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.  :)