Cake anyone?

I know, I know… a little off the beaten track, but sometimes a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.

A friend recently had her third babe. Brave, from my perspective. With all the moving, renovating, unpacking etc, I have been a little remiss in my congratulations. In fact, this newborn is now over 2 weeks old… and they only live around the corner!

So I am inviting them to come and celebrate a little, my first real guests in fact, and join me in some wine and nibbles tomorrow.

The third child is the deal breaker, in my eyes. Those of you who chose to go down this path are made of stronger stuff that moi. Cars are built to seat three kids in the back. But as one of three sisters, all I remember about our Summer holidays, were the ferocious arguments about WHOSE turn it was to sit by the window, the middle spot being clearly marked LOSER!

But, I digress, in preparation for tomorrow, and putting aside all the myriad of chores that are piling up around my ears, I decided to tackle a Diaper Cake…that is a Nappy Cake if you come from Down Under.

I think it turned out pretty good… and only took me three hours… who knew that rolling nappies could be so time consuming!

I’m livin’ in a box….I’m livin’ in a cardboard box.

“I'm moving, but don't worry! [Someone once] told me we're all on the same planet, so I'll be okay!”  Takayuki Ikkaku

So, there I was with a little time on my hands.  Not doing much in particular, just daydreaming.  My fingers started to twitch as I started counting, striking off with each memory.  When my fingers ran out, I used my toes.  I made it to the big toe on my right foot.  “Sixteen times! Oh lord make it not be so!”  But it was true, and here I was, waiting for the big truck to arrive, again.

In over 20 years of being married to Mr Dear Husband, I have packed up and moved house so often, that the only place that truly feels like home is any airport terminal in the world.

Those of you that have been reading here for a while (you know who you are and I still LOVE your comments) will remember when my household was boxed up for the trip from Sydney to Cairo (what was I thinking!!):

And then we spent a bliss filled 3 months with nothing but a couple of suitcases.  It is so much easier to live without material possessions.  You save yourself a heap of time when it comes to housework.  No dusting, whip over those floors lickety-split when you don’t need to negotiate furniture. And the good lord know how often those Cairo floors needed to be cleaned.  But there was no putting off the inevitable, the boxes arrived: I seriously contemplated NOT unpacking at all, but once the beast is unleashed, it cannot be contained.  Before I knew it, we had started riffling through looking for this and that…then there was no stopping the flood.  What I wasn’t to know at the time was just how short our sojourn in Cairo would be.  After a year, the call of the wild was heard and answered and we were shipping out again.  About here would be the photo of the boxes repacked again, if I had actually been in the country at the time.  I made an executive decision…left Egypt for Christmas, and didn’t go back.  This meant that for the first time in all 16 moves, Mr Dear Husband was going to have to ‘go it alone’.  Of course, on this occasion packing was little more than a phone call. 

And so we come to last Saturday.  The boxes finally arrived here in Germany, after being stored in Cairo for almost 12 months.  Eight of those months were fraught with stress and uncertainty, as we negotiated our way through the mess created by the Financial Crisis. So here they are again: If you look carefully, you will be able to see that each box brought with it, a little piece of Egypt.  A layer of Cairo dust has permeated my entire house.  The boxes are not as pretty as the ones from Australia, but they survived the trip. Two days of non-stop unpacking has resulted in something resembling a home, just don’t look in the Cellar or the Attic.

Today it became just too much, I couldn’t face another box so I set out on my trusty cycle to gather supplies at Aldi. Although the sky seemed ominous, I decided to give it a whirl, anything to get away from those dreaded boxes.The bike was a gift from an elderly family friend, ‘elderly’ being the operative word.  When she told me she hadn’t ridden the bike for ‘a good while’ and then in the next breath mentions, ‘it is almost brand new’, I really should have put 2 + 2 together…  But she gets me where I need to go, and as I discovered today, works remarkably well in wet weather.  If you happened to be driving through Germany today and saw a wild-eyed woman peddling for her life, loaded up with groceries, looking like a half drowned rat, on a clapped out bike circa. 1945… yes, well, that was me!

Hola Back Gal

"I tell you, it's time to write that book and sell millions! Stop telling the world for free and make them bloody well pay for your laughs!!" Mama Lisa



What to do, what to do? In the midst of the 'settling into the new house' stage, I find myself in serious need of some mojo... please send in Austin Powers. I can hear what you are thinking, even those of you that walk around with tin foil on your head, that I have a new house, therefore a blank canvas. And this is true. Unfortunately, to date, it has been all hard slog, broken fingernails, paint streaked hair... not much in the creative line.


Bemoaning my fate (if you stick around long enough, you will learn that I am whinger...whiner..complainer....never happy type gal), well I suppose it was more like screeching at Mr Dear Husband down the telephone line, he managed to come back with a reply that floored me.....in fact, I went so quiet that he thought I had fainted. At about the point where he was ready to call the local doc to come and see if I was still alive, I answered, "ahmmm Ok!"


Mr Dear Husband has a hard life, lots of travel, lots of meetings, lots of stress (and he is married to me). But it has been difficult to have a whole lot of compassion for him recently. You see, he has been hang'in down in Mallorca... a whole 3 weeks now. As we have just had 4 degrees and rain for the past two weeks, him sprouting off about 25 degree, warm, sunny days did not go a long way toward easing my self-evolved melodrama.

Truth be told, before he had time to change his mind, I had booked a flight on "Think yourself lucky we don't strap you to the wings" Airline... enrolled the Outlaws in a little One-On-One time with the terrorist Miss 8....packed my bag and ran like hell to the airport. Two hours later I was ripe and ready for three whole days of bliss. Spanish wine, fresh fish, fresh air and nothing to do....

I won't bore you with all the details, only to say, it is incredible what a change of scenery can do to reverse the condition of melancoly. And it beats spending 20 minutes lying under a sun bed.

Poppies and Puffer

There are an assortment of events on the 11th of November. Each year, without fail, it comes around and each year, I celebrate my 29.5th birthday, again.

This year, was no exception. But then there are the priorities, right? Must not forget to pause at 11:00am and take a moment to remember those gallant soldiers that fought so hard so that the future generations could have a life filled with Nintendo Wii, Starbucks & Microwave Cheeseburgers.

Overshadowed by that solemn occasion if you live in Cologne is the beginning of Karneval. In the days when I was being 'a-courted' by Mr Dear Husband, he casually enquired as to when my birthday would fall....

"On the 11th of November," I replied, visions of candlelit dinners and small shiny packages danced in my head.

His face fell.....

"What is it?" I asked.

"You're kidding me, right?" he whispered hopefully.

"No, it has always been on the 11th of November....pretty sure...Yep, the 11th." By now I am watching his handsome face starting to contort with excruciating pain.

"What is it? Is something wrong?"

"Well, it is like this....." he took a deep breath and in a rush came the words that would rule my birthday for the rest of my married life.

"On the 11th of the 11th, at 11:00am, in Cologne, is the opening of Karneval....and it is my favourite day of the year...." His eyes misted up as memories of past 11th of the 11th rush past his eyes... memories of him drinking copious amounts of Kolsch within the shadow of the Cologne Cathedral, and usually dressed in some insane costume. I thought his eyes were misting up because he was being romantic and was overawed by the idea of marrying a girl born on his favourite day.

He cleared his throat, leaned forward over the table, took my hand... "I am sorry to say, it seems that you will be spending your birthday alone, I LOVE Karneval and never miss it."

I thought he was joking. Twenty odd years later, let me tell you, he wasn't.

But all was not lost. Before the son, came the endearing father... now my father-in-law. When I am here in Germany, he never fails to come up with something to please on the 11th of the 11th.

This year, it was this:

Now, be honest, how many of you have ever been given a hand built Kartoffel Kiste for your birthday!! I just know you are keeling over with jealousy.... Can someone please tell me how long I need to leave the potatoes there before they turn into vodka........... preferrably in Grey Goose bottles.

Chocolate Box Town

Not feeling very funny today, so I thought I might show you some photos I took in the Summer. Not far from our town is a castle town. Built up high on a hill, the original inhabitants lived within its walls and I suspect some of them are still there.
It makes for a lovely walk, little houses nestled up against each other and cradled by the remaining walls. One of the members of my family was born in this tiny place and speaks (even today, some 50 years after moving down to the 'big smoke') a rough dialect that takes all my concentration to understand.

The people from this town are loyal to their ways. They know the history of the area, they know who was born and who is a relative. I suspect that knowing the geneology is a good thing, considering how few of them there actually were 50 years ago... never good to marry your brother. Sometimes, I hear the guitar riff from Deliverance in my head when I am walking around the castle walls.....

Entry to the town is either through a steep uphill, hairpin drive (terrifying in winter) or from the other side...but then there is the stone wall entrance, which is tiny, suitable only for Fiat Pandas or Smart Cars. It would be hopeless to try and bring in any heavy machinery. So everything is handled through small loads.

I think the town dwellers like it this way, it keeps the tourist buses away.

Oben and Up

Hey, where did the Summer go? As if by magic, things have changed here. It seems to have happened overnight, or was I just too busy to notice. My neighbours have buttoned up their garden houses, tucked up their stone statues and raked up all their leaves.

Don't know why I am pretending, all the signs were there, clear as day. The first happened when I woke up and found that Mr Frost had come to visit. He left behind his card. All the lovely summer Geraniums killed with a single stroke.

Then the water buckets iced over. Miss 8 found this exciting, but it reminded me that I have now made my home in a country that requires you to change your tyres over according to the season -- unheard of in Australia. Why, we only change our tyres when the rims start scratching the driveway (or is that only in Queensland heeeeheehee)

And so it was, that we decided to start investigating indoor activities. There are massive indoor sport halls here on every corner. Clubs that meet at pubs (more my style), dancing, singing, more drinking, more singing.... all of this will eventually lead to Carnival, which is just about to come a knocking. I will post more about that later. As Miss 8 is still too young to take much pleasure in the drinking, singing, more drinking, more singing club, we took off to the movies.

I wasn't sure what to expect. The first shock being the prices... I did try explaining that I only wanted 2 seats, not buy the whole cinaplex, but it didn't help. Then there was the usual or might I say, not so usual Movie Snacks. Popcorn... the first mouthful almost landed on the back of the head of the person sitting in front of me. It was SWEET... blerk! No salt, no butter... I scanned around to see if anyone else had discovered this devilish mistake, but they all seemed to be stuffing it down as if normal. The then was the 'shared armrest' protocol. Hmmm... would this be different. Which drink holder belonged to me? Very confusing. As if that wasn't bad enough, it was a 3-D movie, which required me wearing funny glasses, and resulted in me embarressing myself when I kept constantly trying to swat things out of the air....that weren't there. This caused much merriment for 13 year old boy on my right....and distracted him enough so that I could plant my elbow firmly on the armrest!

In the end, it was fun, but I miss watching movies that haven't been dubbed. Somehow that little out of sync mouth movement v's sound distracts me from the movie. Might be time to invest in a home cinema.

PS. Photo of Miss 8 taken just after I had tried to swat a bird out of the sky, at the same time upending my bucket of SWEET (just can't come to terms with that) popcorn into the lap of Mr smartypants 13 year old spotty youth. She is NOT amused! More and more often lately she wears that same expression when she looks at me.....should I be concerned?

I am a Doughnut!

We haven't had a story lately, would you like another? I thought as much. Ok, get cosy, put your feet up...hey! not on the coffee table! Good, ready?
As a fresh young bride, I was whisked out of Australia, all the way to Europe, landing squarely in Germany. It was exactly 30 days after I got married. Everything was new, new husband, new country, new language. It seemed every conversation I overheard was about to explode into a full blown blood bath. The gutteral utterings all but nonsense for me at the time.

An exciting time to be in Germany, whispers of revolution were in the air and I was delirious with sensory overload. Finally the chapters of my well-thumbed history textbooks were coming to life. Names like Helmut Kohl and Honecker infiltrated my everyday conversations. I felt worldly beyond my tender years.

Watching the Berlin Wall fall was like sitting in a Master class. Even way before I tangoed with the German Mr Dear Husband, I had a unfathomable interest in everything to do with WWII. Triggered, I suspect, by two books read during my impressionable teen years. Diary of Anne Frank, and One day in the life of Ivan Denisovisch by Alexandr Solzhenitsyn.

As life rushes by, it took us until the Summer of 1990 to finally have the chance to cross the border and take a look around The East. A trip was planned, heading through Frankfurt, toward Dresden, then on to Prague. It was our 1st wedding anniversary. In preparation, there was much discussion about whether I would need a Visa or not. Nobody seemed to know the answer, and that summed up the whole country, doused in confusion. The merging of East & West was still in its infancy.

Being a worrier, I took hold of the reins and asked Mr Dear Husband to drive me to Bonn. I would just go to the East German Embassy and ask them. Now, I am not sure what it was like before the Wall went down, but I could swear I saw a tumble weed rush down the driveway as we approached. No cameras, no guards, and nothing to indicate if we should go in or run for our lives. As we hesitated, a man in a East German police uniform opened the front door and beckoned us inside. At this stage, I am seeing pictures from John Le Carre books in my head.... we followed him into a large room. The room empty, except for a small, battered table and chair, placed deliberately in the centre.

Mr East German Policeman, sat behind the desk, straightened his shoulders, coughed once and said, "Passport".

By this stage, I had started to shake, having worked myself into an imaginary frenzy. I held out my little blue Australian passport, with the fearful worry that I would never see it again. Visions of KGB were dancing through my head, high-kicking to the title music from Hogan's Heroes.

Mr East German Policeman took my passport with his thumb and forefinger, a slight curling of the top lip and and ever so tiny sniff. He laid it on the table, and opened it to the first page, looked intently at the photo, then back up to my face. That curled lip remained.

Then, in a manic rush, he flipped the lid of a small cashbox by his side, containing a stamp, and a stamp pad. "Twenty Marks!" It sounded more like a barked command than a request, and we reacted accordingly, each of use stumbling to turn out our pockets and throw money at him. With a slight of hand, the money disappeared, there was a quick STOMP, and my passport was slid back across the table, again, using the least amount of bodily contact possible.

We did not talk or look back until we were at least 20 minutes away. To this day, I have no idea if the stamp was legitimate or not. On no occasion during the trip through East Germany was I ever stopped by anyone, nor did anyone ever request to see the stamp.

For all I know now, there is a good chance that we were scammed... but it made our trip to the DDR all the more exciting. A fruitful imagination is a wonderful thing.

Now let's me hear you..... get that David Hasselhoff hip action going.... come on, The Fall of the Berlin Wall will be forever linked to this song....

I've been lookin' for freedom
I've been lookin' so long
I've been lookin' for freedom
still the search goes on
I've been lookin' for freedom
since I left my home town
I've been lookin' for freedom
still it can't be found