tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-51236592161336269462024-03-05T23:54:09.879+01:00Guten StrudelHello Germany.Alliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11541385212634421003noreply@blogger.comBlogger61125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5123659216133626946.post-81417654775916617312011-10-03T17:03:00.000+02:002011-10-03T17:03:04.949+02:00I'm Still Standing...<div style="text-align: center;">Hello internet.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Just wanted to check in here and move around a little so no one thinks I've gone and expired. We are in the middle of owning and operating our unofficial Guten Gasthaus B&B and loving every minute of it, but that has left very few other minutes for things like blogging...and laundry. People are more important than personal hygene and bedbugs, right? Do you get bedbugs from prolonged periods of unwashed sheets? For some reason the memory of my college experience is telling me no...</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Anyway, I'll be back with lots to talk about around October 20! (Crickets. Chirp Chirp.) Seriously, I'll be back. (Dead silence.) Ok, so maybe I'm writing this little missive to myself, but either way, there will be more blogging in my future. I'm particularly excited about next week's Blind Brownie Bake-off (!) where we are going to make brownies from scratch, from a mix and grab a few store-bought and have a literal blind taste test to see which dessert reins supreme. I just can't believe I didn't think of doing this sooner.</div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;">Happy blogging, till then.</div>Alliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11541385212634421003noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5123659216133626946.post-55491270901791394462011-09-20T21:31:00.000+02:002011-09-20T21:31:25.800+02:00Buzzity Buzz Buzz<div style="text-align: center;">I'm not one for drunk blogging.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">I swear. But I have had a few libations. And I'm not (exactly) drunk. But I am regretting the severe neglect on which I've subjected this poor little blog, and when is regret stronger than under the influence of the devil juice? Never, I say. So I'm just stopping by, after a full night of our (very cool...I promise) Bowling League, and a full day of playing the role of Suzie Homemaker and preparing for our guests to come. And I just wanted to say hi to the blogging world. So, hello.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">And now I'm off to either maintain this delicious buzz or fall immediately to sleep. Any guesses on the outcome are most assuredly welcome. </div>Alliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11541385212634421003noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5123659216133626946.post-17220816574849811772011-09-12T11:24:00.000+02:002011-09-12T11:24:18.716+02:00Where are my blasted mice?<div style="text-align: center;">Please sir, can I have another?</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Two of my bestest friends in the world came to visit last week (hence the silence) and now I must confess myself thoroughly plagued by severe girlfriend withdrawal. I have another set of friends visiting in a scant 4 days, then my brother-in-law (we'll call him Bil) and his girlfriend a few days after that, and then finally my parents are coming less than a week later. Soooo....blogging....uh....may take a bit of a backseat. At least until mid-October. I love having company in, but the prep work is taxing.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">So for the next few days I get to be a fairy princess! This is AWESOME. Oh wait, that fairy princess is Cinderella. Pre-slipper. And I need to lose the 6 lbs I gained over the past 5 days. Did Cinderella get to eat? Maybe I should go on the Disney Princess Diet- they always had such slim figures.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</div>Alliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11541385212634421003noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5123659216133626946.post-8661513067674994142011-09-01T16:18:00.000+02:002011-09-01T16:18:02.770+02:00Bags of tea.<div style="text-align: center;">So, I've been drinking tea.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://gailcarriger.com/images/soulless.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://gailcarriger.com/images/soulless.jpg" width="197" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A really fun read. And a bonus(!)- you'll start talking like you're in 19th Century London!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">I'm reading a delightful series of brain-candy books called the <a href="http://www.indiebound.org/search/apachesolr_search/field_contributor_name:Gail+Carriger">Parasol Protectorate</a> by <a href="http://gailcarriger.com/index.php">Gail Carriger</a> and I just can't seem to stop myself from brewing up a cup of tea every time the wittily blunt and often-peckish heroine, Alexia Tarabotti, takes one herself. This happens a lot. Hence, my tea supply is greatly dwindling and I'm finding my increased caffeine intake favorable to a clean house and elaborate dinners on the table. The one thing I'm having a hard time with, however is the phrasing of my indulgences.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Is it just me or has the term "teabag" adopted such negative connotations that it's almost inexcusable to utter it in polite society? Well, unless you are a politician or a sex-trade worker, that is. What a shame. On the one hand, I hate to dredge up associations with the lewd act by the same name, and on the other hand I hate to dredge up almost as unsavory associations with the renegade political movement. What's a girl to do! I blush every time the water starts to boil. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>Alliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11541385212634421003noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5123659216133626946.post-59317114552779383062011-08-31T11:01:00.001+02:002011-08-31T11:04:59.447+02:00The Obtrusive Little List<div style="text-align: center;">So I've been thinking.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Which can really get me into trouble. I know, I know, I can hear it now, <i>"But dear Guten Allie, I didn't know you could think."</i> I will give you some time to formally register your objection to this news.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">In the mean time, here are some pictures that are totally unrelated to the content of this post!</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-tBq5K5A6BG4kWxgnT4li11mMH_x46s-E_757t2zf5QiKJyxsvj4KHeyrZ0ZneJzm_d2laO9o64spyue77GbMqFbjdvWM-n9ng3VY2zL0K58uopZFmbBtz9_0R_cDbJk2KTP1gxwkJTA/s1600/P1030979.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-tBq5K5A6BG4kWxgnT4li11mMH_x46s-E_757t2zf5QiKJyxsvj4KHeyrZ0ZneJzm_d2laO9o64spyue77GbMqFbjdvWM-n9ng3VY2zL0K58uopZFmbBtz9_0R_cDbJk2KTP1gxwkJTA/s320/P1030979.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The ice storm we had not so long ago. That is HAIL.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhyVq6DHGObxWgqWl1PYkCU1PVQwNgT85MiCeIlLZ5YnbiFqxuwL_jrozeTY3uUantTWJvIJkqtdJMuTZvZhtYdNjeR5HWINSyi37uPKIPVoZNukCqEp2H-Kzekqt6DhajAsqVnZXtVhE/s1600/P1000458.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhyVq6DHGObxWgqWl1PYkCU1PVQwNgT85MiCeIlLZ5YnbiFqxuwL_jrozeTY3uUantTWJvIJkqtdJMuTZvZhtYdNjeR5HWINSyi37uPKIPVoZNukCqEp2H-Kzekqt6DhajAsqVnZXtVhE/s320/P1000458.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A rainbow over our favorite little town, Heidelberg.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</tbody></table><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMh_ge7O8MSN2bprG8EldWhavcO72AvQSjJwuMvkyLfBsaPHEi80YphtUWrvkxSewo7Psgx7eYOzfeYguSJrIovdzW2c31Obee4SMc1jXcs9EJTrzCN4c61kEIlFyv9l23wTgKbo_v-pc/s1600/P1000491.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMh_ge7O8MSN2bprG8EldWhavcO72AvQSjJwuMvkyLfBsaPHEi80YphtUWrvkxSewo7Psgx7eYOzfeYguSJrIovdzW2c31Obee4SMc1jXcs9EJTrzCN4c61kEIlFyv9l23wTgKbo_v-pc/s320/P1000491.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bride and groom sawing their first log together...like ya do. Obviously some kind of sex metaphor.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;">Aaaaaaand...I hope that was enough time for you. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">So, I've been thinking, and try as I might I just can't stop, about some of the things I want to do with my life. I have a certain proclivity toward laziness, so you can see why I'm quite vexed. But this list just keeps coming back to me, and with alarming force. So I thought maybe if I write these things down, they will go away and I can return to my unfussed state. No such luck! I wrote them down at least two and a half times, and still the thoughts continued to harass. Now I suppose I should take a bigger leap and put them on the internet. It seems the next logical step.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">While my sensibilities twinge a bit at the term "Bucket List" not only for the banality of the common bucket to hold such important life dreams, or the morbidity of the idea that such dreams must be achieved, presumably, close to death, but more that my most associative memories of a bucket involve myself as a 10 year old wanting to play outside but instead being confined to the couch to puke into said receptacle. Ew, the bucket. You don't want to have to get out the bucket. And I guess, as far as my own (<i>shudder</i>) Bucket List is concerned, I feel the same way. But The List has nonetheless made an appearance and it seems it will not be ignored. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">So here it is, my little List, written most assuredly under duress. These things have been on my mind for months without conscious aid on my part, so I suppose they are here to stay.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>The <strike>Bucket</strike> List</b></div><div style="text-align: center;">1. Do 10 perfect pushups, forever</div><div style="text-align: center;">2. Weigh (<i>mumble, mumble, mumble</i>) pounds, forever</div><div style="text-align: center;">3. Flawlessly drive a stick shift</div><div style="text-align: center;">4. Learn to ride a motorcycle</div><div style="text-align: center;">5. Learn a foreign language to a conversational level, forever</div><div style="text-align: center;">6. Finish my masters degree</div><div style="text-align: center;">7. Do a real half-marathon* or triathalon</div><div style="text-align: center;">8. Always write a blog</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>* I did complete a half marathon in 2009, but my heart wasn't really in it and I didn't train properly and the time was atrocious, so I feel like it didn't really count.</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">And that is IT. No more! Eight items is borderline too many anyway. I grow faint just thinking about it. My demanding little list here has even forced timelines into my goals, most notably, <i>forever</i>. Ugh. Where did these things come from? Not my psyche, thats for sure. This is totally out of character. If I wanted to invent such a list on my own volition, which I don't, it would include way better goals like "Eat more snacks" and "Cook every night" and "Bake." All food related goals, for sure. Who can I blame?</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">But now I'm curious. Do any of you, fine readers, have such a list? Is it appropriate to challenge you to blog about it yourself? Or at least leave a comment? Or a silent prayer that my list will stop demanding my attention and I can blissfully return to my thoroughly non-motivated state? Please?</div>Alliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11541385212634421003noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5123659216133626946.post-58410445826213038962011-08-27T10:39:00.000+02:002011-08-27T10:39:02.451+02:00A Cold Front<div style="text-align: center;">Finally!</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghAPpaRYR4S4d_7hWqHD8GdNxio7vxyS8XUVDXeg6jZYchRjtjEQTSqNMhsHzLt1y4xXqNebrzXuh-sJFIdrF5SQ2lcv_E98zunujOGp2dc-wXvWXbRq1lssKvuC2tmRTWB2vnX4mS5JE/s1600/Weather.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="98" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghAPpaRYR4S4d_7hWqHD8GdNxio7vxyS8XUVDXeg6jZYchRjtjEQTSqNMhsHzLt1y4xXqNebrzXuh-sJFIdrF5SQ2lcv_E98zunujOGp2dc-wXvWXbRq1lssKvuC2tmRTWB2vnX4mS5JE/s400/Weather.PNG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Husband and I woke up this morning to rain and a distinct nip in the air. We immediately thew open all the windows and I'm wearing a fuzzy robe with sweatpants and socks and I'm still shivering. Oh shivering, how I've missed you! It looks like the Two Weeks of German Summer has, thankfully, passed. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Good thing the <a href="http://www.stuttgart-tourist.de/ENG/events_freetime_culture/weinfeste.htm">Stuttgart Wine Village</a> is open to warm us from the inside. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>Alliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11541385212634421003noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5123659216133626946.post-90428266557742951122011-08-23T17:09:00.002+02:002011-08-23T17:17:36.905+02:00Hola Barcelona<div style="text-align: center;">Well, that was perfect.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinEGwypR3k_IinRRReD_n3QtdBct0GkDxROlSdcNeLfGnwYHUsSfi26EqsmV81lRnPr7IyIHC6l1VsqTqXN3v-QgsM8SxrhIAgqp1BeBbCBZFU4VoYmjJBbroXCNTeZkwzELYVkbuiCvY/s1600/P1010043.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinEGwypR3k_IinRRReD_n3QtdBct0GkDxROlSdcNeLfGnwYHUsSfi26EqsmV81lRnPr7IyIHC6l1VsqTqXN3v-QgsM8SxrhIAgqp1BeBbCBZFU4VoYmjJBbroXCNTeZkwzELYVkbuiCvY/s320/P1010043.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The excitement! The horror!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;">Except for the very end, but that's a story for another time. Our vacation to Barcelona was amazing- the weather was great, the food was even better and the sights were well worth the blistered feet and (gasp! how old am I?) swollen ankles. Better shoes next time, I think. That's one for the "lessons I should have learned many, many years ago but I'm an idiot so I think these laws of gravity and biology don't apply to me" book. I have a feeling that the tanning/burning cycle may, one day, fall into that category as well. When I look like a piece of rawhide. Or worse. We'll see.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">I don't think I have the words to express how wonderful the vacation was. It may have been our first...ever. Almost all of our travels in the past have been what I call trips, not vacations, because, as fun as they are, they leave you more tired and more in need of a real vacation afterward than before you started. But this one was a perfect mix of running ragged and chilling out with 2 very relaxing days at the beach where my skin darkened to a delicious bronze hue (read: splotchy sunburn), and 3 days of pleasant meandering, lots of eating and all the sightseeing our little touristy brains could handle.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSBXO9RQY_NeqJQJT_SDHMN9JELjdvvfKonaPl6dbcs0RcjWarluDRTp3WVEWY30a_A1-0JFoWf1XAfJbWLbTohpPkZGfrpcEiOZxfzl-RbD9sbM9MVT13sy71BTVbCgdOvc0Fhe2qzQY/s1600/P1000558.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSBXO9RQY_NeqJQJT_SDHMN9JELjdvvfKonaPl6dbcs0RcjWarluDRTp3WVEWY30a_A1-0JFoWf1XAfJbWLbTohpPkZGfrpcEiOZxfzl-RbD9sbM9MVT13sy71BTVbCgdOvc0Fhe2qzQY/s320/P1000558.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sagrada Familia- the Sacred Family Cathedral. Think: Disney Church.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA29q0F2iWQqY299I83u8t65bWfznh8YAZTsSnSBXeD6szTQJfEBh8u3ZNFGbJs1VkDQyfCmCkvFPk9gqz8uzWDE4pzTz3_dBfP7wdRNxkag11rXF0f2xXLlvQcebe-ULl7qfajt4Y-YA/s1600/P1000726.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA29q0F2iWQqY299I83u8t65bWfznh8YAZTsSnSBXeD6szTQJfEBh8u3ZNFGbJs1VkDQyfCmCkvFPk9gqz8uzWDE4pzTz3_dBfP7wdRNxkag11rXF0f2xXLlvQcebe-ULl7qfajt4Y-YA/s320/P1000726.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The "Dragon House" built by <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Antoni_Gaud%C3%AD">Antoni Gaudi</a>.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Out of the 5 days, two major highlights emerged. The first, undoubtedly, was the food. Oh, the food! Husband and I have traveled extensively and always feel a little let down in the foreign food department. But Spain was up to something. Everything we put in our mouths- from our fancy dinners to the convenience store fresh empanadas- were delicious. And the seafood was perfect. I even ate a shrimp that had eyeballs still attached. Squirley little eyeballs looking right at me. But I didn't care. We were in Spain, eating good food, and I would be dammed if I would let a little shrimpy eyeball keep me from enjoying the delicious brains within. Ugh, that grossed me out. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1d40P565llUQifsPCLYkpUf7pbDq9Zx6p2ETxmquO10boaMN0miR2K-98eikgQF9HTW_YrjMzZRNx2VNsX9gD6Mq8nXARmS0QHFpYUTEFnc136XuEM51jxtZ30GwFZMixn376AdIlBvU/s1600/P1040240.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1d40P565llUQifsPCLYkpUf7pbDq9Zx6p2ETxmquO10boaMN0miR2K-98eikgQF9HTW_YrjMzZRNx2VNsX9gD6Mq8nXARmS0QHFpYUTEFnc136XuEM51jxtZ30GwFZMixn376AdIlBvU/s320/P1040240.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Seafood paella. </td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyMJgT6TaYEhd82NXG3nhGpkh5Q18L9lU3wZcaFshgKFpAPG9F1alNd2grpGLXJIuBSWOnN72_VJB5AW0BcBcRMyktv-MBv8RoOk4dT8fDfMToa37drYveBiZ-tQKNXl5pp8lu6tyIfg0/s1600/P1000632.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyMJgT6TaYEhd82NXG3nhGpkh5Q18L9lU3wZcaFshgKFpAPG9F1alNd2grpGLXJIuBSWOnN72_VJB5AW0BcBcRMyktv-MBv8RoOk4dT8fDfMToa37drYveBiZ-tQKNXl5pp8lu6tyIfg0/s320/P1000632.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lots of tapas.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxgqLPu2oC8q7ffR3R7InsZNbmI43-9prOOtm_CGzmUuMbrONRLNgo5SqqZq-fYzUiMolxBNuVSaoRZYSc_vqo1H8YoeFXY5gsq0Uexm6Lp_LL5x4GCyGNPPewgrRiu3t-dMwD30IQrwY/s1600/P1000646.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxgqLPu2oC8q7ffR3R7InsZNbmI43-9prOOtm_CGzmUuMbrONRLNgo5SqqZq-fYzUiMolxBNuVSaoRZYSc_vqo1H8YoeFXY5gsq0Uexm6Lp_LL5x4GCyGNPPewgrRiu3t-dMwD30IQrwY/s320/P1000646.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I play with my food. Or- The Shrimp Have Eyes.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;">The other hightlight was the <a href="http://www.barcelonayellow.com/bcn-events-articles/217-festa-major-de-gracia">Fiesta Major de Gracia</a>, that just happened to coincide with our trip. It. Was. Amazing. One of those things where the whole time you are thinking, "This would NEVER happen in the Sates." Two themes emerged from the pre-fiesta parade- guns and fire. With no concern for the people around. Why not shoot fireworks into a crowd of onlookers? Who's to say we can't randomly, and with no warning, fire musket (blanks) 5 feet away from children? Eardrums, what eardrums? Following the Parade of Multiple Hazards, Husband and I roamed the elaborately decorated sidestreets and marveled at the sense of community pride and the immense effort it must have taken to come together with your neighbors to create such a spectacle. Truly unbelievable. I want to live there. Maybe.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBlBfxVOEfdsf_GyyWH9PvhAo8yWrizLJz_CmtX9meRv9bgBmLR3Meopb4Ws0__DCBiB03u1kKSiSO1GVyf8s3VgI4ozCbESe17fZgu-IoR-PjXdCXSvlty-pFP8t2w-VYfeDJ4tdRB8E/s1600/P1000972.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBlBfxVOEfdsf_GyyWH9PvhAo8yWrizLJz_CmtX9meRv9bgBmLR3Meopb4Ws0__DCBiB03u1kKSiSO1GVyf8s3VgI4ozCbESe17fZgu-IoR-PjXdCXSvlty-pFP8t2w-VYfeDJ4tdRB8E/s320/P1000972.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fire at will!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgljjZPnC2Mx69zuRxY14cv5Je8mwIkeoYETgFffoj7TTg2SkDmWqlzlYhvCAxC8BulGAGULIJsmansykqk1m9zsrG2CUuBK91cvTpm22I2S5_hm6ud25wXb8tzziwnT8vcY3JHnVBazX8/s1600/P1000935.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgljjZPnC2Mx69zuRxY14cv5Je8mwIkeoYETgFffoj7TTg2SkDmWqlzlYhvCAxC8BulGAGULIJsmansykqk1m9zsrG2CUuBK91cvTpm22I2S5_hm6ud25wXb8tzziwnT8vcY3JHnVBazX8/s320/P1000935.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Giants! </td></tr>
</tbody></table><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyADAXachxfYHLf49SASfCAWe6fkviI_CPSwwhoSpeVh3IV4QQ2f0fuYH_YS6WohgPmaGvcla0IURzd72GHlm0K_-Fhsy3cGiehMxLINXdAyXeJCyBGYNPbl2FMgxaTVOvKOEysbzSwaA/s1600/P1010037.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyADAXachxfYHLf49SASfCAWe6fkviI_CPSwwhoSpeVh3IV4QQ2f0fuYH_YS6WohgPmaGvcla0IURzd72GHlm0K_-Fhsy3cGiehMxLINXdAyXeJCyBGYNPbl2FMgxaTVOvKOEysbzSwaA/s320/P1010037.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fire! Scary Fire!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZAGlkDOG49x2sapTThLGATtTw94hDjubysxwBjjuLxIOhe8bIPdrdizXdcZLNWU3-H67e1166UltX7z2gloVe4LVj_rfdO9qbLVfAnooayVRzbwOcFzqubC74OlIDwKCad6ajCNC6FNk/s1600/P1010058.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZAGlkDOG49x2sapTThLGATtTw94hDjubysxwBjjuLxIOhe8bIPdrdizXdcZLNWU3-H67e1166UltX7z2gloVe4LVj_rfdO9qbLVfAnooayVRzbwOcFzqubC74OlIDwKCad6ajCNC6FNk/s320/P1010058.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Don't mind the innocent bystanders.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOvsDAl1l7h0EFidp4cDe5UwJldlrLIu7RApxPh58OPm6YLF868Gygo41Cl7RPlJSy17VVZRJ0y0WWPnGrFBIqueTDowtel7NTEYSe6JauqR81iCPJYruCSx8rar5Xv046IHbSeHhzl6Q/s1600/P1010111.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOvsDAl1l7h0EFidp4cDe5UwJldlrLIu7RApxPh58OPm6YLF868Gygo41Cl7RPlJSy17VVZRJ0y0WWPnGrFBIqueTDowtel7NTEYSe6JauqR81iCPJYruCSx8rar5Xv046IHbSeHhzl6Q/s320/P1010111.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The stuff of nightmares.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAYUeRAkD7644RbaDq27nc3o_bh7MiWYc9yZFAXjN8oJp6ky1ukFXRoR7pQO9A9UnBV2lq7UXgfOeUWC-4XmHGbIj5GB8naNh4OGlbUpzkFRx6XnW4epFlxxs9lMxHUyXnATLrigPpGqU/s1600/P1010202.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAYUeRAkD7644RbaDq27nc3o_bh7MiWYc9yZFAXjN8oJp6ky1ukFXRoR7pQO9A9UnBV2lq7UXgfOeUWC-4XmHGbIj5GB8naNh4OGlbUpzkFRx6XnW4epFlxxs9lMxHUyXnATLrigPpGqU/s320/P1010202.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">All the decorations seemed to be made of trash/recycled goods.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDc7BtcO62ne7Yg1CNnHb1zYccso0pbtZajEYmmV9j-AO8FLv6erxyFj0mCX86Dl8aIjxGAX_ciGJ18gVqKsJqfn3PxElZREVHdxar6ZR5cMC1wGmCa3eBeNWpJBy3Z4kw4e5Zy0195M0/s1600/P1010229.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDc7BtcO62ne7Yg1CNnHb1zYccso0pbtZajEYmmV9j-AO8FLv6erxyFj0mCX86Dl8aIjxGAX_ciGJ18gVqKsJqfn3PxElZREVHdxar6ZR5cMC1wGmCa3eBeNWpJBy3Z4kw4e5Zy0195M0/s320/P1010229.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mermaids and Pirates- really cool.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSWT6c_5ll7TbQG65Qhc-LoKHxj5n8qKExNAqz7CYf8CwWLODruGAz4CyeTMu0nxGk7VlaEpL0csxFmgDyIIA02JWyRkhDwp-Ov3vW5x7rf9ctwefn_c1AJkUH8t_0Af_RJslGD30rqB8/s1600/P1010269.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSWT6c_5ll7TbQG65Qhc-LoKHxj5n8qKExNAqz7CYf8CwWLODruGAz4CyeTMu0nxGk7VlaEpL0csxFmgDyIIA02JWyRkhDwp-Ov3vW5x7rf9ctwefn_c1AJkUH8t_0Af_RJslGD30rqB8/s320/P1010269.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Peter Pan looking...tall.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ0qS4EwJ9vY5nJrtUwa83tJlEeoEpdlSNK01wLCa_rCA7TcOAVueDsudIgTuDqWIePCSm6zt09uykdLqhIr10YgXuS0qrpk8M7YtxXf9cOtkygouaUDCIfHu3d6eLRVuPcQMdii4mc0M/s1600/P1010301.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ0qS4EwJ9vY5nJrtUwa83tJlEeoEpdlSNK01wLCa_rCA7TcOAVueDsudIgTuDqWIePCSm6zt09uykdLqhIr10YgXuS0qrpk8M7YtxXf9cOtkygouaUDCIfHu3d6eLRVuPcQMdii4mc0M/s320/P1010301.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm guessing Monsters and Aliens.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBlI1a7BJglkUI5W2iAnervU-F8norfL4aq1oWAopQ_jPC2mBOVDsRojIdLt2Vaz47Bc_qg5OAAsLCyEf3DDK71UQj22IzvkNouv-qX-9M7By3H9AGyEHH_Bc56JHLQhpwc0UFXYLNiG0/s1600/P1010189.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBlI1a7BJglkUI5W2iAnervU-F8norfL4aq1oWAopQ_jPC2mBOVDsRojIdLt2Vaz47Bc_qg5OAAsLCyEf3DDK71UQj22IzvkNouv-qX-9M7By3H9AGyEHH_Bc56JHLQhpwc0UFXYLNiG0/s320/P1010189.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stunning! The decor, that is, not the sweaty girl in front with the swollen ankles.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Now I'm back in Germany, sweating my purdy little face off, as we have entered into the fabled 2 Weeks of German Summer (du du duuuuuuuuun- that was scary music). The weather has been so mild, even downright chilly, and everyone kept warning us about the 2 Weeks of German Summer that was bound to knock on our door any day and leave our airconditioner-less apartments a tepid festering hotbed of swampy heat. Well it has come. Hello. I've been sitting around in a sportsbra and shorts (for you imaginary viewing pleasure) trailing a fan on an extension cord. "Hot mess" doesn't even begin to cover it. But by next week the high temps in the low 90's will be gone and the current low temps in the mid-70's will then be the high temps with the low temps in the low 60's. Just like it should be. Don't get too sassy on me, Deustchland! I'm watching you...</div>Alliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11541385212634421003noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5123659216133626946.post-91655634961882125772011-08-12T18:38:00.000+02:002011-08-12T18:38:51.460+02:00PDA Hell<div style="text-align: center;">Sometimes I'm embarrased to be human.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6-_0g1E0XA1lOho_-_gOPlcavjG-QUV7-v_RAZap0RxBkQXy9Hdl0tWnB-c8MtQFbCg_fEXJOYr5xuIVd30Ts3XqAVI_ztx0OULYgWjLoyQbhBs7_EmKktqG-9VtbnZRKBSw4suEwC28/s1600/no-kissing-hoodies_design.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6-_0g1E0XA1lOho_-_gOPlcavjG-QUV7-v_RAZap0RxBkQXy9Hdl0tWnB-c8MtQFbCg_fEXJOYr5xuIVd30Ts3XqAVI_ztx0OULYgWjLoyQbhBs7_EmKktqG-9VtbnZRKBSw4suEwC28/s1600/no-kissing-hoodies_design.png" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">An adult male came into my office today and sat himself down for the long wait-time that was to follow. About 15 minutes later his (girlfriend? wife? mail-order bride?) saunters in and, despite the vast single-user seating options available immediately surrounding the man, she proceeds to sit on his lap. They open up a big expanda-map of Europe. The discuss travel plans in whispers and giggles. I barf a little.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Sigh. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Well, whatever. They are in looove. Good for them. I, too, am in love, so I chalk it up to excitement over being in Europe and just try to keep looking the other way. Well, naturally one can only look the other way for oh-so-long, and eventually the crick in my neck demands I glance in the couple's general direction. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Oh good, now they are making out. Not just a quick peck here and there, mind, but she is straddling him, he has his hands on her back, and they are engaging in the slow passionate kisses of a couple about to need some private time. Although, one could argue, they already need some private time. What could be more private than a public waiting area? Maybe they still live with their parents.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Time passes, the armourous activities continue, and, if possible, escalate. There is ear nibbling. And audible pet-name calling. Arms are being stroked and I swear I saw a butterfly kiss. Ugh. Luckily my line of site was all above-the-belt, so nothing to report there, but seriously, one can only imagine. The canoodling was unbearable, and the squelchy-kissy-slurpy sounds were more than unsettling. I began to fantasize about what I could do with all the money I would make if I started to secretly film them and sell the video to some unsavory website. You know, should I be inclined to associate with such an industry.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Then, just when I think they can go no further afoul, they unstick from each other momentarily to discipline their unseen children! CHILDREN! As in, "Starla, get your hands off that man's wallet and swat your brother- he's humping the table again!" What do you think family time is like at their home? Keep in mind- she is still sitting in his lap. And now the other customers in the waiting area are starting to just unabashedly stare. Whereas before they were only covertly staring. You know, over the tops of magazines and smartphones and such. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">After some time the lady (I don't know, can I call her that?) gets up and leave the waiting area and the guy comes over to my desk and says, "I don't mean to bother you, but can I ask a question..." Uh, it's not the question that's bothersome, bro.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Now, who's gonna sanitize that chair?</div>Alliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11541385212634421003noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5123659216133626946.post-25711010755511336822011-08-09T21:18:00.000+02:002011-08-09T21:18:51.783+02:00Arriba!<div style="text-align: center;">Husband is a deal-hunting rockstar.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">There is a budget airline here in thrifty Deutschland called Germanwings which offers "blind booking" to major cities. You can choose a certain type of vacation you want (i.e. cultural, adventure, Eastern/Western Europe, etc) and then choose your departure city and dates of travel and it will send you to one of 6-9 options of destination depending on the flight schedules for a paltry 60 euro round-trip. Usually there are 3 or 4 really great options in each category (like Barcelona, Lisbon, Venice, Vienna) and then a few less desirable ones (Leipzig, Dresden, Frankfurt), so you're running about a 50/50 shot of getting a crappy location.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Now let me take this time to say that while my friends and family and millions of strangers in the States are melting their little faces off due to the widespread heat-wave, Husband and I have been huddled together in our little corner of Germany trying to stay warm. The high today was 62. Sixty-two degrees. Fahrenheit. Excluding early April, I don't think we've broken the 80 degree mark all year, and the last few weeks have been downright chilly. Far be it for me to complain (heh), and glory knows I'd rather have a mild summer sans trips to the pool over a sweaty mess of tan worthy temperatures, but I'm starting to feel a little gypped here. So we decided a trip to a beachy place was in order. Husband's a nut for a deal so we went the Germanwings route.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Husband found a way to beat the system.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">It took several hours of study and playing around with dates and travel options, and possibly a single bead of sweat, but he managed to guarantee us a trip to Barcelona. Now we just need to find a hotel within the next 3 days and then we will be set for a glorious 5-day beachy vacation. What is the Spanish word for "Huzzah?" </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Hola. Me llamo Guten Allie. Yo quiero la playa. Uno cerveza por favor. Y una margarita. Erm, dos margaritas.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">I've been trying to brush up on...ahem..."my Spanish" which, despite 6 years of study, is nowhere near even remedial, but try as I might, I just can't get German words out of my mind. Funny, because when I can't figure out the German word for something I usually default to the Spanish word. Thanks brain. Way to be a team player.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">But I'm not concerned. I imagine my mouth will be so constantly full of paella and booze that any attempts at speach in any language will just come out as incomprehensible grunts and morsel-infused flying spittle. It may not be pretty, but that's the way I like it.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</div>Alliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11541385212634421003noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5123659216133626946.post-14202222131511869152011-08-04T20:28:00.001+02:002011-08-04T20:42:18.345+02:00Best. Husband. EVAR.<div style="text-align: center;">And he looks like Patrick Dempsey.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhimwNI9uow2FfTQMSfUIadzD1tNF2V7vY5s863lEEuh-kmhyphenhyphenTIpV6uwCdaN-nbNMiWgL-4z-KP-I-KUyi6_CdqLgjGKL1CfJctdAe_jJUVUFPMd6O0RxizFn3OXJUkEWv9vQMNSoNVt_c/s1600/Patrick+Dempsey.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhimwNI9uow2FfTQMSfUIadzD1tNF2V7vY5s863lEEuh-kmhyphenhyphenTIpV6uwCdaN-nbNMiWgL-4z-KP-I-KUyi6_CdqLgjGKL1CfJctdAe_jJUVUFPMd6O0RxizFn3OXJUkEWv9vQMNSoNVt_c/s320/Patrick+Dempsey.jpg" width="230" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not Husband.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Apparently I'm the only one who sees it though...which is fine with me. Homie don't need no hoes all up on my mans. Ahem. Sorry. I don't know what came over me.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Anyway, so the story goes like this. Moi, being the working girl/domestic goddess that I am (roll eyes...now) came home from a grueling 4-hour shift and immediately set to task a number of household duties that had since been neglected. Cooking, cleaning, laundry. I'm sure you can just imagine the state of things. A few hours later, Husband came home to a very busy wife doing very busy wifely things for which he seems to sincerely appreciate. Even if that appreciation comes at the oddest moments. Like the mid-dishwashing hug from behind. No one likes the mid-dishwashing hug from behind. Someone else mentioned it not too long ago in a very relatable and likely hilarious post. Was it <a href="http://confessionsofacornfedgirl.blogspot.com/">Confessions of a Corn Fed Girl</a> (?) or maybe <a href="http://stumblingtowardsperfect.blogspot.com/">Stumbling Towards Perfect</a>? Someone help me out. I'll edit if I'm off base.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Uh...where was I?</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Oh yeah, domestic nonsense. Right. I had put a Harry Potter movie on the laptop for some background noise and at some point left the apartment to get the laundry in the creepy storage room. You know, where we do our laundry. Whatever. Husband was busy fixing his computer, a task which is impossible to interrupt due to his uncanny inability to notice the world around him when confronted with electronics, so I just left the movie playing and called over my shoulder that I was headed into the creepy storage room and if I come back covered in dustballs and spiderwebs smelling of old cigarettes and regret he should just pay me no mind. I believe he grunted in response. Which, considering the splay of motherboards and wires and chips (oh my!) surrounding him, was akin to a verifiable gab session. Ah, love.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaYlyqTeWvVJ0g4e7dzRXn65e_mEtQUh3KxwhucncUR8cg4__IobrYNG4_C8fXrH3jGrIEkpOYXb33bF-IjtEO1hG9C-4xM6GgU4nmmUrSDp-kzVCwxtdcNgF0QTmR47NkXzs3yEMYEFM/s1600/HP+POA.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaYlyqTeWvVJ0g4e7dzRXn65e_mEtQUh3KxwhucncUR8cg4__IobrYNG4_C8fXrH3jGrIEkpOYXb33bF-IjtEO1hG9C-4xM6GgU4nmmUrSDp-kzVCwxtdcNgF0QTmR47NkXzs3yEMYEFM/s320/HP+POA.jpg" width="234" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Harry Potter saves my love life.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;">So I gather my dry clothes and come back (sans dustballs- huzzah!) and begin folding in the bedroom. Meanwhile, my Harry Potter movie, which I have seen literally hundreds of times, plays on in the other room. I hear Husband get up from his techno-nest and shuffle over the wood floors and then the movie pauses and seems to skip back. From the other room I kind of call to him that he can turn it off if it's bothering him and, startled, he replies that he didn't realize I had come back. Sheepishly, he pokes his head in the bedroom and says he just wanted to rewind the movie for me while I was doing the laundry so I wouldn't miss any of it when I got back.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Be still my beating heart!</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Does anyone else see the romance in this? Is it weird that my little heart just melted? Here we have a man who is usually so immersed in his computer-whatzits that he literally wouldn't notice if the house was dismantled and then rebuilt around him using nothing but dog poop and rotten eggs so long as his technology bits weren't fussed, and he took the time to stop what he was doing to rewind a movie I am so familiar with that I could actually recite verbatim in its entirety just so my evening would be a little better. Why, I'm tearing up just thinking about it. Total marriage win.</div>Alliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11541385212634421003noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5123659216133626946.post-59902567888519567052011-07-28T11:23:00.001+02:002011-07-28T11:24:01.287+02:00Did that just happen?<div style="text-align: center;">It was bound to happen some time.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">My coworker Charles has the most adorable little girl. She's "FOUR AND A HALF!!!" but she's really tiny, so it's easy to forget she's almost kindergarten age. Thusly and so-forth, when she comes up with robust dialog and intelligent conversation she seems all the more impressive. Except for when she's being too astute. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Today we got into a conversation that began with the prerequisite, "I'm (Name) and I'm FOUR AND A HALF!" and abruptly ended with the dreaded, "Do you have a baby in your tummy?"</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Chirp chirp. Chirp chirp. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Woooah there, small thing. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Being the thorough asshat that I am, I responded with a hearty, "Nope! I'm just fat!"</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">OMG. I was snarky to a preschooler. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Ok, to be fair, during the middle of the conversation she had asked me if I had kids (no) and if I wanted a baby (yes...well, eventually...maybe. Ok, yes. Maybe.). So I guess she was just owning the interview, so to speak, but still, I can't pretend it didn't catch me off guard. I suppose it didn't help matters that I was holding a fast-food hamburger in my bare hands because I was so ravenous that I asked the cashier not to bother bagging it. I can't imagine how anyone would get the wrong idea...</div>Alliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11541385212634421003noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5123659216133626946.post-73025438941206205202011-07-26T20:22:00.001+02:002011-07-27T20:03:14.665+02:00Hold me closer, Tony Danza<div style="text-align: center;">Hi internet! Thought you were rid of me, <i>didntcha</i>.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsv-PAxoeJHAZprjUHO4EZehU_8NVBvi1Sl4tOqGbHeE-t4uckVLHh5xZW1ytd48CuOkifx5poLG9ShfbP23Kf7lvGdAdOp6StMBLnq__5Hl_lBXwQsVWbn4GX6qr1gwBvY7pGw4kRdU0/s1600/P1000277.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsv-PAxoeJHAZprjUHO4EZehU_8NVBvi1Sl4tOqGbHeE-t4uckVLHh5xZW1ytd48CuOkifx5poLG9ShfbP23Kf7lvGdAdOp6StMBLnq__5Hl_lBXwQsVWbn4GX6qr1gwBvY7pGw4kRdU0/s320/P1000277.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Can YOU feel the love tonight?</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Well, I'm back for at least one measly post. Actually, considering the subject matter, maybe I should call it <i>Sir</i> Measly Post. The measly post where I gloat over free tickets to see Elton John in concert in some rinky-dink little German college town with about 2,000 very polite and non-excitable Germans standing...er...sitting quitely...in between me and a living legend. The Piano Man himself.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Due to my prolific networking skills (read: blatant eavesdropping) I was able to charm my way into 4 free tickets to the show (read: I just asked). Husband and I went with friends and despite a minor navigational error that could not have possibly been prevented even if we all had a working knowledge of the German language (by the way, Germany, it's so NOT COOL that the address printed on the tickets was not the address of the event) we managed to illegally park just steps outside the venue and meandered in a scant 20 minutes late. We only missed two songs.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTfifw1rO6dc0oLN923c-Pto8O5aJMqWWYROtrp6nUw6iydFOGdQkBPkx6ZPmIIuIzpq1OGCycnnng6cWTUkqy1Q7Iqtt2OZrDOgH1mroBQvuT76Mb5NZaCM1ITxigofX6suG-EvvvnyQ/s1600/P1000281.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTfifw1rO6dc0oLN923c-Pto8O5aJMqWWYROtrp6nUw6iydFOGdQkBPkx6ZPmIIuIzpq1OGCycnnng6cWTUkqy1Q7Iqtt2OZrDOgH1mroBQvuT76Mb5NZaCM1ITxigofX6suG-EvvvnyQ/s320/P1000281.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me and Elton, hanging out. With some unimpressed Germans.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">And then we saw Elton John preform live, outdoors, perfect weather, at a tiny venue for free. Free! We were so close I could practically count the number of pink sequence on his bedazzled tailcoat. We didn't even bother to find our seats- we just loitered in the back by the beer carts and whooped and hollared like the decent concert-going Americans we are. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">And at this point we noticed a slight cultural difference.<br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;">The Germans were totally devoid of any sort of normal emotional response to the legendary musical stylings of Sir Elton. During the songs they sat quietly in their assigned seats and politely listened to the music being preformed. At the end of each song they rose to their feet to offer applause and then quickly reseated themselves for the next tune. Even <i>Rocktman </i>failed to illicit even the faintest of mid-song cheer. It quickly became apparent who the Americans were in the crowd, as there was a whole obnoxious group of us in the back on our 10th beer, offering our enthusiastic vocal support and cracking up every time someone uttered, "Hold me closer, Tony Danza." And by "someone" I mean me.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">I even bought a shirt. I call it my "beer goggles" shirt.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVnbYwOYV0mnlLvp-nhyZkUgyOwwtbHUJ5XHOMD5m6i8ZRaFbrfRX66MO7-602hpVTSWcHmbw4fRv5SutIejr1M3E3PRRaW8fAbosnTkoIaoUBljMpowEkJO201NpfRlZDrEcvYWhX3Ls/s1600/P1000313.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVnbYwOYV0mnlLvp-nhyZkUgyOwwtbHUJ5XHOMD5m6i8ZRaFbrfRX66MO7-602hpVTSWcHmbw4fRv5SutIejr1M3E3PRRaW8fAbosnTkoIaoUBljMpowEkJO201NpfRlZDrEcvYWhX3Ls/s320/P1000313.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">So the concert was awesome, we all sang along to every word and barely noticed the looks of mild dissaproval from the rest of the audience. I know what they were thinking...</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgorV5KlCqIC4OySIELMd3kConaM2d6SzjVr0ZYAkCBCg5nWjict7ewyNm8pXQNoNOVbFUjKRLiYU_jF03X9lyzoL48v29NLTUBaGSKdFlUzh2ZoOjiLuz0Km7mM9vlK5zc2NnZ0KHIRXY/s1600/P1000358.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgorV5KlCqIC4OySIELMd3kConaM2d6SzjVr0ZYAkCBCg5nWjict7ewyNm8pXQNoNOVbFUjKRLiYU_jF03X9lyzoL48v29NLTUBaGSKdFlUzh2ZoOjiLuz0Km7mM9vlK5zc2NnZ0KHIRXY/s320/P1000358.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>Alliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11541385212634421003noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5123659216133626946.post-34908949220092315462011-06-08T22:57:00.001+02:002011-06-08T23:11:04.251+02:00Civil Blood and Civil Hands<div style="text-align: center;">Too much to say.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_09voEhr0YM8flcezBKeUfM2F0v3KZSYMLmx30MmGxaPkEwnbNT1LnHOfxgk7eRUUSzeP-wdNczEKMhKtBwot3aW5gCgC7VP4NNdN2OGdvYHJNfQiJPkvIormYrr2mztkupWrjBwPnWA/s1600/P1030532.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_09voEhr0YM8flcezBKeUfM2F0v3KZSYMLmx30MmGxaPkEwnbNT1LnHOfxgk7eRUUSzeP-wdNczEKMhKtBwot3aW5gCgC7VP4NNdN2OGdvYHJNfQiJPkvIormYrr2mztkupWrjBwPnWA/s320/P1030532.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mmmm...Strudel. Guten strudel.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">So I won't say much at all. <i>Howsabout </i>a little photo montage instead. Here's how I've been spending my blogless days:</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Husband and I took a mini-vacation over Memorial Day to Verona, Italy- home of everyone's favorite tragic lovebirds, Romeo and Juliet. The six-hour drive was totally (hair flip) worth it as we had to pass straight through the Austrian Alps to get to Italy. Husband practically wrecked the car when we crossed the German/Austrian border and out of nowhere (seriously, <i>nowhere</i>) an entire mountain range popped up. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Here are some crappy moving-car picture of what we saw:</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7Jz6AsAFvrARQWHt-XgwXltQRb9OL02wrS_QYwhknzFlgbnxzUMD3j6OLOgIMNYRubHefcIP-GiSD5vC2iEEY_BeT0eD7tz6ZYFXr1lG-0-9gAN_lJSqa0gswb-2tR7ERWTxxPpMiy8Q/s1600/P1030433.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7Jz6AsAFvrARQWHt-XgwXltQRb9OL02wrS_QYwhknzFlgbnxzUMD3j6OLOgIMNYRubHefcIP-GiSD5vC2iEEY_BeT0eD7tz6ZYFXr1lG-0-9gAN_lJSqa0gswb-2tR7ERWTxxPpMiy8Q/s320/P1030433.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">See how the road curves- yeah, before that curve there were no mountains.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2s7tkjpVXfzeU0A9-LuZ0AwXwraBZIfKQYZWBtbRFWUegOKMsZQ7onfY3Frx05EVurvOZepgKQBcRedkZgGYWbe1KVeznssJtfbcVHCf-M13nvmLmECwbps23PVEnv_3kUk9xrZMSUgM/s1600/P1030434.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2s7tkjpVXfzeU0A9-LuZ0AwXwraBZIfKQYZWBtbRFWUegOKMsZQ7onfY3Frx05EVurvOZepgKQBcRedkZgGYWbe1KVeznssJtfbcVHCf-M13nvmLmECwbps23PVEnv_3kUk9xrZMSUgM/s320/P1030434.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Suddenly, MOUNTAINS!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikXmSlGeJ2tiCDpI186jewi_2sTRdZq2CHotvWrvO-bATmtLaxHcTYC1cS4LD3-jssDSlMIxGdJdNAhyphenhyphen990HZ8zOTQB7yCDCWcmpwFhTX9_ixHvm5nR9cpRrqlS55qMPRYF2XiIJCQY1c/s1600/P1030437.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikXmSlGeJ2tiCDpI186jewi_2sTRdZq2CHotvWrvO-bATmtLaxHcTYC1cS4LD3-jssDSlMIxGdJdNAhyphenhyphen990HZ8zOTQB7yCDCWcmpwFhTX9_ixHvm5nR9cpRrqlS55qMPRYF2XiIJCQY1c/s320/P1030437.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The whole place was just teaming with mountains.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;">So we get to Verona, and it is just perfect. Perfect weather, perfect hotel, perfect mix of things to do and food to eat and stuff to see given the amount of time we were there. I even made Husband slow down and relax and breathe and chill and all those other calming actions that he has to be forced at wife-point to do. The man was born to tourist himself into a whirling cloud of sensible footware, discount admission deals and sightseeing efficiency. But not in fair Verona...not this scene.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Speaking of scenes... </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmcoi7sYT6jMunTEroL7bcQeTsw2jYrPtpebk_ad2YnYXZ0g-8tttTo1CTbxxnGTPExxUGpHdZG9t-55ZuoyCr9HW0CDQ4yqMVJNolc3qSDAweXs0u-YI_9DyQ62Rh1ydNCS-MKA4ZGpw/s1600/P1030767.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmcoi7sYT6jMunTEroL7bcQeTsw2jYrPtpebk_ad2YnYXZ0g-8tttTo1CTbxxnGTPExxUGpHdZG9t-55ZuoyCr9HW0CDQ4yqMVJNolc3qSDAweXs0u-YI_9DyQ62Rh1ydNCS-MKA4ZGpw/s320/P1030767.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On Juliet's actual balcony, looking for that damn Romeo. He's run off <i>again</i>.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFhi5hZXPFLtDPAwOLdwJzviqVTcj3rHXUZBKlOINewS-Xho3kgwLnaiPo7nstUtCZFQKp-m1pqmaTLL4_2cHSNl8o3-9N8AQ51Y6YTIfAt8krfh4S8q-ZQilAj7taU8RybGlqXyTmTb4/s1600/P1030815.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFhi5hZXPFLtDPAwOLdwJzviqVTcj3rHXUZBKlOINewS-Xho3kgwLnaiPo7nstUtCZFQKp-m1pqmaTLL4_2cHSNl8o3-9N8AQ51Y6YTIfAt8krfh4S8q-ZQilAj7taU8RybGlqXyTmTb4/s320/P1030815.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A beautiful day in Verona.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">And then, the unexpected. Tragedy struck. Husband and I decided to end our beautiful day with some ice cream at a famous and wildly popular ice cream shop...</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaFsaqv8ULLpyYk-u6Nxf6gzinN6mq_xSMjHhFn0q1ahw8if_1NTj4cfbbakEDEXicvJEYEydSOk26242cT5NmhSReOGSI5EahmkXPSQX5RGTID-SIeuft9qlXF1-wlOVI3FCPLO2NIs8/s1600/P1030552.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaFsaqv8ULLpyYk-u6Nxf6gzinN6mq_xSMjHhFn0q1ahw8if_1NTj4cfbbakEDEXicvJEYEydSOk26242cT5NmhSReOGSI5EahmkXPSQX5RGTID-SIeuft9qlXF1-wlOVI3FCPLO2NIs8/s320/P1030552.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">...and it was AWFUL!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;">Please excuse how absolutely frightening I look in this picture- not my finest moment. Anyway, I never thought I'd see the day that I throw away an ice cream cone. I wasn't raised like that.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">We saw some creepy art...</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuBkv-RnZJQAF0pdFSlYrWuKzjJWb3TXxirWrukKHp4HzZWVT3OL2AX_yQqXpwp-qmEvj026B6JXxWLu9dGJ3OojBDu8T6GrhnzFEgSoYtbfp6IzqVxxXXwL4409j6F-KQwqLMyJBwRZU/s1600/P1030620.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuBkv-RnZJQAF0pdFSlYrWuKzjJWb3TXxirWrukKHp4HzZWVT3OL2AX_yQqXpwp-qmEvj026B6JXxWLu9dGJ3OojBDu8T6GrhnzFEgSoYtbfp6IzqVxxXXwL4409j6F-KQwqLMyJBwRZU/s320/P1030620.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Creepy Jesus.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmTPY7Hss3bWMrhtnvC0pgQnEt2lfeaO5hgRwP5BztqCQLjh4ogQf0Hnr4tbxEwGIE4Ve1ViStq9lGjEc_d_5vJYY_NqE6irJUhfCM1Uj6AA_0dOVuVrmqfQL0NAA9iE6jBTftXFLYZKk/s1600/P1030654.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmTPY7Hss3bWMrhtnvC0pgQnEt2lfeaO5hgRwP5BztqCQLjh4ogQf0Hnr4tbxEwGIE4Ve1ViStq9lGjEc_d_5vJYY_NqE6irJUhfCM1Uj6AA_0dOVuVrmqfQL0NAA9iE6jBTftXFLYZKk/s320/P1030654.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Creepy Creepster. Sorry. </td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjifya0ldrruXoSDloTKArRaJNtwpNsFTO6c0sjwGAIAKyyM0oz0CL1qYBomfxEnUV_UlHglKsS-gyW3s4-soZ_AKyD0pK0a6GMY_LUxyvjHzY1U0OLDI2xBJQRODAu0IULKujsJCZ18SY/s1600/P1030882.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjifya0ldrruXoSDloTKArRaJNtwpNsFTO6c0sjwGAIAKyyM0oz0CL1qYBomfxEnUV_UlHglKsS-gyW3s4-soZ_AKyD0pK0a6GMY_LUxyvjHzY1U0OLDI2xBJQRODAu0IULKujsJCZ18SY/s320/P1030882.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Creepy..uh..abomination?</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">And most importantly, we had some wine. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU6CejWNxTxctwaNiedSKYOpBmvAMkamruSFK0glVtwq_nU-hS8_kDcDlbfF75nuNneR8fFYL_iuZoZUUvptaUzewU-WHKkTpnC_0183ATG10COJv2mUnZq53EvkzrXxCDtld9KUcuNG0/s1600/P1030875.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU6CejWNxTxctwaNiedSKYOpBmvAMkamruSFK0glVtwq_nU-hS8_kDcDlbfF75nuNneR8fFYL_iuZoZUUvptaUzewU-WHKkTpnC_0183ATG10COJv2mUnZq53EvkzrXxCDtld9KUcuNG0/s320/P1030875.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Please pretend I have on makeup and my hair is clean.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;">Ciao!</div>Alliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11541385212634421003noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5123659216133626946.post-59793108320939357812011-05-26T19:35:00.000+02:002011-05-26T19:35:11.625+02:00The Boys, a prediction<div style="text-align: center;">Today at work an 87 year-old lady Italian lady with the most affecting accent told me I had beautiful brown eyes, that my heritage should be Italian (like her) instead of German/British/Whitebread, and that I will resolutely not have twin baby girls when Husband and I start having kids, but instead will have a flock of boys. Ugh. I was tracking with her right up until the "boy" bit. I told her I wouldn't know what to do with male offspring, being raised in a family full of females myself, but she said it didn't matter because the boys- oh the boys- "they love their mamma. The girls love their daddy. You will have the boys." </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">She was in town visiting her son.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Let's hope she's no oracle.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Twin baby girls.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Heh.</div>Alliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11541385212634421003noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5123659216133626946.post-8421661914012472712011-05-20T11:28:00.000+02:002011-05-20T11:28:40.343+02:00Castles and Beer<div style="text-align: center;">And a cheery Guten Strudel to you. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">You may have noticed I haven't posted anything in a while. Or maybe not. Maybe the internet isn't as "into" my blogging existence as my self absorbed guilt would lead me to believe. Alas, there is no way to tell. <i>Heavy sigh</i>. <i>Ennui</i>. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg64O14teaB9YvAcmCLwLQYzq3m4AMu_WQE8cHm_jrVGAULIruBEXxjX8lzqEj_JaFxP5IXlfB9OYhpCQAd_zuW8Dh86WPJzE2NmiCuplknAE3JbwgQPPu0i_t93QZLNyeJtrIs0fIzTro/s1600/P1030329.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg64O14teaB9YvAcmCLwLQYzq3m4AMu_WQE8cHm_jrVGAULIruBEXxjX8lzqEj_JaFxP5IXlfB9OYhpCQAd_zuW8Dh86WPJzE2NmiCuplknAE3JbwgQPPu0i_t93QZLNyeJtrIs0fIzTro/s320/P1030329.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I've been busy.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"> I'll tell ya, this whole "job" thing is really putting a damper on my blogging. And my housework. I know, I know...poor baby. It's just that now that the weather is (still) awesome and it stays light out until about 10:00 pm, and Germany has really outdone herself with festivals and events and beirgartens and such, it's hard to find time to write about it all. I get it- I can hear you rolling your eyes at my first world problem. Noted. I'm rolling my eyes at myself too, which is actually making it hard to focus on what I'm typing.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">In keeping with the "Germany is made of beer and tourism" theme, Husband and I have spent the last few weekends visiting castles and getting rambunctious at the <a href="http://www.stuttgarter-fruehlingsfest.de/index.php?id=292">Stuttgart Frühlingsfest</a> (Spring Festival) in one of the famed beer tents, reminiscent of Oktoberfest in Munich. As an <strike>interesting</strike> aside, the <a href="http://www.stuttgart-tourist.de/ENG/events_freetime_culture/beer-festival.htm">Stuttgart Beer Festival </a>usually coincides with Oktoberfest and the Germans typically flock to Stuttgart to get their beer on while leaving Oktoberfest for tourists. I haven't been to an Oktoberfest yet, but sources on the inside tell me it's full of Americans, Brits and Australians. And lions and tigers and bears. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmoeAbpq0boXN06quMihYNLG7KfiSHtYG0X3odTzEnIbtEDQM6PS2xsHGYPqSuj1dv9zNe1qEY17_xid8J9IOKEhRrn1dFCQX2TG-bVMYpZufDP0p3qKmw6rUCu99VxT5Ch7QytS-Mh28/s1600/P1030152.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmoeAbpq0boXN06quMihYNLG7KfiSHtYG0X3odTzEnIbtEDQM6PS2xsHGYPqSuj1dv9zNe1qEY17_xid8J9IOKEhRrn1dFCQX2TG-bVMYpZufDP0p3qKmw6rUCu99VxT5Ch7QytS-Mh28/s320/P1030152.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Does anyone else think it looks like Hogwarts?</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;">Over Muttertag (Mother's Day) Husband and I trekked out to <a href="http://www.google.com/search?q=hohenzollern+castle&hl=en&safe=off&prmd=ivns&tbm=isch&tbo=u&source=univ&sa=X&ei=eCvWTfOfLYaBOubKwbsH&ved=0CCYQsAQ&biw=1366&bih=649">Hohenzollern Castle</a> and after climbing straight uphill for 25 minutes, we were really impressed by how neat it was- by far my favorite castle we've seen. In honor of Mother's Day they had a band playing and allowed people to wander about the castle without a set tour, which was really interesting. Definitely worth the impromptu workout. Husband and I are in decent shape, but we were still huffing and puffing up the hill to get to the entrance. But these Germans- man these Germans!- they are just powerhouses! It must be all that biking in lieu of driving, because we had grandmothers passing us on the hill. Like little old ladies just zipping up a near vertical incline. Unbelievable. Props to the Germans. I've yet to spot a fat one.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKH1MskwSi6SIVK24QCXC_El49EU1qQr7Rm_jWN2n06xnpqnULwIK-Fw-R3-g2s3aHa3kZI78Y1dlkxTp1sgaQtXSBBPBe7omZZfdVTAjeZJoiq9XLjiYnLVS8Jova4k0GWWCKX_VxGYo/s1600/P1030236+-+Copy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKH1MskwSi6SIVK24QCXC_El49EU1qQr7Rm_jWN2n06xnpqnULwIK-Fw-R3-g2s3aHa3kZI78Y1dlkxTp1sgaQtXSBBPBe7omZZfdVTAjeZJoiq9XLjiYnLVS8Jova4k0GWWCKX_VxGYo/s320/P1030236+-+Copy.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'll have one of those.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;">Last weekend we were lucky enough to snag tickets to one of the beer tents at the Spring Fest, and seriously, words can't begin to describe it. Not that I won't try. The tent was about the size of two school gymnasiums, they had a live band playing on a fully loaded stage akin to what you would find at a rock concert, about half the crowd was wearing dirndls or leiderhosen, and the regular size beer is a liter. A LITER. I had two. The tent is packed with hundreds of long picnic style tables, but few people are sitting. Most are standing on the table. That's just what you do, I guess. You stand on the table the whole night, singing along to the U.S. top hits of the 80's and 90's- Germans seem to really like American music- and about every third or forth song is this German drinking song where you continually "Prost!" (Cheers), and continue to drink a lot. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUIWlU4aGMEQbVfRtwbrlyLV3fGq-zf9kr84lUwb_XZboV0KYhsMlZYjqsZuitVFRihP2vgsf_XJr5Gi91MugQfTftYwEJP_bIjY7Hq2yQhVHhk34bwxM3URtQp_XHwlBJGNvG8Y_clHU/s1600/P1030257.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUIWlU4aGMEQbVfRtwbrlyLV3fGq-zf9kr84lUwb_XZboV0KYhsMlZYjqsZuitVFRihP2vgsf_XJr5Gi91MugQfTftYwEJP_bIjY7Hq2yQhVHhk34bwxM3URtQp_XHwlBJGNvG8Y_clHU/s320/P1030257.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Always drink with friends.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvII8zUYuRdNozWyFwT3yxJ_760zCtn5U-isN66U9DGLjGIOgqr-sAjffcbCXWTpZOjpRaE3kZ3cj6YIH1A8ECQnJwpzvZeHZ0338FOQ-aDwhbMlnbIsn2_P2B3i1LTMC5IO2WxiLOX5s/s1600/P1030360.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvII8zUYuRdNozWyFwT3yxJ_760zCtn5U-isN66U9DGLjGIOgqr-sAjffcbCXWTpZOjpRaE3kZ3cj6YIH1A8ECQnJwpzvZeHZ0338FOQ-aDwhbMlnbIsn2_P2B3i1LTMC5IO2WxiLOX5s/s320/P1030360.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lots of friends.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;">So now that we've caught up I'm off to do about 3 loads of laundry. Prost.</div>Alliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11541385212634421003noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5123659216133626946.post-80334346946817793112011-05-05T13:44:00.002+02:002011-05-05T13:48:02.410+02:00General Tso Good<div style="text-align: center;">We miss greasy Chinese (food, that is).</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik0F_3wgfk3XFPoRHMBWLYnY6UQvWo6B9K4Ul02pA3wHkg2KlY0p7IC20-cK46bWFXuvqSbw_o-uMTqC963xcNw16SoeHbIhb-lSHGZ62inGghZx6rBsTyOyZWZ-hy7Iib3LUhQhpOwJY/s1600/Apron+Final.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik0F_3wgfk3XFPoRHMBWLYnY6UQvWo6B9K4Ul02pA3wHkg2KlY0p7IC20-cK46bWFXuvqSbw_o-uMTqC963xcNw16SoeHbIhb-lSHGZ62inGghZx6rBsTyOyZWZ-hy7Iib3LUhQhpOwJY/s320/Apron+Final.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Germany has just about every gastronomical choice you would find in the States with the noted exception of greasy American-style Chinese food and palatable Mexican. The Mexican dilemma is easy enough to solve with store bought tortillas and enough cheese to send all of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Baden-W%C3%BCrttemberg">Baden-Württemberg</a> into cardiac arrest, but the greasy Chinese is another story. I don't own a wok and I just can't seem to find MSG's <i>anywhere</i>. Maybe it's in the snack isle? Clearly a lost cause.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Or IS it?</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Turns out, NO! Husband and I had been particularly desirous of one, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/General_Tso%27s_chicken">General Tso's Chicken</a>, of late but I was wary of attempting a homemade reproduction due to generally disappointing quality issues with other fakey-Chinese recipes attempted in the past. But I had a husband to feed, and his recent bout with some kind of particularly nasty cold virus made him such a sympathetic cause that I just couldn't say no. So together we trod (trodded? trode?) through endless online recipes with obvious flaws (hoisin mixed with sweet and sour? Ugh. My teeth rot just thinking about it.), complicated ingredients and photos of completed recipes that could have doubled as a crime scene. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">But then, shining like a beacon of pure white meat chicken breast in a sea of reconstituted poultry parts, it stood. So deliciously possible I couldn't resist. My heart lept, my stomach growled, the frozen chicken in the freezer quivered with anticipation- a culinary delight was born. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdl7a-EvoHJftGXrxGRTAMGz1EdVV4xU_SsS0JMzTTzzLHGOja0iUx9UEpsWpJRUjVlTwiMT3nVkoH8tm1Yj0wxmtLGPJUcdhn5jaFr5pVxj21cfT5r6ULQBU5ck0TFMhGyTaxIK73UEc/s1600/P1030111.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdl7a-EvoHJftGXrxGRTAMGz1EdVV4xU_SsS0JMzTTzzLHGOja0iUx9UEpsWpJRUjVlTwiMT3nVkoH8tm1Yj0wxmtLGPJUcdhn5jaFr5pVxj21cfT5r6ULQBU5ck0TFMhGyTaxIK73UEc/s320/P1030111.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yes, I know it's blurry and washed out, but I was hungry. So hungry.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><a href="http://blogchef.net/general-tsos-chicken-recipe/">General Tso's Chicken</a></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">from </span><a href="http://blogchef.net/"><span style="font-size: large;">Blog Chef </span> </a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>with a few variations</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">I followed this recipe as closely as I could with the ingredients I had, and let me say, it was perfect. Absolutely perfect. The flavors and textures were exact replicas of what we would order at our favorite Chinese place back home. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">That being said, here are my variations:</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">1. Right away, double the sauce. Just do it. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">2. I didn't have Rice Wine, so I used the same amount of cooking sherry instead.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">3. To prevent the breading from falling off the chicken or getting soggy when mixed with the sauce, I dipped my chicken pieces in the egg/cornstarch mix as in Step 1, but then also dredged them in flour before frying (I pan fried my chicken in olive oil). Oh, and I also used chicken breast instead of thighs.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">3. I didn't have green onion or dried red chili peppers, so I sliced half a yellow onion instead and sprinkled it very liberally with crushed red pepper and then sauteed that in olive oil in Step 4, cooking just until the onion started to soften.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">4. The double batch of sauce just coated my chicken (I used more than a pound though), so I made another single batch of sauce and heated in in a separate saucepan until thickened (1-2 minutes after boiling) to pour on the rice.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">I will never buy this dish again. Too easy, too good.</div>Alliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11541385212634421003noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5123659216133626946.post-81654898132157638352011-05-02T12:58:00.000+02:002011-05-02T12:58:05.542+02:00Hopps and Wheat and Barley- Oh My!<div style="text-align: center;">I'm starting to like beer.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI6gQwECdTsROYky_Q0Jn2U62ClF5SAoQ5n6fGaRjKpPuMD7klKYUtlxn7l8199MzINyfmW3YlhTr8ToEjvJJniLs6JH4iuQwsJ0QoeeDNeeZP0OisU309yhuDboXDFYtRa0QNaTIFLlM/s1600/P1030085.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI6gQwECdTsROYky_Q0Jn2U62ClF5SAoQ5n6fGaRjKpPuMD7klKYUtlxn7l8199MzINyfmW3YlhTr8ToEjvJJniLs6JH4iuQwsJ0QoeeDNeeZP0OisU309yhuDboXDFYtRa0QNaTIFLlM/s320/P1030085.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Those are the <i>regular sized</i> beers.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;">I think I've mentioned this before (and let's be honest here, what <i>haven't</i> I mentioned), but it bears repeating due to my German surroundings- I'm not a huge beer fan. In fact, I'm not much of a drinker at all...unless weddings and opportunities for public embarrassment are involved. (Right Cathy? Ugh, the shame.) So you can just imagine my surprise when I have found myself ordering- repeatedly no less!- <a href="http://www.germanbeerinstitute.com/Kristallweizen.html">Kristallweizen </a>at just about every eating opportunity. It's practically involuntary at this point. I don't know what's come over me.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Ok, maybe it's the fact that I don't like to deal with scouring pages and pages of a beer selection in German on German menus while being bore down upon by an impatient German waiter. Or maybe it's the utter and absolute reluctance to spend triple the Euro on about a quarter of the amount of diet soda. Or maybe it's just easier to pronounce than some of the other beers, and I don't like to be fussed. Take your pick. I'm sure the truth is in there somewhere.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">But in all, this is good news! Good news indeed! Because it is officially beer season in Germany and the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Beer_garden">Beirgartens </a>are in full swing, not to mention the overwhelming selection of beer festivals and beer tastings and regular festivals posing as beer festivals and people just milling about on the streets and in the parks drinking beers and beersy beer beer beered beery things that are cropping up at dizzying rates. Dizzying for many reasons. Beer! </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ8glBzTKPLXZ7-8KF6FP47oWOFZSorlvcvsZH7BnQNnfsMtRLlB7NUtnM3lVfH_R4xyOKqZwJegx_ZSvvyfFovSMaaPoh0VcHymYtIjdFcLAcbJht_BoLtmjmxVVDGeWX6_nw3N0teig/s1600/P1030039.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ8glBzTKPLXZ7-8KF6FP47oWOFZSorlvcvsZH7BnQNnfsMtRLlB7NUtnM3lVfH_R4xyOKqZwJegx_ZSvvyfFovSMaaPoh0VcHymYtIjdFcLAcbJht_BoLtmjmxVVDGeWX6_nw3N0teig/s320/P1030039.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beer tent at the Spring Festival. Note the people dancing on tables in dirndls and leiderhosen...and the CHILDREN. Totally normal.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;">So half the beer battle is already won- I have identified my beer of choice. Whew, what a relief. Pressure's off. I've also come up with a contingency plan, should the beer-related activity not have my preferred Kristallweizen, and will gladly accept any other form of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Weissbier">Weissbier </a>(wheat beer), and go merrily about my day. But not quite so merrily had I been able to procure my first choice. There has to be a consequences. Additionally, and this is very important, should anyone offer a Pils, I will run frantically from the offender in a zig zag patters so they will be less likely to attack with such a foul brew, find a matronly looking German hausfrau dressed in a dirndl and hide behind her voluminous skirt until the danger is abated. </div>Alliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11541385212634421003noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5123659216133626946.post-21955119392323291912011-04-29T12:45:00.000+02:002011-04-29T12:45:18.142+02:00Indy: A Recap<div style="text-align: center;">I will not discuss my blogging hiatus guilt.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA05RjRaMJ58z1_EAPNboU61myypYfnedFb1cCIYSivf9G8JpCgWB_XNiVe8-Y_P6ULVqhtoaIG2ovmB43zPJD0NgPx_92YBpYkUl7eyU2YkTO46iy2CHGj7vieekAPOL_pGPalatnqDA/s1600/P1030082.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA05RjRaMJ58z1_EAPNboU61myypYfnedFb1cCIYSivf9G8JpCgWB_XNiVe8-Y_P6ULVqhtoaIG2ovmB43zPJD0NgPx_92YBpYkUl7eyU2YkTO46iy2CHGj7vieekAPOL_pGPalatnqDA/s320/P1030082.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;">Alright, now that that's out of the way. Hello! How are yoooou? Nice to see you again. I do hope things have been just corking for you all. Thanks to everyone who posted little comments of bloggy love while I was away, and please accept my sincerest apologies for not writing back. I swear on all the snot of my prolific allergies that I wanted to, but...uh...well, now I wasn't going to mention the blogging guilt again, but...ahem...you know. <span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Looks away and digs toe in the ground.</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">So Germany! GERMANY! Germany greeted me back into her loving embrace, lo one week ago, but just like a manipulating and conniving evil stepmother-country, publicly showered me with love and affection in the form of sunshine and blooming flowers and highs in the mid-70's when the rest of the family was looking, but once everyone's back was turned, cursed me with an onset of itchy, watery eyes, sinus pressure, an unholy measure of mucus and something like sandpaper in my ears and throat- the likes of which have not yet been known to man. If this doesn't stop soon I'm donating my body to science in exchange for an air conditioned room with no vegetation whatsoever. I saw our apartment caretaker approach our patch of backyard with a lawnmower yesterday and it was all I could do not to run screaming from my apartment warrior-style and bodily tackle the man before he could stir up all the innocently resting pollen and whatnot in the yard. Social niceties be damned.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj4-cAYoSi-7Uv1TQltMDPTutsIaUsu1Hdk4biNuLOiY5TcHZtVKEIjfpQfgTZVZaHOVf7UbLQ2x8fSHukMQYcQVK2hXTe5mUaG7mNKoLsHjQ_4V8p-Hsam_PLmx7hJUrWaHeXlqFF-Y8/s1600/216758_965432303968_20723749_46058304_7125243_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj4-cAYoSi-7Uv1TQltMDPTutsIaUsu1Hdk4biNuLOiY5TcHZtVKEIjfpQfgTZVZaHOVf7UbLQ2x8fSHukMQYcQVK2hXTe5mUaG7mNKoLsHjQ_4V8p-Hsam_PLmx7hJUrWaHeXlqFF-Y8/s320/216758_965432303968_20723749_46058304_7125243_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That right thur is AMURICAN!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;">My trip back to the States was <i>fantastic</i>. We ate, we shopped, we ate, we saw friends, we talked and we ate and watched a bit of good old fashioned American television programming. Then I left. Absolute perfection. In between all that eating and talking we managed to get a few hearty walks in, but other than that it was sedentary American bliss. Seven pounds later, I wished I had been a little more peppy, but what's life without a few regrets, eh?</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Oh greasy Chinese food, how I missed you. Dear, sweet flavorful enchiladas, it's been too long! </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Ok, enough of that. I don't want to get all emotional here. Speaking of emotional, I also got my hair done, and not a moment too soon, really. I noticed a few mothers at the airport teaching their preschoolers the color wheel based on my roots. Ahem, "That one is black, there's a brown, here is yellow, and this is red. Can you say red?" I could be wrong, but I swear I heard a faint, "That's right little Sally, she <i>should </i>be ashamed of herself," as I walked away.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGYTIXE4IYtFAQk4sNq6HQIGwR01T0xurDfYSwtbVlibGFZv9PWARGv8wdtPt-VVgDNzQBd6iHGy2b-ASGt9JjGUfjatD_n1yiJ1YftH2BBt3Cdeppa5hRCgWCAjAuE83Er3kRLtinWEA/s1600/P1020406-1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGYTIXE4IYtFAQk4sNq6HQIGwR01T0xurDfYSwtbVlibGFZv9PWARGv8wdtPt-VVgDNzQBd6iHGy2b-ASGt9JjGUfjatD_n1yiJ1YftH2BBt3Cdeppa5hRCgWCAjAuE83Er3kRLtinWEA/s320/P1020406-1.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">BEFORE! Oh the horror!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"> My one true love, Brandi, at <a href="http://www.texturehairdesignstudio.com/default.html">Texture Hair Design Studio</a> dyed my hair so fantastically dark brown without even the faintest hint of red, that I practically weeped with joy when the final strand was blown adequately dry. I might have given her a round of applause and requested a speech. Just thinking about it now I get a little misty eyed. In truth, even an ocean can't separate a girl and her hair stylist. It was meant to be.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3grR7Coq6d294-fhiPrlS_yl988-LAA06JMKSM6e0cIcWxuuZ9DwVrqLw2v66isj8NKOus1f2ZHht9kq1VQjGvaXjUd1Gzcwx3uzMZEn1Q-Of6wCkvBgGEPaTpTaeX1IlTIrneAw2qIQ/s1600/P1020859.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3grR7Coq6d294-fhiPrlS_yl988-LAA06JMKSM6e0cIcWxuuZ9DwVrqLw2v66isj8NKOus1f2ZHht9kq1VQjGvaXjUd1Gzcwx3uzMZEn1Q-Of6wCkvBgGEPaTpTaeX1IlTIrneAw2qIQ/s320/P1020859.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">AFTER! Hair of undeniable dark brownness! Please disregard the gayness of the picture.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;">I got to bond a bit with my dad, too, while I was at home- a definite highlight. We spent late night hour upon even later night hour watching episode after episode of Season 1 of <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0407362/">Battlestar Galactica</a>, which I bought for him last Christmas, and he hadn't even taken the plastic wrap off. Socks for him next year then! Bah humbug. Well, at least now he knows what he was missing. I can't even count the number of times he scared the dog by exclaiming in surprise or suspense at particularly riveting points along the way. I am proud to report that we did manage to watch all 20 episodes, including the 3-hour movie that starts the whole shebang, in the span of 8 days. I implore you all to do the same. Best show ever.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">And that was pretty much it. Couldn't have been more perfect.</div>Alliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11541385212634421003noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5123659216133626946.post-62259521840825660912011-04-22T17:15:00.000+02:002011-04-22T17:15:42.361+02:00Back to Beerland<div style="text-align: center;">Ah, it's nice to be home.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Well, my other home. Right now I'm sporting 3 variations of "home"- one being my actual residence with Husband in Germany, another being my parent's/family home in Indiana, and another being the Washington DC Metropolitan area where I had been living for the last 5 years prior to the Great German Adventure. Diversity is good, right? So, I should say, it's nice to be at my permanent residence.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Somehow I miraculously escaped the throes of jet lag both on my trip out to Indiana to see my family and on the return trip, and despite a real lack of energy today, think I'm back to being all German and whatnot. I'm working on a few posts right now, but couldn't resist the opportunity to mindlessly drone a bit now that I'm back.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Your welcome.</div>Alliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11541385212634421003noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5123659216133626946.post-77097812204260341602011-04-12T20:58:00.001+02:002011-04-12T23:53:48.194+02:00Still Alive<div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;">Hi friends!</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">It's me, Guten Allie. Just checking in to say that I am still alive (yay!) but still taking a tiny bit of a bloggy hiatus to spend time with my family. Oh, how the posts will flow after this- family time is good blogging fodder. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">In other news, I went to the dentist today and enjoyed a clean bill of dental health. Three cheers for fluoride and floss sticks! However, during the cleaning I encountered an awkward problem, and I wonder if I'm not alone on this. Maybe the dental hygienist had abnormally large hands, or maybe my <a href="http://gutenstrudel.blogspot.com/2011/03/thank-you-thank-you-blush-bow.html">freakishly long tongue</a> was to blame, but I kept inadvertently licking her hand. That's right, full on, how ya doin, <em>licking her hand</em>. I don't think I've ever done that before. For the record, she didn't seem to notice or mind, but still, that can't be normal. I just couldn't keep my tongue out of the way. It tasted like latex and regret.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">More to come later, including the thrilling tale of my trans-Atlantic never ending flight and the benefits of a good run in with karma, but alas my friends these are for another day.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.toplessrobot.com/battlestar_galactica.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="241" r6="true" src="http://www.toplessrobot.com/battlestar_galactica.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">I will leave you all with this: if you haven't already, please make haste to your favorite DVD rental facility and immediately start watching <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0407362/">Battlestar Galactica</a>. Check your reservations over SciFi at the door- this show is so much more than that. Husband and I just wrapped up the last season, and I can say without any hesitation that it has been my absolute favorite TV show of all time. Not only is the story line riveting and rich and the characters robust and beautifully developed, but the acting is simply phenomenal. There were times I actually lost track of the plot because I just so mezmorized by the quality of acting- unlike anything I've ever seen- especially <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edward_James_Olmos">Edward James Olmos</a> as Admiral Adama. The show is quite dark, and pretty intense, but it is truly a beautiful thing to behold. So go on, waste no time. Get to beholding! </div>Alliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11541385212634421003noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5123659216133626946.post-68012745206953213132011-04-05T18:52:00.001+02:002011-04-05T22:13:39.273+02:00She works hard for her money<div style="text-align: center;">I'm a working woman.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">I started my job this week, and I gotta tell ya, this waking up at 6:45 am business is certainly no fun. Or if I'm being trendy, phun. Regardless, I don't like it. But I do like the job (what I know of it so far) and my coworkers seem friendly, so I guess I'm set.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Unfortunately an unintended byproduct of the new job is complete lack of interest in blogging. Well, I shouldn't say interest...it's more like energy. With the sharp decline of sleep (it's hard to transition from a 2:00 am to 10:00 am sleep schedule to a more traditional 11:00 to 7:00) and the focus on learning a new job, I don't have much mental...uh...uh. I can't think of the word. See. See what I mean!?!</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">So here's to a wonderful fun change! And here's to a new schedule to get used to! And here's to coworkers and office gossip and timesheets and TPS reports! And here's to the blog that will not be ignored, but may have to suffer the embarrassment of poor writing and uninspired posts while I adjust.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Oh yeah, and next week I'll be in the U.S. for 10 days to visit my family. Shopping, eating, shopping, eating. What could be better?</div>Alliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11541385212634421003noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5123659216133626946.post-6740936210265825952011-04-01T16:02:00.001+02:002011-04-13T15:52:33.855+02:00A Bad Case of Flea...Markets<div style="text-align: center;">We went shopping.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">I've never been one to spend much time territorially vying for other people's used homegoods at the crack of dawn. I have no need for musty placemats or chipped trinkets or pre-worn shoes. Urgh. Especially the pre-worn shoes. My skin just crawls thinking of it. But flea markets seem to be a bit of a <i>thing </i>here in our corner of Deustchland, so one fine Saturday morning not too long ago Husband and I merrily, if skeptically, found our way to a haven of gently used baubles and whatnots.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">At first I was tempted to slink right back out the doors of the community center and make haste to the nearest mall and/or hand sanitizing station, but upon the gentle urgings of Husband (who convienently had the keys), I found myself halfheartedly pawing through a veritable sea of pilling matronly cardigans and scuffed porcelain figurines. Had I been in the market for tiny statuettes of shepherds or stained lace doilies or straight to VHS movies I would have been set for life. </div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;">As it was, I was not.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">But, the more I looked, the more I found. And I'm not talking about broken kitchen appliances or sun bleached curtains. We actually came across some (gasp!) desirable goods, and in the end I'm glad I went. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlOO4v92-fOlR7gWekUf4Xf1K1voPfbetd5zJNMQD2hEcNbCM-aOLLM-DLZ6jDBJ84ZXn8bAYrPI15JND4r0ZJncQAr3IfZo57MKjTmslIIUlfL72T_lP32oosSdXzXc0mM0gGL5WsNhM/s1600/P1020487.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlOO4v92-fOlR7gWekUf4Xf1K1voPfbetd5zJNMQD2hEcNbCM-aOLLM-DLZ6jDBJ84ZXn8bAYrPI15JND4r0ZJncQAr3IfZo57MKjTmslIIUlfL72T_lP32oosSdXzXc0mM0gGL5WsNhM/s320/P1020487.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A for-realsies coffee grinder. </td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;">As soon as I spotted the coffee grinder, I fell in love. Which was really embarrassing considering Husband was there. After an awkward conversation wherein I basically made clear that my loyalties now lie with an old timey kitchen appliance, Husband agreed to purchase the item in exchange for our continued matrimony. A good decision. The lady we bought it from, who appeared to be an antique herself, delighted us with stories of this, her mothers coffee grinder, and the various places she lived and used it. I was charmed. Eventually we'll hang it in the kitchen, maybe even use it. The lady assured us it works and she actually used it the week prior- as evidence by the still-aromatic bean residue in the glass bowl at the bottom.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOwW5zakd0aOrOu7UxCgRFiHqlRBRt7HVkJtM5lQ-Z0TqUcCnd4GlD24MGk50hgezJQ1I7g6VUoLSgG0xVIziBI2DDd0C8jOPWAgLoA1FeRSbfDIZMWP38lt2X20sSLLTYcfmP1kLfi0Q/s1600/P1020492.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOwW5zakd0aOrOu7UxCgRFiHqlRBRt7HVkJtM5lQ-Z0TqUcCnd4GlD24MGk50hgezJQ1I7g6VUoLSgG0xVIziBI2DDd0C8jOPWAgLoA1FeRSbfDIZMWP38lt2X20sSLLTYcfmP1kLfi0Q/s320/P1020492.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">The same lady had this stunning copper planter. I don't think it is particularly antique or special in any way besides the sheer coolness of it. And really, what more can you ask of a copper planter? We haven't quite figured out what to do with it yet- I want to put it inside and find some decorative use for it. Husband, however, expected us to actually grow a plant inside it. Psh. Ridiculous idea.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2Thxr7FWfs0R19SOtSmTtRQ3-wS_ACOUsFVwjtJM7UGFwU5Di1rVF-DqW9lioiEc-L8FXaGtlTGoCWRDiYeYED9chKOg0PfFZfCnZn1Yik5Ef7j8dTvueQThJivgA7BWQsrcmmy1wNFQ/s1600/P1020497.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2Thxr7FWfs0R19SOtSmTtRQ3-wS_ACOUsFVwjtJM7UGFwU5Di1rVF-DqW9lioiEc-L8FXaGtlTGoCWRDiYeYED9chKOg0PfFZfCnZn1Yik5Ef7j8dTvueQThJivgA7BWQsrcmmy1wNFQ/s320/P1020497.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">This is just a basket for our formerly bare-boned powder room. Obviously. I guess given that I've included a picture, the description is completely unnecessary. There you have it.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">We bought a few more things- a hair straightening iron with a proper German plug so I don't go blowing up the house trying to use mine on a transformer, a ridiculous beer stein with a duck bill as a lid (Husbands pick, not mine, and I couldn't really argue after having just broken his heart over a coffee grinder), a board game and a modern decorative bowl for the living room. I actually had to take the bowl to the car and hide it in the trunk as every few feet a different lady would approach me with some kind of snarky, "I was going to buy that bowl" comment (many of the people at the flea market spoke English) and I began to fear for the safety of my decor. Vicious, these flea market hens.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">And finally, the very highlight of the excursion, the <i>pièce de résistance</i>, the very thing husband opposed the inclusion of on our wedding gift registry...</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7Eh96EriS74wFeru7p17LRMgrmrd5sXM04RFllYkVrqJG1o7DjREpSwhm7HeRu0HUZbtmDOOqkkjnL89DnHWB1ivzmoeDb8ALEMdkVJSfpExbeGXZ_8T5adfJmYRjDuQJUlL9gl989kg/s1600/P1020474.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7Eh96EriS74wFeru7p17LRMgrmrd5sXM04RFllYkVrqJG1o7DjREpSwhm7HeRu0HUZbtmDOOqkkjnL89DnHWB1ivzmoeDb8ALEMdkVJSfpExbeGXZ_8T5adfJmYRjDuQJUlL9gl989kg/s320/P1020474.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">A WAFFLE MAKER! </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Bonus points that the waffles come out shaped as hearts. Maybe I'll make one for the coffee grinder. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>Alliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11541385212634421003noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5123659216133626946.post-28309905543656259732011-03-29T17:54:00.001+02:002011-03-30T11:41:12.125+02:00I Challenge you to a Challenge!<div style="text-align: center;">I do love a challenge.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">I've had several challenges this past week. Surprisingly, I have come out victorious in all of them! Where's my epic music? And the wind machine to blow my cape back? And a muscular black cowboy to ride up on a white horse and offer me a plate of chocolates? Not coming, you say? Disappointing.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">So the first challenge, as I alluded to in my previous post, was to prepare myself for a swift departure from my current unemployment status as a practically useless hausfrau to a highly productive quasi-employed responsible member of society. The timing couldn't be more perfect, too, as I'm finding- much to my absolute and resounding surprise- that I'm just not suited for unemployment. Apparently, I'm not as lazy as I thought. Did you hear that mom? Not as lazy as I thought. The world, it's a changing.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHg3AAr2i_p7oRFxWAwxWkOYDuUja3kshzj_iAYymi404gby2sxKi1eDIzrlRw6CRAtiLHE4WJJe8QLbzU4KtJPGpB_RffAYl-J7OwbpWooWLH1k74wL-o58wpZaCQ54Jn0EjMGPbSl-4/s1600/Allison+Chatfield-1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHg3AAr2i_p7oRFxWAwxWkOYDuUja3kshzj_iAYymi404gby2sxKi1eDIzrlRw6CRAtiLHE4WJJe8QLbzU4KtJPGpB_RffAYl-J7OwbpWooWLH1k74wL-o58wpZaCQ54Jn0EjMGPbSl-4/s320/Allison+Chatfield-1.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking exceedingly nerdy in my ID badge picture that I got to take myself. This was something like Take 37. I had to settle.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;">While I'm grateful for the job, it's probably not going to tax my mental or physical capabilities in the way I've experienced in previous employment situations. I'll be doing data entry. Part time. On call. But not like "Paging Dr. Strudel" on call. No, rather a far more desirable Monday through Friday, 8:30-5:00, "Bertha at the front desk has the plague, can you please work for her while she suffers horribly" on call. I'll be one of two PTOC employees in this office, and the other one has worked every single day since he was hired in February. So I'm looking forward to once again enjoying the delights of coworkers. Seriously. I do love me an office environment.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">So that takes care of Challenge the First. On to round two! The lovely Kelly over at <a href="http://notesfrominsidetheshell.blogspot.com/">The Peanut Gallery</a> issued forth a call to <a href="http://notesfrominsidetheshell.blogspot.com/2011/03/weekly-challenge-week-six-get-out-of.html">Get Out of Your Comfort Zone</a> last week, and I'll be darned if I didn't participate just to win the cookbook she was giving away. I chose to uncomfort myself with what I thought would be group exercise, an activity I am most voraciously opposed to, with good friends Jennifer and Lisa, and new friend Lizzy, who I do hope will accept my embarrassingly awkward and frequent pleas of friendship. Lizzy is pretty cool. And she's a nurse, so you can just imagine the types of fun conversation a group of girls can get into.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-y0p6v9lwfkM/TYx0kaNrX4I/AAAAAAAAAzE/WbA9nii3nbQ/s1600/P1020181.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-y0p6v9lwfkM/TYx0kaNrX4I/AAAAAAAAAzE/WbA9nii3nbQ/s320/P1020181.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Leave your horse-drawn carriage at home, folks. This path was made for walking.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Jennifer suggested we all go for a hike (ugh) on a particularly beautiful Thursday last week, and the only bit that gave me pause before my imminent decline was that the final proposed destination of the hike was to be a beer garden. With yummy drinkey German beer. I'm not much of a drinker, but I do love a social brew. I was really milking my response time kind of close to the limit when I came across the Comfort Zone challenge, so I thought, what's the worst that could happen? I mean, I guess it's unlikely that halfway through the hike I would break into a rapid and profuse sweat and keel over in exhaustion, and then be left panting for breath and begging for water on the dusty trail clutching my chest while my fit and active friends march on without me and ants eat my face? What are the odds. So I went.</div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;">And it was so fun! The hike was more like a leisurely stroll, sans the trip back which was more like scaling the Eiffel Tower, but at that point we were having such a good time, and Lisa was merrily chatting away, that my labored breathing was barely noticeable. Perfect. Oh, and we had had several drinks with no food, so that probably helped things along as well. So success on Challenge the Second!</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-P-nZZh4YPFw/TYx0vuExF5I/AAAAAAAAA0w/52KVD8ipCaU/s1600/P1020205.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-P-nZZh4YPFw/TYx0vuExF5I/AAAAAAAAA0w/52KVD8ipCaU/s320/P1020205.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">See that light at the end of the trail...that's where the beer is.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;">And before we pack it in, Challenge Three. Husband and a few of his coworkers have been (presumably) porking up a bit lately (that's not some kind of sexual slang that I'm not familiar with, right? This is a PG blog, folks!), so they instituted a 2 week weight loss challenge. What good is a weight loss challenge that only lasts two weeks, I don't know. But nonetheless, Husband was participating, and he's nothing if not a winner, and I'm nothing if not his wife, so I decided to support him in the only way I knew how. Self deprivation. I voluntarily gave up all fried foods and (gasp!) chocolate in an act of supportive solidarity and resolutely made nutritious and low calorie meals just about every night. The result, you ask? I dropped 5 lbs. and Husband swept the competition with an impressive 8 lb. annihilation. And today I ate half a bag of dark chocolate M&Ms. Half a <i>one pound</i> bag, that is. Heh. I'll drink some water- that will flush it out.</div>Alliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11541385212634421003noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5123659216133626946.post-65680994152211915162011-03-28T13:32:00.000+02:002011-03-28T13:32:34.723+02:00Oh the shame!<div style="text-align: center;">Augh, the blogger's guilt is setting in.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">So, I have 3 different things I want to blog about, but I just don't have time today, and the constant mental yo-yo between getting my paperwork done for my new job (oh yeah, did I mention I got a job- huzzah, thing the first I wanted to blog about) and the urge to spend a couple hours crafting a bit of bloggy nonsense is driving me crazy. So I thusly hereby do grant myself a reprive of blogging today and today only. I'll be back tomorrow.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Ok, guilt- begone!</div>Alliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11541385212634421003noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5123659216133626946.post-68502584635355148042011-03-24T11:42:00.002+01:002011-03-30T11:49:35.990+02:00A tale of pre-wedding spaz<div style="text-align: center;">I just remembered something.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivWA6BQ9YpWrB9dWK2t91RkQ-73Dh9Ipw5bfKO1lN0_mgZq6En2h7f8r361TvDkyhoV9dOv1MZPW4OMwyofdd2kvVCi-bVhLtBKD7YHAouq4yPi4op1dFVD4FDYNbh6yF3Vdd9ofp61DY/s1600/Crazy+Face.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivWA6BQ9YpWrB9dWK2t91RkQ-73Dh9Ipw5bfKO1lN0_mgZq6En2h7f8r361TvDkyhoV9dOv1MZPW4OMwyofdd2kvVCi-bVhLtBKD7YHAouq4yPi4op1dFVD4FDYNbh6yF3Vdd9ofp61DY/s320/Crazy+Face.PNG" width="214" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me, looking normal. </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"> This is too good not to share. We all have those moments we aren't proud of, right? Secrets we wish to keep, correct? Things for which we would almost assuredly die of shame should they be brought to light, hmmm? Well, I do. Before the invention of the blog, these secrets would be safely tucked away in mental lockdown in the far reaches of the corners of your brain. You know, in the mental ghetto. The place to which you only traverse once or twice a year when you have no other option, and you do your business as fast as you can and you maybe even take a gun. Or, if you are opposed to guns, then maybe a slingshot. Or an African poison blowdart pipe. Whatever. The means of personal protection is actually unnecessary, since all this is hypothetical. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Anyway, lest I be sidetracked...oh wait. So, blogging. Blogging has brought out in most of us a <strike>desire</strike> feral and primal need to happily divulge those things which we would have otherwise hog tied our grandmothers in order to keep private. One such memory just escaped mental incarceration and immediately broke into the pre-frontal cortex. Or something. I'm no doctor. As I physically stopped in my tracks at the assault of a memory I have been quite good at repressing the last 4 months, I simultaneously cringed in horror and made a mental note to blog about it. WTF.<br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;">Those who know me well, or maybe not even them (hi family!), may recall that roundabouts 4 months ago Husband and I were blissfully wed. A lovely event, a joyous event! However, the day before the whole "I Do" business, I had what can only be described as a total body bridezilla demonic possession. Luckily, and unbeknownst to either of us, Husband happens possess a natural ability to cast out such spirits, a skill which must have laid dormant for the last 31 years. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Before we continue, hows about a gratuitous wedding photo, or two. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjejtjxi-c33Pm4GPkrfuL6-jHqjgL8K0ukKNixRY0UA7bQIbdlir1vbEXGoSqajT4q28GvLPmRHen7e9EDYILWP2xuA-kwh6e2L_ua9SFJjG_IEhVnnMT8h2QnUt6XnVUACDwQgVeDXwM/s1600/Cake+1.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjejtjxi-c33Pm4GPkrfuL6-jHqjgL8K0ukKNixRY0UA7bQIbdlir1vbEXGoSqajT4q28GvLPmRHen7e9EDYILWP2xuA-kwh6e2L_ua9SFJjG_IEhVnnMT8h2QnUt6XnVUACDwQgVeDXwM/s320/Cake+1.PNG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-JpfaHR81nqnl_CTtTsCi8jvSX6czJR05xof76w3idA6Q8hX5GR1JQeRzINIlrPSHD6k7lXbOm6Mc_kf-pW9m_beG9jlD-FFKaPohUURjzJYyny3NZw3iFdpdhVS2fPqCtzYShm_lGW4/s1600/Cake+2.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-JpfaHR81nqnl_CTtTsCi8jvSX6czJR05xof76w3idA6Q8hX5GR1JQeRzINIlrPSHD6k7lXbOm6Mc_kf-pW9m_beG9jlD-FFKaPohUURjzJYyny3NZw3iFdpdhVS2fPqCtzYShm_lGW4/s320/Cake+2.PNG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mmmmm, cake!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;">So there I was, the day before the wedding, putting on my makeup to go about the activities of the day, and as I swiped my mascara on my normally luscious and lengthy (read: average) lashes, the wand seemed to be wrapping things up far sooner than expected. So I did another coat- and another. Whats all this?!? My lashes were not lengthening. They were stubby and uneven and had thickened to the point where it looked like I had mini lash sausages affixed to my eyelid. I knew it, my lashes had all broken off overnight and I was doomed to look like a troll for our wedding.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">And enter the demonic bridezilla unnatural horror. I burst into tears. Heaving, choking tears. Big fat streams of tears. My nose immediately went all shiny and red. Snot bubbles popped and reformed at will, streaking great runs of mucus down my stubby lashed face. My skin got all blotchy and red. My eyes swelled. An agressive amount of saliva came rushing forth to produce the unsightly spit string from top teeth to bottom teeth each time I opened my wailing mouth. I think I may have been growling. Oh it was ugly. And loud. And ridiculous. Seriously, I don't know what came over me. And the whole time, I'm just dissolving into gasping rounds of, "My eyelashes are gone! They all broke off! I'm not getting married like this! I can't do it." And so on, and so forth.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Within the first ten seconds of my howls of agony, Husband rushed to my side, surely expecting to discover a severed arm or all my teeth missing or a second head or something of equal horror. He wasn't expecting a stubby lash. BUT, and pay attention because this is where Husband should get some kind of award, after he realized what I was saying (or rather, wailing) he didn't run or scoff or slap me across the face with a long leather glove- all of which would have been appropriate actions- but he actually took my slimy face in his manly hands and inspected my lashes as though I was not some kind of devil spawn invading the body of his dearly beloved, and the idea that my lashes had all broken off in equal measure overnight was a perfectly valid claim to investigate. To say this was a temper tantrum would be an understatement.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">I should say, I was still sobbing uncontrollably while husband is trying to get a look at my lashes. Hot, crying breath in his face. I'm sure the spittle was flying. The whole works.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">So, after assuring me that my lashes looked perfectly normal, which took, I can only assume, all the mental composure the man had to offer, I was no better off than before. At this point I had reverted to primal sign language as my voice was no longer suitable for words, only loud, garbaling wails. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Husband was great. He pulled up pictures of me to compare the length of the lash, he assured me things were fine, he let me fall into his arms and wipe snot and tears and who knows what other manner of foul fluid all over the shoulder of his clean shirt. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">And then, it was over.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">The demon had been cast out! Hallelujah!</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">It was the hug. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"> But, uuuuugh, how embarrassing. I consider myself a reasonable and well mannered lady of common sense, and this display of unbelievable idiocy tops the list of regrettable moments. Seriously. I was ready to postpone the wedding so my (completely unaltered) eyelashes would have time to grow. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">As it turns out, and I'm sure you saw this one coming, there was absolutely nothing wrong with my lashes. I was just panicking. Like, severely panicking. Like I'm surprised I didn't need a Valium and a paper bag, panicking. But the next day was wonderful, my lashes were luxurious, and we got all kinds of married. Perfect.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0U7LqFntBp8UKhTU82jr9STdRyAJF0Qf9ySWqGxm9zXYKyCnnY8268VAvodPSbHE0uWx2zVcgrCbq_WBnrPxS2R4yveUNa5Ca8-yKgjPlu-pwYKAK52AjakWwlj1leeOUc_aKOAdrmjY/s1600/Dancing.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0U7LqFntBp8UKhTU82jr9STdRyAJF0Qf9ySWqGxm9zXYKyCnnY8268VAvodPSbHE0uWx2zVcgrCbq_WBnrPxS2R4yveUNa5Ca8-yKgjPlu-pwYKAK52AjakWwlj1leeOUc_aKOAdrmjY/s320/Dancing.PNG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He still loved me and everything!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;">Now, you ALL should know, that my wedding photos were seriously amazing. Absolutely unbelievable. My dear and wonderful friend, <a href="http://www.asjphotography.com/">Alev Sezer-Jacobs</a>, who has more talent in her fingernail than I do in my whole being, past and present, graciously followed us around all day and put up with me being a silly bride to capture the most incredible shots. I would hands down, no questions asked, recommend her to anyone. Just for good measure, here it is again.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.asjphotography.com/">http://www.asjphotography.com/</a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>Alliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11541385212634421003noreply@blogger.com9