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.

November 2, 2011

While talking to my father today, we came to the realization that I’ve been gone, in one way or another, for five years. It’s even longer if you consider when I moved out on my own, yet stayed in the greater-Edmonton region.

Moving to Calgary back in 2006 really seems like yesterday. And, in case you haven’t noticed, I’ve had real issues with the concept of time these last couple of months. Time is flying, and the only marker I have that time isn’t just passing me by is when I compare how much has changed from one year to the next.

I suppose my sporadic blogging has helped highlight this for me.

So, here’s an old-school blog post. I didn’t write it on November 2, 2010, but I did write it that month.

And it’s a potpourri post. (I love potpourri posts…)

And, hey, to make things more fun, let’s comment on how things have changed (or not, in some cases!).

In light of the fact I don’t have anything real to say, here are some things I’ve learned since the last time I posted.
Either Buns of Steel seriously makes buns of steel, or else it just causes you to grab your ass a lot more than you normally would, and marvel at how it’s actually in better shape than you thought it was.

I wish I had done Buns of Steel the past year religiously rather than giving up on it before January. I don’t know if I could’ve stood Gary for that long, but I’d probably be looking damn good in lyrca by now.

Speaking of Buns of Steel, when Gary says “Ooooh, press, press, press!” it’s true that you will not know whether to laugh because it sounds like he’s having gay sex in lycra, or that you should cry because your abductors are screaming.

This statement is as true today as it was a year ago.

Love octagons are inherently more interesting than love triangles.

Love triangles are more than enough complicated for me these days, thanks. Maybe it’s just my age getting to me, but I don’t have patience for this sort of shit anymore.

Gossip Girl gets better every episode. And I thought season three was feisty! Yikes!

Better? No. More ridiculous? Yes. But I still watch it anyway. Mostly because I’m still fantasizing about Blair’s baby being Chuck’s. Or maybe Dan’s. This stuff gets more “Days of our Lives” every week. It’s spiralling out of control.

When it’s -27 degrees with wind chill, the best thing to do when you get home is to jump right into a hot bath and watch yesterday’s TV on your laptop.

This is also a spectacular idea if it’s 15 degrees and there are still green leaves hanging around on some trees. A hot bath and yesterday’s TV is just as much the cure to a stressful day today as it was last year. As it was the year before. 100 bucks it still is next year, too.

Winter tires are always a good idea. Especially when Mr. Nenshi thinks not ploughing the roads after a couple inches of snow is a cool idea.

Yes, winter tires are still a good idea this year. Luckily I don’t need them since I lack the expense of a car. Still, considering how long it took me to make a 30-minute train trip because of tram delays, I still think getting a scooter might be worth the investment. If I could ever scrape together that kind of cash in the first place. Wait… Where was my point again?

Rick Mercer should run Canada.

Still true, will always be true. With the added preferability of him being my husband.

I’m undecided as to whether Germany is really faced with an imminent terrorist attack, or if they just really suck at screening luggage.

Probably the latter.

You CAN actually get sweet wine in Canada… even if it is white.

Welcome to Germany: Land of 3€ sweet wine that goes down like juice and gets you hammed in about an hour. I love Germany.

I am going to Germany in two months, and it makes me so happy, I start to tear up when I think about it.

I can say with all my heart that I made the right decision in coming back here.

Maxie hates the snow, yet he’s still enough of a trooper to go out there to do his business.

Maxie loves the fact that there is no snow right now. He also loves the fact it is not yet cold enough to wear a sweater. Maxie also loves Germany.

I wish I got Christmas Eve off work to celebrate with my family, because I think it’s unfair that other cultures can take vacation days (no matter what the staffing situation) to celebrate their cultural holidays, but I’m not allowed to, apparently because it’s white. Says a person with authority, “That’s just the way it is.” HOW is that fair?

Ahhhh…. December 23-January 9 (or something) off. Did I mention that I love Germany? And being a student?

48% of me wants to be in Canada, and 52% of me wants to go back to Germany. How is one supposed to decide what they want to do in life with a split like that?

Going for that 52% was a smart, smart move.

A certain individual I know named Ms. P is still a c*nt. Yeah, that’s right. Don’t look at me like that, you POS. (Oh wait — that’s not new news. I already knew that.)

Yeah, she’s still a piece of work. Unfortunately she keeps popping up since she’s a friend of a few friends on FB. FML.

I still suck at multiple choice, and it’s the only thing that stopped me from getting 100% on my Psychology of Women midterm.

Writing essays rules.

If I didn’t have A. in my life, I don’t know what I’d do.

Yeah, word. She’s been more of a help in the last three or four months for me than ever before. Still love her, always will. [/sap off]

And finally…
Even if it still hurts 100% of the time, time will start to heal all wounds. Eventually.

This comment was excessively premature in retrospect. It never actually got better until July. 2011. Seriously. Maybe I was just distracted by all those supposed love octagons. Or something.

July 30, 2011

Originally published to the interwebbies on June 7, 2011.
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Dear KVB,
FUCK YOU. You have Fahrplanunregelmäßigkeiten when it is sunny. You have them when it is rainy. They happen on Sunday afternoons, Tuesday mornings, and Wednesdays during rush hour. They happen seemingly without cause, and you have a happy habit of doing FUCK ALL about it, aside, of course, from pleading for our Verständnis.

You know what?

I’m fresh out of Verständnis, and I would greatly appreciate it if, the next time this happens, rather than having the scroll say, “Wir bitten um Ihr Verständnis,” you’d write, “You’re SOL, fuckers – deal with it.”

I mean, you know it’s gonna be an issue when you get to Klettenbergpark on the way home (on a train that is supposed to go to Brühl, no less), and the driver declares, “Bitte alle aussteigen. Zug endet hier.”

And then we’re all wondering what the f- is going on, because I still have four stops till I get home. It’s then we realize that no train is going past Klettenberg, and if someone needs to get home somewhere between Bonn and Brühl, they’re best to hop on the 18 till Barbarossaplatz, and switch to the 16 to get down to Bonn, and then switch back to the 18 to get to Brühl. Because there’s some sort of Störung in Hürth, after all.

Well, FFS, if THAT is going to be the quickest way for those folks to get home, how in the world are those of us who live in Hürth supposed to get home?

Because, you know, if the KVB is saying that they’ll be planning some sort of supplemental transport, that bus which is gonna drive down to Hürth will be organized in, oh, three to four hours.
So it’s time to walk, right?

Now, let’s excuse the fact there was a torrential rainstorm yesterday that, whilst walking from Real to Weißhausstraße, drenched me so thoroughly, my bra and underwear were soaked through. And jeans. I vaguely felt like I did when I was eight years old at the swimming lessons where we had to swim in our clothes for practicing rescue techniques.

Yeah, it was that wet.

So, yes. Of course I’m pumped to be walking seven kilometres home.

As if it didn’t get better when the rain finally subsided and a nice, cool wind started up. At least my jeans were starting to dry. Too bad my underwear/bra wasn’t, and I still had five kilometres to go.
You know, I normally make fun of Germans for being so afraid that they’re going to catch a cold. They wear scarves in the summer to protect their necks from those pesky draughts (they’ll kill people, dontchaknow), or refusing to go outside with wet hair when it’s 20 degrees because, heaven forbid, they’ll probably catch pneumonia.

But I’m pretty sure that being outside in wet clothes and cold wind for a couple of hours WILL make me sick. Am I supposed to have Verständnis when I have to miss classes for being so ill?

Then again, I probably could have called a Taxi. That is, if my job had actually paid me eight days ago like they were supposed to.

Looks like that option’s out, too.

FML.

July 28, 2011

This is an old-school blog post of mine (okay, not that old-school), that I thought opened up the whole “Expatriate-Ellie” thing nicely.
It’s from 23.04.2011.
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One of the most stressful things about moving abroad, shifting around, moving back home and moving abroad again is the question of stuff.

As I like to say, when I first moved to Germany (envision old Grandpa on an armchair by the fireplace saying, “Oh, back in my day…” here…), I came with one bag. That’s it. One crappy little suitcase. I had to be extremely considerate of what I brought. I brought a number of sentimental items, and went light on the rest. Think one pair of ballet flats was my only pair of shoes heading into winter. Yeah, that light. When you’ve only got forty pounds to deal with, there’s not really any other choice, is there?

Once I started to move around and settle in Germany, two things happened. One, I had an innate desire for my stuff. Two, I wanted to actually settle down and stop living like a hobo who acquires along the way (that’s a different rant for a different day). I think whenever I mention how attached I am to my things, some self-righteous wingnut comes up to me and says, “Ahhh, but things are just things. Why care about things? After all, once you die, you cannot take them with you, can you? Har, har.”

Well, duh.

But frankly, I suppose wherever I’m going after I die creates no need for those things? Money for the bus? Not likely. Sofa, table, Tupperware, forks and knives? Also not likely. “But right now,” I want to say to the wingnut, “We are something called alive on a round ball called The Earth, and I need my fricking shit. I don’t have enough money to keep buying everything new, nor do I want to.”
I mean, don’t get me wrong. When the movers in Germany (for the move back to Calgary) quoted something around 3000 yoyos, my jaw hit the floor. 3000 yoyos for books and Tupperware? For realsies? Ditto for the movers from Canada to Germany. 4500 dollars? For the same stuff, if not less?  For realsies?

Yes, it was for realsies. So, I declined both offers, culled my most precious belongings, and mailed whacks of it instead.

Now, I suppose pretty much nobody knows this, but when I was on vacation in Canada in November 2009, I had a nervous breakdown. Why, you ask? Because of my fucking Corningware. Yeah. That’s right.

You see, I was going through a very rough patch, and missed everything about Calgary. Stupid as it was, those belongings symbolized the life I had there, and the life I no longer had.
Call me sentimental.

Yup, I bet you can see where I’m going with all this – my stuff is more than random items used in my daily life. They represent certain experiences and feelings to me, and I find it very hard to let things go (aside from my furniture out of sheer practicality; I mean, how can you mail a table overseas?!).
So, seeing as today is the one-day break in the four-day-Zombie-Jesus-lives-again silent celebration that is this weekend, the post is supposed to be coming. And M. received the last (well, almost last) of my things in the mail this last week, and they are supposed to be arriving at my flat today.

Hugging and kissing my sponge holder from Provence is a very possible likelihood today.

Because, lame as it is – and trust me, I know it’s lame – having my things back makes me so very happy. I mean… Can I get by on the things I have here? Well, aside from the fact I’d have to buy some real cutlery and stop using my Tupperware travel stuff, sure; I’ve got pretty much everything I need.

But having my real things, not the things I’ve just bought, makes me really feel at home.
Maybe my new plates and coffee machine, for example, will really create a sense of attachment for me. But not today. Today it’s about my Tupperware, the Egyptian cotton towels I splurged on with scholarship money when I first moved out on my own, and little trinkets from my travels.

Then, all that will be left are books and Christmas ornaments, which come in little bits over the next couple months.

Ohhh, my things, how I love you. *insert contented sigh here*