Lucky he is cute.

The phone rings.

“Hi honey, just wanted to let you know that the plane is delayed and I am going to be about an hour late.  I will give you a call when I am on the train.”

Pretty considerate really, it is blowing up a storm outside and I am not looking forward to the drive to the train station to collect him.

“Ok, so where exactly are you now?”  He is calling from his mobile phone, so I am guessing he has landed already and need to calculate how long I have before I need to pick him up.

“I am sitting somewhere around the middle of the plane.”

…Cue the crickets chirp, chirp, chirp…chirp, chirp…

Not quite the answer I was looking for.

Tone Deaf

“Psychiatry enables us to correct our faults by confessing our parents' shortcomings.”  Laurence J. Peter

“You are supposed to be singing!”  I have said this in that weird stage whisper that seems the only way I can talk when I am in a church.

“But you are not singing, so why should I?” I love that my youngest progeny is so forthright in her opinions, except, when she turns them on me.  Then I have to remind myself that it is not ok to eat your own offspring.

At the front of the church are the contingency of women that make up the Choir.  I can see their mouths moving, but there doesn’t seem to be any noise.  It is like they are behind a wall of soundproof glass.  I notice a tiny, fluffy white dog that is just outside the door… It is rolling around on the ground in obvious agony.  Its paws are clamped firmly over its ears and there is a look of torture on its face.

“I can’t sing this high.” Miss Eight gives me that quick flick look that could wither steel. 

I would like to be able to sing through the top of my head like the other mothers, but it is not going to happen anytime soon.  The last time I tried, a whole flock of birds dropped out of the sky, stone cold dead.

So I revert to what I do best in the parenting department. 

“Well it is your First Communion we are practicing for, not mine.  Nobody is going to be looking at me in the church!” 

She rolled her eyes a little and slid further down the pew…away from me.

Me?

I continued to open and close my mouth… but not a sound came out.

Probably for the best.

The Old LuLu and the Sea

 

I am not homesick.  Really.  Seriously, I mean it… hey stop doing that thing with your eyebrows, it makes you look like Joan Crawford.  I just want to see water. And if you knew me better, you would know that I just said something that does not compute. 

I don’t like sand.  Never have, never will.  It gets into places it has no right to be. 

I don’t like blazing sun.  Or sunburn.

I don’t like the combination of sand & sunscreen. 

I don’t like the looooooooooong, hooooooooooot walk from the car to the beach, over the dunes… where the sand is too soft to wear shoes, but is hot enough to grill the soles of your feet to a nice Medium Rare.

I don’t like it when the wind picks up on the beach and your legs are attacked by a million tiny little fencing swords of sand.

I don’t like the crunch of sand between the lettuce of my sandwich. Or the grittiness between my teeth from a swallow of warm, flat mineral water.

I don’t like the walk back to the car, where everything is filled with sand, every crevice, every nook and cranny.  Each grain delighted at the idea that it can now take a ride in my car, where it will stay for months until someone (that would be me) managed to spend 3 hours with a vacuum cleaner.

And of course, there is the car.  Having sat in the blazing sun for several hours, it is now at roasting temperature.  The steering wheel is so hot that you spend the next 20 minutes driving with your fingers dancing around, barely touching, and wishing the damn A/C would finally kick in.

When you grow up with the Pacific Ocean no further away than a 20 minute car ride, you learn to take it for granted in the same way that the people do that work in the Lindt Chocolate factory don’t want to eat chocolate anymore… well perhaps they do, but I can dream.

Recently I realised that I am landlocked.  In fact I am not even sure how long it would take me to drive to see a huge expansive water, complete with pounding surf.  I stare at this picture on the wall, every time I sit at the computer, and for all the things I dislike about the beach… walking at sunset is not among them.

I feel the need, the need for sea.

She said what?

Quietly sipping tea with my companions, the conversation turns to ailments, in particular, aging.  A litany of conditions hit the table, each person exclaiming their own more painful than the next.  Germans over a certain age take great pride in giving out each and every detail of their diminishing youth/health.

Of course, I need to stake my claim as well:

“Well, it is possible I have a little arthritis in my right thumb.  It does seem to be affected by the weather, and my grandmother had arthritis in her fingers.”  I hold up the offending digit for inspection.

The woman sitting beside me, leans over, pokes my thumb (which I now have sticking up as if I am planning to hitchhike my way across the table), then leans back in her chair with a satisfying sigh.

“Then again,” she says, “it could be Gout.”

Well hello? 

Where is Blogger the frog?

We found a stowaway. 

It wasn’t until we arrived in Bad Marienberg (we are in Germany, people) that we discovered a creature of the green and fluffy persuasion in our luggage.  He immediately hopped out and made himself at home (on my side of the bed):

What Blogger the frog didn’t figure on, was that this particular hotel is smack-bang in the middle of a WildPark… i.e that means full of frog-eating-animals.  Things got a little hairy around the donkey, who quite frankly thought we were sending him some tasty afternoon tea.

And really didn’t improve when Blogger the frog decided it was time to give the Alpaca a big kiss.  Who knew that those guys with the gorgeous eyelashes could be so snotty!

 

 

 

 

 

There was an unfortunate incident with an ostrich, which left Blogger the frog feeling less than loved.  Anyone that made reference to ‘lunch’ would be shot a dirty look that could have cut glass:

 

After so much adventure, Blogger the Frog found himself a nice cosy spot to chill out… “Hey!  Where did everybody go? Hmm sort of quiet here… and a little spooky… seriously, a lot of trees… can you say ‘Witch from Hansel & Gretel?’ … after all, we are in Deepest Darkest German Forest here…

It was all too much for Blogger the frog, so following Lulu’s lead… he headed for the closest watering hole, and enjoyed a long, cold Bier (Beer), some sauerkraut and a tasty pork knuckle…with his new best friend!

 

To find out where else he has been and request a visit from him, please visit Jamie over at Mommy's Camera she will be more than happy to get the message to Blogger. You can also find Blogger on Jamie's Community on the BlogFrog  You can also see a map here of all the places that Blogger has been, and I will be checking that map out to see where he is going after he leaves here.

Put that down, now!

“But officer!  His head just ran into that cast iron frying pan… twice… it was a terrible accident!”

I had a bit of a breakdown breakthrough last night.  It began around the time I was putting my un-manicured hands into the third load of dishwater in the past eight hours.  It festered as I carried the fourth load of washing from the cellar, up two flights of stairs.  It bubbled when I went into the bathroom and discovered combination shaving cream/toothpaste decorating the double sinks.

There was a gradual slow simmer… it almost escaped into a full blown rice-boiling-over episode around lunch time.  But finally could no longer be contained at 7:08pm.

“Hi, honey.  What’s for dinner?” It’s not like I expect him to ask about my day…

“It’s not ready yet… it will take another five minutes or so.” I know this because I just checked the oven 11 seconds ago.

Cue – kitchen cupboards being opened and closed, packets being rustled, cutlery drawers slamming… refrigerator door…

“What are you doing?”  I haven’t actually dared to enter the kitchen, but I am pretty sure I know what the answer will be.

“Just getting a little snack.”

“But I just told you that dinner will be ready in (checking my watch) four minutes.”

“I know, but I am hungry.”

And I blew… Mt Vesuvius has got nothin’ on this kid.

The rant went on long after the first eruption.

Everyone showed the whites of their eyes…

And the response?  How does the male of the species see the world, I hear you ask?

“Has it ever happened that I haven’t eaten everything you have ever cooked?

Are you being served?

Along with the ‘Wisdom of the Elders’… comes ‘Fine Lines around The Eyes’. Morning,  I notice that my old beauty routine is perhaps not up to scratch.  Well, then again, perhaps it never was.  Considering that most of the tricks and tips that I use today came from Cosmopolitan Magazine in 1980. 

So I bit the bullet and took myself to the TOTALLY intimidating Perfumery in this One Horse Town.  It is not my first visit, usually I just slip into buy a nice soap or a shower gel as a gift (yep, if you invite me to your party… you are getting soap!).  Today, I decided I needed something to hide the multitude of sins that have taken up Squatter’s Rights on the face I present to the public.

“Hi, I was wondering if you could help me choose a new foundation make-up?”  I was trying to be charming, all the while, wishing I had thought to wear something other than my muddy walking boots and the comfy argyle knit sweater with the hole in the sleeve. 

She was all eyelashes and perfect complexion.  You just know when someone has sized you up in the blink of an eye.  Terminator III had nothing on this girl. 

“Well, what brand would you like?”  As she speaks, she surreptitiously glances at her own reflection in the many mirrors that surround us, and, with her little finger, dabs at the corner of her perfect red lipstick.

“I was hoping you would help with that…”  At this moment she has caught sight of my ragged fingernails and dishpan hands.  A little sigh escapes, a glimpse of tiny, shiny, white teeth… like you might find on a piranha.

“Yes, of course, but what I suggest is a good product might not be the same for one person, as it is for someone else..someone else might find it does not suit them.”  Then nothing.  I don’t quite know where to go with this.

“But could you at least tell me if it is the right colour?” I vaguely point in the direction of We-Promise-Miracle-And-Take-Your-Money, Paris office, hoping this will not cost me more than my last car.

With a brisk nod, she starts opening and closing drawers.  Those tiny white teeth come out and start to chew on her perfect red lips.  I study her carefully and am delighted to notice that she has a little earwax peeking out. 

“Either of these two would be suitable.”  And immediately starts to use my face as a palette.  Slapping first one side with make-up and then the other with a shade darker.  With a quick about face, she marches over to a round mirror situated near a bright window.  “Perhaps the light is better for you over here?”

Obedient child… I follow in her perfumed wake.  Bend at the waist and peer into the mirror she is holding.  Gasp!  Who is that woman.  This is the mirror from hell.  The fine lines around my eyes are now tantamount to moon craters.  The spidery red lines on my cheek have become raging red rivers. My ungroomed eyebrows, an overgrown black jungle, complete with, what I now believe, is a smear of toothpaste.  Did I really leave the house looking like this.

“Fine, I’ll take it!”  I want out.. fast.  I point to the right side of my face, hoping to god that I don’t look insane.  I don’t ask how much, I don’t care… I just want to get away.

“Would madam like a sample?”

Sure, whatever… just let me out.

When I arrived home, I discover a little gift at the bottom of the bag.  Concentrated Anti-Wrinkle Eye Cream.

Subtle… Me thinks not.

“Careful, she might hear you!”

“You have to forget about what other people say; when you're supposed to die, when you're supposed to be lovin'. You have to forget about all these things. You have to go on and be crazy. Craziness is like heaven.” Jimi Hendrix

Sleepy, sleepy Sunday afternoon. 

When I hear certain ‘other’ members of the household whispering, I crack open one eye to see what they are up to.  Whispering.  Sunday.  Never a good combination.

They think I am asleep.  I like it that way.  I watch them through my eyelashes.  They are definitely planning something. I can only hope, that this time, it doesn’t end up like the never-to-be-mentioned-again ‘green paint & Mum’s best cashmere’ incident…

I hear them slip open the door to the garden.

“You go first!” 

“No, you first”

“Let’s hold hands.”

You would be forgiven for thinking that we have a few little fairies flitting about…but this is what I found:

“Ooooh… it is a wee bit cold on my feet…but it’s ok!”

“Yes, I see what you mean, quite refreshing… but are my toes supposed to feel so numb?”

“Ummm… maybe it will be better if I just put one foot in the snow, and hop?”

“Ok.. so now I have no feeling in that foot and will need to switch…are you SURE this is a good idea?”

“Aaahhhh… I think we should call a helicopter to come and get us… IT’S FREEEZING!”

“Whose stupid idea was this!!  Call mum, tell her to come and get us… she should bring a St Bernard with her…”

“No response from the MUM SNOW RESCUE UNIT… we better make a run for it!”

Like real fairies…some days, it is better not to let on that you can see them.

Salt on my Skin

It seems like it has been winter for, like… forever.  My childish joy when the first fat snowflakes drifted down has now turned to a groan.  All day I have resisted the pull to go and shovel the front path.  I imagine the three retiree neighbours around me are having a field day grumbling about my lack of unity. 

Instead, I have focused on other matters, like changing the linen, cleaning the shower recess and making a batch of No-Knead bread dough.  It was at the moment I put my fingers in the water to check if it was ‘lukewarm’ that I drifted off…

…and landed here:

Before I knew what was happening, I could feel the warm wood under my feet. The gentle lapping of the water against the jetty urged me to walk forward. Until I arrived...Here:

Crisp sheets, fresh flowers.  The smell of salt in my nostrils.  I turned my face up to meet the sunshine… discarded layer after layer of winter clothing, releasing my body to bask in the warmth.  The Shock! as I plunge my tired and worn body into the cool water, pushing myself toward the edge…  I look up and am greeted by a sweet, smiling attendant.  The robe she hands me is soft, silky cotton.  I slip it on and follow her to here…

  

Firm, yet gentle hands work on the angry knots in my back and neck.  I feel my whole body start to relax.  Delicious smells waft past, lavender, orange blossom.  I start to feel lighter, but my eyelids are getting heavier… heavier…feeling sleepy……….“MUM!!…. are you listening?  I said I need a drink of water please… MUM!!!  What are you doing!  You have been stirring that dough for hours!”

Oh.. but it was nice while it lasted…everyone should take a little ‘dream’ holiday.  Go on, just do it.  Your credit card will never know.

*Thanks to Banyan Tree Seychelles for their beautiful photos…if you ever need a resort tester.. I am your girl.

Mind the step!

It is the early 90’s.  I am young and lookin’ good.  I roll with the cool gang.  I live in Istanbul.  I know, right… exotic!

One of the 5 Star Hotels is opening a new nightclub.  The buzz on the street about this incredible new venue, has been hot.  Tickets to the opening night are like the Holy Grail.  And I have them.

It is grand, greater than grand.  There is one room after the other, each more dramatic, each more stylish than the other.  The music is loud, all the beautiful people are holding court.  Champagne flows. It is exclusive, no ‘little people’ allowed until after midnight.

We could see the queue winding down to the car park as we gathered our coats to leave.  Our time had come, now the gates would be open to the public.  Coats in hand, headed toward the foyer, where a line of ‘primed and hair-sprayed’ youth were champing at the bit for their chance to enter the Life Style of the Rich and Famous.

I strutted past them, clearly the envy of them all… after all, I had the golden ticket.  I tossed my long hair, and with a grandiose flourish, swirled my cape-like, full length coat into the air, slipping it on.  Then it happened.

I felt myself falling, that sickening feeling that you get when an aeroplane hits an air pocket.  That drop in your stomach, when you put your foot out and discover their is nothing there…

Flat on my face.  It was so quick, I don’t actually remember the fall… just the landing.  It would have landed me an Oscar for Best Slapstick Comedy Fall.  I stayed where I was.  Considered for a quarter second that perhaps no one had noticed.

A lot can run through your head when you are face down, lying spread-eagled on a marble floor.  With a crowd watching.  There was silence.  Nobody said anything.  Nobody moved.  I could hear the blood rushing through my veins, most of it making its way to my furiously blushing face.

Someone picked me up.  I looked down at the damage.  What was before, a chic & sexy pair of black stockings, now resembled the designer wardrobe of an emo/grunge/I have no money bands’ lead singer.  My knees were skinned and a trickle of blood was winding its way toward the white marble floor.

I pushed my hair out of my eyes, turned my head to the right.  They were all still there… the before labelled ‘little people’ had now become my judge and jury… their cold, hard eyes sentenced me to a lifetime of uncool goofball, with no possibility of parole.

Pride comes before a fall, never seemed so apt.

Well! That is disturbing…

“A family is a unit composed not only of children but of men, women, an occasional animal, and the common cold.”Ogden Nash

Between Christmas and New Year, I took a little trip down south.  Down to the kingdom of Lederhosen and Weiss Bier.

During a visit to a teeny, tiny museum, the following interaction took place at the cashier desk:

Lulu:  “Hi! Could I please have tickets for two adults and three children.”

The cashier looks over her glasses, shuffles some papers, looks over her glasses some more.

Cashier:  “Oh… do you have a man with you?”

I am now pulling that face that they do at the end of each episode of The Bold & The Beautiful.  The one where they are holding the suspense, only I am trying to figure out what the hell she is getting at.

Lulu: “Um, no… just us, and the kids.” I indicate my sister (aka KuKu … ).

Cashier:  “Well, that is a shame, because I could have sold you a Family Ticket,”  she is tutting and shaking her head.

LuLu:  “In that case, WE are a family.”  When it comes to saving a few bucks… honey, I would admit to being family with Courtney Love.

Cashier:  “Oh no… a family for us means a man and a woman!!” 

She has said this with a straight face.  Kuku, who doesn’t have any idea that she has just had her civil rights violated in a foreign language, continues to smile and nod at the sweet little ol’ lady.

LuLu:  “OK… then give me two adult and three children tickets please.”  My jaw is clenched and I am breathing right up in my throat. 

As we pushed the kids up the winding staircase, I translated the event to KuKu.  It was a narrow, stone staircase.  Her response could be heard throughout the building and down to the Alps:

“SHE SAID WHAT!!”

Weeks have passed since this incident, and I still wish I had been able to pull out a business card saying something like ‘LuLu, Expert in Discrimination Law’.  Sort of like Denny Crane on Boston Legal. 

Of course, I did nothing.  I let it slide.  I opened the door for the next same-sex couple to visit that museum, with their kids, to be placed in a box.  And that makes me sad.

The weird thing… the tickets only cost 3€ and children 1€.  How much cheaper could a ‘family’ ticket possibly be?

Fried Rice and Sauerkraut

“Reminds me of my safari in Africa. Somebody forgot the corkscrew and for several days we had to live on nothing but food and water.” W.C. Fields

To date, I have been sorely disappointed by Asian food in Germany.  Sorry guys, but YOU just don’t get it.

My first experience was the local Chinese restaurant in Karlsruhe.  A favourite of my Sister in Law and her family.  I was excited.  I missed Asian food.

We are spoiled for choice in multicultural Australia.  Want a quick bite to eat?  No problem!  Pop into any number of small Chinese/Asian takeaways, and a steaming bowl of delicious, fresh, Asian green vegetables and health restoring soup is yours.  Rushing home from work, grab a succulent roast duck, chopped up and ready to serve.  Like I said…spoilt.

As we all opened our menus, I felt a tingle of excitement.  It looked good on paper.  A large group at a Chinese restaurant in Australia is a treat.  It means you can order lots and lots of different dishes, all placed in the middle, all shared.  I couldn’t quite get a handle on what the others were ordering, so when it came to my turn, I requested the Chef Recommends - Five Spice Crispy Duck.

We waited… and I watched in horror as no less than 12 portions of Five Spice Crispy Duck were placed on the table.  I looked across the table at Mr Dear Husband.  He looked back at me.  He raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders.  I waited for the other ten people to notice the huge mistake.  No reaction.

They just each reached across to ‘their’ portion, pulled it a little closer to their bowl and dug in.

There is no sharing.  And all the dishes have a distinctly German flair. The only vaguely Asian green that I saw was a lone bean sprout.

The meal was completed with Deep Fried Ice-Cream. 

Can you say 1974, people?

Are they Real?

“Loyalty to petrified opinion never yet broke a chain or freed a human soul.”  Mark Twain

“What are you watching?”  Mr Dear Husband plonks himself down beside me.  We sit quietly, together for a few minutes, until he starts to fidget and making that weird ‘clearing the throat’ sound.

“Seriously!  What ARE you watching?  His face is screwed up in concentration.  He is leaning forward, toward the television, his mouth slightly agape.

“The Real Housewives of Orange County.”  Don’t ask, sometimes a girl just needs a little Bling-Bling.

He turns and looks at me, puzzled.  “Please tell me what is REAL about THOSE women!”

He has a point.  I find myself mesmerized by their faces.  Their faces and their breasts.  Neither of those body parts appear to move. Ever.  And they are all over forty.

Mr Dear Husband leans back, crosses one leg over the other at a 45 degree angle.  He is still squinting.  It is possible he might need new specs, but probably more accurate to assume he is confused.

“Why don’t their faces move, and why do they all look the same?”  He has a point.

I couldn’t help myself.  A lazy weekend afternoon, something mindless. I got hooked and continued to watch these women parade their lives for the world to see.  After three episodes, I started to like them.  Not what I was expecting.

Imagine what it would be like to put in that much time and effort, to have shiny white teeth and Pamela Anderson Hair.  And those boobs!  Wow.  It had taken me at least two episodes to work out why all those gals could strut around in tiny, spaghetti strap tops, with no visible sign of the usual mechanics it takes to hold ‘the girls’ in place.

Strangely, it was some of the most honest television I have seen for ages.  They are pretty straight up about WHO they are, and where they want to be.  There is no pretence.  It was refreshing.  And they love a glass of wine… what’s not to like!

Sort of hoping that Mr Dear Husband doesn’t EVER get transferred to Orange County.  They would take one look at my “No Shaving Legs in Winter” policy…or “Has it been 12 weeks since my last hair cut…whoops” and I would be run out of town.

Mr Dear Husband sat with me for another few minutes… then Miss Eight happened to drift past…

“Oh pretty!  Barbie Dolls!”

Yep, baby, REAL LIVE Barbie Dolls.

Officially Stupid.

Yep folks, that is right.  I am going to go out and buy a brass plate, a big one, and have it engraved.

Here lives Lulu,  Officially Stupid.

No one will dispute it.  This morning I started cooking some beef stock.  I have done it at least a million times.  I think I am pretty clever when I do it.  People are always impressed.

I start my stock.  I go and start cleaning my bathroom.  I come back to the kitchen and am immediately alert to the fact that something is not right.  Where is the good, hearty smell?  Where is the comforting bubbling pot.  The kitchen is cold and still.  The gas has run out.  Long story, but we are currently on bottled gas.  Annoying as hell, but a makeshift solution until the new kitchen is installed.

Ok, I think, I can do this.  I run downstairs to the storage Cellar and grab my Slow Cooker.  I grumble as I walk up the stairs, because it is covered in fine dust, residue from when Mr Dear Husband put up the new shelving.  He claims that ‘clean up’ after doing renovations does not fall into his job criteria. One day I will give him a big dose of ‘job criteria’.

I wash my slow cooker carefully… don’t want any silt in my soup.  Plug it in, grab the heavy pot of half cooked stock… and carefully pour it into the slow cooker.  Then I watch as all the precious liquid starts to run through the slow cooker… over the kitchen bench, down through the dishwasher and on to the floor. Aaaaaaaaagggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhh!

I had forgotten to put the ceramic pot back inside. 

Don’t kid yourself, if this ever happens to you, cancel everything on your calendar for the next two days.  That is how long it will take you to clean up the mess.

A perfect end to a diabolical week. 

I am going to search the house.  Somewhere, someplace is a Voodoo Doll with my name on it.  Not sure who I annoyed, but they got themselves some mighty powerful magic happening.

 

If you need me today, I will be Out for Lunch.

What is that?!?!

Age is not for the weak of heart.

Perhaps it has something to do with the Winter, that appears to have taken a Narnia pill, and become endless.

Standing in Oh-So-Flattering fluorescent light of our bathroom this morning, I took  stocktake. I was in shock at how many parts of me need replacing or at least a little bodywork.  Seems like a minute ago I was 30 & sexy (oh yes I was), now I am starring down the barrel of a full body makeover that would make Cher cry.

Let’s start at the top:

• Dandruff – Huh?  I even dreamt about it,  dreamt that someone told me I had dandruff and kept brushing it off the shoulders of my black sweater.
• Age spots.  I did try to kid my self that it was just a large freckle (freckles are cute, right?) But no, that thing is no freckle.  It is matched only by the ONE black hair that keeps sprouting from my chin.  Should I ever end up in a coma, I want one of you to make it your business to get thee to the hospital with a pair of tweezers.  No, I am not joking.
• Turkey Chin.  There was some guy in Ally McBeal that found a wobbly chin erotic… he was off his meds.
• ‘The Girls.’  Two children, breast-feeding… and suddenly they are heading south for the winter… but not coming back.
• I don’t even want to know what that weird spot is on my right thigh.
• Saggy knees.  A family of hedghogs could make their winter home in the folds of skin on my knees.  I have been tempted to do a little self-surgery… I could clip that skin together with a clothes peg…and for seven seconds ..Instant SJP Knees.. and then I start screaming from the pain.
• The feet.  Not pretty.  You know it is bad when you start eyeing off the microplane grater in your kitchen drawer…

There is no hope.  But none of that matters anyway.  Because I have recently discovered that I am invisible.  Yes, I am THAT woman.  I could walk around with my knickers on my head and I am almost certain that nobody would notice.

If I hear one more reference to MILF or Cougar, I am likely to go nuts.  Who the hell comes up with this crap… Are we never to be given the chance to age without being pulled and shoved and starved?  Susan Sarandon recently started her ‘mid-life crisis’ at 63.  Seen snogging playing with a much younger man.  What would be the point?  Didn’t we just spend the last 20 years telling men how stupid they look dating girls half their age? 

How do you think they say goodnight?

“Good night Susan, you are looking HOT!”

“Good night Toy Boy, have you brushed your teeth and put in your retainer?”

Good Night.

That’s so true!

I laughed so hard a few minutes ago, that the neighbour banged on the wall.  I think she thought I was having a fit. 

I like laughing, but stopped doing it in public after a nasty boy in high school said something that really put a damper on my hilarity:

“Do you know, that when you laugh, it looks like you have a spring-loaded bum?”

What the hell? 

But we get older, and wiser… and we use Google to discover that the evil grunt that ruined my belly laughs for years has:

• Lost his hair (and not in a sexy Sean Connery way)
• Obviously eats more doughnuts than are healthy
• Obviously does not go to the gym after eating doughnuts.
• Obviously still lets his mother buy his clothes

(bitter… who me?)

But back to my current laughing clown self.  It was suggested to me on FaceBook that I look up my name on Urban Dictionary.  So I did.  This is what I found:

Lynda:

• Sexy woman from up north. Is a frog. Also is a enemy of Mr.Roboto (don’t ask me…I have NO clue)
• A sexy fox. She says ribbit when she is being a frog.
• Very small bird like squawking creature
• Aka: evil midget on wheels
• An evil horrible maid who has successfully ruined her deceased "best friends" family...a.k.a SATAN
• Can you believe that she married him just for his money?....What a lynda!

Yep… that about sums me up. 

But what is it with the frog?

The Pets.

Ok, so Miss Eight has been at school here in Germany since August.  It can’t have been easy to switch languages at the beginning of the 3rd grade, but she did, and she made it look simple.

I would like to take full credit for her spectacular use of the German language, but as it has now become a LuLu Household National Sporting Event to correct my German grammar, pronunciation and how I sneeze… well, you get the idea.

So when Miss ‘IT’ came home with a spectacular Mid-Year School report, I wasn’t too surprised.  That was until she informed me that all the other kids get money for grades.

“What do you mean money?” I am squinting up my eyes, guarding my loins and pushing my wallet to the top shelf in the kitchen, as I speak.

“Well, they get 5 Euros for a 1, 2 Euros for a 2 etc…” she has noticed me tucking the twenty I keep for emergencies deep inside my left sock.

“Hmmm.. yeah, well… I don’t think it is good to pay for grades. It sets the wrong tone.  How about a reward?”  At this stage I am thinking a glass of cold milk and a piece of the chocolate cake I baked last week – which remains suspiciously uneaten.

A huge grin breaks out on her face.  “Great!! Can I have a pet?  All the other kids have pets.  They have dogs & cats, hamsters and one boy in my class has a pet snake.  Can I? Ha! Can I?”

Yikes… the pet gig.  I don’t want pets.  I have enough trouble looking after myself and the rest of the crew.

“I’ll think about it.”  She knows this means about as close to NO as it gets, gives me the ‘you-are-meanest-mother-in-the-world-death-stare”, turns on her heel and stomps up the stairs to jump in the bath I had just run for her.

Freshly scrubbed, hair washed, and smelling sweet.  We are combing through her long, blonde tresses when I happen to catch a little movement.  I peer closer, drop the hair brush, grab my Granny Specs.

“Well, my darling, it would appear that your wish has been granted!  You have finally got the pet you always wanted. Only it would seem that you have more than you were expecting, and they are already setting up home, complete with a maternity ward, a crèche, and I believe they are opening a Starbucks behind your right ear.”

Her scream of anguish could be heard throughout the quiet streets of this one horse town.  Worst nightmare come true.

Head Lice.

Can you say…scratch, itch..scratch…itch….

It’s 4:19pm

And I have just cracked the top off a bottle of delightful pinot grigio, cooled to a perfect temperature.  I intend to drink a big glass of it very quickly.  I want that spin feeling to hit me as fast as possible.

Wafting throughout the house are the delectable sounds of Miss Eight and her latest piano piece.  It is gorgeous and she loves it so much that she has learnt it in record time. 

I want to feel happy about this.  I should be happy.  I have everything thing I need and then some.

But today, I have the overwhelming urge to runaway.

Those of you that have hung out here for a while now (and you know who you are) will remember that this melancholy state hit me once or twice when we were living it up in Cairo.  Usually, it is triggered by some random event that pushes my delicate psyche over the edge.

Frustration is the name of the game here.  I have all the tools I need to make it work, but every time I get on top of my game, they change the rules.

Why are you not laughing?  Am I not being funny enough?  I swear, the woman at the Post Office today had magical powers  - the ability to suck the ‘funny-ness’ right out of my bones.  Is it really so difficult to be a little pleasant.  Where in gods name is the humanity!  They have ‘mis-placed’ one of my parcels.  By my reckoning, it is either both mine, and Miss Eight’s new Australian passport (which means a whole lot of crap will now unfold).  Or, it is the box of new clothes that I have ordered for Miss Eight, who is currently down to her last pair of respectable trousers - - what the hell is in the chicken here that makes her grow so fast, and why can’t they wear a school uniform!

Apparently it is my fault.  First because I don’t have an Ausweis (a German Identity Card) – no I don’t. Why? Because I am an immigrant and wouldn’t be granted one until I have lived here continuously for eight years (like that is EVER going to happen) and/or I give up my Australian Passport – chances of that?  Higher than Saddam Hussein winning the Nobel Peace Prize posthumously.  So it is that I am without any real form of identification that the Post Office will accept.  And boy, do they make me pay.

If you are still with me… and I will forgive you if you wandered off to get your own tipple… I will have you know that I really do try to play nice. 

But they are making it hard.

I will try for funny tomorrow.

I think…

If I get my parcel.

Or I happen to catch ‘that woman’ from the Post Office shagging her boss at the end of the street – take photos – and publish them all on the internet.

Glass number one.. down.

Aaaaahhhhhhhhh……………

It’s 4:57pm