You want to call him WHAT???

Me: Honey, I have the perfect name!

Ralf leans back in his chair and regards me warily across seven years of blissful matrimony.

Me: Gerhardt! Isn’t that a great name?

A pause during which several expressions cross his face, followed by no expression at all.

Ralf: You want to name our son Gerhard?

I nod.

Ralf: Gerhard Schroeder.

Me: Uh huh. I like that name.

Ralf: As in the former German Chancellor?

Me (frowning): Well…. yeah. Why not? He was a good Chancellor.

Ralf: Why don’t you just name him Elvis Presley?

Me (primly): It’s not at all the same thing. People have heard of Elvis.

Ralf: Or Barrack Obama?

Me (rolling my eyes): Way more people have heard of him, too.

Ralf: Yeah, in… He struggles to come up with a suitably obscure location. Texas! THIS IS GERMANY!!!

Me: Hey, what about Tex?

No response besides a slight widening of the nostrils.

Me (regrouping): Anyway, I want to spell it with a ‘t’ at the end, so it’s not even the same name.

Ralf: I refuse to discuss this.

That means he feels strongly about it.

Me (in a wheedling voice): We could call him Gary. Or Hardy. No one would need to know.

Ralf: Go now. Buy a fish. Name it Gerhard or Geronimo or whatever you need to get out of your system.

Me (parting shot): It’s not like I want to name him George Bush!

Sheesh. I guess we’ll have to call him Deke or Garbanzo after all.

I'm the only man in Germany...

Recently Ralf and I had a minor argument about the division of household duties. We both work - although he works more - and we both have evening calls with California. He generally takes the kids to childcare and I pick them up, drive them to gymnastics, play with them, finish up any homework, feed them and put them to bed. I do all the shopping and most of the cooking and regular doctor's appointments.

I also supervise our maid, which Ralf never helps out with.

Ralf handles all 'projects', such as the garden, garage and bathroom fixtures, as well as interfacing with any Bavarian handymen. He also bathes the kids about once a week, files our taxes and insurance claims and plans our vacations.

Our kids aren't very clean.

Some of the things I used to do in the US now fall to him because they either require more boyish charm or knowledge of German bureacracy than I have or more patience than I can muster without my head exploding.

Things recently came to a head when it was time to buy K's school supplies. We got a list from the teacher and you know how the Eskimos have 13 words for snow? Well, those wacky seal-fur wearing nomads with their frozen water obsession don't have a patch on the Germans, who have about 51 words for 'notebook.'

To make a long story short, I delegated the procurement of school supplies to Ralf.

I suppose as a married man with a wife known not to be in a wheelchair or hospital, Ralf may have lost some face doing women's work like buying school supplies. Which he then grumbled about at home.

Ralf: I'm pretty sure I'm the only man in Germany who isn't divorced or widowed that has to go buy school supplies for their kids.

Me: Really? That's probably why most of the German men we know are divorced.

Actually, that's not fair. Although there are a number of single dads at our Kindergarten, two are widowed, and none of our married friends are divorced yet.

Then we had our recurring, 'You want me to buy school supplies, let's move back to California' discussion while I was making dinner.

Now, of course, I can make fun of Ralf for just about anything. For example:

"I'm the only man in Germany who has to put the toilet seat down!"

"I'm the only man in Germany who has to put dirty clothes in the laundry basket!"

"I'm the only man in Germany who has to carry his dishes to the kitchen!"

You get the idea.

Paul the Psychic Octopus

It turns out that the world cup is not a real contest because the results are pre-ordained by Paul the Psychic Octopus:



Apparently he has never been wrong.

Anyway, don't cancel anything to watch the finale today because Spain's gonna win.

Serenity... not so much

I belong to an exclusive sports club. Actually, not that exclusive since they'll let anyone in who is willing to pay their exorbitant monthly fee, but it's where Boris Becker sometimes plays tennis.

They offer a friendly staff, child care, horses, an upscale restaurant, state-of-the-art machines and all sorts of classes. Plus the odd Boris Becker sighting.

It's my one luxury.

My favorite classes are Fighting Fit, which involves lots of kicking and punching to music, and Monday yoga. I've taken a fair number of yoga classes by now and I can tell you that Caroline, the instuctor at my gym, is unusually good. She pushes you just the right amount, does a good balance between stretching and muscle work and speaks in a well-modulated Kathleen Turner voice that every famale yoga instructor should be required to have.

The only false note is the Iron Man class next door. As we yogis slowly and serenely greet the sun, focusing on our breath, we can hear Iron Man screaming, 'EEEEIIIINSSSS!!! ZWEIIIIIIIIIII!!!!!!! DREIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII!!!!! VIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEERRRRR!!!!!!!'

Iron Man is a little soft spoken guy but he really gets excited during his class, which is hugely popular with extremely fit women who like being yelled at.

The most jarring part is at the end when we do our relaxation. We lie on the floor exhausted and sweating while the harp music plays and Caroline softly takes us through several mediation phases. . .

Caroline: Close your eyes and breathe deeply.

Iron Man: WAKE UP, LADIES, NO FALLING ASLEEP!!!'

Caroline: Feel the sensation of relaxation traveling up your bodies, starting with your toes.

Iron Man: DON'T RELAX! WORK HARDER! GIVE ME MORE! YESSSSS!

Caroline: Feel the stress leaving your body through your fingertips...

Iron Man: WORK IT! MORE! MORE! MORE!

Caroline: Feel how you are one with everything. Feel the entire universe around you. Don't focus on anything. Let yourself go.

Iron Man: FOCUS!!! THERE'S NOTHING BUT YOU AND THE MAT.

Contradictions and conflicting directions. Part of life, I guess.

Scheisse happens

I've been reflecting on how I ended up in Germany. The obvious answer is that I'm married to a German but it's not that simple. It kind of evolved through a series of events.

Years ago I was an application developer, managing a small team responsible for designing and implemeting an HR solution for the Japanese market. About midway through the development cycle someone had the bright idea to split up the functional and technical teams, both of which I managed along with the QA team.

I resisted as long as I could and since my team was working on the biggest and most complex product requirements of the release I had a lot of say - until the release was over, that is, and then they calmly carried out their diabolical plan to make me specialize. Everyone else had already made the switch and I was the last hard core generalist standing.

Given the choice between functional work (i.e., defining requirements and designing solutions) and technical work (implementing solutions) I chose the functional path because it seemed to be the rarer skill, by which I mean that fewer people seemed to be good at it. Most of the people I worked with were either subject matter experts with no design skills or technical experts who designed like engineers - i.e., for other engineers. Few of them were what I considered great application designers so it seemed like a promising niche.

(For an example of engineer-driven design, go use gmail. I hope Google doesn't blow up my blog or delete all my contacts for saying that - and I'm thinking I won't be Blog of Note any time soon - but it needed to be said.)

Not long after I felt underchallenged in my new specialized role so I made a decision to leave the US and spend an exciting year or so abroad. Oh, and I also planned to marry Ralf, whom I'd met on the job, but I couldn't count on that happening so mostly I was inviting the universe to fall in with my ideas.

The tricky bit was finding a job in Europe when my only other languages were Japanese and Russian. I put my name 'out there' and was offered a job in the European sales team at the same company, which I eagerly accepted. Accordingly, I quit my job as functional analyst and put the paperwork in motion to move abroad.

Then disaster struck.

A couple of weeks before my planned departure date the offer was withdrawn! They decided to give the job to someone else already living in Europe, AFTER making me a formal offer. Rotten, I know, but believe it or not people pull crappy stunts like that all the time. Unfortunately, this particular crappy stunt left me jobless, homeless and with not much of a savings.

The good news is that I was also single, mobile and good at my job so I didn't despair. Much. And sure enough, about three days later I got a call from the manager of the German sales team with an offer. A bit less money but based in Germany. The only catch was that I had to learn German but they would pay for lessons.

What, am I stupid? I jumped at it! Ten days later I was in Munich struggling to learn German well enough to do a passable sales demo as well as learn a completely unfamiliar product area, because right after hiring me my manager was demoted to head up the financials product, rather than all products. Now, I'm a smart cookie, but there are limits to human ability and there was no way I'd be up to speed any time soon.

That's a fancy way of saying I sucked.

Meanwhile the manager of the consulting organization adopted the strange and offputting habit of coming to the door of the sales room to glare at me several times a day. We're talking resentful glares of hatred here and I really didn't understand what I'd done to offend him. My German manager soon clarified the matter: One of the key projects was dying a slow hideous death and they needed someone with my skills to save it - and meanwhile here I was wasting everyone's time trying to sell products I knew nothing about in a language I couldn't speak!

When he put it that way it kind of made sense. So, to make a long story short, I was soon after absorbed into the consulting group, helped save the project, got promoted to project manager (accompanied by more glares of hatred - I learned later it was his only expression), managed another project then joined the product strategy group. And married Ralf. Over time we had two kids and left our jobs to join a start up company.

Blah, blah, blah.

Anyway, my point is that some of these changes were planned by me, whereas others just kind of happened. And really, that's the way things go in life. You're never prepared for the sucker punches and you never know what will turn up when they happen. Also, there are a lot of great people out there, like my awesome German boss who offered to stand up for me and even get fired if I didn't want to change jobs.

(He has since emigrated to Ireland and is now a professional chef. Not because of me. Probably.)

You just never know. That's what faith is for.

Great Expectations

I'm always amused by the grand sounding names of the kids at L's Kindergarten.

The boys in particular have a lot to live up to:

Alexander
Maximillian
Benedict
Dominic
Jonas
Sebastian
Korbinian
Gabriel

The girls seem destined for somewhat less greatness:

Lisa
Lena
Lauren
Liv
Laura - well, OK, that's a pretty hot name
Charleen

Solipsist, I don NOT have Teutonic hair!

I think I'd like to write for a magazine like OK, where the truth doesn't matter, only the facial expression, and not even that matters much. Yesterday I splurged and bought three magazines for gym. All three had Brad and Agelina on the cover.

The headlines:

OK - 'Brad & Angelina: What Will Happen to the Children?'
In -'Only Hate Remains! How Angelina Now Makes Brad's Life Hell.'
Gala - 'The Love Vow - No Chance of a Separation!'

There was also an article about Angie's Russian lover, complete with a picture of Angie looking sneaky, a cheesy hotel, a whip, a bottle of vodka and a jar of Beluga Caviar.

I could totally do that. Let's say I have a picture of Angelina in a sushi restaurant: I could spin up a whole story about her Norwegian lover and how he likes to rub raw fish all over her body before they run naked in the snow.

Or a picture of Shiloh eating a cookie: I could write about what terrible parents Brad and Angie are because they only let their kids eat junk food.

Or a picture with Brad's mouth open (or closed, for that matter): I can see the headline now, 'Brad Tells Angelina: 'I Can't Take It Any More!'

Or a picture of Brad's beard: 'Brad will keep his (horrible) beard (that looks like creeping moss) until every orphan on Earth has a loving home.'

Or a picure of Angelina's tatoo: 'AIDS scare!' (Did you know she had an AIDS scare when she got it because she had done it in a dive shop when totally wasted and that the symbols actually spell the names of her ex-lovers?)

Piece of cake, just give me a picture, I'll give you a story.

The Social Net

I thought I'd write about Germany today, although I haven't done any actual research so don't quote me or do any life planning based on this post.

The tax and social insurance rates are really high in Germany.

Income tax is fairly whopping. There are also various special taxes such as church tax and subsidizing the East Germans (which we now can't get rid of because they are a big voting block and keep voting for the free loser money, excuse me, re-integration money), as well as paying off various debts of shame accrued by the mostly dead grandparents of the current working generation.

Not to mention a popular problem faced by other countries: Keeping huge companies alive whose executives may be greedy, souless morons but employ a lot of people.

Then there's VAT tax, which is like 19% or something crazy like that and applies to EVERYthing you buy, including services, so if you want to redo your bathroom you need to budget an extra 20%.

I could go on but suffiice it to say that things are more expensive and salaries tend to be lower.

The social net is stronger, however. For example, parents get a monthly sum to help raise the future taxpayers of the Fatherland. Kindergarten (if you get a spot) is free. And there is very generous unemployment insurance to keep people off the streets... don't quote me but I believe it's up to two years with re-training if you qualify.

Now, here's the interesting thing. If you're unemployed you don't just get to sit home drinking beers and collecting your check. You have to show you're looking for work and you may be expected to retrain in a field that is in demand. Sure, an expert in bureaucracy can drag it out and maximize time off and/or free training, but the bottom line is you gotta shake your tail if you want the cash.

They want you back at work, not at home watching reruns. The system helps those who help themselves and those that don't help themselves can bite me... I mean, the system.

I think that's kind of smart. Of course, I hate bureacracy and jumping through hoops so it all sounds mega-annoying, but it serves the dual purpose of making unemployment undesirable while giving working families a longer lifeline before they lose their homes.

A good social network does more than just hand out cash. It does so responsibly and treats social problems from several angles.

Anyway, it's not perfect and I could write for hours about various problems for working families (like school getting out at noon), but there are fewer people on the streets in Germany than in countries with a weaker social net and the standard of living is still pretty high.

Isn't that the job of a social net?

And Solipsist, I have not gone all Teutonic!

Whiny Wednesday

Ralf is in California this week.
L was home two days with the flu.
It's -10 degrees outside.
I feel sick.

On the bright side, my neighbors are being very supportive, watching my kids when I have calls, stuff like that. No casseroles as yet.

Ooooh, I shouldn't have thought about casseroles. Or food. Food baaaaad.

Germans are very helpful once you establish a relationship. Maybe that's why they're a bit standoffish with strangers - I mean, if the expectation is that you help people you know, you have to pick and choose who you know carefully. Maybe friendliness to strangers only works in a culture where no real help is expected.

I think I'm babbling. Must lie down now. . .

Gettin' Jiggy with a Tuba

Winter is setting in and I am attempting to get in touch with my internal snow beast. Unfortunately, after a lifetime of globetrotting, including to colder destinations like Portland and Moscow, I have finally admitted to myself that I belong somewhere without winter.

Nonetheless, although German weather is completely stupid six months of the year, I love how the Germans get down to tuba music. Remember date night when we rocked out to La Brass Banda? That was total Tubapoluza.

Last night a friend of our celebrated his 40th birthday party with a popular local live band Die Drei von der Tankstelle. They're a 3 man band that plays 50s music and last night they also featured a tuba player, which is always a crowd pleaser.

They were pretty awesome and I was so pleased with my vodka inspired insights about Germans and tuba music that I shared them with several people, including the guy next to me, a tall chiseled blond who looked like he just graduated from Master Race school. He listened politely as I burbled all this lame stuff about tubas and Germans and then gravely corrected me:

'It's actually a sousaphone.'

So there you have it. The real title of this post is Gettin' Jiggy with a Sousaphone but I was afraid no one outside of Germany would know what the heck a sousaphone is.

Anyway, after the band finished their show we switched to DJ music and dancing until 4 in the morning. I myself performed an inspired air guitar routine to 'Are You Gonna Go My Way?' It was so unexpectedly hot that I got cheered and you have to remember that Germans only cheer when, like, Germany wins the World Cup or something.

So, never.

Unfortunately, I lost my hard-earned street cred moments later when our friend Oller attempted to dance with me. Now, I can shake my funky stuff reasonably well. I just don't play well with others on the dance floor. When someone attempts to lead me in any actual dance steps it's like that scene from Fantasia. You know the one:

Still, I was flying high from my air guitar triumph and gamely attempted to follow Oller's skilled lead. He did better than most because he actually can dance and for a few minutes what I lacked in skill was made up for by enthusiasm.

At least, until a surprise twirl made my glasses fly across the room.

Fortunately, by this time we were down to a hard-core group of old friends, none of whom were remotely surprised to see my glasses go flying off.

And this is why I never made it as a sex kitten. I can occassionally fool people for a few minutes but in the end I'm too prone to the rediculous.

The night ended perfectly with Doenners, which are lovely fatty meat sandwiches of Turkish origin.

And now for a few nice pictures I found when I Googled 'Die Drei von der Tankstelle':

Ziege Lady Strikes Again!

Today was a Stairmaster day. The gym had a bunch of new mags, which I greedily gathered up before heading over to the Stairmaster to read all about Angelina Jolie's dark secrets and Jennifer Anniston's unfortunate botox incident.

Scarred from my last encounter with Ziege Lady I let each magazine drop VERY carefully as I finished them and they landed in a neat little pile next to my Stairmaster.

Toward the end of my workout a pleasant looking woman came over and inquired politely if she could take one of my magazines.

'Sure, take 'em all,' I said. 'I'm done.'

She knelt down and. . . I guess the word is 'rifled'. . . through my neat stack of magazines, selecting several. When she was finished my nice pile looked like a cat had scrabbled in it trying to bury its poo. Without bothering to restack them, she headed for her own machine.

Two seconds later Ziege Lady walked by, eyed my explosion of magazines with disapproval, and CLICKED HER TONGUE at me.

She did not, however, call me Ziege.

I think she's starting to like me.

On goats and cascade failures

I recently joined a gym and have been taking great classes like Nike Fighting Fit, where you punch and kick the air to music for an hour.

Isn't that brilliant??

But sometimes there's no good class on (I'm boycotting Heidrun's class because she walks around barking out orders and doesn't even do the excercises) so I fall back on my old friend the Stairmaster.

The other day I was alone with about 30 Stairmasters, climbing away and looking at various magazines. Only highbrow ones, of course, like Der Spiegel, because I like to improve my mind while excercising.

No, people, not really.

Anyway, this older German woman with way too much perfume and make up came in and took the Stairmaster next to me, turning up her music so loud I could hear it through her headphones.

I finished one of my magazines and let it drop gently to the floor. Unfortunately it landed in just such a way to make an enormous racket, like a gunshot.

I smiled charmingly and apologetically at my neighbor, who glared back.

'Muss das sein?' she asked. Translation: 'Is that really necessary?'

Although I know it is unwise to piss off German women of certain age who were brought up in harsh circumstances after the war and think the younger generation is good for nothing, flippant remarks just fall out of my mouth in situations like this.

Me: 'Ja, leider muss es manchmal sein.' Translation: 'Yes, it is unfortunately sometimes necessary.'

OK, not my best, I can be much more scathing three days later, but that's what I had.

'Ziege!' she hissed at me.

Now, this means 'goat.' No one has ever called me a goat before because I'm such a friendly person so I was a little confused. But I went back to my magazines and ignored her for the next half hour while I finished my workout, including when she cut the cheese rather loudly.

I think that was pretty nice of me, given that I could have said, 'Muss das sein?' right back at her. Mwa ha ha ha ha!!

As I walked out of the room, her voice followed me: 'Ziege. Ziege! ZIEEEEGE!!!!!!!'

I flipped her off, still wondering what the heck Ziege means. BTW, I haven't flipped anyone off since, like, college but instinct took over.

I called Ralf. 'What does Ziege mean? I mean, I know it means goat, but what does it mean?'

After a slight pause, Ralf asked, 'Did someone actually call you that?'

Me: 'YES!'

Another pause.

Me: 'Don't you want to know who?'

Ralf: 'Um. . . a German person?'

Me: 'Ha ha, Mr. Funny German Guy. What does it mean?'

Ralf: 'I'm not... sure. No one we know ever says that. Why did they call you that?'

Me: 'Because I dropped my magazine at the gym and it was really loud. But she farted and that was way worse. And...'

Ralf: 'Sweetie, can we not get into that just now, I'm kind of in the middle of a small cascade failure here. It sounds like Ziege means bitch in this context.

A pause.

Ralf: Or maybe annoying bitch.'

A pregnant pause.

Me (accusingly): 'I can not believe this. Someone calls me a you-know-what for no reason and all you can think about is your silly cascade failure???'

I won't share Ralf's totally unfair response to this perfectly reasonable question.

Keeping Up with the von Joneses

German grade school is typically over at lunchtime.

Yes, you see the problem. Working parents scramble to get a rare state funded spot in a Hort, where they feed and help your kids with homework until you pick them up. Failing that, you might get a non-Hort childcare spot, where the kids play in the basement of some school until you pick them up.

And failing that, parents can send their kids to private school, get a nanny or the mom can quit her job. Actually I don't want to be sexist here, there are at least three stay-at-home dads in Germany and maybe more. Ralf would love to stay home but he earns more than me.

Before we moved to California K was in a Krippe, or preschool that accepts babies. The other baby in her group was Korbinian, a solid, mellow baby with a distinctive thatch of curly blond hair.

When we returned to Munich from California we ran into Korbinian's parents, who own a local business specializing in IT firewalls, and they (like us) were pondering what to do about the lackluster after school programs in our town.

Their solution? What anyone would do, really: Build an on-premise Krippe, Kindergarten and Hort at their place of business and get the community to pay for it.

Now, you've hopefully read some of my writings about the difficulties of getting stuff done in Germany, where everything's a problem until it's been done so many times it's a process, so I'll leave it to your imagination what sort of colossal undertaking that was. But they succeeded while we were back in California this summer and even managed to get the all-important and elusive signature verifying that they have enough toilets for each child.

This is where L goes in the morning and K joins her at lunch time in a private shuttle that is included as part of the overall package.

You might think that such busy people wouldn't have time for their children but au contraire. Somehow in the midst of all that running a business and opening new schools, they also have plenty of hours to spend with their children playing games, building a life size castle out of cardboard and reading Faust.

To give you an idea, on the first day of the school Korbinian, who is 6 like K, taught one of the childcare professionals how to play monopoly.

L went to a birthday party for their younger son this weekend and came home not with the ubiquitous goody bag and sloppy handmade crown but an actual stick horse they had made themselves. A stick horse! With hand grips! And a red felt mane!

Who thinks of having twenty 4-year-olds build a stick horse?

The Joneses have nothing on these people.

Baby Steps

As you may know, K started first grade this year.

I remember once when she was still quite small we had lunch with a friend of mine who had two pre-teen girls. I expressed worry that I would never be able to stop kissing K's feet, the tiny toes of which I thought looked like rose petals.

'It'll be so embarassing when she's a teenager!' I exclaimed. 'What if I can't ever stop??' My friend smiled with French urbanity (she's French) as she sipped her coffee and said, 'I wouldn't worry about it too much. Eet... changes as zey get older.'

And so it does. I no longer feel any uncontrollable desire to kiss the bottoms of my 6-year-old's feet or refer to them as 'petal toes,' although other parts of her are less secure from physical expressions of maternal adoration. But I'm still awfully proud of my grown up girl and the way she's adjusting to school life.

There's a little notebook the teacher uses to communicate with parents and you have to check it every day. Typically there's some request for the next day, such as: 'Please create a such-and-such out of a match box and send your child to school with 10 pressed Autumn leaves by tomorrow.'

What am I, McGiver??

Today there's a Fall Festival at school which parents are invited to attend. This morning we told K how excited we were to see her in her first play.

K's response: 'Oh, please, I'm just holding up a dumb piece of paper the whole time. It's totally lame!'

Alrighty then. She's only 6 but she's already lived in two countries and vacationed in several others. I guess you can't expect her to get all excited about holding up a piece of paper in the school pageant.

I tried again: 'Well, I'm sure you'll be the best paper holder upper ever!'

K's response can't be captured in print because she just rolled her eyes at me.

Ah, yes, our lifetime journey of parental dorkiness begins. She will never believe I used to have an iota of coolness in me. . .

Where do you draw the line?

Apparently the Germans have a law against giving your children names that can ruin their lives.

Seems reasonable.

But I ask you: who decides it's OK to name your child Adelheid or Gertrude or Uwe but draw the line at Verucca?

I is for Insane, Ironic and Impossible

Insane: Here's a quick breakdown of German political parties for you closet Deutschophiles who've been thinking recently that a country full of men in leather can't be all bad. There's the CDU, or the Christian Democrats, who more or less stand for the middle way, i.e., fiscally conservative but with some social conscience. Then there's the SDP, or Socialist Democrats, who have fallen completely out of favor since Gerhard Schroeder's time. And finally worth a mention is the FDP, or the Free Democrats, who basically want to deregulate everything and have a totally free market.

I asked Ralf yesterday how he votes, since I can't vote here. 'Are we fascists?' I asked hopefully, trying to sound informed about modern German politics. 'Green party,' was his response.

I've lived in Russia and I've seen first hand how much Communism sucks so I'm all for the free market. However, I also stayed awake long enough in economics class to learn about the Tragedy of the Commons, which states that unless restrained, multiple individuals acting rationally in their own self-interest will ultimately destroy a shared limited resource even when it is clear that it is not in anyone's long term interest for this to happen. Not might, will.

Anyway, although the CDU currently enjoys a political majority, the FDP scored an unprecedented number of votes in yesterday's national election, leading me to wonder why people always expect the same thinking that got them into trouble in the first place to get them out of it again.

Ironic: This may sound nitpicky but that song 'Isn't It Ironic' by Alanis Morrisette bugs me, not just due to its highly irriating melody but because in a long litany of things that are supposed to be ironic few of them actually are. I mean, rain on your wedding day is not ironic. Neither is an airplane crash with a passenger who fears flying. Anyway. The other day my yoga instructor Carolyn read a nice passage out loud about the enormous amount of energy women put into their appearance and how if they would channel that same energy to some higher purpose it would be enough to change the world. Incidentally, Carolyn is very attractive and looks amazing in white spandex. Now, THAT'S ironic!

Impossible: Several months back I bought a blender and two weeks ago it went up in flames while I was pureeing organic strawberries. I no longer had the receipt so I told Ralf he would have to return the blender because I knew he would succeed where I would fail. During the course of trying to return a blender to a German store with no receipt the word 'impossible' was uttered at least a dozen times by various store employees. Ralf patiently worked his way up the management chain and informed the store manager that having an easy return policy is the lifeblood of commerce. 'This is why people buy lots of shit they don't need in the US,' he explained. 'Because they know they can take it back, no questions asked. And the stores know that when they do, they'll buy more shit they don't need. Now, give me back my money for this piece of shit fire hazard you sold my wife!'

Finally after about 40 minutes of this the manager told him in a hushed voice that if he wanted his money back he would have to sign a legally binding testimony that he had bought the blender at Marktkauf. The manager seemed to think Ralf would chicken out and head for the hills once he heard this news. Instead Ralf laughed and said, 'Bring it.'

Yes, my modern day he man did get our money back.

What Happens at Oktoberfest Stays at Oktoberfest

Last year I wrote my first and still favorite blog post about Oktoberfest .

Oktoberfest is many things to many people. For some it is a chance to eat, drink and be merry. For others it is an opportunity to explore a more outgoing side of one's personality. And for many, it is a chance to hit on someone in a really low cut bodice and perhaps stagger home with them.

For me Oktoberfest is a celebration of men in leather pants.

Seriously. There is no man on earth with at least some degree of attractiveness that embroirdered deerskin knickers, a checked shirt and an enormous glass of beer will not materially improve.

Ralf has a fine pair of Lederhosen, dark green buckskin with tasteful embroirdering and hand-carved horn buttons. On his 6'4'' physique... well, let me put it this way, ladies: Ten years ago he showed up at work in cheap off-the-rack Lederhose and I promptly broke up with my fiance and moved to Germany.

But that's another story.

You may recall that last year we had a table reserved in the Hacker-Pschorr tent through an indirect connection of friendship with Frank, the plastic surgeon. This year Toby, who is a lawyer, got a table from a grateful client for opening day. Frank joined us this year as well, as did Elke, Tommy, Dirk and several non-German colleagues.

Dirk, a successful partner in a law firm and the kind of guy whose secretary is always in love with, comes to Oktoberfest to admire 16-year-old girls in their low-cut Dirndls and drink himself under the table. He was openly skeptical of inviting Americans to join us: 'Aw, really? They always throw up so early.'

After about two beers, I joined Elke in search of a bathroom, and like last year we were gone for over an hour. Not because it took so long to find or use the facilities but because Elke wanted to visit several of the other tents and I'm the ultimate drunken side kick.

Elke is director for HR at a German company and cuts a fine figure in her dirndl. I myself was dressed like a man, albeit a curvy one, with tan leather pants and a blue and white checked shirt. Not unattractive but nowhere near as eye-catching as Elke.

Don't think Daisy Duke, think Calamity Jane.

As we strolled the grounds an enormous man with a walrus mustache in the exact same outfit as mine nodded cordially and said, 'Nice pants!' He then drooled at Elke.

Last year I had hit that perfect level of tipsiness to sail to the front of all lines with a drunkenly apologetic smile and get away with it but that was - for me - an unusual combination of circumstances. Elke has that kind of mojo all the time so again we effortlessly cut to the front of the line at two different bathrooms and three beer tents.

Elke's impressive power over others also extends to people doing her bidding, as I noticed when she sent me to buy a bottle of water while she bought coffee. On a mission from Elke, the crowds parted before me like butter.

Ultimately we made it back to our table and our leather clad men and the rest of the evening progressed in the usual fashion, with more beer, roast chicken and toasts to friendship followed by pickled fish sandwiches and roller coaster rides.

Prost!!

The Schultuete

Here are a few photo's from K's first day of school where you can see some of the competing Schultueten. These aren't even the best ones - there were rocket ships, glittery ballerinas, exploding fairy fire crackers and all kinds of amazing Schultueten that I didn't film because I felt they were mocking me.

Please note that K's backpack cost more than my purse.

I also wrote a little poem on my other blog if you enjoy poetry: http://ls-workgirl.blogspot.com/

First Day of School

Ah, the first day of school, that hoary old literary chestnut of so many blogging moms.

K started first grade today. We all got up at 6AM so we could be at the opening ceremony at the Catholic church. K was excited to see her old friends from Kindergarten, including Tina the Aethiest, while L pointed up to the domed ceiling and inquired loudly when the movie would start. She had a point, since our church is kind of shaped like a planetarium.

According to tradition, the godparent buys the all-important school backpack, which is a huge industry over here. Your backpack is with you until High School so they're built to last and cost around EUR 100, or $150. Accordingly, K set off with Uncle Oller to pick out a backpack but returned with a full set that included backpack, pencil case, gym bag and change purse.

That's my girl.

K also received her Schultuete, which is an enormous cornucopeia of sweets and toys. It is traditional for German children to get a big send off before they begin their 'serious life', which is defined by punctuality, rule following and filling out forms.

K got Ralf's old Schultuete, which is nice enough. Or so I thought. For I was AGAIN outdone by the German moms, who seem to have nothing to do but create fantabulous costumes and school bags for their offspring. Not a cheesy store-bought Schultuete to be seen.

One of the church deacons read a story about a boy who loses his Schultute and cries all the way to school. His kind teacher says, 'Don't worry, you have the most important thing with you to start school.'

Then the deacon asked the children, 'Can anyone tell me what the most important thing to bring to school is?' and one excited little boy yelled, 'PANTS!'

Bright lad. You can't go too wrong as long as you keep your pants on.

F is for Fitness

You may recall that I recently joined a gym that I've been attending on a pay-per-visit basis for about 8 years. One of the reasons was that I wanted to break out of my unmotivating stairmaster rut and get back into aerobics.

Yes, people, 'back into.' I was an aerobics instructor in college, although my workout regime has been pretty spotty since then. Sadly, I no longer have a heart like a horse but on the upside, I'm carrying around 30 fewer pounds than I was back then, so all in all it hasn't been a huge transition back to fat burning activity.

As a rule I don't like female aerobics instructors, although of course I was my own favorite instructor back in the day. Particularly not in Germany. German women tend to be a bit gamier than their American counterparts, due to more lean muscle and less sun screen. I don't mean they aren't attractive, far from it. Many of the women at my gym are drop dead gorgeous in that tan, toned, golden blonde, sky blue eyed way that well-heeled Californian housewives try to emulate.

Maybe just a tad leathery, but not in a bad way.

Then there's me. Well, you know what I look like. On a normal day, almost pretty. Although I must say that after two weeks of relentless aerobics I am starting to look almost hot, which I think trumps almost pretty. And I plan to plateau at almost hot because hot would be way too much work.

But anyway, German female aerobics instructors often have strict personalities and I don't feel like being scolded by Frau Willhemina Wunderbar while I excercise. The exception is my yoga instructor, Caroline, who talks like Kathleen Turner and always asks me in a throaty, wondering tone why I can't fold myself in half. But that's not scolding, she's just saying.

My favorite aerobics instructor is Christopher, a skinny, flamboyant young man who clearly enjoys putting the hottest women in Munich - and me - through our paces.

Of course, the best part is eating cake afterwards.

PS For those of you kind enough to send me warm fuzzies over at Working Girl I have a new post in which several celebrities make a cameo: http://ls-workgirl.blogspot.com/

XOXO

E is for Embarassing

Well, really, it's a shame E only comes around once because so many things are embarassing. Still, there's always H for 'Humiliating' so I'm going to blow my E post on the following:

K starts school next week and had her 6th birthday party yesterday so last Thursday we stopped by the school supplies store to buy notebooks, pens, glue, construction paper and other useful stuff.

The stern German shopkeeper ringing up the family in front of us handed the little girl a large box with ABC printed on it and explained that it was full of free supplies for kids starting school. The girl tripped merrily out of the store with her free box of stuff while K tracked her egress with narrowed eyes.

Then she fixed those same eyes on me expectantly and I understood that she also wanted a box of free stuff.

Come to mention it, so did I. I mean, free stuff. So while the German shopkeeper was ringing us up, with nary a word about free stuff, I informed her that K is also starting school.

'The box is only for kids who buy their school supplies here,' she informed me gruffly.

I guess my paltry stash didn't make the cut. Still, nothing ventured, nothing gained.

I tried again: 'Her father brought her last week and bought a whole bunch of stuff for school and he did not come home with a box of free stuff.'

She shrugged and handed me my change.

I shook my head sadly at K and we turned to go. She's very supportive in moments like these. She doesn't have a very high opinion of my success rate in confrontations with German shopkeepers but I do get credit for trying.

'Wait!'

With an apparent change of heart, the shopkeeper ran into the back room and emerged holding a red shoulder bag with something in it. She presented it to K, who methodically sized it up and shook her head. 'No, thanks.'

I winced and smiled a weak apology. Next week's topic will be, 'Pretending you like something.'

Looking somewhat strained and clearly regretting her spontaneous half generosity, the shopkeeper said, 'Well, then, your sister can have it.'

She looked around for L and stiffened.

Then I looked around for L and stiffened.

L had apparently decided she spends too much time clothed from the waist down and had pulled down her pants and underwear.

'L, pull up your pants!' I whispered.

Delighted, she turned around and mooned us with some impressive wiggling action. Then she stood up and came forward to collect her free bag, pants dragging around her ankles and swishing loudly as she shuffled across the carpet.

Somehow all of this happened in slow motion.

Oh, and in any other country there would have been some friendly chuckles about this. Not so in Germany.

'Thank you,' I muttered, yanking up L's pants and pretty much running out of the store.

K, happily, kept her pants on.

And now, if any of you are part-time working moms like me, this post may interest you: http://ls-workgirl.blogspot.com/