Zut Alors!

Alas, my one great World Cup hope has been dashed.

All I ever wanted in life (or at least in this week of my life) was for Germany and France to meet in the final game of the 2006 World Cup, and for Germany to beat France to a bloody, screaming, writhing pulp such that the following occured, in no particular order:

• The French players were left scattered across the field in little puddles of the agony of defeat.
• The French fans were so devastated that they threw themselves en masse from the top of the stadium into the parking lot.
• The ensuing parking lot melee included the destruction of several Peugeots and/or Citroens, with maybe some Renaults thrown in for good measure.

Don't get me wrong. I have nothing against the French personally. But those guys sure sacked a lot of German castles over the years, and you gotta think that they have it coming.

I'm just saying.

Losing a pound of love

It was a tough trip to the States for Maya. Not only must a big country seem infinitely bigger when you're that small, but she was also surrounded my other dogs. Everywhere we stayed, there were at least two other dogs with which she had to compete for food and water and (heaven forbid!) attention. Some she got along with (Julie the Sheltie and Reagan the Japanese Chin), some she didn't (Mica the female Siberian Husky and Hatton the Golden Retriever); some scared the shit out of her (Caleb the arthritic Chesapeake Bay Retriever) and some desperately wanted to date her (Shadow the male Siberian Husky, that old devil). In the end, though, they all worried her to death. Between that and the 8000+ miles of air travel, she lost as much as 1.1 pounds, from 4.8 before we left to 3.7 by the time we got back.

By my (admittedly random) calculations - give me a break, I was a Humanities major - that means that the amount of love I am receiving in my daily interaction with Maya, love muffin that she is, has been reduced by 23%. Twenty-three percent! I'm a quarter down on love, people!

Strangely, however, her patriotism seems inversely related to her weight, as evidenced by the attached photo, taken after our return from the States.

More tests are definately in order.....

And now it's been 10 years and I'm still wondering who to be

Got an email from my dear friend Becky today. She writes:

"In other terribly depressing news, I got THE CALL last night. Yep, the one I've been dreading. The 10th HIGH SCHOOL REUNION is upon me."

Having long ago located my 10th high school reunion web page online (www.franklincountyhs1996.com), I was not nearly as shocked as poor Becky at this unavoidable reminder of acne, band camp, and that painful rejection by the cheerleading squad that $10000 in therapy never managed to erase from your delicate psyche. In all honesty, I'm actually looking forward to my reunion. In eager anticipation, I've already made contact with several of my old classmates, exchanged photos and caught up on missed moments in their lives. I find it truly enjoyable, despite the fact that - as Ben Folds Five so brilliantly put it - "now it's been 10 years and I'm still wondering who to be."

This ability on my part to look beyond the directionless wanderings of my life to this point has a lot to do with the indisputable point that - on paper at least - my life looks pretty damn amazing if I'm selective with the facts I relay. Case in point, "I've been happily married for four years to a man I adore; I've been living in Germany for the past two years and have travelled extensively throughout Europe during that period to countries including the Czech Republic, Poland, Austria, Italy, Swtizerland, France and Belgium; I recently completed my Master's degree with the University of Heidelberg and hope to begin my PhD in the fall.

Question: Who wouldn't want a life like that?

Answer: Me.

Because here are the facts that I left out: The man I'm so happily married to is in a war zone on another continent and has been for the past six months. I won't see him again until October. I am so sick of travelling and feeling like a tourist in my own home that I could scream. And my Master's degree is in American Studies, a discipline which (forgive me, my HCA friends) I fear makes me all but unemployable. If one more person says to me, on hearing the subject of my degree, "So, whaddya wanna do with that - teach?" I swear to God I will murder them with my bare hands.

When it comes to my 10 year reunion, however, I think I can leave a few facts out when describing my life these days. I think I'm entitled. And I don't think anyone would blame me if I secretly wished that that girl on the cheerleading squad was now REALLY fat. I mean like Orca fat. That would be a nice bonus.

Hello. My name is Amy...

....and I'm an Alias addict.

Since I've been back in Germany, I've done exactly three things. One, I had (and seemingly continue to have) a throat infection. The little bugger seems impervious to all the antibiotics I throw at it. It's probably bird flu.

Two, I started my new job at the USO in Mannheim. After nearly two years of volunteering with the USO here in Heidelberg, it's amazing to show up, do exactly the same thing I was doing last week for free, and GET PAID for it. If only I'd known that they would pay me for it in the first place, I never would have done it for free! (Wow - taken out of context, that last sentence could definately end any hope I might have of a career in politics.) The people at the USO are great; they're the same folks I've been working with for these last couple of years. And best of all, the job is extremely low stress. My most important assignment every day is to ensure that the refrigerator that we sell cokes out of is fully stocked. After my last job, which involved a level of stress that oozed out of my eyeballs and pooled on my desk in icky little puddles, this job is like a vacation.

Three - and this is where the addiction part comes in - I've been watching Alias. For those of you not familiar with this most excellent show let me update you. It stars Jennifer Garner (she of the new-and-improved Bennifer fame) as a wig-wearing, ass-kicking, super-secret-squirrel-society-type spy with subplots upon subplots about naughty Russian spy mothers and cold, Mommy-killing fathers, and evil geniuses around every bend. We're talking waaaaaay over the top here, people. And I love this show. I love it so much that I think you have to spell it with a 'u': I luv this show.

I never actually watched it while it was in production (I think it's off the air now, non?), but those wonderful folks on AFN started rebroadcasting the series from the beginning about two months ago, and I got hooked. Happily for me - but sadly for my addiction - my husband sent me the first four seasons while I was away in the States. You know what that means, sports fans - that's right, I've sat in my apartment all week long, doing nothing but feverishly watching Alias episodes for hours at a time.

They say the first step to recovery is admitting that you have a problem.

Turning 28 on the 28th

Here's what I've learned in my first day of my 28th year: 1) the mojitos and margaritas have never tasted better, 2) sales people are always willing to fetch you a drink as long as you're buying jewelry, 3) it will always be embarassing to have someone sing to you in Spanish while forcing you to wear a straw hat, 4) the older you get the more often you lose the people you care about.

A week and a half ago, the earth gained a new explorer with the birth of Elizabeth, a much welcome addition to the lives of Berry and Jonas. Having been her first ever babysitter just last Thursday, I can personally testify to the beauty of the little soul peeping out from behind her eyes. If her genes are any indication (especially on her mother's side), her life will be a blessed one, full of feminine power and promise.

But it seems that the world doesn't give us such an enchanting new soul without asking for something in return. Today at 6:08pm it took from us the life of Melanie, a sister and friend. Although I hadn't spoken with Melanie since college, my memory of her is so vivid. She had the spirit of a dynamo in a body betrayed by cystic fibrosis; I always felt that nothing could describe her better than the car she drove, a bright purple Ford Mustang that was as recognizable as Melanie herself.

Some people say, "The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away." I think perhaps it's a little more complicated than that. Perhaps it's closer to the truth to think that Melanie's energy and spirit can never be taken away from us. Instead, it's simply redirected into new souls like Elizabeth, and through such channels it continues unabated and undiminished.

Either way, today's blog is dedicated to life's travellers, but those newly arrived and those recently departed.

to Elizabeth: Welcome to Earth.
And to Melanie: Welcome Home.

Fucking teenagers

It's a classic case of the grass forever being greener on the other side of the ocean. Now that I'm finally home again and have been here long enough to get over the shock of the American-ness assaulting my new delicate European sensibilities, I remember why I wanted to move to Europe in the first place. I'll give you one word to describe my fight or flight response: teenagers.

I'm not sure what they do with European teenagers, but I almost never see them. I'm sure they exist. If I happen to be out near my apartment when the nearby English high school lets out around 2:30pm, they're everywhere. The nearest strassenbahn stop is covered with them, the strassenbahn itself is stuffed full of them, and the roads in between are crawling with them. But then, blessedly, they're gone. It's like in the Bible when God in his wrath sends the plague of locusts, and then Moses parts them like the Red Sea.

Okay - so maybe I'm confusing my biblical metaphors. But you get my drift. European teenagers obviously exist, but only in small and extremely localized doses. In America, it's as if the 12-21 year old demographic has taken over the country. Case in point: Saturday night some friends and I wanted to try out a new trendy bowling alley that's opened up near their house in Louisville. We arrived around 9:30pm to find the place swamped with people. It was a madhouse. But here's the crazy thing - I was older than at least 75 percent of them. Some of them were conceivably young enough for me to have given birth to them. And yet none of them seemed to be under any kind of adult supervision. It was as if the bowling alley itself was producing teenagers using some sort of back room cloning process, and then disgorging them onto the snack bar. It was bedlam. I couldn't stand the thought of staying in the place long enough to take my coat off, much less bowl, so I suggested we move on to the coffee shop. Where - of course - the teenagers had also taken up residence. You almost never see a group of teenagers in a German coffee shop; here they're loitering in the only available seating and slurping up latte's like it's their job.

And so, my friends and I have come up with a plan. From now on in the state of Kentucky, you're only allowed to be stay out as late as you are old. For example, if you're 18, you can stay out until 1800. If you're 13, you have to be in by 1300. Once you're 24, you can stay out as late as you want.

There are some kinks, but I know we'll work them out as we go.

The military turn of phrase

Anyone who's ever spent any time around children can attest that kids make you say phrases out loud that you never could have imagined you'd utter. For example, "There's only one orifice on your body where you're allowed to put jelly beans, Billy, and that's your mouth," or, "Janie, if I have to tell you one more time to stop poking the cat in the eye with the egg beater you're going to be in a lot of trouble."

The military is a lot like that, especially the military in Europe. Every day, it seems, the most ridiculous things come out of my mouth, and the mouths of those around me - things no one who wasn't military or who lived in the states could ever possibly say in truth. Case in point: yesterday I was talking to Anthony and I told him that Matt was going to be in Qatar starting tomorrow on a pass, soaking up a little rest and relaxation for a few days. To Anthony, this opportunity presented to him a fabulous turn of phrase: "I've got a friend who's going to Qatar for Super Bowl Sunday." How stupendously ridiculous does that sound?

How about these :

"I'm going to have to find a new hair stylist. My old one is moving to Korea." (If you've never had a hair stylist you truly love move to the Far East, lemme tell you - it blows.)

"If I have to take another tour to Paris this month, I'll scream. I'm so sick of Paris." (If you've ever wondered how many times you can see the Eiffel Tower and still care, I have the answer - six times. That seventh time just makes you cranky and gives you a crick in your neck.)

"Lemme get this straight - if I want to have a dental cleaning, I have to show up next Tuesday at 7:00am and stand in line? Are you telling me I have to make an appointment to make an appointment?" (If you've ever tried to get dental care through the army in Europe, you know what I'm talking about.)

"I'd love to come to your Super Bowl party, but I won't be bringing anyone. My husband's going to Qatar for the Super Bowl this year." (Sorry, Anthony. I stole that one from you. Consider this your footnote.)

"Last week my husband banged himself up pretty badly when the muzzle of his M16 got caught in the spokes of his bicycle." (If there's anyone else that's happened to, I'll pay you a dollar. Not really.)

Chewing up the scenery

I am thrilled beyond belief that my dog has stopped chewing my underwear. Sadly, however, she's begun chewing my socks and books. This is vaguely amazing - she only weighs 5 pounds, people! I have books that weigh considerably more than that, and yet she tries to ingest them. Ulysses alone must weigh at least 7 pounds. She could literally eat herself to death on James Joyce. What a horrible way to go....

Despite the fact that the damn dog is literally eating me out of house and home (and library), I don't know what I'd do around here without her. It just means so much to have someone to talk to. You don't think about it, but when you live alone you can go hours - sometimes whole days - without the need to ever say a word aloud. Talking to the dog might seem a little strange, but at least I'm speaking to an animate object. I'm not talking to the plants or the furniture, or a soccer ball with a handprint on it. Now that's crazy. And every day that she doesn't talk back is another day I know I haven't yet gone completely over the edge.

More than giving me someone to talk to, just having another warm body in the house - another presence, however slight - makes the loss of Matt's presence that much more bearable. And she's so damn loyal that I can honestly say I have not even so much as gone to the bathroom by myself since Matt left. She trots right along, happy as a clam to sit on the bathroom rug and wait till I'm finished. Once, she even joined me, peeing on the rug in contented companionship. How many human friends would go that far to make me feel better?

Uh-oh. Gotta go. I hear a telltale ripping sound coming from the other room. If it's my new Diana Gabaldon, I'm going to be really pissed.

If it's Ulysses - well, no sense in hurrying in to check.