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.