Bugging Out

I am not adapting well these days.


Ugh. Some cultural differences are easy to just get over. Some are not. Where I come from, if there’s a bug or a rodent in the house, you get rid of it. Or you call a guy and he gets rid of it. Or he comes and sprays something that probably will someday kill him, too, but then all the little unwanted things are dead and you forget to worry about the exterminator’s health.

But. Here. Here in this godforsaken hell-hole of a bunch of nature-loving freaks….

Oh mah gawd. GAAAHHHHH!!!!!!! We have spiders in the garage the size of my palm– OK, not that big more like O’s palm- larger than anything I am comfortable with. My husband argues “they aren’t poisonous”. Well, no, technically, they are venomous, not poisonous. And maybe, as he says, they rarely bite people. (I don’t believe that he’s never been bit by one because he doesn’t pay that much attention to what’s going on around him or even on his body and he probably wouldn’t have noticed it was a spider bite just a red itchy spot that went away after some time.) But this guy proves they can bite and it will hurt, even if you won’t die from it. Ick. But Germans still seem to embrace these disgusting things.


Now, moving on to to other lawfully protected species. Wasps. Did you know that in Germany you aren’t supposed to kill a wasp’s nest?

Wait, whut?


Are you serious? Are you freaking kidding me? They are F—ing WASPS for crying out loud. And they have nested in the rolling shudders on O’s window. Our landlord told us to just roll the shudders up and down a lot and hope they go away on their own. You know what that does? Pisses them off. Like, a lot.

I do not understand Germans. Wasps serve no purpose in life other than to screw things up. They kill bees. Don’t you freaking hippies know that there’s a bee shortage in the world right now???? Kill the wasps. Oh, but no. If you google it in German, you’ll find on every forum where someone needs to get rid of a nest that “wasps are important predators in our ecosystem and it would be a shame to kill them”. Well, guess what. They never ate the damn aphids that killed my cilantro, so they really serve no important purpose in my ecosystem.


This is what my life has come to. I am seriously losing my shit over insects. And my husband could care less. Being so intellectually evolved and all, he has no caveman instincts to protect his cave. Grrrr…..

If they weren’t in the bleeping wall of O’s room, I’d go all redneck and fashion a makeshift blowtorch and burn their nest to nothingness. As it is, I’m going to put on something low-cut and flirt with the fire department. Internet rumors say they “might” help you if you can prove that the wasps are a danger or if the nest is too close to where children are. Let’s just hope they don’t tell me to just keep his window shut…



Just another little gripe session

I’ve made a decision. I’m buying our house. Let me re-phrase that, when we have money saved in like 8 years and we can buy a house, I’m picking it out. I might let my husband express his opinion, but I will make the decision by myself.

This apartment has been nothing but one problem after another. The kitchen is a disaster. We bought a fullsize dishwasher b/c the small one we had was way too small. We measured everything and thought, ok, perfect, just enough room for a regular sized dishwasher. Well, guess what. The wall is crooked! So, while there is enough room at the front to put the dishwasher in, but it stops about 2/3 of the way and gets stuck on the wall. Our old apartment was pretty awful, and I will admit that this place is an improvement. But seriously y’all, I was only able to deal with the old apartment because I could close my eyes, take a deep breath and remind myself that it was only temporary. Now A says that we have to stay here until we buy a house (in 8 years)! Gah!!!

Oh, and the only reasons I relented and accepted this apartment is because the rent was slightly less and it had a yard for O to play in. Guess what, he doesn’t like to go outside and play by himself.

If you’ll excuse me now, I’m going bang my head on the wall. I’ll try the wall where the dishwasher belongs, maybe I can knock off some of the plaster so I can get my dishwasher in place ._.



Update: Our landlord came over tonight. He had to take out a cabinet next to the dishwasher, but now the dishwasher is under the counter and working. Oh, and now there is only one cabinet and an oven in between the sink and dishwasher. One less foot of dripping water when I load the dishwasher! Now, where in the heck am I going to stick this cabinet???

Next I’ll be dancing naked by a fire in the forest

Warning: this post will contain references to my right breast (or the mole that used to live under it). Any family members out there that read my blog who might be uncomfortable with that, please just wait for my next post (it’ll be about Paris and have nice pictures, promise). To all my friends- well, it ain’t any worse than what you’ve heard come out of my mouth before.

It all started with a little mole that I noticed after taking a shower one day. It was dark, it was fairly new and it wasn’t all nice and even. But it was small and I didn’t have insurance, so I figured it could sit there for a while. I’m certain it grew a little over time, but it wasn’t as big as a pencil eraser.

Fast forward 2 years (yes, I know, too long to wait). Armin scheduled a dual appointment with his dermatologist. Because, you know, like most people in places like Germany where people have easy access to good affordable healthcare, he goes in regular intervals to the dermatologist. I show the ugly bugger to the doctor, who decides that although it doesn’t look to be too bad, it should go. Why? Because it is in an awkward spot and he already has to cut a good portion around it, but if it were to grow much bigger, then it would be much more complicated because he’d have to cut into my boob or something. At least, I think that’s what he said. He was speaking in German. And not just plain old German, He’s Schwabish- a totally different dialect that is insanely difficult to understand because they all kind of mumble and talk fast (imagine a non-English speaker trying to understand Ebonics).

So last week we go for our appointment. Did I mention I’m a terrible patient? I can’t deal with the sight of my own blood. I want to vomit or pass out. I also have incredible anxiety when I have any sort of procedure done. To the point where my Ob/gyn sedated me once. So there I am, praying to God that I don’t puke on myself, literally grabbing the table that I’m laying on. Shaking like a leaf- not because I’m cold- although that would be possible as I’m just laying there topless (it’s a whole different immodest world over here, y’all). I watch the doctor come in and he goes to the sink. And he uses some sort of hand sanitizing liquid. No, he did not WASH his hands. Just rubbed the mystery solution all over them. When I say I was horrified, I mean, I was FROZEN in fear. My God, was this man going to touch me with one of those dirty hands covered in mostly dead germs????? He treats patients with Herpes for f***’s sake!! I wasn’t sure what I could do about it. If I said something would he get angry? Leave me with some garish scar? I mean, he was cutting under my boob- did he know how make it hang a little more lop-sided? Then I saw him open the package of surgical gloves. To my relief, he at least put those on correctly. I think I would have died if had messed up that process. I mean really. I would have had to say something, or just leave. Just leave and find another doctor.

The actual procedure was only as bad as I assumed it would be. I felt minimal pain thanks to a local anesthetic. But I could feel the knife against my skin, and then him tugging my skin with the stitches. I could also hear them talking, and then something with the last stitch wasn’t right and he had to cut it and do it again. I just wanted to die. I mean seriously y’all, I know it’s all in my head, but it was just horrible.

Of course, the horror and humiliation live on. Because of the location of the stitches, I can not wear a bra. I do NOT have small boobies (they just look small in comparison to the size of my big ass). The last time I was out in public without a bra I think was 7 or 8 years ago. Some things just aren’t meant to co-exist: my boobs and a bra-less lifestyle are in that category! All movements= jiggling. Jiggling skin that is attached to the stitches- maybe you can guess how good that felt. So the next day, I send the Hubs to the pharmacy to get an ACE bandage so I can at least control the girls, if they can’t get the support they are used to. The pharmacist who is a bit of a douche, refused to sell it to him. He stated that it wouldn’t work and I didn’t need it and I should wear a sports bra. If I could wear a sports bra, don’t you think I would be doing that by now, ya big idiot?!? I eventually made it to a different pharmacy, was waited on by a woman and got what I needed.


This one inch incision has been driving me bonkers for exactly one week!

Anyway, that’s my story about how after only a year in Germany, I’m becoming some sort of bra-less hippy. Darn.

cue the ominous music

It’s almost my birthday. I’m 20 minutes shy of 29. I used to not feel old, I used to look quite a bit younger than my age. I find lately, though, I’ve been looking and feeling more my age. Part of it is the climate here, I think. It’s already a bit cold, which would lend some explanation as to why I wake up stiff some mornings. And the air is dryer. I need to up the face cream application. My haircut doesn’t help, I look like the grandmother from the Gilmore Girls (which by the way, the crazy lady cut one side shorter than the other, wtf? just add it to my list of complaints).

It’s not just the getting older that I dislike, it’s the getting uglier. I look in the mirror and this face is not the one I had before. My legs look like tree trunks wrapped in denim. I put on an old (too small) bra today and actually had the effect of perky boobs with cleavage. It took 3 minutes before I realized that nothing was wrong with my shirt. Boobs are actually supposed to look like that! What a wonderful blessing it is to get older! We forget the beauty of youth, so we don’t get too depressed by the degradation of old age.

Ok, I know I am being a bit melodramatic about turning TWENTY-NINE. I’m going put my cold cream on and go to bed. God knows I need that good beauty sleep.

I got my Halloween costume today (or Caution: I’m dropping F-bombs today)

It’s called, “I’m never EVER letting another fucking German hairstylist touch my hair because now I look like a fucking lesbian soccer mom.” I will hunt down some haughty Frenchman or a flirtatious Italian or I will just start wearing my hair like a Jehovah’s Witness. I would post a picture, but since I can’t seem to stop crying at the moment I will have to show you later.

In fact, I can show you exactly what I asked for. Because I pinned a picture of a girl onto Pinterest for the explicit purpose of showing the hairstylist. I liked her hair cut. It was roughly the same length as mine (mine touched the tops of my shoulders, hers ran a little bit past them in the photo), but the front was sleeker looking and she had better cut layers in the back. Perfect right? A visual to show EXACTLY what I want. So can someone explain to me why the hairstylist would cut 2 inches off my hair???? WTF??? Seriously. Should I have given her a bigger tip and told her to take the money straight to the eye doctor?The only thing I can think of is that she needs glasses because I don’t think there can be a language barrier when you bring a fucking picture.

Husband has no idea what to do with me. I came home crying on the phone to my brother (my go-to comforter in tough times like these). Husband tried to talk me through what happened to see if maybe I said something wrong. I just sat on the sofa staring at my fucking Pinterest page downing Kit-Kats like I’m getting gastric by-pass surgery tomorrow. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t get why my hair is so fucking important to me. Fucking 6 months of trying to grow it back, after realizing the day we got here that I don’t fit in and I won’t fit in and that’s fucking fine by me I’d rather be who I am that try to look like everyone else around here- all 6 months and the 2 inches of hair I gained- all gone in under an hour.

The good news: it’s parents night at O’s Kindergarten so he’s sleeping in Albstadt with my in-laws. I am now going to proceed with drinking. Heavily.


Side note: I have no problems with lesbians, soccer moms or any combination thereof. In fact, I friggin’ love me a few lesbians. Best people I ever knew. I however do not fucking ever want to have someone cut my hair any shorter than my chin ever again.

I’ve been slacking

On this blog. On writing letters to my grandparents. On sending emails to friends.

Please understand, I’ve been up to my ears in being a stay at home mom. It has been my own personal Hell.

Now, I know most of you are thinking, “Dear God, what the heck is wrong with her?” Let me put it this way: neither my son nor I have the personalities to be stay-at-home-with-each-other kind of family members. O is the greatest joy of my life. But sometimes I want to lock myself in the closet and not come out until his father gets home and puts him to bed. O is social. And energetic. Curious. A pain in the ass. He is helpful and wants to interact and jumps at any chance to be with you and do things with you. Unfortunately, his eagerness to close the dishwasher and turn it on does not bode well when I haven’t finished loading it and he starts it running while I’m in the middle of scraping oatmeal off of a bowl.

I’ve tried giving him tasks. I’ve even dragged his toys into the kitchen so I can get my stuff done while he plays. No go. So I end up engaged with him all day and trying to get all of my cooking/cleaning done while he naps. Thank God he naps. Its the only hour and a half I have a moment to myself. I just want a moment to myself. That’s all. To make dinner without little hands trying to grab the onionĀ  off the chopping board. Without O screaming “Look, Mama!” and me dreading to see what mess he’s made… I’m not cut out for this.

Don’t get me wrong, I think stay at home parents are great. The child has a primary caregiver around all the time. I just don’t know if I should be O’s primary caregiver. It’s like adult me has my baby brother trying to play with her all day long.

I thank the dear sweet Virgin Mary that O is orienting at Kindergarten this week. I can start dropping him off and leaving him there next Monday.