My Dog is a Jerkface

Sometimes I really think my dog is an asshole.

Maybe this is not an appropriate thing to say about one's dog. I mean, I love Maxie to bits, but some days I just want to kill him.

You see, my puppy is (typically) very predictable. He likes to wake up somewhere between 6:30 and 7:00 to have breakfast and go to the bathroom, and if that's too early for me, he's normally content to go right back to sleep after the fact. I'm an early bird anyway, so it doesn't really matter except when I have a late night and going to bed at 2:00 doesn't change his internal wake-up time.

But today, by golly, I was ready to strangle him.

First, he gets up at 5:00. I'm sorry, what? After being generally annoying and whining to get out of bed, I fed him, took him out, and carried him back to bed with me. Then he woke me up again at 6:30. And again at 7:00. In a last-ditch attempt to get some sleep, I let him off the bed. He then proceeded to kangaroo-jump at me to get my attention.

It was officially the worst night (errrm... morning) I've had with him since he was a baby and would freak out the entire night because he had to go pee every three hours.

In true asshole fashion, he is now sleeping on my lap while I still struggle to wake myself up with copious amounts of coffee.

I wonder if it has something to do with the fact it's actually sunny today, and I don't have rollos to shield the sun from view. There may be truth to this, considering Maxie is normally happy to sleep forever if it's dark...

*************************

Dear Maxie,

I love you, but today you're annoying me.

Love,
Mommy

The Canada Party

Am I six months behind on this? Yes.

But HAHA!

"We have the same problem you do with illiterate foreigners invading our southern borders to steal our jobs."

Bah.

Coming on September, it will be five years since I first moved over here. This makes me ask myself the following questions:

• Why do I get surprised that I still get homesick?
• Why do I still vehemently deny the fact I am homesick when I'm actually homesick with phrases like, "I'm not actually homesick... I just miss the people." (Can be substituted with food, lack of bullshit, easy availability of jobs, relaxed nature of driving, etc.)
• Why is it that I get homesick for the most random things (sitting around a campfire with friends in Banff, for example), which I never even do when I'm back there in the first place?
• Why are plane tickets so f-ing expensive?

Maybe my real internet connection/new found ability to Skype has been influencing this. Maybe I'm just bogged down in work and going through growing pains again. Maybe I didn't like the real answer I didn't give when a classmate asked me if I am "eingelebt" here now. Maybe I am just feeling a surge of pride after repeatedly hearing a certain professor wrongly ramble on about what being "Canadian" actually is. Maybe I need to cut myself a little bit more slack.

Maybe all of the above.

PS. If the person who pointed out that I seem homesick actually reads this blog, thanks a lot for that. You're part of the reason I'm homesick, too.

Ah, well... It's off to write about happier things like discrimination against women and minority groups in union organizing/maybe a little bit about racism in female anti-slavery societies in the Antebellum North. Yeeee!

My Washing Machine

So... My new flat is just about perfect. It's in a nice, green location, it's close to the Rhein for Maxie, it has a balcony, and even a little nook for my bed which means it's not hanging out in the middle of the living room.

What is hanging out in the middle of my living room, however, is my washing machine.

Yes, I'm aware this is rather strange.

See, the thing is, aside from the big square living room, my flat is pretty awkward. My fridge has to go in the hallway because it doesn't fit in the kitchenette, and neither the kitchen nor the bathroom are big enough to hold my washing machine.

So, why did I put the washing machine in my living room, you ask? Honestly, my original plan was to just put the washing machine in storage in the basement and use the coin-operated machine, however annoying that is. Then I realized that washing my clothes in the coin-operated machine would not only be a ridiculous hassle, but also cost me 1,50-2,00€ for the pleasure.

You know, I spent a pretty penny on my washing machine, and I like the convenience of not having to wait for my laundry to be done out of fear someone will be waiting for the machine after I've used it, only to throw my clothes on the floor so they can snag the machine next. Rare, probably, but it's been known to happen. Plus, if you have your own machine, it doubles as a laundry hamper, which I think is super-fantastic.

Seeing as I couldn't fit my washing machine anywhere, I bought a Rollbrett (What is this called in English? It's a slab of wood with wheels under it. Dolly?) and put my washing machine on it. I now roll my washing machine to either the bathroom or the kitchen, take apart whichever faucet I'm using, hook up the machine, and once it's done, put everything back to normal. If I use the bathtub faucet, I have to awkwardly climb over the washing machine to get in and out of the bathroom to hook everything up. If it's in the kitchen, I have to move the fridge. This is oddly easier than climbing over the machine.

It's annoying either way.

My washing machine also looks stupid in my living room. But I guess it beats the heck outta saving coins...

(Or maybe not. This could just be my tendency to make things more complicated than they have to be, and then over-justifying it because I am aware how f-ing ridiculous I am.)

Herzlich Willkommen!!

So... I'm sure you're probably wondering about a couple things.

1. Why did Elli move her blog, and
2. Why are there posts from 2009 here?

1. One of the reasons I haven't posted in a coon's age is that my *ahem* previous blogging platform was pissing me right the hell off. Between not posting shit, posting half of it, or just plain old deleting what I wrote, I was getting fed up. The poor interwebbies had to sacrifice reading a good eight or nine posts, because they were deleted by the blogging robot and I had no interest in retyping them. Poor interwebbies didn't even stand a chance.

To be honest, I thought this might have had something to do with the fact I'm still using a surfstick since my fucking internet provider still hasn't gotten their ducks in a row, but the same thing happened to me in Canada when I was using a real internet connection.

So, there's your answer to question number one.

2. This is actually an old-school blog that was still floating around on the interwebbies from the time I was married. It's actually kind of interesting, going back and reading the things I've written. If you feel like doing this (because it's kind of like an act of voyeurism, I suppose), please keep in mind a few things:

• I wrote posts specifically for people back home.
• With that in mind, I wrote those posts specifically in order to convince them things were going just swell. You will notice this when, every so often, some sort of phrase like, "I think that's just fab" comes across the screen. Yes, you are correct -- the only way you would hear me say something like that is if it was dripping in irony. And even then, not likely. That was also the case in 2009, but, you know... It's necessary to keep up appearances sometimes.
• Yes, I suppose that makes me a liar. Whatevs. I'm a shitty liar now, and I was back then, too.
• I did nothing but study, get drunk by noon and write on my blog. I think you will see this reflected in those posts, should you choose to read them.

Anyhoo, maybe you will be horrified by the things you read there. I admit, I was a little horrified myself, but I decided not to delete anything in the end. I was more conservative, younger and in a completely different environment. Things have changed a lot in the last three years, but I've come to terms with the fact I was a complete tool then. I mean, I still am a complete tool.

So, whatevs.

I've also gone and transferred the blog posts from the old platform to this one. Only from the most recent one, though, and not from any others that have also bit the dust. You know, for your archival pleasure. Or not. I didn't update the embedded links, though, nor do I plan to. If you really want to know what it is I'm referring to, Google it. Give your fingers a workout.

Like I said -- whatevs. (Yes, this is my new word now.)

June 17, 2011

Yay for sunny Sundays!!!!

1. When I woke up this morning, I could see the sun through my curtains.

First of all, it's been weird trying to get used to the idea of sleeping without rollos. Or living without them, for that matter. Growing up with blinds (you folks call them Jalousien... or something... here), I never really saw any reason someone would create a permanent change in the house structure just to be able to block outside view from a home/make it dark inside said home. I first understood the real advantage of them during stressful parts of my BA where I would work all night and then sleep all morning. Rinse and repeat -- I noticed the same thing last summer semester break when I spent all night writing and the rest of the day sleeping.

The thing that shocks me most about having no rollos, though, is not having sunlight or light when I'd prefer it to be dark. Despite living on a higher floor in my building, I still feel like my life is on display for others after dark. This bothers me. Maybe by the time it starts getting dark early, I'll be able to afford an investment in blinds or black-out curtains. But probably not.

Anyhoo, that's not my point. My point is that, after 124832 weeks of rain, the sun is shining this morning! I'm not exactly sure how long it's going to last, but I've got my balcony door thrown open wide, and I'm a happy camper.

2. Sunday means church bells.

Yes, thank you, captain obvious.

Most Germans I know either hate them or are able to ignore them. I remember when I first came to Deutschland to visit family in the summer of 2004, the combination of church bells and my first (and most terrible) bout of jet lag made me want to kill myself since the start of church bells in the early morning marked yet ANOTHER night I did not successfully sleep through.

Since I moved here five years ago, I've never lived anywhere near a church, so I've never really had to deal with it. I don't have jet lag anymore, either, which I suppose helps. In Hürth, I lived close enough to a church that every Sunday, if I tried reeeeeally hard and opened my windows reeeeeally wide, I might have heard a little "dong dong", and that was it.

Haha. Dong dong.

Anyway, I'm not exactly sure yet which church is making all the racket here, but it's kind of a nice change to hear the bells again. I am not religious (though I used to be, and our church never had any cool bells) and I dislike the church as an institution, but they're more than welcome to share their bell-havoc with me every Sunday. Which I suppose they'd do anyway without my endorsement. And which I suppose they'll do after the novelty wears off, too.

3. Sunday is baking day.

When I moved back to Germany last year and was faced with the task of buying a kitchen (yeah, cupboards and all cuz that's how they roll here), I was pretty picky on appliances. Or, rather, my wallet was picky. Anyhoo, I ended up with a grill microwave (so I could also cook pizzas) and a hotplate. I instead chose to invest my money in a washing machine (which I don't regret). One of the reasons I don't regret this is because had I bought an oven then, I wouldn't have been able to bring it with me in the move. And then I'd be sad now.

I'm a sucker for baked goods, you see. But in coming back here, I was convinced that I would never have to bake anything if I was craving something, since you can get everything in the bakeries here. Win-win? NO! LOSE!!

When making my decision to not purchase an oven last year, I forgot to consider the fact I love the act of baking just as much as the act of eating baked goods. I suppose the obsession started when the wife of a friend of my ex's (got that?) shared her Herman with me. Because Herman likes to grow and get strong, I "had" to bake every week. When I was in Calgary, I more so baked every week for fun and not because, if I didn't, Herman would take over my refrigerator.

I'm bringing it back.

Baking, not Herman.

I've recently acquired a countertop oven, and have now created my own Sunday baking ritual, even if today is only the second Sunday of it. Last week I ended up with a chocolate banana loaf, but only then because it was an impulse decision to bake and I had to raid my cupboards for possibilities since I haven't really owned any baking-like ingredients for a year and a half.

Since I'm still lacking baking forms (is this what you call Backformen in English?), today I'm making some sort of coconut drops. Because shredded coconut is cheap and tasty.

I have, however, chosen to limit my baking to one day per week, as this will make me fat enough as it is.

May 26, 2012

Yeah, it’s been a long time since I wrote anything. Probably you’re not even checking up on my blog anymore. I know this, because it is likely you’re as stressed out as I am. Heck, I’ve been gone so long, Tumblr finally signed me out of my account. That’s a first.

Anyhoo, I have too much and not enough to say all at once. You know I’m busy, and you know I’m tired. Now that it seems summer has finally arrived (about the same time that it comes around in the Great White North), I find myself with even less time, somehow.

But, yeah. I’m moving. You probably know this.

Why am I moving, you ask?

Well, I decided I’m gonna tough it out in NRW after all. I mean, if you’d asked me in 2007 (or ‘08, ‘09, ‘10, ‘11… ‘12… you get the picture) if I wanted to settle down in NRW, I would have laughed in your face, probably spitting at you in the process. I guess in some ways, I am more resigned than anything else in my decision to stay here.

I mean, come on — you all know I don’t actually find it very nice here.

The thing is, though, my friends make it nice. My day-to-day routines make it nice. The networks I’m building make it nice.

Yes, I could run off and do my DPhil in Erfurt or Tampere. Commute from love-of-my-life Stuttgart. I could go to the UK to do it, and I could probably even swing it in France. I could not, however, swing it in the US. But this is mostly because of tuition, and all that.

The thing is, though, I’m just getting too damn old to start over AGAIN.

Maybe I should reiterate since plenty of normal mid-twenty-somethings pick up shop without a problem.

I’m SICK of doing it and starting over all the time makes me feel OLD.

Nevertheless, my hatred for Cologne is undeniable. I’m not sure this will ever leave me.

So I’ve reached a happy medium. I am moving to a MUCH more beautiful city that is close enough to my friends and life. The best of both worlds, and all that. Plus, I’ll be awfully close to the Rhein, and I’m sure Maxie will love that. Like I said, I have to be sure, but I’m not actually sure, because I don’t think Maxie has ever seen a body of water larger than a puddle in his little life. He will probably be overwhelmed and run in the opposite direction with his tail between his legs, knowing him.

I’m quite sure (as sure as you can be without actually knowing) that this move will give me the fresh start with the added dose of familiarity that I need. New city, new people, old people. It’s exactly what I need. Plus the flat has a balcony where Maxie can sun himself.

I’m starting to wonder, though, how many times I will have to say that I’m not moving again before I actually, well… stop moving. Maybe it all has to do with frame of mind.

I mean, I moved to the flat I’m currently in with the plan to stay here for a maximum of TWO years, but maybe less. I wasn’t planning on staying after my MA, that’s for sure. But with this flat, I’m going in with the expectation I’ll be around for the next five to six, excepting, of course, times when I’m off doing research. But, I want it to be my home for the long term.

I’m hoping that frame of mind actually helps me stick there. I’ve finally felt more at “home” since I have in Calgary in 2007, except I don’t have the physical “home” location to go to. I’m hoping that in a couple of weeks I’ll finally be able to exhale, put my feet up, and switch my computer on to prepare for the next half-decade of researching and typing.

I’m sure this will not go as smoothly as I’d like it to.

On the plus side, two (wait, three) overseas moves has made me particularly resourceful with packing. Who needs packing paper and wrap when you have perfectly good lululemon tank tops that worked as across-the-ocean wrapping??

May 5, 2012

When I was younger, I was never really big on the whole “friends” thing. I mean, sure, it was nice to hang out with people, and it’s not like I don’t have some ridiculously amazing memories from my pre-adult years, but the backstabbing and gossiping of girl-land was too much for me. I know I’m not alone when I say that I was mostly friends with guys when I was younger because it was just easier.
Enter my Button. If you ask me (Or her… Seriously. You could bug her on Facebook about it.), I’ll tell you that I couldn’t stand her. I know it went both ways. However, in finding out we shared certain hobbies, she became an instant friend. It was more than that, though. She picked up the pieces of a shattered life in July 2007, and she did it again in September 2010. She is the only one who has been there the whole time for me while I’ve been over here, and when I was back in Calgary, too. I love her to bits and pieces, and I never thought I would ever find my soulmate. But there she is.
I’m extraordinarily lucky, because I have another soulmate in Finland. That was also a case of instant friendship, and even if she is not the lucky recipient of weekly 1000-4000+ word e-mails (read: victim), she is one of the most important people in my life.

I’d say two soulmates is more than anyone can really ask for. Especially considering the fact I move around all the fucking time and rarely stay anywhere long enough to actually build real friendships.

Here’s the thing, though —

I have my Mädels here. Whether it’s Kaffee and Kuchen, GNTM evenings or just gibbering in between classes, I’ve got an extraordinary group of girls around me who are smart, loyal and wonderful. You’ve given me open ears and arms, and I cannot be more thankful to have you guys. I used to bitch and complain a lot that neither A. nor E. are around, and I have no idea why it took me such a long time to realize you guys are here for me in ways I never could have fathomed.

To my Mädels:

Thank you for your love, support, and listening to me go on and on about the mechanization of housework and the Cold War, which is a topic I know puts each of you to sleep.
You guys are amazing, and thank you for everything, especially lately. <3<3<3

April 30, 2012

Summer… It turns me upside-down. Summer, summer, summer… It’s like a merry-go-round. I see ya under..

Okay, I’ll stop. Maybe you don’t like lyrics from The Cars as much as I do.

Anyhoo, apparently summer is here (or is coming, at least). You would find me hard-pressed to confirm this, as the only day it was nicer than cloudy/rainy and in the mid-teens, I was in a classroom all day discussing (or rather, listening to discussions) on the topic of American pornography in history, film and literature. This is not as exciting as it sounds.

Aside from the fact I missed the first nice day of the year, there are other clues that the best part of the year is on its way. Some of these clues make me want to do a happy dance, and others make me want to slit my wrists.

• It’s pretty awesome that I can hang my clothes up to dry mid-afternoon, and have about the half of them dry by early morning. I vaguely remember this is something that happened last year, and that on rare sunny days, the clothes could be dry in as little as a few hours. Still, after a winter of checking my jeans after three days, still finding them soaked, and just putting them on the radiator to dry after all, I would put this experience in the happy-dance pile.
• When I open the windows to let in the awesomeness of the warm air (happy-dance pile), swarms of bugs come zooming in, excited to conquer new territory (slit-wrists pile).
• I no longer have to spend seven precious morning minutes trying to decide which combo of shoes and jacket look best together and will give me the required level of warmth/wind protection/dryness that I seek for the ever-changing weather.
• Taking Maxie for a walk at 6:00 on a Saturday morning is bliss. It’s already light out so I can see potential attackers coming at me in the forest (umm..), but it’s silent, just a bit dark and beautiful. And not all the bugs are awake yet, looking for prey.
• Unfortunately, though long days are nice to me and I enjoy the natural wake-up call that is sun (or rather, general lightness from a cloudy sky that is more typical here) streaming through my window at hours I actually get out of bed.
• Longer days unfortunately mean, though, that the fucking children in this neighbourhood run around until 22:30 or later. Okay, I know I’m a grandma and therefore don’t really have any right to complain that I’m trying to sleep at this time, but why are children that come up to my waist in height up so late? It was a big deal when I got to stay up till 20:30 when I was ten. Why don’t children have bedtimes anymore?
• Maxie is happier. As much as he likes his sweaters, it’s less laundry I have to do. Okay. Scratch that. I’m happier.
• The advent of summer means that the time I go to Finland to see E. is coming closer. Yeah, yeah, yeah!!!

I love summer! Yay!!

April 24, 2012

Greetings and Salutations, friends!

I’m going to do my best to avoid giving my opinion on some contents of yesterday’s lecture. In case you’re wondering why I didn’t write about the lecture last week, it’s because we mostly just talked about the Puritans and Pocahontas. I don’t really have much to say about that sort of thing, except that near Jasper, Alberta, there’s a cabin resort called “Pocahontas”, and we used to stay there as kids on vacation. We really felt like we were roughing it in our little one-room cabins in the woods except, of course, when we got to go swimming in that awesome pool. Then it burned down in the fires a number of years back. I think they rebuilt it. (Ooo-ee, did they ever! They no longer look anything like the “roughing” experience we enjoyed as children!)

Actually, maybe I could’ve talked about my childhood encounters with nature and country in the name of Pocahontas after all.

Shoot.

Anyway, among other things, one of the things discussed in the lecture yesterday was about how being “simple” was actually a good thing in American culture, because it signifies cultivation and industriousness. (Or something.) Although I’m not convinced you wouldn’t get smacked in the face with a scythe if you called someone simple in Canada (^^), I think the principle is rather similar.
Being simple may not be a good thing in Canadian culture, but living simply often is. Okay. I should reiterate. I don’t actually mean Canadian culture. I mean prairie culture. I’m pretty sure if you asked someone from Trana if living simply was a good thing, they’d laugh in your face and remind you that they live in the centre of the universe, and that they are just as good as New York, where people definitely do not live simply.

Aside from all those oil workers who earn quadrillions working up in Fort Mac, I’d say a lot of Westerners, though, pride themselves on being able to make do with not so much. To cultivate abundance themselves, and this sort of thing. If, for example, this isn’t the case (such as in Calgary, where everyone needs to walk around with an $800 Coach bag), they will celebrate their simple-ness by celebrating Stampede (see: Calgary Stampede) every year where they can boast their Cowboy-ness to assure the rest of us they’re able to live just as simply as we are. In designer cowboy boots, of course.

My point?

Oh, yes.

We Canadians (and yes, I mean Albertans and possibly Saskatchewanians) pride ourselves on not living too much in abundance, and if we do, we pride ourselves on the abilityto live simply if we were forced to. We prove this by going to the mountains at regular intervals to cook on open fire and look at the stars. It isn’t important to us that we bought that Jiffy Pop at Safeway before renting a plot of land in a crowded campsite where the tough ones rough it out in a tent and not an RV. The point is that we feel one with the land like our glorious ancestors before us and, through them, we channel the ability to live simply. [/tongue in cheek] (Actually, many of my ancestors lived in Krautland ‘til the 50s, and the ones that moved earlier only showed up in the 20s or so. But you totally know what I mean.)

So, basically, modern conveniences mean we no longeractuallylive simply. To prove my point, you should take a look at the link to the new Pocahontas cabins at the beginning of the post. But we like topretendwe are able to, andinsistthat such things are still virtuous and a vital part of the Canadian identity.

There are, of course, still Canucks who wear flannel and like to sit in huts whilst ice fishing in the dead of winter. There are others (yay, me included!) who actually enjoy backpacking through the mountains and living in the wild. But, really, only for five days or so. Bathing in glacier water gets old after awhile.

Living simply and finding abundance in nature is a great source of Canadian pride. Ask any of us. But most of us don’t actually do it. And if we do, it’s with full awareness that we’ll be back in our cushy beds in the next week or so.

April 12, 2012

Here I am, waiting to turn on my washing machine out of respect for my fellow building-mates, when I hear an odd screaming/strangling sound coming from my neighbours.

Is someone being murdered, I wonder.

Oh, wait, never mind. It’s just neighbourhead attempting to sing à la Steve Tyler.

Good morning, Cologne.

April 8, 2012

I like conspiracy theories, except when they involve me. There is an on-off conspiracy in my building regarding my mailbox. Sometimes there’s garbage in it. The problem is that I don’t know who is using my mailbox as a garbage can. I don’t know if it’s the same person/group of people using my mailbox as a garbage can. But every so often, it’s used as a garbage can.

Yesterday, there were some wrappers for Kinder Schokolade in my mailbox.

I kind of think it’s a conspiracy.

Either that, or my neighbours just hate me. (Though, frankly, I have no idea why, considering I try my best to be quiet and friendly.)

When my mailbox is used as a garbage can, it makes me remarkably sad. For some reason, I have no problem if Krauts yell at me or approach me directly. It gives me the chance to yell back, call them twats, and start swearing at them in English, mostly with excessive use of the word “fuck”, and all variations/suffixes that can be included. The passive-aggressiveness, though, makes me really sad.
So, in order to not be sad (but get angry, and thus feel like I’m doing something), I am going to be passive-aggressive myself, and bitch about my neighbours on the interwebbies, rather than do something productive about the mailbox issue.

• My neighbours have taken to banging against the floor when I vacuum. I guess they’re really pissed about the fact I like to keep a clean shop. Too bad, fucktards, I vacuum in the outside-of-Ruhezeit hours. I will not stop this because it makes you uncomfortable. Maybe you should stop blaring your TV at midnight. That, my friends, is a real issue.
• One neighbour once came up to me, upset that I did not always say hello to the neighbours in the stairwell. Apparently they had all been bitching about me behind my back. Oddly enough — with the exception of one family — whenever I say hello now, I get a blank, German-style stare. Fuck, seriously, what do you want from me? First you don’t want me to be so German and unfriendly, and now you are acting like cold Germans to me? Make up your freeking minds.
• I’m sorry, I can’t just take my dog to university with me every day, like you take your dogs with you when you go anywhere. I don’t have a car I can leave him in during the day, and I don’t have a dog-sitter that can take care of him while I’m gone. He’s fine, trust me. Lots of dogs are left alone a lot longer every day than I leave Maxie, and they’re fine. Just like Maxie is fine. You bitch if I leave him alone in my flat, but you bitch if I have someone take care of him. Just worry about your own life, please.
• My mailbox is not a fucking garbage can! It is not the place to put sweets wrappers, and it is not the place to stuff all your extra flyers. Stop that. Seriously.
• If you walk up to my dog, stand about 10cm away from him and just stare at him, he’ll probably bark at you. He doesn’t like strangers approaching him, and he doesn’t like being stood over and stared at. To be honest, I’ve yet to meet a dog that does enjoy this. Do not do this, and then complain that my dog is frech. You’re frech for not knowing how to interact with a dog when you apparently have oodles of your own.
• I leave you in peace. I let you blare your music in the middle of the night without interruption, I let you do repairs/drilling on a Sunday morning at 6:30 without complaint, and I say nothing about the fact your food stinks up the entire building. Why do I let resting dogs lie, you ask? Because it’s how life goes when you live in a building with other people. If you can’t handle my Ausländer-habits because I haven’t lived, like everyone else, in this building for 243 years, move to a single-family home. I am a hell of a lot quieter and less intrusive than you, so bugger off. Seriously.

April 7, 2011

It may seem a little odd to you that I feel such a closeness with the countryside. I mean, at the most basic level, I’m probably one of the biggest suburbanites on the planet. Aside from the years I lived in Calgary, I’ve never really lived in the city. I only ever even spent a couple of years living on the acreage with my mom and stepdad.

Herr Prof. Dr. discussed the idea in his lecture that in the American psyche, there is something virginal, untouched and innocent about the country, and that people (read: European settlers) have ruined it by the construction of cities and industry.

It’s hard to put it into words – there’s something deeply relaxing about the country. I guess a lot of it is media-induced by, for example, the freedom felt by the road trip or the idea of wide, open land. There’s a sense, when you’re out in the country, that you exist outside of time.

The aloneness of the country bothers a lot of people I know, but it’s precisely why I like it. I know, for example, that there are plenty of people all wandering around the country thinking they’re alone (and, for that reason, are precisely the opposite), but the feeling is always there. The feeling that it’s just you, big open land, and big open sky. It’s free-feeling, really.

Granted, there are downsides to the country. Like the fact coyotes want to eat my dog. Or how much money you spend on gas/car repairs due to your commute. Or situations like the time I was at my mom’s acreage when I first moved there, and some random dude came to the door. He banged on the door, and then started banging on all the windows, yelling for me to come out. What the fuck are you supposed to do? The house has no fucking blinds – because, after all, you’re alone out in the country and there’s nobody to peer in your windows – so there’s nowhere to hide. I assume he wanted something to do with the old owners. But, seriously, what would I have done if he actually broke in?

Nothing, that’s what.

I don’t know, though. There are no words for me to describe how I felt when I first moved out there when I was eighteen. I felt like I was going back to a simpler time. No internet, no cell phone reception – just peace and quiet. Just birds chirping, coyotes howling.

And the stars. When the sky is clear there, the night sky is almost white. Or the northern lights dance across the sky.

Aside from the fact you’ve got modern amenities like running water (granted, it has to be trucked in) or electricity (okay, that doesn’t have to be trucked in), you really feel like you step back in time a few decades and can just be with yourself. It wasn’t until I moved there I realized how peaceful it can be to just be somewhere by yourself in silence.

So it can’t just be me.

April 7, 2011

Some of you *ahem* have mentioned to me that I don’t blog enough. I promise it isn’t because I’m lazy. (Actually, I’m lying – it’s a little bit because I’m lazy.) It’s mostly because I never know what to talk about.

So, in order to quench your thirst for my pointless ramblings, I’ve decided to use the lecture series from a certain Herr Prof. Dr. – which there’s a good chance you’re also attending – as inspiration for a series of blog posts.

In the event you’re not in this lecture, I’ll have you know Herr Prof. Dr. is discussing America (read: the United States) and its obsession with the notion of country in culture. In short.

We’ll see how this goes.

Why am I using a lecture about cultural representations of “country” in the United States as an inspiration about Canada, you ask?

Let me use this post as a way to explain…

At the most basic level, the lectures from Herr Prof. Dr. have been fascinating to me. You see, I’m not a literature person (no kidding). In my undergrad, I took a junior class on Literary Criticism. I was toying around with the idea of doing either a double major in History/Literature, or perhaps a minor in Literature.

HAHAHA, no, I’m not actually kidding.

Maybe it was just the professor then, but I found the class appallingly boring. We took a bunch of different criticism techniques and practiced applying them to different texts. It was dry, and frankly, at ten pages per week plus a term paper, way too much output for something I found so dull.

Anyhoo, had Herr Prof. Dr. been my professor in college, I probably would have continued with that major or minor. In the first semester of my MA, when I was first exposed to Herr Prof. Dr., I would spend my entire daily telephone conversation with my mom acting like one of those lame elementary kids who can’t wait to share what they’d learned at school that day.

Every week, the conversation would go like this:

Mom: “How was class today, honey?”

Me: “It blew my fucking mind!”

Followed by forty-five minutes of rambling, normally about Lacan.

But, yeah. So, if I’m being completely honest, I only signed up for this class on the basis that I need it to graduate and don’t want to end up taking an entire semester more, just to see if something more interesting will come along to fulfil my module requirements. (Given the course offerings the last three semesters, hope is a pointless thing at this point.)

Once I got into class, though, I realized that “country” isn’t just an American preoccupation. It’s a Canadian one, too. And, even after only one class, I’ve become a lot more aware of how the notion of country is ingrained into my psyche regarding what Canada actually is.

So, I’ll try to keep up with the lectures this semester to see if anything interesting comes along as food for thought.

I’ll post my thoughts on the first lecture shortly.

March 27, 2012

I’m baaaa-aaaack! I’ve been back in Germany for about two weeks now, and I felt like sharing some things that have crossed my mind lately. (This is probably because I have a huge exam coming up, and like nothing better than to blog when I should be doing productive things.)

I really don’t like Cologne. But the fact March means the beginning of shorts-season and tree-budding almost makes me forget that I’d prefer to be pretty much anywhere else in the world.

When I sit back and compare what I ate in Canada in comparison to my German diet, it’s no wonder I gained 7kg back home. Eating out, eating junk food, and most importantly, eating when you’re not hungry, really does a number on your waistline.

Sometimes I wonder if, coming up on my fifth anniversary of first moving over here, I’m becoming too German. I’ve had professors tell me I “look too German” (and to stop that), and have had a few Germans tell me I’m more German than they are. Today, my German-ness is peeking through again. There are four men in suits standing outside my window, and I just spent the last fifteen minutes staring at them, wondering what in the world could bring men in suits to my suburban ghetto.

I missed the hell outta Maxie.

Unfortunately, I seem to have caught the Finland-bug again. Funny, I get homesick for Canada, and I get homesick for Finland (mostly just E.). I don’t know why this is. It could have something to do with my low threshold for 99.8% of Germans I know and Germany, in general. Or just the fact 99.8% of the people most important in my life are either in Canada or Finland. Or something.

I don’t stay in one place for very long. I know this about myself, and blame it on the fact I’ve never really lived anywhere longer than two and a half years since I was 18. For someone so adverse to change, I sure do like to bring it upon myself. This brings me to two points:

1. Since it’s not feasible to move with one year left in my MA, I moved my rooms around. Yes, my bed is now in my office, my couch in my kitchen, and my bedroom empty, but it’s satisfied the change-bug for the time being. No, I don’t care that my flat now looks ridiculous.
2. There are two factors determining where I do my PhD: if I like the faculty and there is room for my specialty there (duh), and if I can manage to stay in that particular place for three to six years. The latter is the one giving me the most mental trouble.

My CrackBerry is a godsend. Too bad I’m on it all the time and am pissing everyone off with it.
I’m tired all the time in Germany. I don’t know why this is. All I do is nap. Some people say it has something to do with the stress of living in another country. I like to think it has to do with the fact Maxie’s farts are so toxic, I slip into a coma multiple times per day. (Sorry… I bet you can tell what just happened halfway through THAT sentence…)

Bah. I have nothing to say. I’m tired. Time for a nap.

March 14, 2012

I’m leaving right away. Like pretty much everything else in life, I’m undecided about it. As much as I may enjoy my day-to-day life in Germany better, the most important people in my life are right here, and I really don’t want to leave. In fact, if Maxie was here, I’d be kicking and screaming my way back. (Doesn’t that sound familiar?)

Here are some of my long-style potpourri thoughts from the past five weeks:

• What is up with that fish-trafficking circle? I mean, I realize I’m completely uninformed about fish, but how do you even traffick a fish? Are these fish sad? Can they tell the difference between being trafficked and caught by normal people wanting to eat them? Is there not a better way for the government to spend three years and three years’ worth of money?
• Five weeks in, my English still sucks. Me: “I only have six dollars twenty here. Oh, yes. I mean six dollars and twenty cents.”/”A Smart car is the least best car to be driving out here.”/”I am having an idea…” WTF?!
• After hanging out with Petra and Sofie, I’m probably going to be convinced my dog is a midget.
• One awesome thing about being here is being able to blast Adele at top volume, singing and dancing along. There are no neighbours to worry about disturbing here. That also goes for yelling “Who wants to eat some cereal?!” JD-from-Scrubs style when my mom gives the dogs her leftovers in the morning.
• Even though I’ve managed to secure a copy of Buns of Steel to take home with me, something tells me it’s not going to be half as entertaining as when doing it with my best friend. This feeling is compounded by the the fact I still groan like an old person when I sit down and stand up from being so sore.
• I still hate flying and not only dread that, but having to take at least three types of public transportation after the fact (with oodles of luggage) before I can be home.
• Most expatriates I know in Germany gained tons of weight after moving there due to the awesomeness of the beer and bakeries. For me, though, I gain weight in Canada. Something about eating times other than when I’m hungry, and eating out more in the last five weeks than I have in the last five years. I don’t even fit into my jeans anymore. As odd as it sounds, it’s time to go back on my bread-butter-sausage-and-cheese diet!!
• The QE2 is still a shitty road to drive on, and I didn’t miss driving the Calgary-Deadmonton stretch when I was gone. After the number of times I’ve had a go of it this trip, I definitely won’t be missing it when I’m gone.
• The illogical side of me wants to take my plates-mugs-bowls set I bought in Calgary in ‘10 home with me. Irrelevant is the fact I could buy something nicer in Germany to replace the stuff I currently have and don’t like… And still break even.
• I want nothing more than take my mom and Button in the suitcase with me when I go. I don’t know how I’m gonna leave both of them at the same time.
• I’m gonna miss drinking Ceasars.
• Why is it, that when I go to Safeway or Sobey’s, I’m still shocked when some greasy, 14-year-old kid starts packing my groceries? The number of times I’ve had to physically restrain myself from pushing past my mom at the till to start a frantic grocery-packing rush in order to be done before the next person… Wow.
• Scarier yet, I’ve actually become convinced I’m better at packing groceries, and wish to pack my own groceries myself, rather than standing there like a useless twat, watching the greaseball put the cleaning supplies in with my milk.
• I’m pumped to be going home to 18C and a lack of still knee-deep snow. But yes, airline, that’s a winter jacket I’m taking on the plane with me. In case of bad weather, you know. Or, more likely— despite the fact it’s too warm out to wear anywhere — because I don’t want to get caught in -22C next year again without a winter coat. Yes, I’m too cheap to buy one and would rather freeze.
• Canada looks a lot like Finland.
• It’s 8:30 in the morning, and I slept in later today than I ever do… Until 8 o’clock. My mom and Button are still sleeping. And they probably will for another hour at least. Get up, slugs! How in the world can you sleep so long?! (I love you guys more than anything else in the world… As long as I can include Maxie in that, mind you.)

March 10, 2012

This is a story about a pair of shoes. Guys, beware.

Believe it or not, I am acutely aware of the fact these shoes are mostly likely to win the “Ugliest Piece of Shit on the Planet” award. But due to a number of factors, these shoes are very important to me and have recently re-entered my life.

How can shoes re-enter someone’s life, you ask?

Let me explain.

I bought these shoes when I was in my second year of a program to become a Personal Fitness Trainer. (See how well that worked out?) Well, I remember buying them right before the semester started, and I remember entering the gym at NAIT, decked out head-to-toe in a bunch of new lululemon swag I snagged at a warehouse sale. With my new shoes, of course.

Believe me, those shoes didn’t look like that in 2005. They were reaaaaal pretty. People were fawning over them left, right and centre.

Anyhoo, for the record, those shoes right there are likely the most comfortable ones on the planet. Although they were likely showing signs of wear after that year (though, really, I often have trouble remembering that far back), I took them with me when I moved to Calgary in May of 2006, and I wore them allthefuckingtime. Like I said, I have a shitty memory, but I’m fairly sure those shoes (among others, namely my Birks) were on the hit-list of a certain ex-boyfriend and his sister for being ugly pieces of shit that I would best be rid of.

But, like I said, maybe it was just those stupid Birkenstocks I wore every day in the summer like they were going out of style. (Completely oblivious to the fact, of course, they were never in style in the first place.)

Anyhoo…

Then came September 2007, the fateful time I moved across the pond… for the first time, anyway. Likely written somewhere defunct in the interwebbies, I had a one-bag maximum for fifty pounds when I moved. Fifty pounds does not satisfy me for an intercontinental vacation, if you must know. The idea of having a cool fifty pounds (of which twenty was suitcase) and moving across the ocean was a nightmare. Needless to say, I left a whole whack of shit behind that I wanted. Including my beloved ugly-shoes.

Now, here’s the part you start thinking I’m a fucking psycho if you didn’t already know that.

I used to have dreams about these shoes. Yeah. Dreams. (Do you think I’m crazy yet?) Dreams where I was happy and wearing my shoes. Stupid as it was, I would wake up and desperately miss having those shoes. Perhaps, in retrospect, it was due to the fact I didn’t own a decent pair of shoes at that point and was longing for a pair of shoes that would allow the blisters that covered the whole of each heel to… heal.

Somehow, though, every time I had the chance to have them either sent to me or bring them back to Krautland after being back in Canada on a trip, there always seemed to be something more important than those shoes. Normally those things were books. Because, as crazy about those shoes as I am, I am more crazy about my books.

Fast forward to 2010, when I moved back to Calgary. I was finally reunited with my shoes!! By this point, though, I realized it would be inappropriate to ever wear them in public. So, I wore them on walks with Maxie. I suppose that’s “public”, but I wouldn’t exactly call Spruce Cliff and Wildwood the hubs of Calgarian fashion. Even if you consider the one family in one of the three gigantic houses in Wildwood whose daughters ran around in a different pair of Uggs every day. Which isn’t even fashion, really.

Anyhoo.

Surprise, surprise, when it came time to move back to Krautland, I had better things to bring with me than those ugly-shoes, namely books. So there they were, forgotten in the closet of my room at my mom’s.

When I first got back to Canadaland in February, I took some time that first week to reorganize all of the things that somehow never made it to Krautland, despite me wanting them there with me. Seeing as I have a good thirty-five pounds of books and paperwork to bring back with me, I knew I wouldn’t be bringing any of that stuff back this time. No worry, though – my mom and her husband are planning to come visit me sometime in the fall. Seeing as they want to do the empty-suitcase-there and full-suitcase-home thing, it made sense that they could just bring me a bunch of my stuff when they come. So, I organized that stuff and put it in a bin in my closet. Can you guess yet that my ugly-shoes didn’t make the cut yet again? Because, even though I told myself that they could bring those shoes to me in the fall, I know I would have chosen something else more practical for them to bring instead. Like I have for the last five years.

Fast forward to the end of my trip, and I’ve inevitably started the whole packing ritual again. Time goes by so quickly. Since I’m a cheap motherfucker who doesn’t understand the concept of having to pay for a second bag when flying intercontinental desperately requires more than thirty pounds of stuff – Remember that twenty pounds is suitcase? I need a new, lighter suitcase. – my original plan was to fill my one bag with clothes, and carry on all thirty-five pounds of books I have to bring back. With my regular purse, etc.

You know, I’ve travelled enough to know I could easily get away with something so ridiculous under normal travelling circumstances. But as my cousin R. reminded me yesterday, I will not be travelling under normal circumstances this time.

Why, you ask?

Well, Air Canada employees just got sent back to work after a strike was called off by the government. The translation for this is that they are going to be nitpicking assholes. He advised me to suck it up and pay the stupid $70 CAD for an extra bag.

Now that I resigned myself to this fact, I feel light-hearted and happy. With half a bag full of books, I am able to bring some of the things from that bin that my mom and her husband now don’t need to bring me. Among those odd-ball things are: a yoga mat, kitchen knives, curtains, winter boots, snowboarding gloves and my ugly-shoes. (I pity whoever scans that bag and wonders what the fuck I have going on there…)

Can you believe it?

My ugly-shoes are finally going to Krautland!

I know I could have packed something more practical (like some of the books I have that are still here), but I decided to take the plunge. I’m normally running around in the fields with Maxie in a pair of rubber boots, but I figure my ugly-shoes will be a welcome addition to my Maxie-walking wardrobe.

Watch out, Deutschland! My ugly-shoes are coming to take over! Because, as sick as those things are (and not in the legit-sick way), I love them to bitty pieces, and even though I don’t dream about them anymore, I doubt I will regret my decision.

(Yes, I realize this post was a complete waste of time. At my mom’s request, I still plan to talk about the recently busted fish-trafficking circle, but not today.)

March 7, 2012

One of my most favourite things to do in the whole world is get on the highway, blare music, and sing my little heart out. Seeing as I don’t drive in Germany (yay, gas prices!) I was looking forward to taking Ping out for a spin or two whilst in Canada (boo, gas prices!).

Ping, in case you don’t know, is my ex-1995 Celica, aptly named by A., which I gifted to my mom before moving to Krautland. I realized when I bought it that I was no longer 16 and did not need the sex lights — *ahem* racing? lights — for any reason, but that little car let me pretend I was a fast driver. Yes, I’m aware that there is no place for a 24-year-old in a Celica. But say that to my mom. She’s older than 24. ^^ But we both love that thing to pieces. She’s wonderful.

Anyhoo…

I admit, the first couple times I took her out for a spin were heaven. Except for the fact I sometimes forget that I am not on the Autobahn and realize I’m going 60 over in a 100 zone before I slow down.
But, you know, true to Canadian tradition, the weather has been really crappy these last days. 65kmh down the highway when the limit is 100? Check. Snowplough driving down the middle of the road, almost running me off the shoulder, only to actually make the roads worse? Check. Nasty conditions that shut down the QE2? Check. Braving the elements when not completely necessary? Check. Not being able to drive like you want, let alone blare music whilst driving, in order to avoid killing yourself? Also check.

Hey, kind of reminds me of a post from this time LAST YEAR, too! (Posted on an old blog on March 1, 2011)

Buah, spring, I take it back. Welcome back to the world of -40 and glare ice on the roads, Calgary. Did I ever mention I hate winter driving? Because frankly, there’s little I enjoy less in this world than gripping onto my steering wheel for dear life, hoping to god I don’t smash into a guard rail or another car as the SUV with four-wheel drive who thinks he’s invincible speeds up and cuts in front of me. Not that I normally drive like a jackass, but I like being able to drive faster than 30, and brake if necessary. Ice makes it impossible to do this.
As if working overtime during RSP season wasn’t enough, I now get to battle the roads on the way to and from work. Oh? Working ten hours and exhausted? We’ll just add an extra hour and a half of commuting time onto that for funsies. Thank you, you bitch called Mother Nature.
Give me a colposcopy any day. Yes, I’m that serious.

Minus the fact I am not working during RSP season (rather, paper-writing season this time ‘round), I’d say this is a pretty accurate description of how I feel.

And I really hate colposcopies.

March 7, 2012

When I got back to Krautland last year, I tried to avoid signing any contracts. You see, Krauts are notorious for their ridiculous contracts, and since I had no idea how long I’d be staying around, I decided to get a pay-as-you-go phone, six-month internet contract, etc.

Well, I’ve decided I’m going to stick around for a little while (poor you), found a pretty good deal on a contract, and decided to get a Blackberry again, to boot.

You know… I really miss my Bold 9700. I gave it to my mom when I left Canada in 2011, and all I’ve done since I’ve been back is look at it longingly as it sits on the countertop. As functional as my Nokia C3 (or whatever the heck it is) is, I miss my Blackberry. And I don’t like paying out the butt to text Canuck friends, most of whom are in possession of a Blackberry themselves.

So, my Blackberry has officially arrived in my building, is staying with some unknown neighbour, and is patiently awaiting my arrival. I’m gonna love the heck out of that little phone when I get home next week!

So…. If you are also in possession of the wonderful, beautiful technology that is embodied by a Blackberry, send me your PIN so I can bother you at all hours of the day with useless messages. This will really be at all hours of the night, though, considering the time difference. It’s okay, I’ll let you retaliate by sending me BBMs while I’m sleeping.

Because I do cuddle with my phone, don’tchaknow. Me, Maxie and my Blackberry in a week. What a bunch.

March 6, 2012

In some ways, it feels like I’ve been back in Canada for a lifetime-long. In other ways, it feels like I just got here and haven’t really done anything yet.

Nevertheless, the time to go home is nearing.

What that also means, unfortunately, is it’s time to start saying goodbye to people I’ve seen here. You’d think after being abroad on and off for a good five years now, I’d be a bit more used to this whole goodbye-thing.

But I hate goodbyes.

Surprisingly, though, I don’t just hate goodbyes because of the whole wrecking-emotional-pain thing. Rather, sometimes they’re just so trite.

I mean, maybe it has something to do with the fact that goodbyes are difficult for all involved, and in absence of something real to say, you end up relying on stock phrases like “Keep in touch.” You know, because phrases like that seem appropriate, convey your emotions to an extent, and serve to say all the things you actually want to say, but either don’t know how to or don’t want to put into words.

The thing is, though, the phrase “Keep in touch” drives me up the wall.

You know why?

As I’vejust finished telling you, I have lived abroad on and off for awhile now. I’ve gone through multiple goodbyes with most people I know. But here’s the thing — living abroad really creates tensions on a friendship.

When I first moved abroad in 2007, I didn’t really get it. For the bulk of that year, it was really frustrating to see all the people I’d promised to “keep in touch” with fall off the face of the planet, even with Facebook and Skype. Or maybe I fell off the face of the planet. Who knows? What I did discover that year, though, is that it isreallyfucking hard to keep in touch with people abroad, no matter how important they are to you.

There are people who you, somehow, manage to stay in regular contact with through phone calls or e-mails weekly, or even a few times a month. There are others you pretty much stop talking to, excepting contact a couple of times per year. And then there are those who, no matter how often you kept in touch at the beginning, fall away from your life completely.

It used to really bug me. I guess it still bugs me to an extent.

But here’s the thing.

This is not the beginning anymore. If I made the effort to come see you in Canada (making road trips, braving winter driving conditions, whatever), chances are you are important to me.

Believe it or not, I have things to do in life. I come to Canada with the expectation of spending a lot of time with my mom and the people most important to me. I don’t make the effort to see people Ikind oflike, or haven’t kept in touch with.

If I see you, it means we’ve been successful at keeping in touch. When you tell me to “keep in touch”, two things run through my head.

a) “Well, we’ve kept in touch to this point, so why the hell would anything change?”
b) “Crap. Every time someone tells me that, they end up falling off the face of the planet! I don’t want to lose XYZPerson from my life!”

To the people I’ve visited here and any people in my future who might be in a similar situation:
Iam not falling off the face of the planet. Don’tyougo fall off, either. We have kept in touch until this point, and I have every intention of doing so. You know, so we can catch up next time I come visit.
“See you soon, have a safe flight” is a much better option.

So, thank you. I will have a safe flight, and look forward to seeing you soon!

March 2, 2012

It seems like Canada is the biggest waste of space on the planet.

No, I don’t mean that the country is useless; though if you ask me, most days I’d probably agree with that statement, too.

Space is definitely not a hot commodity here.

See, the thing is, I’ve been thinking of downgrading my flat in Krautland. I mean, I guess my situation isn’t completely dire, seeing as I’ve been able to pay my rent without a problem to this point, but I often find myself wandering around, wondering why I put so much space to waste.

I mean, why pay for 500 square feet if I don’t need it for anything?

I suppose I could buy more furniture, but that would turn into an issue if I do choose to downgrade to something two-thirds the size.

But really, I’m not here to discuss flat-hunting and moving woes.

There are a lot of things about Canada I seem to have forgotten while I was gone, among which is the fact people romp around with so much space.

I mean, I had a good 800 square feet last time I lived in Calgary, and everyone was consoling me for having such a small apartment. Oh, if they knew I was looking to downgrade to 350 or so…
But people here (with real jobs that pay more than a credit union does) have real space. I mean, my mom’s garage is bigger than my entire apartment now. I’m looking for flats that rival the size of my dad’s bedroom. Without the added bath.

People here just waste, waste, waste with their space. I mean, I’m all for having five and a half baths if you’ve got a houseful of stinky teenagers, but is it really necessary to have such a big house you have to complete a marathon to get from the couch to the kitchen?

It’s a wonder Canadians have an obesity problem, needing to run around their giant houses as they do.

It’s also a wonder that I’ve become such a Kraut about these sorts of things.

February 26, 2012

Call me sentimental.

I spent the last few days in Calgary. The last time I was in a similar circumstance was November 2009, and the whole go-to-Calgary-and-pretend-you’re-not-still-choked-you-don’t-live-there-anymore thing crushed my soul. Or something to that effect, preferably with an overdose of drama attached. That being said, this time I wasn’t facing a failed marriage and the wish I’d never left Calgary in 2007 in the first place, since that officially marked the time I fucked my life up for good.
This time, I went back with the acknowledgement that I already tried going back there in an effort to retrace my steps and rebuild the life I’d left behind in 2007. Obviously, considering the fact I once again call the greater-Cologne region home (though, frankly, it’s the place I’d be least likely to call home out of anywhere I’ve ever put down roots), things didn’t work out when I’d tried the whole Calgary-thing again.

But, I mean, you know that already.

My thoughts?

When I first got there and was being chauffeured around the city (rental cars are expensive, you know), I started feeling that nagging twitch that tells me, “This is your home! Why are you in Germany?! You love it here!”

I let it ride out the first day. Lunch in Eau Claire? All I did was look at random business people in business suits, who were just nipping out on lunch break, and think, “Huh. I wish I was here doing a business lunch with one of those stupid notebooks in my hand, rather than just be a visitor on the outside looking in.”

I think that when you’re gone from your home, you romanticize everything. The grass is always greener. I can pretend to myself that I don’t really dislike Eau Claire in the first place, and the time spent sitting in traffic on Bow Trail is an enjoyable time to view progress on the C-Train line, not a destructive force in my day as I try to get to work and back.

The fact of the matter is, though, I don’t actually like Eau Claire. Either you have to pay an arm and a leg for parking or park on the other side of the Bow River and hike back up all those fucking stairs that go from the river valley to your car. Also, even though I lived in the inner city proper and worked only just east of downtown, my commute used to take between forty-five and ninety minutes, depending on the time of day. That’s wayyy too much time to be staring at the C-Train line and wondering what the heck is taking so long with the construction.

As you very well know (and are probably sick of reading), I had a hard go of it in Calgary in 2010/11. I keep wanting to say “in Calgary last year”, but it’s already been more than a year. “Two years ago” just doesn’t roll of the tongue. Or… From my fingers onto the keyboard.

I digress.

If I felt shattered in November 2009 when I realized that I wanted nothing more than to be back home, it was nothing compared to my next stint in the city. I worked a job which, though I liked, left me practically no regular time for myself to take language lessons, a different class, or better yet, get a second full-time job so I could afford to eat. Debt, my divorce, and the biggest personal catastrophe of my lifetime to-date meant that I went to work and went home.

I didn’t have downtown lunch dates, and I didn’t paint the town red with friends. I couldn’t afford a car that was reliable in the winter, and I couldn’t afford to replace my hand-me-down furniture to transform my flat from a grandma-house to one that I really could enjoy.
I didn’t have any of the things I so enjoy on my trips to Calgary.

The real reason I left Calgary again in 2011? The only thing more painful than living abroad and romanticizing the place you once called home is living in that place you call home and romanticizing about it since you aren’t really a part of it all and can’t be. I was on the outside, and felt like I was watching people live in Calgary without really living there myself. That, combined with that stupid personal catastrophe of a lifetime, drove me away.

Considering I’m not over the moon about my life in Germany, it’s hard not to tell myself that I’d move back to Calgary in an instant if I knew things would work out properly this time. The real issue here, though, is that I’ve been abroad on and off for five years now. If I’m in Germany, I miss Calgary. If I’m in Calgary, I miss Stuttgart. If I’m in Colgone, I miss Stuttgart. If I’m in Stuttgart, I miss Cologne and Calgary. I should know better by now and know that the grass, though green, is not greener anywhere.

A. and I discussed it last night – I’ve been too many places and haven’t settled down anywhere. I run away rather than trying to make it work, because I have an uncanny ability to convince myself that where I am isn’t where I want to end up. If I do try to go back, though, I am frustrated that things aren’t how they used to be.

Places change, and so do people. When you’re gone, you change too, but in a different way. And so there’s a clash, that no matter what you do, you can’t make things fit into the past. And when you decide to start fresh instead of trying to replicate something that can no longer be replicated, you realize your new experiences may still pale in comparison to the romantic notion you have in your head of the past.

I suppose I’m sounding a little apocalyptic here. Not being in Calgary with some of the people most important in my life isn’t the end of the world. Seeing A. and not being able to be with her all the time is close, though. Perhaps it’s just because it won’t stop snowing here and I feel like, with snow almost reaching my waist, the end of the world is near. So it’s time to say my goodbyes and come to some trite conclusion about my experiences in preparation for death by nuclear winter.

Perhaps, though, I’m still just out of it after being loser wasted with A. last night as we reminisced about our lives and fretted over the future. I think I’ll stick with that excuse, because it means I’m not actually as sentimental and confused as I come across. Yeah, that’s it.

February 5, 2012

Soon I leave on vacation! Yay! My bags are almost packed (still need to pack my razor and laptop), and I’ve been just running around the house today, taking care of some last-minute things. Though I travel by plane, on average, at least three times a year, with at least one of those trips being intercontinental, it’s amazing how the little things still get to me.

Here are some of the little things, potpourri-style, in long-form:

One thing I love about Germany is that the humidity and relative warm temperatures (this past week excluded) mean that I can grow my nails out. I have a bad habit of breaking them while travelling, though. I usually don’t even make it to the airport without breaking one or two. Even if I did keep my nails, it would just be a feeble attempt, though – they always start breaking off and peeling once I get to Canada-land, anyway. In preparation for take-off, I’ve already cut them. Now, I feel like I have stubby, midget fingers and am having a real issue figuring out how to type again.

Though Maxie pretends to play dumb so often I wonder if he actually is an idiot, he’s really good at reading me. Between the suitcase being out for about a week now, and my increasing frequency of pacing and staring at it, Maxie has started giving me reproachful stares. He’s probably unsure if he’s coming or not this time, but he definitely knows something B-I-G is about to change for him, as is always the case when the suitcase comes out.

I need a new 1L bag for my liquids. I’ve been using the same one from the Government of Canada (because, apparently, they manufacture bags?) for four years now, and it’s in rough shape. I’m sure I could get a Ziploc, but that would make sense, you know. Making sense is a no-go for me.

I left so many things back home when I moved here, mostly because I started packing too late, and didn’t actually finish before it was time to leave. So, my mom packed one or two boxes to ship to me in addition to the ones I finished, but every so often I notice that something I want/need is missing. In packing for the trip, I have wondered what I actually need to bring, and what I still have back home. All I really know is that I’ve got a bathrobe and house shoes there. But do I need to bring sweats for lounging? Pyjamas? Sweaters? I have no idea! Gaaaah!

For the plane: To drug myself or not drug myself – that is the question.

How in the world am I going to survive without the internet??

January 30, 2012

I leave for Canada very soon. Perhaps you are wondering why I am so happy to take a vacation from this place if I oh-so-willingly came back here at all. Well, I mentioned on an old blog (not sure if I cross-posted or mentioned it on this one) that moving to Germany was not an easy decision. I used the idea that 48% of me wanted to be in Canada, and 52% in Germany.

That’s not so clear cut.

Ultimately, what it came down to is that I enjoy the little things more in Germany – walking through the forests/fields with Maxie, buying bread at the bakery, not having to scrape off a car nine months out of the year (ha) – that tips the scales. That, and Germany has a social system that I support ideologically, if not yet in a tax-manner. It’s a fundamental value of mine that Canada is sincerely lacking, though I recognize I would have never known that without that whole poverty-stint a couple years ago. (Is it that long ago already?)

Nevertheless, that 48% seems to be getting a lot noisier these days, and here are some reasons why:

* I’m sick of waiting for a train that has a perpetual ten-minute delay*
*I’m sick of my neighbour insisting that vacuuming between the hours of 8 and 10 o’clock is torture for him (notice the outside-of-Ruhezeit-hours), yet it’s okay for him to blare the TV at midnight (notice the inside-of-Ruhezeit-hours)*
*As grateful as I am that the Krauts in my building don’t follow the “Silent on Sundays” rule Schwabisch-style so I can get some laundry done, doing loud renovations at 11pm on a Sunday night makes me want to kill them*
*Why is it that service people switch to “du” as soon as they realize I’m not a native speaker? Are foreigners (who may have an accent but speak the language very well, thankyouverymuch) somehow not worthy of respect?*
*Krauts seem to find a thousand things they can nitpick about, when they should probably be focusing on all the shit they do incorrectly/poorly*
*I’m sick of choosing my footwear based solely on the fact that I need to be able to walk at least three hours straight in said footwear*
*I have to actually consider whether or not I should finally get around to purchasing legal insurance because, heaven forbid, I stay in Krautland for my PhD and have to deal with sue-happy Germans for the long-run and will never be able to otherwise pay for a lawyer in a country full of people that find me dislike-able (I wonder why that is)*
*The only reason I haven’t sent out resumes for a couple of positions yet is that I have to go get a fucking Bewerbungsfoto done. Why, why, WHY is my supposed ability to do a job somehow related to whether or not I look homeless/beautiful/whatever it is they’re looking in application photos?!*
*I just wanna be able to speak at regular native-English-speaker speed for once without worrying if I will be understood or not*

(Stay tuned for a Why-I-Hate-Canada edition coming to a blogosphere near you in the next three weeks or so.)

January 23, 2012

It’s almost the end of the semester, and I booked a last-minute flight back home to Canada for five weeks. Thank heaven.

Around this time of year, I get fed up with everything Germany. I’m pissed off that my neighbours have been blasting the same fucking song since six in the morning (it’s now eight-thirty, by the by), I hate when people don’t know how to spread themselves out in a fucking tram when it’s crowded (hint: congregating around the doors is actually not the answer), and I’m sick of having to select my footwear based on the constant rain.

Logically, somewhere in the back of my brain, I remember that I still have it better here than I did in Canada, that it takes me about a year here to get fed up whereas the whole cycle only takes a month or two in Canada.

Still — who’s happy?! I’M HAPPY!!!

***Oh, and don’t bother attempting to rob my flat while I’m gone. I have people staying here to guard my heart and soul (you know, my dog… and house plants).***

December 3, 2011

It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas!!

Well, not really. Outside, it’s still — on average — eight or nine degrees centigrade, and some slow-poke trees are still working on shedding their leaves.

One thing I’ve noticed?

Those crazy Hürth-ians go crazy with the Christmas lights. It’s almost like being in Canada again, and definitely makes me seem like a humbug with my little electric candles in the window. Ah, well… Energy saving, and all that, I suppose. These sort of things are important when it’s dark by 16:00. That, and it’s 8:00 already, but the sky is still pretty dark. Bah.

In other news, I feel a bit like I’m drowning. You know, technically I’m taking fewer classes this semester than I did last semester. For some reason, it feels like my workload is about ten times what it was last semester. This may have something to do with the fact I’m still not done those extra “funsies” classes at AU, and will be holding a lecture at a conference in February.

As a result, I’ve been dropping classes like crazy. Weekly quizzes in Finnish? No thank you. I’m sorry, but I have to leave you for the time being, lovely Suomi. Only, unlike I predicted, I’m not giving up on you because you confused me. I’m giving up on you because I’ve got conferences to prepare, and I have to finish some of my term papers before the semester ends this time, because I need to spend the bulk of my semester break preparing for my first Master Exam in April.

So, of course, it makes sense that — given the drowning feeling — my tendency to blog my very well go up in the next couple of months.
Typical…

November 30, 2011

Living on top of other people is a normal thing in Germany. I’d venture to say most people here live on top/underneath/beside annoying people. Amount of space versus population, and all that.
One of the necessary evils about living in such close proximity to other people (in apartments that aren’t typically adequately sound-proofed) is that you have to sometimes adjust your schedule. It’s not always possible to sleep when you want due to neighbours watching their TV full-blast at midnight or having loud sex at 5:30 in the morning. Sometimes people even run the washing machine for six hours straight. Likewise, it’s not always possible to study or write papers when you want, for similar reasons.

It’s not just the neighbours in your building, either. Garden crews may be out in full-force at 6:00, which is okay, after all, since you were up at 5:30 anyway. *ahem* Either that, or the sticky-faced children from next door are running around your property, screaming at the top of their lungs from dawn until dusk (which is especially true during the summer months).

In case you haven’t noticed, there are a lot of things that bother me about my neighbours. My living situation, I admit, is far from ideal, and considering my building is one of many which was thrown up in minimal time after the war, I recognize that it wasn’t built to be particularly, ermmm, sound-proof.
Maybe it’s because I naturally avoid confrontation or have been in Germany too long (and have thus become more passive-aggressive than need be), but I mostly just try to ignore the fact my neighbours annoy the fuck out of me.

After all, I figure if I do my best to ignore all the annoying shit they do, it gives me license to play my music loudly every so often, or not worry if Maxie is running back and forth across the linoleum when we’re playing.

About two months ago, a neighbour of mine came to talk to me to complain that Max sometimes barked between the hours of 10:00 and noon, when he was trying to sleep. (Likely because he is tired from all the morning sex.) Despite the fact everyone in my building has a dog (or two, or three), I understand how annoying it can be when a dog is constantly barking/whining. So, I went and got some aids to try to make things better for when I’m away at uni. I even ignored the whole opening “Ist nicht böse gemeint, aber…”, which, in my opinion, is akin to saying “No offence, but…” and saying something ridiculously offensive after.

Anyhoo…

Last week was a stressful week for me (as if they weren’t all). I’d just gotten back from Vegas, and was scrubbing the crap out of my flat after an acquaintance stayed here to look after my puppy while I was gone.

As I was cleaning the bathroom and throwing in another load of laundry, the doorbell rang. It was Mr. Creepy again, telling me that Maxie had been barking while I was away, that I should have come up with a better dog-sitting alternative while I was gone, that I should be ashamed for letting someone else let him bark while I was halfway across the globe, ad nauseum.
All the while, he was staring at my boobs.

Of course, he also finished off with a classic “Ist nicht böse gemeint, aber…”

It’s been a long time since I’ve felt so violated.

I mean, okay. The whole thing happened a good week and a half ago, so I’m not still feeling particularly violated, or anything of the sort.

So, why today?

Because it’d be nice to be able to do my fucking work, but the ass has got his TV on so loud, I could be having the damned thing on in my kitchen.

So, why is it that I prefer to give him evil looks when I see him rather than tell him to STFU because I’d rather study than write a pointless blog post to pass time?

1) I really would prefer NOT to escalate this into a war of wills.
2) I want some ammo in case he ever complains (not about Max), but about music, laundry on Sundays, etc.
3) Procrastinating is cool.