Too Hectic to Write, Enjoy a Recipe!

So, things have been over the top busy here in the Denglish (Deutsch-English) household.  I will update sooner, but, instead of a rant, observation, or tons of dry humor, I am posting my recipe for strawberry pancakes with vegan options.  Enjoy!

Strawberry Pancakes a la Denglish

Dry Ingredients:

¼ cup all purpose flour

¼ cup either flaxseed meal, bran, or grinded oats (old fashioned oats that you have thrown into the food processor)

½ to ¾ cup whole wheat flour

2 Tablespoons brown sugar

2 teaspoons baking powder

1 teaspoon salt

Wet Ingredients:

1 egg OR ¼ cup soy yogurt (the beauty of this, you can use either vanilla or berry flavored)

1 cup milk (I use almond milk)

2 Tablespoons vegetable oil

1-2 Tablespoons Vanilla extract or sugar free vanilla syrup (make my own and used that)

1 cup chopped fresh strawberries or frozen strawberries that have been thawed

Mix together all dry ingredients, making sure you get them evenly mixed so the grains aren’t formed in one area.  Reserve some of your flour to the side.  Mix together wet ingredients. Add wet to dry and stir, adding in additional flour if needed to thicken.  Stir in strawberries and let sit a few minutes.  When heating your skillet, keep on medium heat to prevent the strawberry pieces from scorching.  If using a griddle pan, use your best judgement. Add to hot pan in ¼ cup increments.

Note: I also threw in dried blueberries.  If you want to use an egg, put in the yolk, beat the whites into a meringue, and then stir the meringue into the batter, to ensure fluffier pancakes.

Guten Appetit!

The Adventures of a Southern Daughter-in-Law

Whew..hear that sound?  It's the sound of me sitting down for ten minutes before running to the next task.  Thingss have been veddy veddy busy in the Southern Gal household.  Herr Hubby started his new job, the girls went back to school after Spring Break (and THAT was the sound of my happy heart skipping a beat at being home alone again in the mornings), and my mother-in-law fell while walking in the forest, breaking her arm near the wrist.  After an emergency operation to put a nice titanium plate in there, I picked her up last week and brought her home. 

I actually don't mind helping and, thankfully, all this running around has taken my mind of the fact that there is chocolate in my house and I am not allowed to eat it.  Between cooking my meals, cooking meals for the kids and hubby, and cooking a meal every other day for my in-laws since my mother-in-law is one handed, I'm kind of cooked out.  So, what do I do?  I bake, naturally!  Granted, they were pear bran muffins that went into the freezer upon cooling, but it was a bit of therapy for me to turn my stress into a tangible object my family can enjoy.  Pooch is recovering nicely, in fact, she's giving me a very dirty look from her bed; apparently the clacking of the keys on my keyboard is disrupting her post-walk beauty sleep. 

I have managed to knock off twelve pound using South Beach, to which Greenie replied, "Oh.  I can't tell you've lost any weight at all."  Hmmm...the rather nasty side of me held back from saying, "Yes, dear, and you're stomach is protruding as well."  That, however, could be due to the fact that she's currently got a kid growing in there.  What?  Oh, didn't I tell you?  Oh yes, she's reproducing, again.  This should be fun. 

I do feel great though.  Apparently a new diet and a bit more exercise has helped my skin, my weakened back, and my energy levels.  I now use that extra energy at MIL's house.  She is grateful for all the help but I somehow feel as if I should be wearing an apron, my hear in a severe bun, and curtsy upon entering.  Perhaps a faux British accent just to mix things up a little bit.  I really think it has to do with the whole "southern hospitality" thing I have going on.  I feel like I really, really need to help someone out when they need it. Not out of guilt, but out of genuine curtesy.  The result?  A very tired gal. 

Okay, off to grab a cup of coffee and get on my next bout of DIL duties for the day.  Herr Hubby and I have our eighth wedding anniversary next Monday and will be spending Sunday in a hotel suite with just the two of us.  I have a feeling once we get there and the excitement wears off we will be figuring out what's missing.  Perhaps it will be the mental image of Wild Child swinging around the room like a monkey, or Girly Girl asking a million questions about how things work.  Regardless, this little mini vacation is exactly what this girl needs.  Have a good week, y'all.

It's Not You, It's Me!

No, I haven't fallen off the face of the earth after imbibing in a fall off the wagon carb extravaganza.  I've just been busy somewhere in the confines of Mommyland.  I'm in the groove with South Beach but, to be perfectly honest, am now giving my kitchen dirty looks every time I go in there now.  I make two breakfasts and lunches every day.  One for the kids, one for me, and then we all eat the same dinner.  I am seeing results, however slowly I feel that might be.  I hate surprises and am the "turn to the last page of the book to see who the killer is after having read two chapters" type of girl, so you can imagine how painful it is for me to wait.  I want the weight off NOW but it took me longer than two weeks to put that weight on, so it will take me longer than two weeks to take that weight off.

My mom, god bless her soul, sends me my favorite things in care packages.  You cannot get Reese cups here unless you are willing to pay the equivalent of $3.00 for a package, which I'm not.  So, she sends me Reese cups.  Germans aren't big on peanut butter.  Nutella, yes, peanut butter, not so much.  My husband, who thinks cold pickled herring wrapped around a dill pickle is a delicacy, claims PB to be "disgusting". You can see why he's not allowed to cook (that and he usually completely forgets he's cooking and the kitchen fills with smoke).  I've been eyeballing my Reese cups, hearing them call out sweetly to me.  I had to have "the talk" to them. 

"Listen, my chocolately peanut buttery, sweetheart, it's not you, it's me.  You are an addiction.  I love you so much that I can never, never get enough of you and, because of that, my ass and hips have reached epic proportions.  I need a break from you for a while until I can get my priorities in order.  It won't be long!  I promise!  Don't call me, I'll call you."

It's also been Spring Break here in the land of the cows (I call my village that because sometimes I feel like the cow to human ratio is frightfully close) and Girly Girl has been home now for a full week.  Her first day off we made Easter Nest cookies from the recipe I got off of penniesonaplatter.com, which, along with annies-eats.com, have THE BEST recipes on this side of the universe.  I ran out of regular white flour so I substituted the rest with whole wheat flour and am told by Girly Girl they turned out "super duper yummylicious".   I also made bunny and chick cookies from the same dough and the girls decorated the bunny and chick cookies and I decorated the nest cookies.  Great fun was had by all and I am proud to say, I did not eat one single cookie or drop of frosting.  Great joy was had by friends and neighbors and Herr Hubby's co-workers as I passed them out to get them out of the house, we had somewhere along the lines of fifty cookies.  My one year old nephew loved the buttercream frosting so much, he scraped it off the cookie with his teeth, green smeared all over his face, while looking around frantically for more green goo to hype up with. 

Other than that, I have been trying to keep Girly Girl busy with lots of mom and GG type activities.  Yesterday we went to a bistro to meet up with other ex-pats to proofread the articles for the upcoming issue of the magazine our club puts out.  I was editor for this edition and Girly Girl really enjoyed being around tons of grown women, feeling the relaxed atmosphere as we all chatted and proofed at a leisurely place.  Girly Girl rarely gets to go to downtown HH anymore and thrives on the whole adventure of Mommy finding the perfect parking space and then walking along quaint, tree-lined streets while we go about finding our destinations.  She also loved the fact that we parked near a station house for policemen and stopped to tell them, "We parked right there.  Can you watch our car?"  Which was sweet, but the meter only let you pay for an hour at the time, which meant I had to creep about Mission Impossible style to get back to the meter to feed it or face a ticket.  Bless her heart, she was so proud of herself for making sure our car was safe.

We also attented a tradition that I still don't quite understand but find fun anyway, the Osterfeuer, or to translate it, the Easter bonfire.  Our village gathered up plenty of dry kindle and started a blazing bonfire, well, the volunteer fire department did.  Tents were set up for hot chocolate, Glühwein (spiced wine warmed with a shot of rum), beer, Stockbrot dough (wrap around a stick and rotate over fire, a different version of roasting marshmellows) and plenty of hot dogs and what not.  Wild Child went on a mission to find as many rocks and sticks as possible and Girly Girl found friends and went about baking her bread over the fire.  After a while, Wild Child ran up and asked if we could go home.  So I drove her home and Herr Hubby stayed with Girly Girl.  It was a nice way for our little family to get out and for me to get a change of scenery. 

I look forward to seeing what the Easter Bunny will bring the girls (ahem, meaning I have to get the stuff out of my locked closet) and going on an Easter egg hunt out in the wild with the family here.  I hope everyone has a relaxing Easter and manages to enjoy themselves in whichever way possible. 

The Mystery of the Missing Muffin Top

"Hi, my name is Southern Gal Abroad and I am a Carboholic.  It's been two days since my last confession.  I...have a guilty conscience.  I couldn't help it, honestly.  I ate..half a muffin..and I hate it too!  I was nauseous from not enough dinner combined with my morning thyroid meds and had to eat something.  No other cheating though, I promise!"

Okay, so I cheated.  I am human after all.  The fact that I have not divebombed into the chocolate section of the local grocery store speaks of strength I did not even know I possessed!  But, seriously, I am enjoying South Beach so far.  Aside from the headaches (I cut back from three cups of coffee a day to one) and nausea (yeah, no clue, stupidity on my part), and the general eerie feeling of deja vu I had while pregnant in my first trimester with both girls (NOT PREGNANT NOW!  Similar feelings), my energy levels have increased.  Yesterday I made Herr Hubby take the car into the city (and park far, far away from anything that might remotely hit the car on accident) and used the rare beautiful weather to walk around 2km to get Wild Child from kindergarten and Girly Girl from the bus stop.  After a small break, I walked another 1km with girls and Pooch to let them get some fresh air and the dog to get some exercise.  Of course my calf muscles hurt today, but another 1km walk this morning with Pooch and our visitor, Dumbkopf (my in-laws dog, she isn't actually named Dumbkopf, she's actually very sweet, just, well, dumb) to let them get some air before it started pouring down rain.  Upon putting on a pair of my "mommy jeans"(you know, the ones that are really high waisted and supposed to slim you but really just give you a wedgie and a muffin top?) when I realized something was different.  Okay, still had the wedgie issue, I always have it when wearing boyshort cut with them, BUT my muffin top was gone.  I looked down, around, under the bed, and "poof!" it was gone.  Hunh.  Okay, Girly Girl did tell me yesterday I looked thinner, but I just thought she was trying to sweeten me up to get ice cream (which I have not touched, so, ha!).  Today will be an inside day so I'll have to get on the exercise bike for twenty to burn off some calories.  Soon I can have a morning snack (Laughing Cow Light Cheese Wedge with some celery, actually good combo) and then see about planning the rest of the day.  Cravings are subsiding and I can't help but feel a giant sigh of relief on that one!  Tchüß, y'all!

It seemed like a good idea at the time...

I must be going nuts.  Started doing South Beach, which is actually quite lovely. I had a wonderful breakfast, figured out during snack time I hate the taste of raw celery but choked it down anyway, and managed a fabulous lunch of broiled fish on a bed of blanched spinach with a bit of homemade balsamic vinaigerette thrown in.  Why am I crazy?  Here's the thing, the German culture is immersed in bread.  I'm serious, breakfast usually consists of Brötchen (think dense dinner rolls with seeds and nuts baked in, very good) with whatever meats, dairy, jams, etc. you want on them.  Then you would typically have a warm lunch, usually with potatoes as a dish, and then have Abendbrot for dinner.  Abendbrot is bread for dinner with meats, raw veggies, and what not thrown in on the side.  Granted, America is the land of the wraps and sandwhich, but I generally think we aren't as bread dependant as other countries are.  We Americans, and Southerners, usually have three warm meals a day, which is time consuming and can be expensive when using fresh produce.  Here, the convenience of quick cooking is not a concept that has really caught on.  When I moved to Germany, I taught myself how to bake from scratch, learned to cook without using soups as a staple for sauces, and threw myself into the kitchen whole hog.  I would like to think I have managed to merge both cultures into a nice way of cooking. 

That being said, this no carbs for two weeks thing is the pits.  So is the no sugar.  I tried to be sneaky this morning, no sugar or sugar substitute in my coffee, just low-fat milk.  My brain threw the brakes on that pretty quickly.  I could feel my inner child putting her put down and saying, "but I want it and I want it NOW!"  I have had a headache, apparently a sign that your body is recognizing lack of carbs.  Lots of water is going into my system, still requiring me to have a mental picture of where all bathrooms are at all times.  I should be proud of myself, withstanding the urge to stop at the bakery in town this morning and drool over the morning selections.  Instead I had a friggin celery stick that made me gag. Seriously..I gagged. 

I did manage to get on the exercise bike last night and will do that again tonight.  I hope to throw in some yoga (yes I do think of Wii Fit Plus exercises as being yoga!!) in the morning to get my blood flowing.  Wild Child was eating a piece of candy a bit ago when we dropped Girly Girl off at a friend's house and then looked at me, chomping down on her candy, before saying, "This is soooo good.  *sigh*  Too bad you can't have any!" And then she grinned, she grinned.  She's so very evil.  Okay, so she's four, but still, signs of impending doom are there, right?  Off to drink another glass of water and hope that tomorrow will be easier than this one.  Getting to a lower weight is a b****.

Dieting is not in my vocabulary...normally.

Okay, so, I need to go on a diet.  I'm short, only 5.1 1/2 and that extra half an inch is the love of my life.  I also have back problems with four of my upper vertebrae being open.  I had to have this surgery towards the end of my pregnancy with Wild Child, resulting in temporary paralysis and a slew of health problems that have mostly been resolved.  However, I have been warned that having extra weight on my frame will cause lower back problems, making my upper back even weaker.  Sooooo...I've been feeling gravity pull at me and I don't like it.  So..gasp..I'm going on a diet.  I'm going to try the South Beach Diet.  Have ordered the book on my Kindle and the cookbook, which should get here tomorrow.  Though I plan to "start" tomorrow, I have started pre-starting today.  Meaning..oh lord...never thought I would say this..no chocolate, no sugar, no bread, no pasta, no rice.  And, you know what?  I'm hungry..and bitchy.  Sigh. It's for the greater good, I know, but I'm still hungry.  I've had my 30 pistachio nuts for a snack and a piece of turkey wrapped in low-fat cheese.  Okay, so I had one teeny-tiny Reese hearts because my mom shipped them to me and not eating them would be like throwing money away.  What's that?  Give them to my kids?  Are you nuts?  Lost your mind?  I could but chocolate for Wild Child is like crack at a rehab clinic, not GOOD.  She runs around the room, pupils dilated, mouth flapping ninety to nothing, leaving a trail of paper and Legos in her wake. I usually also find a few Barbie shoes underfoot the next morning before I've had coffee, not a good start, folks, not a good start.  Okay..so I'm going to eat an early dinner tonight, drink another glass of water with a slice of lime (already had a liter and a half and all I do is peeeeeeeeee!) and when I want to snack while watching NCIS and Mentalist with Herr Hubby, I will make myself a cup of tea with no sugar instead and sulk in silence, leaving Herr Hubby to think, "What did I do now?"  More reports to come as I South Beach my way to a better, healthier me.  Although, Lord help a world with me in it without me having chocolate...just warning you.

Self-Affirmation for the Less Self-Involved

Life often deals you curve balls, phases that have one thing coming after another that leave you breathless in a sea of worry, trying to find your way to shore.  Where I grew up, it was always said that rough times were a way of God testing you, to help you reaffirm His love for you.  Though I am a long way from the Bible Belt and home of the Southern Baptists, I still find, most unexpectedly, those roots winding deep within me when I least expect it to be there.

I am having a "testing time" or rough patch.  It happens often for women.  I read in a study that where men will go through one mid-life crisis, a women is usually guaranteed to at least go through three or four. Am I going through a mid-life crisis?  Hardly.  But, I do have several acquaintances who seem to be.  They are all in a group and, over coffee one morning, talked about their self-affirmation disks they play twenty minutes before getting up.  You might ask what a self-affirmation disk is. It's a person on a cd talking in soothing tones about how, "you are a strong person, a beautiful being," and "grasp your inner strength and breathe deeply to remind yourself of your inner power," and things of that nature.  I tried not to laugh and settled for a smirk.  Even on my worst days, I do not need another person, being, or voice, to coax me out of bed to deal with the stresses of life I have created for myself.  I just get up and go, I always have done that.

This morning, however, was a self-affirmation of its own, a self-affirmation for the less self-involved, if you will.  It is Picture Day at Wild Child's Kindergarten and she was overjoyed to be allowed to get gussied up (I love southern expressions, forgive me) and was able to pick out her jewelry to accompany her outfit.  Girly Girl does this on a daily basis, so, really, it was normal for her.  Herr Hubby needed the car to drive to his new company to present himself officially to his new colleagues.  Now, we live in a small village, a dorf, tucked away in the countryside, away from a train stop or normal bus routes.  I knew I would drive Wild Child the two minute drive to her pre-school and then come home to walk with Girly Girl to the bus stop.  Our lovable furball of a dog is healing nicely from an ACL tear and operation and would accompany us. 

Germany in spring is a sight to behold.  After months of dark, cloudy days, little to no sunshine, bare landscapes and cold winds, the golden rays of sunshine we are blessed with along with the beginnings of color cannot help but make spirits soar, even mine on only one cup of coffee and bedhead tamed with a headband.  Here's the tie in to my southern roots.  When I was a little girl, my mom worked as a supervisor in a shirt factory for many years and we lived next door to Gran.  I would get up early, while the sky was still pink and gray, and walk next door to my Gran's house to spend the day there while my parents worked.  Gran, for as long as I can remember, has walked two miles in the mornings.  In the summer, she would walk around the time daylight was becoming stronger and the temperatures were usually cooler.  She did this before breakfast and I would accompany her.  Though spring in Germany is fantastic, there is nothing more magical than walking in a small southern town to the song of birds and the smells of warming honeysuckle, dewed flowers, and magnolia blossoms perfuming the air as you slowly glide past.  For me, these memories are more valuable to me than any amount of money could ever be.

True, my Gran taught me a lot in life, Christian values, self love, and the appreciation for others.  What she might not realize is, she also taught me a way to self-affirm, if you will.  To slow down and enjoy the snapshot in life God has given you and tuck it away tightly next to your heart to pull out when most needed.  As I walked with Girly Girl this morning, that hard lump of disappointment and frustration slowly started to dissolve as I listened to my oldest daughter name plants she learned in school, as the dog panted with happiness and exertion, and as a beautiful Friday morning starting wrapping me in its embrace.  I thought back to all those summer mornings and literally felt the blanket of dis-ease fall from me and I slowed my pace to enjoy.  For, you see, I don't need someone to tell me life is great, I am strong, I am powerful, I know this already.

One of the things I miss most about raising my children on a different continent from their American roots is the fact they won't be able to experience those slowly warming summer days like I did with my Gran.  She just turned 85 and, though blessed with relatively good health, she cannot last forever.  I aspire to take my children back home one summer and let them form these memories to tuck away for the future when they need them most.  As parents, you have to learn how to be happy with yourself before you can teach your little, impressionable children that life can be hard, it can be disappointing, but, with the right tools, you can make it through any situation with your pride, dignity, and self-worth still intact.  Not all of us are blessed with a Gran, I will always be thankful to the Lord for giving me such a loving, sweet, caring person in my life.  As I sit here with my home smelling of coffee, the sound of birds communicating and my dog snoring all around me, I feel at peace and know that no one can tell me how I am as a person, I have to self-affirm for myself.  May you also find your own self-affirmations within you.  Never let anyone else tell you who you are, for only you can fix yourself. 

Are You Serious?

I have to say, there is something nice about being a twenty-something American living outside of the States.  I get to view my culture from an "outside the box" kind of perspective.  Something else I have to admit to is my absolute confusion as to why the "kids" (can you really call them kids anymore?) from Jersey Shore are such a fascination not just to Americans, but to the world in general.  Is our generation so starved for intellect that we want to be remembered in decades to come as letting these boozers be the spokespeople for our generation?  I'm sorry, but just the thought of seeing the blood results from "The Situations" physical markup for an STD test is enough to make me squeamish, much less to think that people voluntarily spend their precious free time tuning in to watch this throwback to the Neanderthals get wasted, get laid, tan, do laundry, and workout over and over and over and over again.  Okay, so maybe a fight or a random blow job falls in the picture to "spice things up" but that's about it folks.  No wonder foreigners snicker at Americans behind our backs and call them uneducated. How can we complain?  We have a chick named Snooki as being an international rep for our culture.  Okay boys and girls, let's get busy and, I don't know, read a book, volunteer for a charity, or just learn about someone else's walk of life.  You're damned sure more likely to learn something from that than a scene of "the crew" in a hot tub.

Conversation Fauxpas

When I think back to my first two years here in Germany, I realize that there were just as many funny moments as frustrating.  I arrived here with a six-month-old baby in the middle of winter, with no knowledge of German (well, the bad words don’t really count).  For the first month, we lived with my mother and father-in-law in a small dorf outside of Kaltenkirchen.  It’s hard to adjust to a new culture, country, and language when you have the feeling you are more guest than anything else, so that single month was spent learning German basics and trying to be a model daughter-in-law.  I mostly learned what German housewives did during that first month, as that was what I was to become in the upcoming years. 

 The next few months were spent commuting back and forth to Hamburg and Kaltenkirchen to language school.  I learned a lot about the difference between village life and big city life on those trips.  Every train ride was a new experience (remind me to tell you about the drunk guy on the 7:20 train composing his own theme music) and I soaked it all in.  In the afternoons, after school, I watched Sesamstraße (German Sesame Street) to get new vocabulary and to train my ears to hearing a simpler form of German, a tip a friend of mine gave me when she moved from China to the States in the late 80s(although, to be honest, she still has a fear of birds thanks to Big Bird). 

 I have so many awkward, funny moments and language faux pas stuck in my head that choosing one is a feat.  For instance, to this day, I refuse to talk about weather in German when it’s warmer and muggy because I always, always mix up the words schwül (humid) and schwul (homosexual).  My mother-in-law still gets a tickle out of this; though I’ve now been here seven years and, at this point, the joke should be getting old.  The one that does stick out the most in my memory is my first visit to my Frauenarzt here.  My German had been bare basics and at this point, we had been here six months at most.  She asked me about something and all I really caught was the word verkehr (She had said geschlechtsverkehr, or, intercourse).  “Wow,” I had thought, “weird time to ask about traffic, but, whatever.”  So, considering it had taken me a while to get there because of traffic, I responded, “So much traffic!  In fact, I can barely move at all!  And all those people!”  I looked up to see the most horrified look on her face until it dawned on her what I was talking about.  When she explained what she had meant, it was my turn to be horrified because, for a moment there, my Ob-gyn had obviously thought I was a swinger.  

I could have given up after each embarrassing encounter, but if I had, I most certainly would not be the person I am today.  From each of these moments I learned how to laugh at myself, learned how to relax, and gained a bit of self-confidence each time I caught myself in time to prevent another disastrous conversation.  I’m not completely fluent, but I am now just as comfortable with my German self as I am with my American self and I think that’s what matters most.    

Learning to Live

I have to admit, being an expatriate in a foreign country is hard.  You tend to feel like the oddball out a lot of the times.  I live in a small village where most of the families have roots, which I can completely relate to, as I come from a small southern town.  However, I am not only an outsider, but a foreigner as well, which takes oddball status to a whole new level.  As a result, I gravitate towards other Americans to get a sense of balance and feel true to my upbringing and inner self.  As I put in my very first post, I am a young mom.  I had my oldest daughter at twenty years old and, though some find that appalling and irresponsible, I was able to welcome that child into my life and let her work her magic to mold me into a better person not only for myself, but for her as well.  Because I am young and married and a mom, I rarely find people my own age in the exact situation.  There are very few twenty-somethings with school-aged children living in Germany close to me.  Instead, I have mom friends who are older than me, some only mid-thirties, most late-thirties to mid-forties.  In some cases, even one good friend will be turning fifty soon and she has teen-aged children.

Because of this age difference, I tend to get talked down to as being young and inexperienced in life because I chose to have my children early whereas some of these women chose career first, family later.  There is nothing I despise more than the "wait until you are older and have more experience" speech.  I'm sorry, but that's a huge pile of..well..you get the idea.  In 28 years, I have experienced a post-Vietnam vet father go through his struggles with his own mental health and struggle with alcohol, the loss of a sibling through suicide, a life-changing health crisis that almost left me paralyzed, and a move to a different part of the world.  And this isn't enough wisdom?  Come on, folks.  To add insult to injury, a very close friend of mine recently decided (after going to a self-help seminar) that she needed to phase me out of her life because I give off "negative vibes".  This from the women to whom I drove when her cat died, watched her children when she was in need of help, and tried to be there as much as possible when it was needed.  Now, I am not even deserving an explanation to the cold shoulder.

I once read that men will go through one mid-life crisis, whereas women will go through several. I believe that, as we have so many hats and roles we put ourselves into, but, come on, get your shit together, girl.  I know this comes across as negative, normally I tend to find humour in the situation when life gives me a tricky phase, but even my humour isn't black enough to bounce back from, essentially being told, "you are nothing, not even important enough to be told when you are disposed of like trash".

So, sweetheart, take a page out of your own self-help book and realize that in "phasing out", you are becoming exactly what you are avoiding becoming, toxic.  Chew on that.

The Adventures of Pooch

Let me tell you a little bit about Pooch.  Herr Hubby rescued her from an animal shelter about one day before she was to be put down.  Six months later, we started dating.  Hence, he has known his dog six months longer than his wife.  Pfffft, whatever.  Anyways, Pooch is a model dog.  She only barks when she has to (mostly at the mailman she cannot stand), is house-trained, does not jump, and is lovely and snuggly.  Pooch was our model prior to having kids.  She had been severly mistreated (one vet told us it looked like someone had taken a tire iron to her hips) and needed lots of love and trust.  We threw in a lot of time for her and,  over time, she became a wonderful member of our family.  When Girlie Girl was born, Pooch protected her and was her biggest partner in crime.  This is the lead up, folks, be patient.  Pooch is now ten years old, has arthritis, grumpy days, and the personality of a donkey.  We still love her, how can we not?

Last week she was playing with the neighbor's Jack Russell Terrier, Hyper Hund, when, BAM, she started yelping, keeping weight off of her left hind leg.  Uh-oh.  Pooch weighs 62 pounds.  She's not an easy load to carry, especially when she feels she is desperate need of a carrying to be babied.  I helped her in the house and looked at our vet's hours (here, vets have Sprechstunden, times available for walk-ins and appointments. The rest of the time, they are either doing operations on the days off or not listed, or do house calls.).  Ours had already had her open time that morning and would not be available until the next afternoon.  I decided to let it wait, after all, she could have pulled a muscle and needed rest.

When Pooch does not get up to circle around Wild Child's chair at the dinner table like a furrier, smaller version of Jaws, she's sick.  No circling.  Wild Child "accidentally" dropped something for Pooch to snark, only, no Pooch to do so.  No, Pooch was in her massive bed made out of a massive basket, looking forlornly at the food, sighing at the injustice of it all.  The next day was no better.  Pooch even refused to get up and go outside, which meant more baby carrying.  I took her to our local vet who felt the knee and said, "Yep.  Torn ACL.  Ripped clean through.  You need to take her to the animal hospital and schedule a surgery."  Ruh-roh, Raggy, this isn't good.   With Wild Child in tow, we drove the twenty minutes to the animal hospital and was told to wait.  This poor little beagle was shivering and shaking across the waiting room.  Wild Child, sensitive child that she is, soothed the puppy, stroking its head, before saying, "Don't worry, I don't like shots either.  They hurt so much. Unless you get it in the butt, then it hurts BBBBAADDD!" 

We schedule the appointment for two days later and we leave.  Thursday afternoon rolls around and Pooch is excited to be getting in the car for a car ride.  "Where we going, mom, where we going? Huh?"  When she sees where we are, her ears go back, she glares at me, and digs her butt in the ground, a hard feat to do when one of your legs can't even bend.  Speaking in english and having a one-sided argument, we make our way to the door, leaving a trail of amused German people in our wake, smurking at the crazy woman with the gimpy dog.

In the pre-op room, the dog plays three-legged running from the vet, who just wants to hear her heartbeat.  Bribery with a treat?  Nope.  Pooch turns her head away, sniffing in rage.  "How dare you!  I am not stupid.  I am not some big, dumb dog.  I have pride"  Apparently bribery with two treats soothes the hurt feelings.  Up on the table, I cuddle her while they get out the little shaver. 

Here's a little story about why Pooch hates shaving machines.  Pooch is a German Shepard/Chow mix and does not require shearing in the summer when it gets hot.  German summers are mild compared to summers in Arkansas and Tennessee, where we had previously lived.  However, Herr Hubby was convinced the first summer we were here that Pooch needed a shave to help deal with the heat.  Once shaved, people though Pooch was on chemo and would soon be kicking the bucket.  Pooch is a very smart dog and knew her embarrassment was to be blamed on that damned buzzing thing that took her fur away.  When my in-laws have to shave their Great Schauzer (lots of long fur, bangs, dumb as a box of rocks but sweet as can be), our dog smirks and sits in the sun.

Back to the shaver.  Pooch's eyes widen and she looks at me as if to say, "Um, not a good idea.  I look stupid with this haircut."  They shave a patch on her leg and insert an i.v.  I snuggle her close as the meds go in to knock her out.  The first few seconds, her body language said, "I love you, man.  Peace."  She was out cold a few seconds later.  I'm not a sentimental person (anymore, well, kind of) but the sight of my poor Pooch flopping onto a gurney broke my heart.  I picked her up two and a half hours later, her pupils pin-point dots.  She licked the kids, licked me, and had a goofy "I am so stoned," look on her face.

That first night was very much like having a newborn in the house.  We slept by her bed on a blow-up mattress, reacting to every noise, whimper, and movement.  The past few days have been a blur of terrible sleep and piggy-backing our fur child.  Now I look at her, snoozing in her bed, under the window with some rare sunshine coming in on her and I cannot help but think we got lucky this time.

Had she been older, would they have operated?  Would she have survived?  No creature is "yours" to keep.  I like to think we have each other on a borrowed amount of time that we should enjoy.  Pooch is my partner in crime, my go-to girl to vent to on the days when it seems no one else will understand me.  Here's to you, Pooch, you crazy dog.  Let's hope I get to borrow you a little bit longer.

Lovely, Lovely Food

I'm not a food snob (I love chili dogs too much), I'm not a gourmand (I'm from Arkansas and I have a weak palette), but I am a foodie.  I love trying out new things to eat and also love going into my kitchen and making a mess trying out a new recipe.  Hence my having more junk in the trunk than the lady that sells boot-legged Tupperware at one of the big street markets out of the back of her car.  I also have a hard time saying no.  Patience, folks, there is a tie-in, however lame it may be.  I feel bad for people and usually offer to help before that one part of my brain screams out, "Are you freakin NUTS?!?"  It usually puts me in a bind and I grump around until the task/chore is accomplished. Girl got invited to a birthday party last minute.  I knew it was a last minute invite because she told me it was.  I called to accept the invite and asked how many kids would be coming.  Plus Girlie Girl, ten.  Yikes.  How many adults will be there?  Um, yeah, just the one mom.  I offered to bake cupcakes or something similar to help out.  Somehow over the course of our German conversation, I unknowingly volunteered to be the other pair of hands.  Oy.
I love my children.  I love my friends' children.  Random kids?  Not so much.  The party was supposed to last three and a half hours.  Fantastic! (That was sarcasm.  Lots of dry, dripping in contempt sarcasm.)  Girlie Girl also insisted that the party was a costume party.  No note of that on the invite, but, whatever, what do I know?  I'm just the mom.  I let her put on her pink, sparkly cowgirl hat (Herr Hubby looks quite fetching in it when he's goofing off) and her cowgirl outfit, Wild Child in a too big for her princess dress with matching ten pounds of accessories and we set off.  We pull up to a house that Martha Stewart would feel underdressed in. Seriously.  Better Homes and Gardens house of the year type home.
 Of course my kids were the only ones in costume.  Wasn't it obvious?  No matter.  They were cute.  Introductions are made and I realize my messy air-dried hair and make-up-less self feels a bit out of place but thankful I had made some effort with my outfit.  Five minutes into getting settled (Wild Child checking out the digs and forming a plan of massive destruction, more than likely) and a little girl (six years old) the size of a sycamore tree (okay, so she came up to my shoulders, only.  I'm five foot two-ish) comes up to me, smiles, and says, "You talk funny." I was this close, this close to replying, "Well, you smell funny and you're huge!" Instead, I smiled back, and simply said, "It's because I'm a foreigner and German is my second language, not my first."  "My mommy says foreigners need to stay home, they take all the good jobs."  Once again, this close, this close to replying, "Well you're mother is a twat who should keep her mouth shut."  Instead, "How lovely for your mother.  OH LOOK!  Birthday cake!"
The hostess was very nice and, upon closer inspection, also make-up-less.  Her kids are the same age as mine, both girls.   Things went pretty smoothly with us  making chit-chat.  Once the kids were settled, we grabbed coffee cups and I found out the following information:

1. She lived in Britain for seven years and has fantastic English.  I still spoke German with her out of respect (and ease) for the kids.
2. She's a foodie but does not have the same amount of junk in her trunk, probably because she has super-fast metabolism.
3. She's really nice.

After a while, we were going through her cabinets, checking out the different pots, pans, spices, books, etc that she has.  I was offering tips on American and Cajun cuisine.  She was talking about her passion for French cooking.  Had I not found a kindred spirit in the eating area, this birthday party would have been sheer torture.  Aside from the one ginourmous kid with awkward opinions (so charming), the party went smoothly.  I walked away with a mental file packed full of cooking tips and a new contact for recipe trades, coffee, and etc.  I was ashamed of myself, thinking because she lived in such a lovely house she had to be a rude bitch.  I get riled up all the time when people make assumptions and stereotypes about me based on my being an American. I guess I need to learn to be better about it.  Bad girl, bad, bad, girl!

Taming the Wild Beasts

I have absolutely no clue why I lull myself into believing this ever will go smoothly.  Occasionally, Herr Hubby needs our car to do something.  Maybe he wants to simply avoid the commute to work via train, or he has an appointment, whatever.  I give it to him.  Today's reason was a doctor's appointment at 8:20 (the man is forever injuring himself during soccer.  He plays for the  "Old Man's Team" even though he's in his early 30's).  We decided he would drop Wild Child off at the Kindergarten around 7:50 and go from there and I would walk Girly Girl to the bus stop with our dog and drop her off.  Easy right? NO.

Wild Child has started a new trend this week.  She likes to sleep late, wake up extremely grouchy (seroiusly, bites my head off if I even smile at her), and then twiddles her thumbs getting ready.  Drives me bonkers, but at four, I need to let her..um...be herself?  Drive me nuts?  No clue. Anyways, I always think that since he has child drop-off duty, I can sleep in a little later.  Meaning, I don't have to get up at 5:45 to get myself ready and drink a cup of coffee in silence prior to getting the troops ready and out the door.  It backfires, of course it backfires.  Silly Mommy, so deluded in her need for a half hour of extra sleep.

Herr Hubby meant well, he let me sleep even later...until 7:35...when he needed to be out the door with a four year old, who makes the crabby Hallmark woman look positively Pollyanna-ish, within..oh..seven to ten minutes.  Tops.  Wild Child is not dressed, has not brushed her teeth, is screaming (okay, high pitched screeching at a higher volume than usual) for food, and is being absolutely stubborn.  I stumble out of bed with massive bedhead, blurry vision, and the need to grab a pair of earplugs and go hide in our pantry until it's safe to go out.  Seriously, having an extra room off our kitchen that locks and has a stash of chocolate is a must in this household. I digress.  So, into action I go.  I plead, beg, threaten, and, finally, pull out the big guns.  I switch to German. For my kids, this is the sign that the Apocalypse is about to occur.  Mommy sounds mean in German, Mommy sounds psychotic in German.  It gets results.  Wild Child is dressed and up the stairs to brush teeth. 

Satisfied, I start making my coffee when Girly Girl informs me (with lots of attitude and no gratitude) that her purple sweater for her purple shirt is not in her closet and she absolutely cannot get dressed without it.  Sigh.  I am thiiiiiiiis close to banging my head on the counter, but keep calm, mentally count to ten, and trudge upstairs to show her it IS in her closet...on the floor of her closet...where she threw it when I told her to hang it up.  Wild Child is done brushing her teeth.  "Food?  I'm sooooo hungry Mommy.  My tummy is gone, see? "  Shows me a perfectly rounded pre-schooler tummy but has a face that could make even the hardest critics pause for tear wiping, and continues on.  Okay, race is on. Toast made, yogurt ready, and I am literally chomping at the bit to get this child fed and into the riduculous amount of winter clothing Herr Hubby deems necessary for the short trip from doorstep to car...ten steps away. 

She eats, I get her in her gear, therefore making her resemble a purple Stay-Puff Marshmellow Man and am greeted by Herr Hubby returning from the walk with the dog.  Score!  Out the door they go.  Now, me, no coffee, hair still looking like birds will start nesting in it, teeth that could knock a horse out, and pajamas..with glasses.  SEXY!  Girly Girl is dressed, fed, ready to go.  OH SHIT.  Clock shows I need to leave..two minutes ago.  Sigh...will I EVER get my first cup of coffee? 

Mad run to throw on jeans (which smell like the horse stables we visited yesterday), baggy sweatshirt, hair in messy ponytail, quick brushing of teeth, and get shoes on.  Pooch comes up, wagging her tail, waiting...waiting...waiting.  What?  Walk?  You JUST got back.  Waiting, wagging, small whine.  Sigh..okay..saddle up, Tonto, you are coming along.  Our dog is ten years old and is the sweetest thing on the face of the planet, which is why I spoil her.  We adopted her before moving to Germany.  She had been terribly abused and needed lots of love and patience. Now she's comfortable in her own skin and has her humans tied around her little paw.  Little is a relative term, she weighs 70 pounds.

A word on German woman.  They don't "do" ponytail and sweats.  Ever.  Unless on their way to the gym.  I live in a small village where I am

1. The only foreigner
2. The youngest mom at the stop
3. A bit of a spaz first thing in the morning when my German is warming up.

I normally try to get dressed with makeup and what not.  Not happening today.  I knew, KNEW, I would get the stink-eye for my college chick apparel but could not muster up the courage to even give a damn.  I HAD NOT EVEN HAD MY FIRST FRIGGIN CUP OF COFFEE.  Of course Arch Enemy Deutsche Frau gave me a dirty look and  a smug smile as I approached with Girly Girl, Pooch, and my frazzled appearance.  Took every inch of self control not to smack her (I am not prone to violence but this woman and Greenie bring it out in me..well..mentally, at least.)  Girly Girl was happy to have Pooch and I with her on an early morning walk, normally I drop her off on the way back from dropping off Wild Child to Kindergarten.  Hugged, kissed, wished a good day (all in English, I refuse to speak German to my kids unless my head is about to start performing Exorcist stunts caused by frustration) and continued on with Pooch. Pooch is now on her second walk within an hour and wants to take her sweeeet time, sniffing every blade of grass.

At first, I was annoyed, I have to admit.  I am a pure Grade-A caffeine junkie and was jonesing for my first cup of vanilla flavoured brew.  As we plodded along, however, I thought over the morning.  It really wasn't so bad.  Plus, hey, this walking thing is kind of nice.  Except, you know, for the fact I was freezing my butt off.  

Now, here I am, on my second cup of coffee, in a silent house, with Pooch snoring lightly in her bed on the floor beside my chair. I tamed all of my wild beasts this morning with my hair and sanity intact.  And, joy of joys, I get to repeat a slightly different version tomorrow.  Thank GOD I love my kids ;)

Glenda and Greenie

Coming from a small family (read: only child), I am constantly amazed at the work that goes into being a member of a big family.  Herr Hubby has five siblings, two of them sisters.  I have always wanted a sister and was thrilled when I found out I was marrying into a family with two women already in it.  Hence, Glenda and Greenie.  Please tell me you get the reference, otherwise it will be lost on you.

My dealings with Greenie over the past almost eights years of marriage have oftentimes been downright torturous, not to mention painful.  This woman had never even met me before my husband and I married, but told me I was a slut because I got pregnant before she did.  Though I could have been nice and understood it might be a linguistical error, I knew it wasn't, she called me a slut.  I was determined, before moving here, to give her a chance.  After all, I had never actually met her in person and first impressions couldn't possibly be trusted.  Over the years it's always been a matter of her opinion trumping mine, her kids being gifted while mine have the misfortune of having an American for a mother and, therefore, being dumber, and so on and so on.  I would like to say I have tried to grow as a person in my dealings with her over the years and just notice she is an insecure person who needs love and patience.  Instead, I get an eyetwitch every time I am in the same room with her.  The woman would take the book 1984 as a self-help book on learning how to spy on her family rather than finding it a thrilling book with scary consequences. 
 
Glenda, on the other hand, I connected with instantly.  I met her right before we got married.  She is the oldest of Herr Hubby's clan and survived her little sister with a grace I can only be astounded at.  She recently moved closer to us and now my kids have the opportunity to grow up with cousins in close range.  Woo hoo!  No, really, no sarcasm meant.  It's a good thing they have one side of the family close by...just not Greenie's.

I cannot imagine everyone gets along with their in-laws (mine often give me tips to get rid of my "stomach" or buy me shirts in the size they wish I would be rather than am) but I seem to have issues with mine on a regular basis.  Granted, I don't speak out about it, per se, but they're there nonetheless.  Does this make me a bad person?  No, I rather like to think it makes me human.  What about you? Perfect in-law relations?  Yeah, didn't think so.  :)