Monday, February 23, 2009

Crisis has a negative connotation, but it really means an event that brings on change.

Today we were listing defining moments in one's life. Before reading what Someone and Rahe thought were the most defining moments (there's a list of 43 taken from mental patients of events that lead to crisis), we had to list our top five,

That's easy. Number three is Zombie Apocalypse. I filled out the rest of my list.

5. Potty Training
4. The Third Person You Sleep With
3. Zombie Apocalypse
2. Oversleeping on Free Waffle Day

I pause on Number One. My professor comes by. She glances at my notebook, as I try to cover my list with my hand. She sees the first two and looks at me, asks how I'm doing. I say fine. Slide my hand a little more. Don't make them think you're weird, don't make them think you're weird. I write out some list, including such basic events as "Getting Married" and "Having Kids," and "Living Out Every Barbie Fantasy Moment with Ambiguous Genitalia."

1. Having your professor read over your shoulder at the worst possible time (maybe second to the drawings I make in Women Lit, usually Underwater Kitchen Appliances and Squid)

Sunday, February 22, 2009

I'd actually really prefer it if you are one who resided in the same uterus as I that you don't

a) read my blog
b) tell our mother to read our blog
c) all of the above


Saturday, February 21, 2009

Hi Mum

Language barriers really suck. Really suck. It makes me not want to explore as much, because I'm frustrated that I've been here for over a month and a half and yet my German has not been improving. I can read a lot better, and I can understand more. But my ability to orally communicate has mysteriously vanished. I do a lot of nodding, or a lot of pulling my hood over my head. The times I feel ballsy, I'm corrected on my pronunciation, in perfect English. Or they go on and are way too fast for me to comprehend.

Or, in the case of last weekend, they sssh me and tell me it's no problem, when "keine problem, ssssh" is all I understand before I start shouting up the staircase. Opening my jacket and waving my arms around to scare away bobcats. Despite feeling more vulnerable (because really, how much good can a peacoat do against teeth and claws), and thinking two thoughts: how the shit will I get out of here, and I wonder if my German is correct.

Equally frustrating is the fact that I can't figure out for the life of me what kind of shampoo/conditioner/product is the product of my dreams. I mean, it's hard enough when I speak the language. Near impossible when scrunching my hair to the confused woman at Bipa and using words like "Locken" and "Wilde!" and "Meine Traumen moechte shoen Haar," which I'm certain doesn't mean what I want it to mean, but sounds dramatic and pressing in the (probably incorrect) translation in my head.

Sometimes, though, the language barrier is-well, I guess it's still a barrier, but I'm on the opposite side of it. I know people here speak English, but pretending English is as popular and widely spoken as, say, Gaelic, allows for decent subway gossip.

I feel like I should follow this with these statements: I'm having a lot of fun, I saw two operas this weekend, I'm starting to get into the routine of things finally, I'm starting to practice more, I love voice lessons, even more her two dogs that lick my hands as I practice breathing and drink tea, I have a ton of homework that keeps me busy but I'm anxiously awaiting the day bikes start showing up in the Flohmarkt, I'm listening to "Rubber Soul," I got an invitation to Mortar Board that I'm filling out at nearly 1 am Sunday morning, I'm probably going to run out of money, I just put all of eggs in one basket with this recipe I'm trying to make to feed me the rest of the week, and damn it now I really want eggs.

Tuesday, February 17, 2009

Am starting to feel better.

Still feel safe and am convinced that was a fluke.

Saturday, February 14, 2009


Midnight: I start drinking the 1,97 euro champagne. I leave some phone calls, sing with the roommates, get dressed, ask opinions. Realize aloud that tights make my legs look less white, especially black tights. Settle for black dress, black tights, red FMPs. Stumble across the bridge, along the street. It's twelve thirty. I ask a woman with a German Shephard (are they still called German Shephards here?). She tells me it's parallel to this street. Almost there. Pick the button? I have been in a delayed state. An hour ago I opened the champagne. Anticipated catastrophic results, the last time I almost shot Lorena's eye out. Covered the top with a towel, unhooked, and nothing. A small pop. I breathe. And then it explodes. Glass and feathers are everywhere. I use the only clean towel to wipe up the champagne. I arrive at the club.

Berlin: I've never been to a club here. So of course once I start clubbing in Germany, it makes sense to go to Club Berlin. Bermuda Triangle. I go in and wander. Am convinced that I don't need a beer, that the rum and coke will be fine. The man with the unbuttoned button up and the waxed chest, the look that screams beautiful douchebag, tops the half full glass with rum. Zoe laughs, she doesn't need that. I drink it. They only play American music here. Come on Eileen, I love this song. We dance, and there are two men in glasses, round young faces behind me. I move into their circle. If one of them was the love of my life, we would have Charlie Brown children, perfectly spherical heads. I have a beer. A man, shaved head with a goatee, stops me and asks me something in German. We start talking, and he introduces me to his girlfriend. They ask me where I'm from, and what I study, and if I sing, and other things as I drink more beer. I play with matches, lighting them one at a time and waiting until the last minute to part my fingers and watch it float to the floor.

Outside: I push my grandmother out of the way, running up the stairs. It's much later. I've bought Grace a shot. I need to go home, I just live over there. Why was my grandmother in the bar? I run outside. Lean against the column. Puke my fucking brains out. I hold my skirt back. Blot my lipstick. Walk a few more feet. Puke. Why did I see her? Why do I let people fuck with my confidence? I hail a cab. I'm wearing mismatched underwear. Red lacy bra. Nude granny panties that come up to my waist. He drives me home, somehow. I pay him. He tries to kiss me. Does he? What the shit? I open the door. Trip on the curb. Pick myself up, run to my door. He follows me. I shake my head. No. Don't kiss me, I don't kiss strangers, and apparently I'm horrible at it anyways, don't waste your time with the drunk girl. I walk past my apartment, past the old Jewish ghetto, past the Donau, past Bratislava. I'm in Russia now. I wake up in my bed, some hours later.

Wednesday, February 11, 2009

"Huevos" "Rancheros"

Missing random things, like decent pianos and hungover breakfasts with my dad at Shakabrah. Compensating by buying the spiciest salsa I can find (not like there's more than one option; it says "extra spicy" but is quite sweet), using the tupperware of black beans I cooked and then had no idea what to do with, and what I hope is sour cream (but tastes much better than the real thing, leading me to assume it's full fat) on top of cheesy eggs. No tortillas, avacados, good salsa, but it's not bad.

Nothing really new to say, it's just been awhile since I blogged.

Wednesday, February 4, 2009


Got mildly to severely drunk last night. Decided to go on Facebook, check my email, etc, around one in the morning. Decided I wanted to write a postcard to some friends, so I got their mail box numbers. Didn't have a pen and paper, decided a Sharpie on some exposed piece of flesh would suffice.

End up with a line of digits on my left wrist.

And today we went to the Jewish Museum and Holocaust Memorial.