If you do all of these things, but also want to fill the gaping void in your soul left by your irritation with me, I encourage you to read one of these other blogs, which may help you on your way to feeling better. These are high-quality, well-written, serious-minded blogs that are meant to be taken extremely literally. Unlike the crap I spew here.
http://www.teapartypatriots.org/
http://www.ricksantorum.com/
http://www.theonion.com/
Peace, love, and fixing shit,
Tina
28 February 2012
26 February 2012
The World's Most Awkward Move-In
When you're me, life happens as awkwardly as possible. Usually this involves unintentionally embarrassing myself in social situations or making friends with strange Ghanaian men in the Frankfurt train station who follow me for the rest of the night*. But when you're me moving for the first time, you do it in awkward STYLE.
*this is a true story
I had two main problems when it came to moving. First, I arrived in Germany with two suitcases, a ukulele, and a bookbag, all of which could happily be stashed in the cargo hold of an airplane, or under my seat. However, while packing, I discovered that in the night, everything I owned had bred like bunnies, and I was leaving with two suitcases, two bookbags, a ukulele, a guitar, five big boxes, and numerous plastic bags. The second problem was that one of my barn friends gave me a bunch of furniture. Which in itself was not a problem, the problem mostly just had to do with transporting said furniture from Point A to B.
Now my host parents had graciously offered to take my stuff to my new apartment, but the furniture just didn't fit in the car. I briefly considered renting a truck, but they're so ridiculously expensive in and of themselves, not including gas, which is currently priced at nine dollars a gallon. Yes. So I asked around my army friends, to see if there was anything with a car big enough for all my crap and my furniture, and the Zimbabwean volunteered. Which was all well and good, except he has a super sexy car that is designed for a good many things (going fast, being shiny, picking up chicks), but not very well suited to other things (being loaded up with nine million boxes, containing furniture longer than the car itself, being a truck). Which brings us to another problem: I had never actually seen the furniture in question, and when he asked me how big it was, I guessed. Optimistically.
Lesson number one: Positive Thinking Cannot Vanquish The Laws Of Physics.
So, he and another Brit pulled up at the house yesterday morning, and we loaded the car up. At which point we discovered that even without the furniture, the car was riding so low to the ground that the suspension was threatening to commit suicide and bury itself in the asphalt in subcompact protest. We pulled (scraped) up to my barn friend's house, her dad starting bringing out pieces of the furniture, and it became quickly apparent that, short of breaking the windows, there was no way the furniture was going to fit.
Lesson number two: Know How Big Your Furniture Is.
We needed a new plan like yesterday. For about five minutes I just sat on the curb panicking, and then I remembered that the night before, one of my other barn friends had told me to call her if for whatever reason we couldn't make everything fit. So that's what I did. Her response: "Don't worry, I'll drive you! Come to the barn, I'll hitch up my car to the horse trailer, and while I'm finishing up, you guys can load all the stuff in the back."
Yes, that's right. My stuff was getting moved in a horse trailer. If you can think of anything more hilariously badass, and completely appropriate, let me know. In the meantime, I'm just going to sit here and be retardedly grateful the universe blessed me with friends in possession of horse trailers.
So, I headed over to the barn, the trailer got hitched up, and then she handed me the keys, gave me directions, and said "Don't forget the trailer is wider than the car itself."
Lesson number three: Be Thankful For Your Trailer Driving Experience.
But I've never driven a trailer before!
Lesson number four: Now Would Be A Good Time To Have Trailer Driving Experience.
The Brits followed me in their car, and they said later they were laughing at me the whole time. I drove in the middle of the street, never left first gear, and took my turns like a whale, but I DID IT. We loaded up all my things in the back, and then the Brits headed out. They wanted to stay the weekend in Göttingen, so they went on ahead to book a hotel and run around while I waited for my barn friends. After a while, everyone arrived, and we hopped in the car and off we went.
The ride over was a crap ton of fun, because we discussed everything from Stephen Hawking to the Jurassic Park movies to the upcoming end of the world--which according to Germany is going to happen as a massive flood. Which I had never heard of, but was very interested by. I know in the US we always talk about 2012, but do we discuss the means by which the world will end? In any case, it's quite possible Germany knows something we don't, so you guys might want to start looking into practical matters, like how much an arc costs, or what giraffes eat.
The best part, though, was pulling up onto my tiny street with a horse trailer. People were actually coming outside to stare at us, and I couldn't stop giggling. We carried everything up two flights of stairs, and even somehow managed to put all the furniture together. Then there were lots of hugs involved, and they left.
I briefly tried to organize my life, but quickly realized two things: 1) That I had more things than space to put said things, and 2) that I desperately needed to buy shelves. So I resigned myself to the chaos, and went food shopping with my roommate. Afterwards, we met up with the Brits in town and went out to an Irish pub, which was a pretty amazing time. In the course of the conversation, we learned that American accents are apparently attractive, Göttingen does not hate British soldiers, and the Zimbabwean speaks three Zimbabwean languages, one of which clicks, one of which whistles, and one of which clicks and whistles, which was so cool, I couldn't deal.
This morning, I organized some more, and then the Brits came over to hang out with me and my roommate. We drank tea and ate banana bread, it was awesome. They're planning on coming back in April, which I am hugely excited about.
Here, have some pictures of my room! I'll put up other pictures once it stops looking like a bomb went off.
*this is a true story
I had two main problems when it came to moving. First, I arrived in Germany with two suitcases, a ukulele, and a bookbag, all of which could happily be stashed in the cargo hold of an airplane, or under my seat. However, while packing, I discovered that in the night, everything I owned had bred like bunnies, and I was leaving with two suitcases, two bookbags, a ukulele, a guitar, five big boxes, and numerous plastic bags. The second problem was that one of my barn friends gave me a bunch of furniture. Which in itself was not a problem, the problem mostly just had to do with transporting said furniture from Point A to B.
Now my host parents had graciously offered to take my stuff to my new apartment, but the furniture just didn't fit in the car. I briefly considered renting a truck, but they're so ridiculously expensive in and of themselves, not including gas, which is currently priced at nine dollars a gallon. Yes. So I asked around my army friends, to see if there was anything with a car big enough for all my crap and my furniture, and the Zimbabwean volunteered. Which was all well and good, except he has a super sexy car that is designed for a good many things (going fast, being shiny, picking up chicks), but not very well suited to other things (being loaded up with nine million boxes, containing furniture longer than the car itself, being a truck). Which brings us to another problem: I had never actually seen the furniture in question, and when he asked me how big it was, I guessed. Optimistically.
Lesson number one: Positive Thinking Cannot Vanquish The Laws Of Physics.
So, he and another Brit pulled up at the house yesterday morning, and we loaded the car up. At which point we discovered that even without the furniture, the car was riding so low to the ground that the suspension was threatening to commit suicide and bury itself in the asphalt in subcompact protest. We pulled (scraped) up to my barn friend's house, her dad starting bringing out pieces of the furniture, and it became quickly apparent that, short of breaking the windows, there was no way the furniture was going to fit.
Lesson number two: Know How Big Your Furniture Is.
We needed a new plan like yesterday. For about five minutes I just sat on the curb panicking, and then I remembered that the night before, one of my other barn friends had told me to call her if for whatever reason we couldn't make everything fit. So that's what I did. Her response: "Don't worry, I'll drive you! Come to the barn, I'll hitch up my car to the horse trailer, and while I'm finishing up, you guys can load all the stuff in the back."
Yes, that's right. My stuff was getting moved in a horse trailer. If you can think of anything more hilariously badass, and completely appropriate, let me know. In the meantime, I'm just going to sit here and be retardedly grateful the universe blessed me with friends in possession of horse trailers.
So, I headed over to the barn, the trailer got hitched up, and then she handed me the keys, gave me directions, and said "Don't forget the trailer is wider than the car itself."
Lesson number three: Be Thankful For Your Trailer Driving Experience.
But I've never driven a trailer before!
Lesson number four: Now Would Be A Good Time To Have Trailer Driving Experience.
The Brits followed me in their car, and they said later they were laughing at me the whole time. I drove in the middle of the street, never left first gear, and took my turns like a whale, but I DID IT. We loaded up all my things in the back, and then the Brits headed out. They wanted to stay the weekend in Göttingen, so they went on ahead to book a hotel and run around while I waited for my barn friends. After a while, everyone arrived, and we hopped in the car and off we went.
The ride over was a crap ton of fun, because we discussed everything from Stephen Hawking to the Jurassic Park movies to the upcoming end of the world--which according to Germany is going to happen as a massive flood. Which I had never heard of, but was very interested by. I know in the US we always talk about 2012, but do we discuss the means by which the world will end? In any case, it's quite possible Germany knows something we don't, so you guys might want to start looking into practical matters, like how much an arc costs, or what giraffes eat.
The best part, though, was pulling up onto my tiny street with a horse trailer. People were actually coming outside to stare at us, and I couldn't stop giggling. We carried everything up two flights of stairs, and even somehow managed to put all the furniture together. Then there were lots of hugs involved, and they left.
I briefly tried to organize my life, but quickly realized two things: 1) That I had more things than space to put said things, and 2) that I desperately needed to buy shelves. So I resigned myself to the chaos, and went food shopping with my roommate. Afterwards, we met up with the Brits in town and went out to an Irish pub, which was a pretty amazing time. In the course of the conversation, we learned that American accents are apparently attractive, Göttingen does not hate British soldiers, and the Zimbabwean speaks three Zimbabwean languages, one of which clicks, one of which whistles, and one of which clicks and whistles, which was so cool, I couldn't deal.
This morning, I organized some more, and then the Brits came over to hang out with me and my roommate. We drank tea and ate banana bread, it was awesome. They're planning on coming back in April, which I am hugely excited about.
Here, have some pictures of my room! I'll put up other pictures once it stops looking like a bomb went off.
And...that's all I got! Have a wonderful day all!
23 February 2012
Speaking of epic!
So, I was Skyping today with the Other American, and this was our conversation:
"When do you get to Göttingen?"
"Saturday."
"And what do you have planned for March?"
"Nothing. Hang around, explore, fill out a lot of paperwork, and matriculate, all of which takes approximately a week."
"Hold on. I have a plan."
Then she disappeared. Half an hour later, she was back with this piece of awesome:
"So I just talked to the South African, and he just talked to the Zimbabwean, and...want to go to Amsterdam for a weekend?"
HELLS YES I DO!
Aaaaand...that's the new plan! We are roadtripping to AMSTERDAM! How ridiculously awesome is that! Right now we're looking at the first weekend in March, because it works for both the South African (his job on the base has him working 8 days straight, followed by 4 days free), and the Zimbabwean, who has a long weekend after coming back from exercise.
ZOINKS EXCITEMENT!
Clogs and prostitutes,
Tina
P.S. New favorite song of the day! More Ed Sheeran. And the video has Ron Weasley in it!
"When do you get to Göttingen?"
"Saturday."
"And what do you have planned for March?"
"Nothing. Hang around, explore, fill out a lot of paperwork, and matriculate, all of which takes approximately a week."
"Hold on. I have a plan."
Then she disappeared. Half an hour later, she was back with this piece of awesome:
"So I just talked to the South African, and he just talked to the Zimbabwean, and...want to go to Amsterdam for a weekend?"
HELLS YES I DO!
Aaaaand...that's the new plan! We are roadtripping to AMSTERDAM! How ridiculously awesome is that! Right now we're looking at the first weekend in March, because it works for both the South African (his job on the base has him working 8 days straight, followed by 4 days free), and the Zimbabwean, who has a long weekend after coming back from exercise.
ZOINKS EXCITEMENT!
Clogs and prostitutes,
Tina
P.S. New favorite song of the day! More Ed Sheeran. And the video has Ron Weasley in it!
19 February 2012
American Style Fails
This morning I went out for breakfast with Favorite Seven Year Old, her sister, and her dad. They'd found an American Style diner in Hannover, and invited me along for the full experience. And it was awesome and a really fun time, but it got me thinking about what "American Style" in Germany actually means.
I love any and all things branded "American Style," namely because American Style looks so different from what's actually American. It's almost like going to one of the countries in Epcot: a a packaged, plastic version of the country that's so over the top, it goes off the culture charts and into the Land of Make-Believe. It takes culture and turns it into a commodity, a brandable, marketable, sellable, edible thing. But American Style is not just any old thing, oh no. This thing has some very important, very selective qualities, which differentiate it from all other things. Lucky for you, I've had enough personal experience with such things to break it down for all of you happily cocooned in your American Style lives.
In order for something to qualify as American Style, it must have some particular attributes which set it apart. It must:
1) Be Boxed in Pride.
America is an economic and social mess. Inequality is the new black. The Confederacy never got over losing the war. Now take that America-Is-The-Best-Country-On-Earth shit, and wrap your food in it.
2) Contain as Many Images of the Statues of Liberty as it Takes to Get the Point Across, Dammit.
Not only is your product American, it's SO American that even Lady Liberty, patron saint of immigrants, French people, and Fievel, endorses it. And she does not fuck around. She wants you to give her your tired, your poor, and your insufferable seekers of authentic microwave pizza.
3) Resemble Actual American Food as Little as Possible.
Now in a jar:
That you have it. That's Germany's take on American Style. It's many things, none of it American. And breakfast? Breakfast was...adorably awesome. The girls loved it!
In other news I decided to go on a really long bike ride, because it was briefly sunny out. An hour away from my house, it started hailing--really, really, hailing. Which was actually pretty cool for a couple minutes, until hail bullets starting bouncing off my jacket and into my corneas. At which point I figured I'd just pull over into a bus hut and wait out the hail, but then I noticed that all the hail my eyes had been spitting out was collecting on my bike seat. Where it quickly melted, thus giving me the general appearance of one who has recently drunk seven gallons of Red Bull and was too amped up to bother thinking about finding a bathroom other than the one conveniently labeled "My Pants." So I didn't pull over, I biked like a champion through the hail and laughed about it all the way home.
New favorite song of the day! Still on a mega Ed Sheeran kick, so here we go:
I love any and all things branded "American Style," namely because American Style looks so different from what's actually American. It's almost like going to one of the countries in Epcot: a a packaged, plastic version of the country that's so over the top, it goes off the culture charts and into the Land of Make-Believe. It takes culture and turns it into a commodity, a brandable, marketable, sellable, edible thing. But American Style is not just any old thing, oh no. This thing has some very important, very selective qualities, which differentiate it from all other things. Lucky for you, I've had enough personal experience with such things to break it down for all of you happily cocooned in your American Style lives.
In order for something to qualify as American Style, it must have some particular attributes which set it apart. It must:
1) Be Boxed in Pride.
America is an economic and social mess. Inequality is the new black. The Confederacy never got over losing the war. Now take that America-Is-The-Best-Country-On-Earth shit, and wrap your food in it.
Things that are not ironically named: this.
Don't actually taste like brownies.
Too Much Flaggage For "Marsh"
Not only is your product American, it's SO American that even Lady Liberty, patron saint of immigrants, French people, and Fievel, endorses it. And she does not fuck around. She wants you to give her your tired, your poor, and your insufferable seekers of authentic microwave pizza.
Oh, "Hawaii" doesn't do it? Have you considered arbitrarily picking a state not actually known for it's pizza, and using that instead?
YOU GUYS THINK OF EVERYTHING.
Now in a jar:
Now the wrong shape:
Now caramel popcorn good:
Now a) referred to as 'french fry cream,' and b) something other than ketchup:
Now in existence:
In other news I decided to go on a really long bike ride, because it was briefly sunny out. An hour away from my house, it started hailing--really, really, hailing. Which was actually pretty cool for a couple minutes, until hail bullets starting bouncing off my jacket and into my corneas. At which point I figured I'd just pull over into a bus hut and wait out the hail, but then I noticed that all the hail my eyes had been spitting out was collecting on my bike seat. Where it quickly melted, thus giving me the general appearance of one who has recently drunk seven gallons of Red Bull and was too amped up to bother thinking about finding a bathroom other than the one conveniently labeled "My Pants." So I didn't pull over, I biked like a champion through the hail and laughed about it all the way home.
New favorite song of the day! Still on a mega Ed Sheeran kick, so here we go:
16 February 2012
A Normal Wednesday Night, or, How I Made Friends with the Mormon Missionaries
I made craptons of friends yesterday! Let's count them!
1) A British guy at the copy shop who makes suits for a living and offered to make my parents a suit at a reduced price because I was so nice and spoke such lovely German. We bonded over a discussion of the Greek economic situation, and how impractical pants with pockets down to your ankles would be.
2 and 3) Two Mormon missionaries who approached me on the street last night and asked in heavily accented German if I believed in God. I said, "That's a pretty heavy question for a Wednesday night," in English. Turns out they were from Minnesota and Utah, and they quite adorably tried to get me to come to a Book of Mormon study party at their apartment on Saturday. I can't battle with people that cute, so I just smiled and nodded as they told me all about how Joseph Smith translated the Book of Mormon, but did not mention anything about the angel giving him a pair of magic goggles to do it. Yes I have read Under the Banner of Heaven. I still love Mormons though, provided they're not the cast of Sister Wives.
4) The South African's Zimbabwean army friend. Those two together are non-stop hilarity, and Latvian Friend and I wound up taking them to the salsa bar. Being from Sub-Saharan Africa does not automatically bless you with dancing skills, for the record.
That's all I got! Adios!
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