When Bad Suits Go Worse...

I would like to ask a simple question, "Do some people not own mirrors?". Sounds silly but it's a question I ponder because it's the only reason I can come up with that would explain some of the atrocity I see walking to work, walking around work and in the actual office. This question is second only to, "Are you blind?" and "Have you no common sense?".

At one point in my life I had a large staff. During my tenure HR established a business casual dress code. Enforcing this thing was like a living nightmare. It wasn't so much explaining to people the difference between a shirt and a t-shirt that was challenging, it was the conversations about wearing a bra, off the shoulder shirts not being work appropriate, your pants shouldn't be so tight I can see your underwear (or lack thereof) and my personal favorite - if your thong is hanging out of your pants that's not good....yes, even if it only happens when you sit down.

I came from the consulting world where life was easy - wear a suit - all day, every day. If your client is business casual, wear a suit anyway. You can never go wrong in a suit. As a result, I had a closet full of suits and so I found this new environment baffling. I didn't know how to dress myself so I turned into my grandmother and wore sweater sets every day. Sure, I'll admit to the guilty pleasure of "Jeans Friday". There's nothing better than pulling on a comfy pair of jeans and rolling into the office. I've since moved back to a corporate environment and I was sad about Fridays but I thought at least I wouldn't have to look at thongs and sloppy cleavage.

No such luck. It seems my old partner was mistaken - you can go wrong in a suit, very wrong. Especially when said suit has a skirt that barely covers your ass and the little shred of lingerie under the jacket is the only thing preventing you from a Janet Jackson like wardrobe malfunction. I wonder if these people look around and think about that old Sesame Street sketch about One of These Kids is Doing their Own Thing.

I decided to think through the possible reasons for looking like a tramp at work, other than 1. not having a mirror, 2. being blind or 3. having no common sense:

1. You didn't bring a change of clothes with you to the bar last night and your one night stand didn't have an alarm clock to get you home early enough to change.
2. You had a massive house fire over the weekend and all of your suits went up in flames. The only place open the next day was Forever 21 and so you were forced into that thing that many little polyesters had to die to produce.
3. You're sleeping with your boss and looking like a tart is part of your yearly performance goals.
4. You're part of a new reality television show and your immunity challenge is to get some unsuspecting chump to violate the office sexual harassment policy.
5. You've just been diagnosed with an incurable disease and with 24 hours to live you're looking to go out with a bang!
6. Your "office" IS actually the street corner.

So now that I think about it there really are some legitimate reasons to look like that. I'm glad I took the time to think about it. Perhaps it will make me more tolerant of such visual assault in the future.

Those Google People are so Smart

Here's a little something to keep you entertained when you're feeling like you need a break. The blogger team developed this nifty little site that shows you all the pictures that are uploaded to blogger real time. It's a little bizarre and voyeuristic, but cool none the less.

http://play.blogger.com/

Plungers Rock!

My cousin came over for dinner last night. He saved me from an evil eye infection while I was in San Francisco by calling in a prescription. The least I can do is make him dinner. He's also a bachelor and I have visions of him eating out every night or ordering take out so I feel compelled to cook for him. This is probably not even close to the truth but it gives me an excuse to have company come for dinner.

I asked what he wanted me to make and he decided on spaghetti bolognese. Hmmm, never made it but I figured what the hell. This better be good after the mess I knew I was about to make. My dear husband decided to go to a German/American beer tasting event. He left and told me he would be home in two hours.

1PM: Start of the sauce is in the saute pan. Used half a brick of butter - no wonder these things always taste so good. Sliced into thumb nail, took brief interlude to cut remainder of nail off.

2PM: Did something with tomatoes in a blender. Too many pots and pans on the stove. Slightly out of control. Large quantities of veal and pork added.

3PM: Sauce mooshed together. Husband was still at the beer tasting and called to tell me he had managed to get far drunker than anticipated. Hung up, started caramelizing onions.

4PM: Attempted to cut ridiculously small organic carrots & parsnips diagonally. Gave up and busted out mandolin. A very nice warning on the blade told me that I should proceed with caution because it is very sharp. Cut other thumb nail, took second break to cut remainder of last thumbnail off. Dump mess of veggies in ziplock to marinate.

Took shower to remove kitchen funk from myself.

5PM: Pulled veggie mess out of ziplock to begin layering. Recipe called for fennel - no fennel at the Whole Foods. Decided to do a carrot/parsnip ensemble instead. Threw in some Anise seeds - that sort of tastes like fennel - right? Realized garbage disposal was shooting water in the wrong direction. Stuck a hand in the disposal, pulled out carrot and parsnip mess. Still no luck. Called maintenance. Apparently this is not an emergency and it will wait until tomorrow. Don't they know I'm TRYING TO COOK! Sent text message to husband: "u better not show up drunk 5 mins before dinner or you're going to be very hungry tonight". Realized I smell like garlic.

6PM: No husband yet. Preheating oven for veggie mess. OCD kicked in. Desperately wanted to wash 5 qt saute pan. Considering bathtub. Husband arrived and started snacking in the fridge. Put veggie mess in the oven. Realized I'd used the wrong cheese in the veggie mess. Crap. Decide to wash pan in bathtub. Managed to get sauce funk on shower curtain. Double Crap. Husband started nagging because he wanted to make beef stock. (He enjoys choosing the most opportune times to do things that drive me crazy) At wits end, I told him he's not going in "my kitchen" to make a mess while I'm trying to cook and guest is arriving in one hour. He replied that it's "his kitchen" as well and that if I wanted my own kitchen I should have married someone who doesn't like to cook. I tell him I will kill him if he sets foot in there. He decided he would rather take a nap on the couch.

7PM: Cousin arrived, ate dinner. Bolognese sauce wasn't half bad. Declared edible by cousin and husband.

8PM: Sink situation was driving me mad. Kitchen looked like a bomb went off in it. Dishwasher was stuffed. Retrieved plunger from closet. Began plunging sink. A few minutes later a disgusting sucking sound came out of sink and it immediately drained. I rejoiced. Immediately began to obsess over fact that plunger was in kitchen sink. Disinfected everything in 4 foot radius of plunger activity.

I learned something new about myself. I take great joy in that sucking whirling sound. I was able to sleep soundly knowing that I didn't have 10lbs of dirty dishes and stagnant water in my kitchen.

Finding a New Outlet for my Obsession with Kitchen Stuff

Here is a list, for no apparent reason, of some of my most favorite kitchen & kitchen related things. Keeping in mind that I am not trained, have managed to cut myself on more than one occasion and I have a problem with compulsively buying kitchen gadgets. Perhaps this is a way for me to feed my kitchen obsession without buying more stuff that doesn't fit in the drawers. Please feel free to add your favorites!

http://www.microplane.com/

The 40001 Zester (left)

Sounds super fancy and is hands down the best zester, grater thingy I've ever used. I've never taken off skin with this thing and it's scary accurate. Put these in the stockings last year for my mother and sister.

http://www.pamperedchef.com/

The Smooth Edge Can Opener
Forced to go to a Pampered Chef Party? Here's something to buy so you don't have to feel bad. Again, no more tetanus shots necessary. I can run that can lid along my wrist without having to call 911!

http://www.zyliss.com/

The Classic Cheese Grater

No more cutting knuckles on the big metal grater when trying to grate Parmesan. (Are you getting the sense I'm prone to accidents?) Ours also came with a nifty attachment to collect the cheese and just pop a cap on it and put it in the fridge. Brilliant!

http://www.sharperimage.com/

Metal Gear Corkscrew (right)

Someone gave this to us as a gift and being a wine key girl I scoffed at the idea that I needed a complicated opener. This thing is superfast and comes with a nifty foil remover. I'll save the wine key for picnics.

http://www.vacuvin.com/

The Wine Saver (left)

Feel like not finishing that bottle you just opened? No problem. This thing helps you keep your wine tasting as good as the moment you opened it for a few more days.

The Pineapple Slicer (right)

Sounds useless, doesn't it? I like pineapple, i hate cutting it. This thing lets you cut an entire pineapple in a giant perfect ring in less than 10 seconds. No mess and you get a glass of juice at the end too!

http://www.cooksillustrated.com/

This magazine is like a feeding frenzy for kitchen gadget people. Every issue has reviews for everything from dutch ovens to whisks. You can't help but love a test kitchen. It only comes out every other month so it's almost impossible to let them accumulate without reading them. Who knew you could be so excited about something that costs more and is less? Next time you see it in line at the Whole Foods, pick up a copy....you know you want to.

http://www.bonappetit.com/

I defected to Gourmet for a little while but found the recipes too involved and time consuming. I also tried Cooking Light, but something about trying to make things low calorie kills the fun. This magazine however is single handedly responsible for giving my family and friends the mistaken idea that I can cook!

Master of Suburban Warfare, Protector of God Given Rights!

Recently a co-worker forwarded me a letter that another co-worker had placed in the mailboxes of his neighbors. Apparently they had received complaints about their dog and his constant barking. Please see letter below:


Neighbors are an interesting thing, especially in suburbia. This thing reads like an FAQ off a corporate website. A twelve step program for reorientation of your dog. I especially like the creative use of the baby monitor with service level agreements! “target within 5 minutes” This is exactly why I live in the city – I don’t know my neighbors, I don’t want to know my neighbors and if they piss me off I’ll call the cops. It seems a lot has changed in suburbia land since I was a kid. I vividly remember the disputes in the ‘hood, there were plenty.

“So and so leaves their trashcans at the curb too long”
“So and so’s yard looks awful, look at the weeds in those flowerbeds!”
“This one doesn’t trim their hedges, it’s starting to look like the Adams Family”
“That one came over to my house with a plastic fetus and asked me if I had accepted Jesus Christ as my savior”

There was carnage in the wake of neighborhood disputes. People didn’t speak for 30 years over ugly shutters or blocking someone’s view of the street by parking a car in front of their home. None of this wackado politically correct flier in the mailbox crap. We had an air rifle for a reason damn it!

Ah the good old days.

My childhood neighbors were “saved” and as a result, everyone else should be as well. The wife had a curious fear of lung cancer. She was highly agitated that my father had an equally powerful desire to incinerate things. Perhaps he was reducing the household waste sent to the landfill or simply a functioning pyromaniac. Either way, he liked to burn stuff and she was convinced she was going to get lung cancer from his burning.

Makes no sense, but that’s suburbia for you.

As I've said before, I don't remember anything. Life before 12 is a montage of little snippets that don’t add up to much of anything. This pisses my mother off tremendously as she feels her efforts to expose my sister and me to every museum on the East Coast before the age of 10 was completely wasted. I do however remember everything that involved an explosion or required emergency services. Hence my memory of the street fire incident.

Early one summer evening when I was a child we were having cake at my parent’s house for my grandmother’s birthday. That day my father had forced my sister and me to do what we hated most – pick up sticks. We had big ‘ole trees, therefore we had big ‘ole sticks on the lawn. Picking up sticks involved walking around the lawn (significant bitching and moaning was almost required), finding the sticks and then stuffing them in the storm drain. (More on that later) Hours of torture in my childhood simply to avoid damage to his riding mower. He also liked to burn paper, boxes or whatever else he might have lying around that was flammable. On this particular day he had replaced an old wooden garage door with a new super fancy electric one. This gave him lots of wood to burn.

It was fairly typical of my father to burn in the street’s storm drain. He would stand out there and watch smoke pour out the grates on both sides of the street while the inferno raged below. Neighborhood kids would come out to play with The Big Man and his fire. Eventually things would wind down and he could walk away and check back periodically. The entire neighborhood was accustomed to the burning rituals. Everyone except our next door neighbor. On the particular evening in question she was stewing in her house while my father was creating a blazing inferno in the street. After an hour or so he had retired to the house and was about to put a fork full of cake in his mouth when the first siren started.

Mass hysteria ensued. A fire truck, medic vehicle, police officer and a park ranger came barreling down our little cul-de-sac of a street. It seems someone had reported a fire and they were here to put it out. The commotion turned our front lawn into a neighborhood party. My old man talked himself out of a fine by promising to clean out the storm drain the following day. As it turns out burning was allowed in our township but it had to be in a closed container. The next day he returned home with a huge hulking tin can looking monstrosity which he rolled up the back hill to the top of the property line. My sister and I weren’t sure what to make of this thing but we were quite certain it would involve manual labor on our part.

He started burning again, but only when the wind was blowing in the direction of the crazy neighbor’s house. It was far too practical for him and less exciting for the neighborhood kids, but the slow and painful torture of the crazy woman was a labor of love.

And that, boys and girls, is what I call a neighborhood dispute.

Let this be a lesson to all you kids in suburbia land - some of us were raised by the master of suburban warfare and we don’t write no stinking letters!

Note to Self: Wear Practical Shoes so You Can Run from the Bad Man

I just walked home from work. It's less than 10 blocks and since I was in not-so-sensible shoes I was concentrating on not tripping on the pavement and knocking out my teeth (a phobia of mine stemming from early childhood, story for another day). Somewhere around the 5 block marker a weird guy looks over and says "Hey, how are you?". I say "Fine thank you" and check my left hand to make sure I've remembered to wear my wedding band. Ring on - check. Next I thought he had mistaken me for someone he knew. My hope faded as the blocks passed.

Block 1: I learned he'd had a long day and now had to go to school

Block 2: He has off for Columbus Day but he was bummed because he had to paint his house. However his friend was coming over to help. He hasn't had off for Columbus Day since high school.

Block 3: Are they giving you the day off? he asks. I said "who?". (I thought this might be a good way to point out that we don't know each other) He said "your work." (No luck, he is fully aware he is talking to a stranger) He works for PNC. I asked him if Blackrock was still in the same building or had they moved to the Merrill office. He asked me how I had known that (in a weird accusatory way like I knew industry secrets); he's going to check his notes from the last meeting (uh, didn't that happen like a year ago??)

Block 4: He wants to get into securities or foreign trading.

Block 5: He was saying something, I wasn't listening because I was fast approaching my front door and I didn't want him to see where I lived. I decided at this point to walk past my front door and around the block. I said good-bye and tried not to run (not that it was possible in my 3 inch heels anyway).

This was the second time in less than a week that someone trapped me to tell me weird things about themselves. This past weekend I went to a bridal shower. Everyone knows that even the nicest shower is painful enough. I made it though, won a prize at shower bingo and thought I was home free. Then enters the groom's father. I now know the following:

1. Times were tough in '67 when he got married, no one gave him nice stuff like this, the best gift he got was $10.
2. He hasn't spoken to his brother in 10 years
3. His mother died and screwed up her will
4. He bought his brother out of his share of the mother's house for $70K
5. His real estate agent took a commission on that of $3500 (criminal!)
6. Same real estate agent had the house on the market for 9 months, advised him to take $250K
7. Had to pay capital gains on the house the following year because it was "bought" for $70K when he purchased it from his brother and sold for $250K
8. New owner sold the place for over $500K only a year later without making any improvements
9. His mother didn't gift any of her money to him or his brother and they had to pay tax on all of it.
10. He bought his first house for $32K and put $18K down but because his father paid him in cash he couldn't prove his income and the bank wouldn't qualify him for a colonial. He had to take a bi-level but in retrospect this was a good thing because he only has a few steps now.
11. After paying mortgage payments for 2 years he went to the bank to see how much he owed and basically hadn't made a dent in the principle. He was angry about the interest and so he went home, got the cash and paid off the loan.
12. And finally, his mother shouldn't have died. They brought four ambulances and none of them had defibrillator paddles on them. Had she not died he's quite certain she would have sorted out the will, the money and the house in time to die.

About 45 minutes later his wife intervened and told him he had to go home. I walked back to the house and found his three children and the bride-to-be laughing hysterically about the fact that he had trapped me for 45 minutes. He apparently chooses one unsuspecting female at every event to corner and torture. They also told me that their mother gets insanely jealous of him talking to young women. They also described their parents as Archie & Enid, if that gives you any perspective. Great.....making friends already.

Why do people feel the need to share their lives with total strangers? I guess I could ask myself the same question since I'm here blogging away for the world to see. I think the difference is I won't likely see all of you at a wedding in 3 months.

So when you feel tempted to do the "over share" just remember that the person on the other end may have a blog and your bizarre behavior will be forever memorialized on the Internet.

It's all downhill when the "Lady Parts Doctor" starts to operate like The Cheesecake Factory...

Most mornings I shut off the alarm and pick up my blackberry. My husband calls it an addiction, I call it managing my schedule. I like to take a look so I know what the day looks like. I need to decide what I should wear. Important meetings, early meetings, no meetings, I want to know what's in store. This morning I didn't look and it wasn't until I was on my way to the office that I realized I had taken a half day to go to the doctor's office.

There's a reason why women live longer than men. It's simply because we go to the doctor. Men typically go to the doctor when they feel like they're near death and have no other option. The problem is they sometimes are near death by the time they finally go. For my male friends out there, here's a nifty little link to see if you need to make a little trip to the doctor's office. http://www.poodwaddle.com/realage.swf My husband currently has a terrible death rattle. Every time he coughs I cringe; I'm convinced there's small pieces of his lungs coming out with every cough. He refuses to go to the doctor - "it's viral" he says, "what are they going to do about it?". I think he has SARS. Doctors are the worst patients.

I, like most women, am fairly anal about my doctor's office scheduling. This is also helped along by the handy little reminder cards that are mailed to me at regular intervals. (I especially like the Garfield ones mailed to me by my quirky dentist. It makes me happy because I like him and it means I get a new toothbrush.) My "lady parts doctor" is not this helpful and as a result I was so busy with nonsense over the last year and a half that I forgot. Of course when I called all those pregnant people had taken the appointments so I had to schedule out a few months. I've long since forgotten the appointment so here I am, the day is upon me and I've been blindsided by my blackberry.

I find myself sitting in the paper gown around 2PM today waiting for my doctor. I've read all the wall posters, looked at each piece of framed art and I've now begun investigating a piece of dry skin within eye sight just below my neckline. Enter my "lady parts doc" who is actually a big man about my father's age. I've recommended him to most of my friends. He's fairly practical, efficient and fast. The latter being the most attractive given the circumstances. He starts in the northern region.

Lady Parts Doc: "How long has that been red?"
Me: "Since I scratched at it about a minute ago"
Lady Parts Doc: "So it wasn't red before you scratched at it?"
Me: "No"
Lady Parts Doc: "Why are you scratching at yourself?"
Me: "Because I was lying here with nothing to do and saw the dry skin and decided to scratch at it"
Lady Parts Doc: "You should read the posters on the wall instead"
Me: "I did, that one has a typo"
Lady Parts Doc: "Which one?"
Me: "That one."
Lady Parts Doc: "Hmmm, well it's old anyway and we don't offer that service anymore"

He moves South. He's now begun talking about cancer patients, application of make-up and a fundraiser he was trying to get off the ground. All I see is eyes above the paper gown and a head between my knees. I can not concentrate on what he's saying so I keep nodding my head and agreeing with him. For the love of all that is holy, move it along man. He had to choose today to be chatty??

After what seemed like an eternity I meet him back in his office. Of course he's found things that I didn't know were wrong and sends me off with prescriptions, a slip for lab work and prenatal vitamins because to quote the good doctor, "You never know and so you might as well". I think the man is willing me to get pregnant. He says "these are the same vitamins I put my father on when he was old and anemic, you don't have to be trying to get pregnant to take these". A likely story.

So I shuffle across the street to Pennsylvania Hospital to open up a vein. After two waiting rooms I get what looks like the pager you get when you're waiting for a table at the Cheesecake Factory. (Is there a bar where I can get a cocktail while I wait?) I knew they were going to make me pee in a cup so I had started drinking tea in waiting room #1. Now I am staring at the little pager waiting for the blinking and buzzing to start just so I can go to the bathroom. Why is it so impossible to time these things appropriately?

Thankfully the little beeper starts flashing and buzzing, I give them plenty of DNA and I'm turned back out to waiting room #2. I walk home acutely aware that after all that trouble I have no health insurance cards (they have somehow ended up in my husband's wallet). I can't stop at the pharmacy....how anti climactic. Alas no drugs, but then again I didn't even realize I had anything wrong with me, I suppose I'll survive one more day.

DumDum can't "Just Say No"

I often wonder about college athletes and how many brain cells they actually have to band together to form a comprehensive thought. Back in ’00 VT went up against FSU at the Sugar Bowl. DumDum was the VT Quarterback. At that time I was a consultant and my boss was a VT alum. We went down to NOLA just to party with all the lunatics. It was a crazy few days and I acquired a very unfortunate nickname that she still feels the need to occasionally bust out in polite company, just for fun. A story for another day, but the real point is that this guy was young and talented with nothing but a bright future ahead of him.

So it made sense that he was a first round draft pick, ended up a superstar, negotiated himself the most lucrative contract in the NFL at the time – some $167M including signing bonuses. Hey, good news story right? Poor kid does well for himself – right? Wrong.

Enter the issue of brain cells. Apparently money can’t buy you a coherent thought.

Let's explore this for a moment. Once one has achieved success in their field what do you do next? I KNOW – let’s start an illegal dog fighting ring and give it a catchy name (how very hip!). Then once it’s exposed, you should plead guilty to avoid processing under the RICO Act. (5 years is better than 20 – right??) With the public freaking out and sentencing coming up you should definitely get high and fail a random drug test. (Cool!) That'll show that crazy judge how smart you are. I mean, c’mon, who knew that when he said “no criminal activity and no drug activity” as a condition of your release that he really meant don’t get high. (Totally understandable.) Then, let’s fight to keep the signing bonus that the Atlanta Falcons are suing you for in civil court since you can’t play football anymore (NO FAIR!) Oh, and by the way, that little gambling action may put you out in the cold forever with another really smart boy, Pete Rose.

DumDum must be a sad boy. I wonder how it feels to have everything and be so stupid that you lose it all for nothing. Do you think he stays up at night and thinks about his own stupidity or is he so ignorant that he blames other people?

Frankly I’m happy to see the tides turning, perhaps people are finally fed up with this untouchable celebrity attitude. Rules apply to everyone, not just people without money. I wasn’t sad when Paris Hilton went to jail. I mean c’mon, it was three days but perhaps she found religion? She’s off to Rwanda! Maybe she’ll take DumDum under her wing. I smell a new reality TV show - Paris & friends in Rwanda - "Roughing it below the Equator in a Post Civil War Country". I think it has a certain je ne sais quoi, don't you think?

Good Girls Don't Wear Hooker Dirndls

Our real vacation started about a week after my last post. Of course we started off late leaving his parent's house. We had plans to visit our friend Thea who happened to be in Frankfurt. She's 85 or 86 years old and she was visiting her friend who was about 90. Apparently the older one still rides her bike to the supermarket. She's about 5 feet tall with glasses just as big. I can't imagine she can even see where she's going. Talk about a road hazard. The two of them had just come from Würzburg and told us of a very nice guesthouse. I should have known their definition of nice and mine were very different. More on that later.

We drove along the Rhine to see the little villages and look at the Loreley. The GPS was barking at us in German the whole way. On a positive note, I am now capable of giving very angry driving directions in German. The unfortunate thing was the angry woman took us to the wrong side of the river. Conveniently they hadn't built any bridges either. We finally found a ferry to take the car across. All of this to see what was essentially a rock. I'm not quite sure why an entire town has named hotels and restaurants after a rock.

We arrived late in Würzburg and checked into the hotel. First we hauled our luggage up a flight of stairs (no elevator) and down a hall decorated with posters featuring the greatest hits of human suffering (compliments of Amnesty International). We walked into our room to find two beds on opposite sides of the room, white concrete walls and a tiny bathroom. So much for romance. To compensate for our accommodations I picked the most expensive restaurant in the travel guide (which isn't saying much since my husband has a fixation with Lonely Planet guides - aka the backpacker special).

The restaurant turned out to be a very cool sort of hunting lodge. They specialized in meat, meat, meat and taxidermy. I ate a very nice salad under a stuffed pheasant nailed to the wall. In the middle of dinner I decided to pull out the Bavarian travel guide and think about our driving plan for the next day. My husband gave me a horrified look. I took that opportunity to remind him of the "New Orleans Incident". We were in the middle of Mardi Gras one evening and he pulled out a travel guide with the intention of doing a walking tour. People were half naked and vomiting around us and he wanted to discuss Architecture in the French Quarter. I pretended not to know him.

I asked him if he was embarrassed by my Bavarian travel guide.
He replied “A little”
I said “Good”
He said “That’s pretty sad that you’ve been waiting six years to do this”
I said “Whatever”

We went back to the scary hotel and made an honest attempt at sleeping in the same bed. I woke up in the middle of the night because he had stolen all the covers and shoved me off the bed. I gave up and moved to the other side of the room. We got a fairly early start and since we had declined the fabulous hotel breakfast we drove into town to find something to eat. His father had done us a huge favor by going through our travel guide and picking out the “must see” sites. We decided to hit The Residenz since it opened at 9AM. We arrived shortly before the hour and waited with a group of school children on a field trip, a group of Japanese tourists of equal size and an elderly couple. The sign on the door said that it was temporarily closed for overcrowding. (Huh? It’s 9AM) We waited 10 minutes or so and a gentleman came out and signaled the school children and old couple in. My husband inquired in German how long we would need to wait. He replied in English, “Not Japanese, you come in”. This obviously makes very little sense on many levels, but I’ll take it. It was indeed a very cool palace with the largest fresco in the world. The Mainfrankisches Museum was our next stop which had the largest collection of Tilman Riemenschneider sculptures in Germany. Apparently Tilman liked to carve detailed things out of wood that are now located all over Franconia.

We walked around a bit and left for our next destination, Weikersheim. The castle here was the last home of a couple that died childless in the 18th century and basically no one has touched it since. We were advised that the castle was nice, but the garden gnomes were the real gems. There was an entire wall of garden gnomes that were not your typical suburban variety. These were all stone, created in the various trades of the day. We decided to take pictures with them and then we left.

Onto Creglingen where we didn’t have a specific plan. Another Riemenschneider wood carving in a church that was built on the site where a sacred host was found. Let’s talk about this for a moment. When we were kids you always knew at least one kid who used to sneak communion out of church. Ten bucks says some kid did the same thing in 1384 and it caused the entire town to build a church. Catholics… We passed on the Fingerhutmuseum. For those of you who can’t translate that one, it’s a museum of Finger Hats otherwise known as Thimbles. I hope I don’t regret that decision later in life.

We moved on to Rothenburg ob der Tauber. This town was 65% destroyed in WWII and has been restored to something between Disney World and The Sound of Music. There were huge buses of Japanese tourists rolling through and way over the top Christmas stores. We visited the Jakobskirche which, surprise, surprise, had another Riemenschneider alter. This one was called the Hellig Blut Altar, the Sacred Blood Altar. Apparently there were three droplets of Christ’s blood in a crystal. I swear I saw the same vial of blood in Brugge. I get the sense that there must have been a very good phlebotomist at the crucifixion of Christ.

We were making good time and seeing all the best that the Romantic Road had to offer. We headed off to Dinkelsbühl to something called the Golden Kanne, hoping that it wasn’t a youth hostel with a nice name. Dinkelsbühl turned out to be a lovely little town that somehow escaped both the 30 years war and WWII. We slept well and spent the next morning walking around town. At this point it was time to hop back on the Autobahn to take a ride out to Ingolstadt. For those of you familiar with the geography of Germany you might ask, “Why on earth would you go to Ingolstadt?”.

I’m glad you asked.

My husband has been reading about sleep phase alarm clocks for three years. He has yet to find one available retail. While we were in Düsseldorf my husband’s friend Max told him about his sleep phase alarm clock. And so we were off to purchase one of our very own in the only town that had them in stock. Basically it involves wearing a sweatband on your wrist that makes you look like Billy Jean King in 1973. It tracks your movements during sleep and decides the optimum time to go off, taking into account your desired wake up time (http://www.axbo.com/ for those of you interested in wearing sweatbands to bed).

At least this is better than the last alarm clock (a hockey puck sized disk that made the entire bed shake like a vibrating bed in a cheap motel).

With one fancy alarm clock in tow, we were back on the Autobahn to Munich. My husband loves to drive in Germany, I on the other hand find it confusing. Germans really like rules but I think they’ve taken it to a new level when it comes to driving. There’s not just one speed limit, there’s one for bad weather, one for trucks, one for specific times of the day, they even have signs for tanks. They also like to change the speed limit frequently, take it on, put it off, take it on, put it off. I spend so much time looking at signs I can’t watch the Porsches and sport bikes creeping up my rear until they’re right behind me flashing and screaming wildly. Needless to say he does most of the driving.

We arrive in Munich in one piece despite his need to drive at terrifyingly high rates of speed. We were finally off to Oktoberfest.

Everyone has seen the movies and knows that you can drink entire liters of beer in a sitting. What they fail to mention is that you have no other option. The beer only comes in one size. I guess they know there’s big sissies like me out there and offer a slightly girly version of the liter of beer. Half beer, half Sprite. It sounds disgusting but has a lovely taste and doesn’t get you quite as drunk. It was also helpful since my husband picked the hottest place to sit for the next 10 hours. His friends explained the difference between a good dirndl and a bad dirndl. Essentially the difference is quite similar to most women’s clothing choices. If you look like a hooker, that’s bad.

I observed several interesting variations of the dirndl.

The Paris Hilton Dirndl: Usually involves a woman with very bleached blond hair, stiletto heels, a short dirndl and lots of pushed up boobs. Oh, and a crucifix that hangs neatly between the pushed up boobs. At least she’s a good Catholic….

The Playmate Dirndl: Yes, there’s actually a Wies’n Playmate. I’ll leave this one to your imagination, you’re probably right.

The Cougar Dirndl: Usually involves a woman over 40, black lace, a red bra and some serious make-up.

The Tourist Dirndl: She just bought it yesterday and looks a bit uncomfortable. (probably because it’s cheap polyester and bought in the same place as the “I survived Oktoberfest 2007” T-Shirts.)

The Practical Dirndl: She’s a girl prepared for a long day of drinking. The dirndl varies but the common theme is the big construction worker shit kicking steel toe boots. She doesn’t drink the sissy beer.

The Lederhosen Dirndl: Not actually a dirndl at all, it’s a chick in leather pants. She has bypassed the practical dirndl and moved right to wearing the pants.

The people watching was fantastic and I was highly entertained. All in all, we had a delightful day, I got a tan, my husband got ridiculously drunk and I got to see 8,000 people dancing on tables to Gloria Gaynor sung by a traditional Oktoberfest band.

No Chicken Dance, but One Chicken Hat

We're finally on vacation now for almost a week and I've hardly had a chance to stop and think about being on vacation. I arrived and my luggage did not. As I was packing in Philadelphia I told my husband that I would pack half of my clothes in one suitcase and half in the other. That way if one was lost we would both have clothes. As usual he was slow to pack and I ended up packing everything in one suitcase. Naturally both of his arrived safely and both of mine were lost. It took us several hours and as many phone calls to find it. So, I attended my brother-in-law's civil marriage luncheon in jeans and a hoodie. I'm American I suppose they'll forgive me.

The wedding went off without a hitch, which was a huge relief. I also happened to find the only three English people at the wedding to make nice with. We had also agreed to give the English folks a ride to the church and given that we only had our typical European rental (read: car big enough for 2 adults and a cat) we had to stuff them all in the backseat. In typical fashion we arrived at 10:59 for an 11:00 wedding. Ordinarily this would be fine but we had to shuffle up to the front row while an entire Church watched. As luck would have it, the bride was late as well so it wasn't tragic.

The entire service was in a language I do not speak or understand so I only had people watching to entertain me. There are a finite number of people in front of you when you're forced to sit that close so it was a bit of an art form to surreptitiously sneak looks around the sides. The highlight of my church experience was the cello player. I'm not sure if she had a sinus problem or a cocaine habit, but the snorting noises were terrifyingly loud. Each time she brought the bow across the strings she would sound like a Hoover.

After service I tottered back down the stone hill in my impossible shoes to stuff back in the tiny little car with the three English people and ride back to the castle for the afternoon reception. It really was a lovely place. The castle has a multitude of functions, including serving as the set for a soap opera. Its less glamorous and curious purpose is a nursing home for old spinsters of nobility. I'm glad I didn't know that until after the fact. I think I would have felt a bit like I was being watched by nuns as I was slugging back champagne and trying not to fall over in the rocks in my hat. Speaking of hats, there were several worth mentioning. One had so many feathers that it looked like a chicken had found it's way onto her head and fallen asleep. Luck for us she had a matching chicken handbag. Another was dressed head to toe in a pink and green ensemble. She looked a bit like an Easter egg. My husband's brother's girlfriend commented that it was fairly typical of the area she lives in the South. It must be a rule that that Southerners are crazy everywhere.

Afterwards I went back to our room to sleep off the fog I had been slurring around in. My dear husband on the other hand felt it prudent to continue drinking with his friend. They both stumbled in to dress 30 minutes before dinner. I of course was ready and had even less sensible shoes than the previous event. His friend and I teetered back over the rocks to the castle, I because of my shoes, he because of the large quantities of alcohol.

My dinner date was a very nice college friend of the bride. As we sat down he told me that he was looking forward to sitting with me because he was told I was very funny. No pressure... Across from me was an older gentleman who was married to an American for many years. It was a bit like talking to my grandmother as I had the same conversation with him three times. On the other hand, three identical conversations in English is better than none at all.

There were several highlights of the evening. There was a girl with a dress that was reminiscent of JLo's famous dress that hardly covered the goodies. The DJ told us she was taped up like a Christmas package. Apparently he got a good look. Later in the evening my husband's friend accidentally threw her into a potted plant. This is not at all surprising since earlier in the evening he whipped me around so fast that I accidentally flew out of my dress. Thankfully I have a quick hand and was able to rectify the situation before I became wedding fodder on the Internet. Much later in the evening my brother-in-law did an interpretive dance to Robbie Williams. It was a cross between having a seizure and channeling a large bird. Perhaps he was inspired by the hat earlier that day.

We drank until about 6AM at which time I realized that I was only going to get about 4 hours sleep before I had to get up and play nice at brunch. Ugh.... This wouldn't have been problematic except for the fact that I had only gotten 4 hours the night before as well. This trend continued for three days when the following morning we got up at 7AM to drive a friend to the airport. We soon discovered the bomb squad had been called in. In typical fashion they had evacuated one terminal while the other continued along as if nothing was wrong. Perhaps they figured the EZ Jet people wouldn't mind getting blown up? That's what you get for flying discount.

Tomorrow we're off for our vacation from our vacation.