"Minderwertiger Mensch"

Today at the staff meeting at one of my jobs, there was a discussion about whether or not we should be hanging art in the workplace, and what kind of art that should be.

Then, one of the people noted that the company could employ an SHK to take the pictures to and from a van and hang them. A previous SHK who used to work in the office with me (who now has a real job and thus recognition as being a real person) looked at me and a simultaneous headshake took place.

Those of you who know me will know this whole SHK thing is one that drives me crazy and that I choose to bitch about quite often. For those of you who are unfamiliar with the German system, an SHK is typically just slave labor, akin to an unpaid intern with a degree who spends their days getting coffee for higher-ups. Our bosses are pretty much convinced we do dick all, even though we often do tons of work that they get to take credit for later on. Oh yeah. And we get paid practically nothing to do it.

On the one hand, it's good "experience" to have on your resume, even if it doesn't technically count as "work experience". (Which, considering the amount of work most SHK's I know do, is laughable. I do more work here than I did at any of my previous full-time "normal" jobs.) On the other: we're stuck doing the lousy work that no "real" employee wants to take on; are not given keys to get into the buildings we work in because "we might throw parties" and thus have to hope the person manning the front desk will open the door for us when we get to work; and are treated generally like baby monkeys, even though enough of us are running around with Bachelor's degrees.

It's a half-win/lose situation, but we deal with it... Mostly because we have to. You can't be choosy when the best jobs out there pay 10€ an hour or (normally) less if you're a dreaded student, regardless of the vow you made to yourself at 17 that you'd never work for less than the equivalent of 13€ an hour again.

What drives me crazy, though, is the potential for exploitation. Of course, I'll do the grunt work! Of course, I'll unload a car! And then, of course, I'll be happy to go back to my regular work where -- were I a freelancer -- I'd be getting a cool 300 yoyos a day, but of course I'm DELIGHTED to take my 60€ before tax! Of course!

Are SHK's the new Yes Men? Yes!

As for my previous co-worker, he went from being a Yes Man to a "real" human being whose thoughts could be respected from one day to the next. As far as I've been able to tell, nothing happened that day to make him more "important" or better of a person (except for the fact he got a key to the building).

Grumble, grumble. Here's to hoping my day comes eventually.

I want me some JT/Barney Stinson NOW, AKA LIKE YESTERDAY

The whole media/culture constellation in Krautland is wack.

I mean, there's the whole GEZtapo thing, which is now attempting to market itself as a "service" rather than a fucking tax that people don't get to vote on democratically (as if voting ever made a super duper difference anyway). Though I have a whole lot I could say about the Geztap... *ahem* Beitragsservice, today (like every day) my beef is with GEMA.*

I hate GEMA because it makes me feel disconnected with the coolness out on the world wide web. Also because it's frustrating to hear about how something is "all the rave", but then find out that you are not able to partake in said rave.

So, today I was watching sxephil on YouTube again (Dear GEMA: Block him and it's over. For realsies.), and he had a video which ever so hinted at the awesomeness of Suit & Tie.

Alas, what did I find?

Oh, yeah.

Normally Clipfish solves most of my problems if I'm trying to find an original video of something embarrassingly awesome (which is even more embarrassing judging by the fact something so awesome only has 35K hits -- awesome website, brah), but there's no official video of Suit & Tie on there yet. Probably because someone at Clipfish is in bed with someone at GEMA, and one of those someones hasn't finished pulling out and washing up in order to upload the fucking video yet.


I hate feeling so restricted in my internet surfing/stalking of cute cat and JT videos. And I hate that it necessitates people to encourage me to do sketchy internet things to get around these issues of silly things like international borders/censorship because the German government/related cronies all want their fair chance to sink their dirty hands into the honey jar.

FFS, I want JT's video just so I can be like "Heh! This is totally Barney's theme song! LMFAO!" with the rest of the world.

Is that too much to ask?!

*For those overseas folk of you, GEMA is a nice system that technically exists to give artists of all kinds the royalties they deserve. This is questionable since GEMA apparently takes a nice slice of that pie. It is also completely annoying because the end result is Germany being more censored from internet awesomeness than communist China. For more news, you could search on the interwebbies and read for days!

The Good, The Bad, The Ugly: Yesterday After Work Edition

So, yesterday after work I went into the shopping district to buy some Salomon shoes. Why, you ask? Well, it seems that I'm giving in to the quasi-bullying I deal with every time I go to Allgäu. In a place where Salomon shoes are a way of life (For the grocery store! Work! Coffee!), my Vans encourage people to pointedly ask me when I'm just gonna give it up and get a pair of ridiculously expensive hiking shoes. (Because, apparently, were I to wear my hiking boots around, I'd immediately be marked as a poser-foreigner. Mountain-people can be so snobby.)

So, anyhoo, there's no fucking way I'm spending around 140 yoyos on shoes. I mean... If I was gonna spend 140 yoyos willingly and in one fell swoop, I'd spend it on books. If someone were to put a gun to my head and say "Buy shoes with your 140 yoyos," my first reaction would be, "Why are you holding a gun to my head and acting all serious saying yoyos, yo," and secondly, "Okay, then let's go to bargain Jumex and I'll go to town buying twelve to fourteen pairs of shoes for my hard-earned dough."

I have, however, decided to "give it up". I got my Salomon shoes all right... IN KID'S SIZE!

Here is the newest edition of "The Good, The Bad, The Ugly", where I would like to discuss my shopping experience of yesterday.

The Good:
Duh! Kid's shoes! I don't know who these ladies are who are buying their size 37 shoes in the women's department and not the children's. Yes, my shoes are that of a child's model. However, I fail to see how spending less than half of what I would were I to shop in the women's section is not f-ing amazing. Women with size 37 feet or smaller who are running around in women's shoes are not cool -- they're stupid. If they're so stupid they would rather spend an extra 100 yoyos on shoes "just so they're not the kids' version", they should probably spend another 100 yoyos on books.*

The Bad:
Don't get me wrong. I'm totally pumped that the days are getting longer. However, this whole dark-at-6:30 thing is weird. It's that weird in-between phase that makes me a little bit uncomfortable. It's like someone waving the carrot of summer in front of my nose, all the while with me knowing that summer is a long ways off. And, despite the extra two hours of sunlight, that it's still very much winter. This depresses me.

The Ugly:
Americans. I'm sorry. I'm even sorrier having to say this because I know most people who meet me or hear me speaking on the phone/to a friend in passing think I'm an American (PS, I hate you). You know what? I'd apply this to Canadians, too. We just sound so fucking stupid when we talk. Maybe I've just been living in the land of the disgruntled, direct German language for too long, or maybe it just stands out more in areas where English isn't the main language spoken, but frick we all sound like blundering idiots.

Exhibit one: Girl in a fur hat that made me think she was a twentieth-century channelling Russian at first glance. "Like, my parents paid soooo much for me to take the SAT's, you know? And if I, like, don't get into the top college that I really, reaaaaaaally want, I'll just be totally devastated. You seriously have no idea."

Exhibit two: Guys wandering behind me. Guy 1: "But, I mean, you probably don't have any problems fitting in here. You're a doctor for chrissakes." Guy 2: "I could totally just hang out with the expat crowd, but I really try to hang out with the locals. It makes the whole experience so much more authentic, you know?"

For some reason, when Germans talk about equally stupid things, it somehow doesn't come across so whiny and valley girl/surfer dude-like. It could be because everyone sounds so angry. Or because they don't speak so loudly.

Or it could be just me and the fact that, since I rarely hear English on a day-to-day basis, my ears pique to it immediately, only to regret it in about 3.5 seconds. (The ugliest fact of them all.)

*I'm not actually hatin' on people who can spend 140 yoyos on hiking shoes (which, unless you live in Allgäu or make monthly visits there, will maybe get used a maximum of three or four times per year tops). I'm insanely jealous. Those people should be saving their 200 yoyos (100 for what they saved by buying the kids pair and 100 for what I told them to use to buy books) and giving it to me. 

Kölle Alaaf!

No offence to all you born-and-bred Rheinland people (or the "immigrants" who try really, really hard to fit in), but I just really can't take Karneval. I'm not a fan of loud, drunk groups of people in the first place, and those same loud, drunk groups of people take on a whole new dimension of crazy when they're dressed up.

Yes. Karneval is like mostly all the things I hate in the entire world mashed together into one week of debauchery.

Drunk groups of people making a ruckus? Check.

People dressed up like wackos? Check.

Schlager? Check.

Clowns? Also check.

I suppose I sound like a real downer (and I suppose I am), but the last time I dressed up for Halloween (which is as close as we Canucks get to this sort of clusterfuck), I was twelve. I mean, unless you count the time I went on a pub crawl when I was nineteen and put on a pair of shorts, a skimpy top and a cowboy hat to call myself a "sexy cowgirl". (See the link -- NSFW -- of other "sexy cowgirls" who highlight the fact that, as long as you're wearing a cowboy hat, you are a cowgirl. Full stop.) But anyway, I also don't like clowns. Or having to watch my step on the street to avoid vomit.

Normally I flee. Preferably to Canada. Really, though, I'd go anywhere. But, for a multitude of reasons, I find myself stuck here over the weekend.

So, after work at one job all day and then a meeting for my other job, I headed to the grocery store to stock up on provisions since I'm locking myself in my flat until Tuesday. Standing in line before me was a mouse buying pizza, and behind me were two dudes in bear suits buying a couple bottles of beer. Those were those same bears I saw on my walk home peeing on cars.

Ah, Karneval.

"Leider keine Karte"

Alas, I grew up in a world where it was normal to pay for a purchase of $2.43 with a debit or *gasp* a credit card. I stopped carrying around cash around the time I was twelve or thirteen, and used debit for all my purchases.

Some people will tell you that carrying around loads of cash is dangerous, if for no other reason than that you have no real way of getting your money back if you're robbed at gunpoint. You'd think this happens all the time for how often this is used as justification for paying with a card.

For me, I don't own enough cash to warrant anyone robbing me at gunpoint. Even if I carried all the cash I have in my bank account with me, I'd probably get my face blown off for only being able to offer my robber a cool 2€. "SPINNST DU?!" *bang bang*

No, my reason is much more subtle.

I hate change.

Now, don't get me wrong. I don't just hate change for the typical reasons like all that coin weighing down my pockets or the fact Krauts have this awesome habit of taking twelve years to pay for their goods at DM because they need to count their seventeen cents out exactly. (Speaking of which -- why is that okay, yet me paying for something worth 4€ in 50c increments gets me a dirty stare?) Anyhoo, my reason is that I hate pennies. 5c coins are at least halfway useful. But 2c coins? 1c coins? The mere fact that both of them exist? The only time I'm pulling those puppies out is when I'm at the bakery and am buying a bun for 16c, and that's the last of what's leftover in my wallet before the first of the month.

Most annoying, though, is the fact I don't always get this far and often end up dumping the one and two cent pieces into a big jar a couple of times per month, letting them waste their copper selves into oblivion. Sure, that whole euro I've accumulated over the last year and a half isn't really that much of a waste. Nevertheless, every time I dump another six cents into that jar, I feel like crying at the fact that, had I been paying with EC card, I wouldn't have these First World problems.

*** As an interesting aside, I have actually been known to buy more than I need in order to bump my purchase up to an amount that seems reasonable to use a card for. It makes my fretting over that odd euro in my coin jar all the more laughable, really.

Homeless: The Questions People Ask

I've read a lot of different things about a lot of different people who have moved abroad. For both those at "home" in Canada and here in Germany who have a good sense of Heimat, my overseas moves have been troubling.

When people find out where I'm from, one of two questions invariably follows:

"Why did you leave?"
or...
"When are you going home?"

I've left places for a number of different reasons, often good, sometimes bad. One day, when I feel up to telling stories of my individual homes, the reasons I've picked up and moved so often in the last eight years may become apparent.

For now, though, I'll try to tackle these two rather loaded questions.

Why did you leave?

I don't exactly remember how the quotation I once read goes anymore, but it went along the lines of that, in order to be an expatriate, you have to be a little bit brave, and a little bit of a dreamer.

I'd say it's rather true. Perhaps it's not such a shock for people who move somewhere for a specific job (or maybe it is, I wouldn't know), but the idea of moving somewhere you don't really know, where you know nobody, have no idea where you'll find a place to live, or if you'll be able to find work to finance those rent payments can be rather scary.

It's really easy to pussy foot around the idea and plan, plan, plan. I kind of liken it to standing at an outdoor pool with a cold wind giving you goose bumps. You know you have to jump into the water, but you have no idea if that water is ice cold or blazing hot, deep, shallow, or possibly full of sharks. You've got the option of toeing the water to test it out or jumping straight in. Sometimes I wonder if it's just better to dive right in and see what you're dealing with when you've actually got to deal with it.

Moving abroad, even to a place you're familiar with, can be an extraordinary shock in both good and bad ways. It's definitely a fun, albeit expensive, way to see what you're actually made of.

That said...

Someone once told me that it doesn't matter how far away you move, you'll never be able to run away from yourself.

This is true. Believe me, I've tried.

The first time I came over here, I ran away, and wasn't all too pleased when I found out I was still stuck with myself at the end.

The other two overseas moves have happened at certain times when I couldn't take the way my life was going. (The smaller moves have had different reasons entirely.)

There's nothing like an overseas move to shock your system into trying to do something different.

And, though you're always stuck with yourself at an end, living halfway across the globe often (albeit not always) makes your old reality seem a little less real, and thus less painful. That being said, if your past still catches up to you -- which it invariably does 100 percent of the time -- you can sometimes wonder if you're going crazy because the line between what actually happened in your past life and what you wish had happened can become awfully blurred.

Still, it's hard to tell random strangers you left because you were trying to run away from yourself, even though you already knew it would never work. (Yet here I am, blogging that sort of jibber jabber away...)

So, my official reasons:

1. Canada -> Germany: I wanted to experience something new and different.
2. Germany -> Canada: I knew I wanted to go "home" eventually, so off I went.
3. Canada -> Germany: Money. Plain and simple.

All of these reasons are real and true. They just brush over the fact they were part of larger, more private reasons that ended up tipping the scales in one way or another.

That brings me to:

When are you going home?

First things first (and notice the shift from sentimental to a jerk-Kraut in training):
Why the fuck do you care when I go home? I am more adjusted to life here than many foreigners I know. The whole when-are-you-going-home thing just reeks of "Get out, we don't want you foreign beings in our pure country, mucking everything up."

Overreaction, sure. But the assumption that I'm only here temporarily drives me batty.

I mean, don't misunderstand me. Upon re-entry to Krautland, I did not sign any paper that said "I solemnly swear to stay here until my death day". I'm not entirely convinced I want to spend the next decades here. While there are a lot of super things about Germany, I'm often shocked when I look in the mirror after just five years here; the idea of adding a zero onto that five and then looking in the mirror scares the bejeezus out of me.

Still, when I left Canada the last time, I went with the conscious attitude of "enough is enough". You might get why I actually had enough the day I get around to writing some of my stories of Calgary. But, copious amounts of money required for another overseas move aside, Canada currently has nothing to offer me. It likely goes both ways.

That said, I can think of three specific circumstances I'd move back, none of which are likely to happen ever, and particularly not in the near future. So, the answer to your question is, "I'm not going home." (Read: "I'd prefer to stay in my self-induced exile for the time being, thankyouverymuch."

I haven't committed myself to Krautland for the rest of my life, but I'm not going back. Somewhere new maybe, but not back.

Now stop asking me questions, please. I'm not some weird expatriate exhibit at the zoo.

The System

One of the hardest things about getting work experience in Germany is that you often need German work experience to get it. The kicker is that not only do you need German work experience, you need the right kind of German work experience.

As I'm sure 99.8% of you all know, I'm not exactly in one of those highly sought-after fields that gobble up foreigners who can't speak a word of German to save their lives. Not only am I attempting to enter a field that is known for spitting out the brightest, most well-connected people out like garbage, I'm attempting it as a foreigner with a colourful past.

Okay, my past isn't colourful as in "I have made my living until now in some illegal sub-sector of the economy", but as in "I am a foreigner who has happened to not only skip the globe a couple of times, but also take the sad advice of doing what other people thought I 'should' be doing, rather than focusing on what makes me happy."

It's not as if I haven't worked. I've worked, done very well at it in most jobs, and enjoyed it. I've developed weird interests like filing and fixing/writing company e-mails that go out to clients and customers that don't come around unless you've ever worked in an office environment.

Unfortunately, these roughly eight years of job experience account for nothing here since a) they're in the wrong field, b) I'm studying humanities and therefore am not "qualified" to do what I've done the last eight years, and c) I don't have a fucking piece of paper saying I performed x-activities for x-years.

The job search is a tough one for a lot of expatriates, and even if you speak the language and don't have visa issues, it's not necessarily a walk in the park.

Still, my year and a half of perseverance has paid off, and I now have two jobs.

Yay for me!

Except for the fact they're still not considered official work experience most of the time because they're student jobs.

You try getting a non-student job as a student.

Hello, catch-22.

I don't know. I mean, what I'm doing feels like work, and I'm apparently getting paid to do it (albeit at the student wage that's actually below the minimum wage in all Canadian provinces, including rip-off-Alberta (where I'm from). I'm also using some of my past non-work-experience to do it.

But really, I suppose it's not fair to always be bitching about it.

I mean, if I were in Canada with a Master of Arts degree in my field, I can guarantee you that my job prospects would be 0 (you know, overqualified for my experience and under-qualified for what I'm actually trying to do), and I would be begging to answer phones for 8 bucks an hour.

...On some illegal sub-sector of the economy, of course, since I wouldn't technically be allowed to work for that wage in Canada anymore.

Germany, your system is stupid. But I'm going to play along anyway, because 8 bucks an hour is better than 0. Besides, my jobs are actually awesome! But you know me... Always find the less-awesome side of the coin and complain about it. So isses.

No, We're Not Actually Nice

This morning, whilst checking my news feed on Facebook, I got a little upset.

You see, a friend of mine has proclaimed love for the United States because of how friendly everyone is there.

(Dear friend: I'm not being a passive-aggressive Kraut by bitching about you on my blog behind your back. I really actually was going to write a condensed version of this on your post, but I figured that may have created quite the negative reaction. So there you go.)

We all like stereotypes. I know I like stereotypes. (Didya see my super-sneaky use of "passive-aggressive Kraut in the above paragraph?) Back in my days of Social Psych, before I finally got my head around the fact I suck at multiple-choice exams and thus would never make it successfully through a Psych degree, we learned all about how necessary for our tiny little pigeon brains it is to stereotype, since if our brains would overload and explode if they had to always process new information every time they came across it.

Or something to that effect.

But anyhoo, I am fully aware stereotypes are sometimes true, sometimes not true, sometimes wacky. But I digress.

Americans are not friendly, just like Canadians are not nice and Germans are not passive-aggressive (unless, of course, they are engaging in Nachbarkrieg... just some samples from distressed expats). I mean, some Americans are friendly, some Canadians are nice, and some Germans (damn skippy) are passive-aggressive.

From a Canadian (which, if you ask anyone except Canadians, may very well be taken as an American):

People aren't any nicer or friendlier in North America than they are elsewhere. They will, however, engage in copious amounts of small talk, smile a lot, and act overly polite when they mean anything otherwise. It's how we were raised.

Mother to Johnny: "Now, Johnny, that's not nice! Say you're sorry to the old man who stepped on your foot and complained about it! Wish him a nice day!"
Johnny to Old Man: "I'm sorry, Sir. I hope your day gets better." *through gritted teeth, wishing the old man nothing but a slow, painful death*

Okay, yeah, exaggeration, but whatevs.

Since we're gonna play the fun stereotype card today, I'll just come out and say that I actually like that most Germans don't get friendly-friendly with you right from the beginning. Then you know where you stand. If a German gets nice with you, you know that you've made a friend. In Canada/US, if someone starts getting snippy with you and being a general jerkface, you know you've made a friend because now you get to see what they're really like. I guess I've been gone long enough that, when I'm back home on vacation and a teller/cashier is nice to me, all they get is a bewildered look back that says, "Hey, dude, why are you smiling at me? I don't wanna be your friend!"

Okay, moral-of-the-story time.

Americans are not nicer than anyone else. They're just pretending to be. Don't be fooled by appearances. It's all just a different social game than over on the other side of the ocean, and it's a facade.

Thank you for your time.

A Student's Rant

I've been a student for a long time. I've been in and out of university for the better part of eight years, which is pretty much all of my adult life. I did, of course, take some time off to work, too. (Oh yeah, and move to Germany)

I had a situation a couple of weeks back where someone I know said to me that students have it so easy. We don't really do anything, and we just basically live life like one big party. The real hard thing in life, according to this person, is working at a real job, and not some part-time, twenty-hours-per-week sort of gig while "studying" on the side.

I really took offense to that. I mean, sure, there are students who don't do much else other than sit around, go to lectures occasionally, work occasionally, and party a lot. Maybe because I finished my four-year BA in around two years and am now a graduate student, I don't really get what the undergraduate student experience is really supposed to be all about. I do know my fair share of people who don't do a heck of a lot and manage to squeak by somehow.

But the thing is, I find such an attitude detrimental to those of us who are working fucking hard for our degrees. I have friends who go to school full-time, work those twenty-hour-per-week gigs (and why doesn't this count as "real" work, exactly?), and still somehow manage to get great grades. They're also always really fucking busy.

Then there are people like me. You know what? I don't work. (Oh no! The horror!!) I study full-time, and I'm taking sociology courses on the side so I can become a better social historian. And statistics classes, to boot. No, I don't work. For money. I work my fucking ass off, reading, on average, at least one textbook a day and aim to write at least 1000 words of text for some paper I've got on the go. Every. Single. Day. Yeah, I sit around and watch Mad Men. I also take my dog for a walk for at least an hour a day. And I spend at least a regular eight-hour working day filled with schoolwork.

The difference between my day and your working-life day?

You get up, go to work, and go home. Then you have "you" time. I get up, dilly dally, go to university, get home, dilly dally, write, read on the train, and work some more. You work five days a week. I work seven.

I am always on the go. Always.

I know it may seem like this, but I'm not actually trying to go on a "studying is worse/harder than working" rant. I don't think that distinction is possible. I just think it needs to be acknowledged that they're so different.

I mean, I get it. I've worked your standard 37.5 hour a week gig before. It's not easy. You have a fixed schedule, are chained to your work and often end up counting down the seconds till you can log off your computer and go home. Working destroys your soul. Students, in contrast, can work whenever the hell they feel like it (showing up for classes excepted) and can fly off on vacation at a whim. Although it's not recommended, it's entirely possible to do absolutelyfuckingnothing for three weeks and then cram everything into seven days. I admit this one of the things I like best about being a student -- the flexibility. But the price of that flexibility is that you're always working. And when you're not working, your planning and thinking about the work that needs to be done. Or procrastinating, I guess admit.

In fact, when I was working a "normal" job, I was so used to student life that having two days every week to myself without anything that had to be done was extremely strange. It was uncomfortable. It was so uncomfortable, in fact, I signed up for classes at a distance university just so I would have something to do with all that time.

Yes, I know most people aren't weirdos like me.

While I would agree (to a point) that working for pay can be more exhausting than studying, mostly due to the time constraints and restrictions (Would I sit at my computer and study for eight hours straight with two fifteen-minute coffee breaks and a half-hour for lunch? No.), you get time for yourself in big blocks of time, which is something students don't get.

I'm talking about the student experience right now, not because I don't believe the other side isn't difficult, but because I think our side needs to be brought to light every so often. Especially when people think we sit on our asses and twiddle our thumbs all day. Or, rather, get drunk and boink all day. Man, wouldn't that be the life?

And as a response to the disbelieving remark of "Don't you work?!"

You know what I did today?

I woke up at 6:30am, handed in a paper to a professor, wrote up and e-mailed my theses for my upcoming oral exam to my professor, read a textbook, cleaned the flat, studied for my oral exam, took the pup for a walk, had lunch (at 5:00pm, mind you), and wrote a book review. It's now 10:00pm.

Did my "work" day include more than eight hours of work? Probably not.

But it's been a long-ass fucking day, and that's how almost all of my days go. As do other students'.

So please stop berating us.

We're working hard, too. (And who says we can't take a day or two off every so often, either? You get two a week!)

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

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.

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.

October 10, 2011

Happy Turkey Day to all the Canucks out there!!
I’m sorry to say that I won’t be celebrating with you this year. Here is a list of some of the reasons (or excuses?) why, because lists are fun:

- I don’t own an oven to cook turkey or bake pumpkin pie, though I’d happily do it myself. (The picture is of my very first turkey I made a few years back. Ohlala!) I don’t think you can do these things on a hotplate.
- Today is the beginning of lectures for the fall/winter semester (yes, we get a late start here), so I will be in classes until 21:00 tonight anyway. There is not much time for cooking to whip up a batch of food to feed an army.
- I don’t know any other Canucks who would be willing to celebrate Turkey Day here with me.
- I don’t know of any Tschermanns or others willing to humour me for the day by taking the train out to the boonies for a turkey and pie I can’t actually make (see above).
- Aside from the turkey and pumpkin pie, I don’t really like Thanksgiving in the first place.

Why? Do you ask?
Well, here’s a blog post from last year that I wrote (on October 12, 2010, to be exact) which explains pretty much everything.

So, I was in Deadmonton (well, more appropriately Lac la Nonne, Sherwood Forest and Tofield) for Thanksgiving this year. Dead as ever, Deadmonton is actually growing on me again, and feeling a lot like home. Maybe even more than Calgary. Which is embarrassing to admit. But hey, it is what it is. Maybe I’ll babble on about that some other day. Or not, because I’ve already died of shame already for saying such a thing.

Anyhoo…

Let’s face it — Turkey Day probably only has two redeeming qualities: homemade pumpkin pie with whipped cream and turkey/homemade bun leftovers that will feed me for a couple of weeks. Other than that, Turkey Day, or more appropriately, Thanksgiving, really gets on my nerves.

The worst part of it all is having to sit around the table before eating, mumbling something incomprehensible about how thankful you are for a wonderful life, and blah, blah, blah. The worst thing is that my sister is such a fan of this ridiculousness, and since my parents are divorced, I am lucky enough to have to make up some crap twice every year before praying to a god I don’t believe in.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m thankful for a lot of things in my life, but sitting around a table, forced to come up with some earth-shaking answer about being thankful in life isn’t one of those things. Sure, I could be that jackass who mentions his/her extreme luck at being fortunate enough in life to be able to have a meal in his/her belly and a roof under which to sleep. But seriously, who says crap like that? Am I thankful for those things? Of course I am. If nothing else, my previous stint of having one half-assed meal per day so I could pay my rent not only was an awesome diet, but I am now thankful I have apples in my fridge. I also realise that there are a lot of people out there a lot worse off. But I’m still not that person who’s going to proclaim their good fortune about being able to eat at Thanksgiving. That’s tacky, right up there with this Miss Americas of the world dreaming about world peace.

More than anything, I’m thankful I have the courage to get out of bed in the morning, and that I can make it through most days with a smile. I’m grateful for my friends that have stood by me, and my family, even if I hate most of them most of the time. I’m thankful that I am who I am, and that I’ve gathered the life experiences I have, even if others don’t think much of them.

But at the end of the day, speaking out about that stuff at the dinner table just may as well be more ridiculous than not being on the streets or wishing for world peace.

So, in the end, I said I was thankful for Maxie. Hey, why not? He’s provided me hours and days of laughs and love, with many more to come. I mean, he’s the only man who’s stuck by me through thick and thin, who loves me unconditionally. So, I think it’s fine to be thankful for my puppy. And, he was a good cop-out for Turkey Day this year. Now, I have to work on being creative for next year…

Now, before you start off on the whole, “Hey, Ellie! It wasn’t that bad! You had apples in the fridge!” I’ll have you know that those apples were brought to me by a coworker from her family’s orchard in BC.

If my memory serves correctly, this is about the time of year when my coworkers started bringing food to work to feed me since I couldn’t afford to do it myself.

I guess I could have been thankful for that. (And I was, actually.) At the time, though, it just seemed more like charity. For a more detailed description of my sob story, please see my other published works.

If I’m going to contrast this year and last, there’s a hell of a lot I’m thankful for. October 2010 was one of the darkest months in a very dark year for me.

So, given that, in retrospect, I’m thankful for so much that I have this year, I’ll keep it simple:

This year, in 2010, I’m thankful that I have three apples in the fridge, and that I bought them myself.

If you would have asked me this time last year if I would’ve had anything to be thankful for this year, I would have laughed hysterically at you and probably started crying.

It just goes to show how time is really a tricky little fucker. And how I’m (still) exceedingly pessimistic.

September 19, 2011

Okay, let me just start with saying that I’m a human being. Shocker, right?

Because of this innate human-ness, I make plenty of grammatical errors and spelling mistakes. I proofread my blogs, posts on forums, papers for uni, etc. many times through before sharing with the world. You know, this is mostly so I don’t look like a complete jackass who can’t spell/write despite having the experience of two decades of education.

Errors for a native speaker with more education than a high school diploma, in my opinion, should be far and few between.

But, you know, life happens.

And the thing is, I realize life happens to other people, too. So, when other people make mistakes, I don’t get too hung up on it.

UNLESS… *drumroll please*

There is someone who decides it is pertinent (on Facebook, or wherever) to correct someone else’s English. In doing so, this person will inevitably make a good half-dozen errors in his or her own sentence(s).

FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, if you want to correct someone else’s English, please do so flawlessly. Otherwise, you just end up looking like a muppet.

(Now, who’s searching my post for errors? ^^)