Vocab Friday: First Geburtstag

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Happy Monday! I forgot to hit “publish” on Friday, so you get your weekly Vocab a few days late. Which is OK, because it means I had a few extra days to rifle through the German/English dictionary to make sure I got this right:
“Herzlichen Glückwunsch zum Geburtstag!”
That’s what I said to The Babe on Friday morning. She looked at me from her port-a-crib with sleepy, confused eyes, and then clapped hesitantly. Which is appropriate, because getting that phrase out at 6:30am was nothing short of a miracle.
Do not ask me how to pronounce it. I would only butcher it into some unrecognizable form – ha! more unrecognizable than it already looks! My version probably sounds like I’m choking on a bite of schnitzel instead of wishing someone a happy birthday.
Yep, that phrase up there means something like “best wishes for your birthday!” Doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue like “joyeux anniversaire” but I do like saying “geburtstag.” That one makes me giggle for some reason.
Anyway, more important than this vocab lesson is the fact that I kept a child alive for a year. A whole year! And she’s only got a few minor dings and I don’t think she totally hates me yet! This is a major accomplishment, worthy of a celebration, so I did a lot of research on Austrian baking ingredients and whipped up a cake for myself. I mean, for The Babe. Right. For The Babe. Not for the pregnant lady with a sweet tooth. *brushes cake crumbs off the keyboard*
Anyway, it was a big hit, and a great way to ring in one whole year of survival, for parents and child. I’m already looking forward to next year when we can hopefully celebrate making it through another twelve months without succumbing to the urge to leave our spirited toddler with some kindly Austrian nuns way up in the mountains. Fingers crossed!

First impressions.

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The hiiiilllllllllllsssssssss are a aliiiiiiiiiiiive! With the sound of me panting and sweating as I try to push a stroller holding a 23 pound baby up a small mountain while also carrying a fetus and two grocery bags. Dang, Vienna! What’s with the hills? I mean, I know we’re near the Alps and the Sound of Music song really should have prepared me for this, but I had no idea I’d be risking heart failure every time I need some toilet paper.

Other than the hills, Vienna so far strikes me as a beautiful but sleepy city. That could be because we are currently holed up in a 60’s style townhouse way on the outskirts of town, complete with views of rolling farmland. But even when we’ve ventured downtown, I’ve been struck by the definitive lack of hustle and bustle. I’ll let you know if that changes after the big August vacation period wraps up and we get moved into our permanent quarters a little closer in to civilization.

What else can I tell you about my new home? Well, I ate a schnitzel that was bigger than my child for lunch yesterday. The grocery stores seem to devote an inordinate amount of space to pork products. Not speaking German doesn’t seem to be as devastating as I expected, although it still makes me feel dumb. Case in point: a strange man opened the door to our house the other day and began speaking in rapid-fire German, pointing to some boxes that had just been delivered. Somewhere at the end he said “haus-meister!”, waved a friendly wave and shut the door. Husband came around the corner and asked who it was.

“The haus-meister?”

“Oh, what did he say?”

“Um, a lot of shit in German that I didn’t understand!”

Sometimes things like that make me want to punch Husband in the face. But I hold back because he is now the designated hill-walker when I need groceries.

Anyway, we’re doing fine and getting adjusted as best we can. I feel weirdly less anxious about this move than the move to Paris – I guess having been through it once before has better prepared me for all the trials and tribulations that come with living out of suitcases in a foreign land where you don’t have any friends or family. That and I have an internet connection. Thank you little jesus in velvet pants for the internet connection. It keeps me from wanting to fling myself down the hilliest of Vienna’s hills.

More to come – I promise. And as soon as I figure out where I stashed my camera cord, I’ll get some pictures up.

Vocab Friday: Goodbyes and Hellos

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It’s time. Time for my third international move in 3 years. Time to sort through all my personal belongings and see if I can remember what’s in storage, what’s in my dad’s basement, and what needs to go in my suitcase. Time to mentally prepare for a 9+ hour flight with an almost one-year old. Which means it might also be time for me to start experimenting with children’s Benadryl and exploring the legal ramifications of child abandonment in open air space. I feel like there might be some helpful loopholes there.

But most of all it’s time to say goodbye. And that, my friends, is the absolute worst part. I hate it. I actually hate big life changes in general. I cling to the familiar routine, grasp desperately for the comforts of home. But at the same time, I know deep down I have to change, I have to go. And once I power my way through the stress and upheaval and deep, nostalgia-tinted sadness, I’ll be fine. In fact, I’ll come out on the other side relatively unscathed and probably even happy. Because while I hate the prospect and process of change, I really do enjoy the end results. I get to see the world with Husband and the Babe, after all. And if I’m really lucky, I’ll get some very stern Austrian nurses yelling at me to pooooosh in a few months. It’s hard to not get excited about that!

I just wish I could wrap all my friends and family and maybe a few of the really nice Whole Foods cashiers in bubble wrap and have them expedited to Vienna immediately. But since I can’t, I’m doing my best to see everyone and say goodbye and remain positive about the amount of schnitzel in my future. To help, added one very important saying to my  limited repertoire: auf wiedersehen. That means “goodbye.” For pronunciation, channel your best Heidi Klum and pretend like you just kicked someone off the runway. At least that’s what I’m going to do.

So, until next time dear readers…when I’ll be writing from the other side of the Atlantic again! And I’ll have a lot more material to work with. Namely, all the comedy that comes with cultural faux pas and baby induced sleep deprivation. See you soon!

Vocab Friday: It’s baaaaaaaack!

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With only a month left before we pack up and move to Austria, I thought it might be wise to start, you know, learning some German.

I will freely admit that I am at a vast disadvantage this time around, seeing that I have zero prior experience with the German language beyond Achtung Baby. I also have a toddler and a fetus taking up all brain space that could possibly be devoted to trying to learn another language. In other words, I’m screwed.

The good news? “Epidural” is apparently the same in German and English. So I’ve got that going for me. What I don’t have going for me is pretty much the entirety of German grammar, which is almost comical in its utter complexity. Add to that a harsh accent and my propensity to absent-mindedly call the Austrian people “Germans,” and you can pretty much guarantee that somebody is going to misunderstand my efforts and punch me in the face.

Husband has been trying to pass on some of the basics from his language classes, dutifully laying out workbook pages for me to study and quizzing me on simple vocabulary. But because I have the sense of humor and attention span of a 12 year old boy, I’ve failed to retain very much beyond the words that make me giggle.

Like Schnurrbart. That means “mustache.” Say it with me: shnurrrrrrrrrrbart. What a fine schnurrbart you have sir. Best word ever.

Or Ich leibe dich. Which means “I love you,” but doesn’t really give off that romantic vibe for me. It sounds like it means something more akin to “I’m going to be sick.” Which brings us to my third and final vocabulary word:

Durchfall. That means “diarrhea.” You do not want to know how I learned that word, but it is now in constant rotation at our house.

So to summarize, when we arrive in Vienna a few weeks from now, I will be able to smile broadly to my new Austrian neighbors and say “You have diarrhea in your mustache. I love you!” 

Yep, the next two years are going to be AWESOME.

Why this will never be a food blog.

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ice cream makin'I’ve been craving an ice cream sundae. But not just any old ice-cream-hot-fudge-cherry-on-top concoction. I want luscious creamy vanilla frozen custard, topped with dark chocolate fudge sauce and maybe a little salty caramel, finished with freshly whipped cream and a cherry. Preferably served in an antique ice cream parlor glass with an extra long spoon.

What can I say? Cletus the Fetus is very specific about his needs.

I got a few good suggestions for possible sundae sources from my Facebook pals, but ultimately decided I would only be able to quell the ice cream appetite fully by making my own sundae. So I broke out the dusty ice cream maker someone gave us when we got married (thank you!) and started Googling “vanilla ice cream base.”

And that’s how I found myself covered in vanilla bean seeds and heavy cream this morning, absently searching online for pictures of “custard coating back of spoon” while my ice cream base slowly turned to scrambled eggs on the stove. But don’t worry! I think I saved it. My custard is currently chilling in the fridge, waiting to be churned into what’s sure to be fetus-pleasing goodness. Or at least something that can be doctored up enough with chocolate fudge and caramel sauce.

Add that to the list of reasons why you will ever confuse this blog with a real food blog. You know, the ones with gorgeous photos of perfectly baked pies, complete with step-by-step photo instructions and notes on where to find each ingredient. My brain just doesn’t work that way.

Sure, I write about eating. I think probably about 80% of my posts are about shoving something delicious into my pie hole. I also love cooking and trying new recipes. But my approach in the kitchen is a little less…structured than I’d advise. I’m the kind of person who will set out to make the most amazing double-chocolate cheesecake, driving an hour to find the best artisanal single-source free-range chocolate. Then I’ll buy a dozen more eggs than I need and an extra spring form pan, only to get home and realize that I don’t have any sugar. Or cream cheese.

The first time my sister and I tried to make my mom’s famous dinner rolls from scratch, we decided to hit up Loehmann’s for some discount shopping while the dough sat to rise. We were gone for 4 hours. By the time we returned, shopping bags in hand, our dough ball was a sad little deflated mess. But that didn’t stop us from rolling it out and making rolls anyway. We later found several tucked in a houseplant after we tried to serve them at a family gathering.

That’s not to say I don’t make delicious things. They just somehow turn out delicious with a lot of luck and spontaneity in the kitchen. Pretty much nothing I make turns out the same way twice. And there are quite a few do-overs, along with the occasional “let’s just call it quits and order pizza.”

So, I will also never be a restaurant chef. Dang.

How to impress the in-laws.

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It’s almost time for DC’s Capital Pride weekend. And in honor of that exuberant expression of homosexual solidarity, I will share with you a story about crossing divides, forging bonds, and finding common ground with people you thought you had nothing in common with.

That’s right, I’m going to tell you how I solidified a loving relationship with my in-laws at a gay pride parade.

I should note that I’m not gay, and neither is Husband. Nor are my in-laws for that matter. But we had a moment in 2009, right there in the middle of some half-naked male dancers, that brought us together in ways I never could have imagined.

It all started with my father-in-law’s 70th birthday. Husband had the brilliant idea to plan a big night out in the city for him, complete with a nice Italian dinner. I threw in a play by Molière. It was going to knock dear old Dad’s dark knee-high socks off.

Yes, the evening was shaping up to leave the perfect impression on my newly minted parents-in-law. That is until I received an ominous email from the theater about an hour before they were set to arrive, warning of rolling street closings for the Pride Parade.

Something told me that a raucous gay street party was probably not the best place to bring my elderly, very Catholic in-laws, no matter how sweet and open-minded they were. Husband concurred. So I consulted the parade route and worked out what I thought were solid alternate directions.

Flash forward a few hours: Piled into the car after a wonderful meal, we made it about 5 minutes before coming to a dead stop at a police barricade. As I paused to assess the situation, a man sprinted by wearing angel wings. And not much else.

Merde.

I floored it to the left and met another closed road. The curtain was due to go up in 30 minutes. I jerked the car right, winding my way through narrow streets and back alleys until it became clear that walking was the only option.

By some miracle we found a parking spot and ditched the car. The music pumped louder and the crowd grew thicker with every block. Throngs of party-goers in beads and feather boas pulsed around us.

Speaking of boas: I should mention here that in addition to some boxy BluBlocker shades, my father-in-law’s sartorial choices that evening included a set of suspenders and a 5-inch, Flava-Flav-esque crucifix. Two guys in heels and full makeup actually stopped to take his picture.

“This is just dee-LIGHT-ful!” chirped my mother-in-law as we pushed ahead, dodging sloshed drinks and cigarettes. After what seemed like an eternity set to techno, we finally reached an impasse at the parade route. The theater was on the other side of the street, which was filled with floats and dancers.

I looked back to Husband, who was still wading through the revelers with his bewildered dad. Then I looked at my mother-in-law: Gray hair perfectly set, a few beads of sweat trailing down her powdered face, pastel cotton blouse clinging to her round frame. Lady Gaga was pumping from a stereo somewhere behind her. Mother Theresa wouldn’t have looked more out of place.

“We’re going to have to cross!” I shouted.

“What dear?”

“THE THEATER’S ON THE OTHER SIDE!”

There was a moment of hesitation as our eyes met in understanding. Then, with a float full of shirtless cowboys gyrating our way (see picture above), I grabbed my mother-in-law’s hand, took a deep breath, and stepped out into the street.

For a few seconds we twirled together between male hip thrusts. Then I reached back for Husband and his dad. And somehow our family chain forged a way through that uncharted sea of leather chaps.

It wasn’t until we were safely ensconced in our theater seats that I really considered what had just happened. I accidentally took my husband’s parents to the gay pride parade. I would either get mad props for spontaneity or they’d write me off as the weirdest daughter-in-law ever and never visit again. As we waved goodbye at the end of the night, I was betting on the latter.

But a few days later, a note arrived in the mail bearing my mother-in-law’s trademark penmanship and festive seasonal stickers. I opened it and read with wonder:

Dear Jen,

Just wanted to thank you for such a wonderful night on the town! It really meant so much to us. And that parade! It was simply delightful. You know, at that moment, when you held my hand and led me through the crowd—I knew then that you truly loved me like a mother.

Don’t forget to call us! Love, MC and Charlie

I dreamed a dream.

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As I’ve stated before, there is nothing I love more in this world than singing at top volume like I’m about to win a Grammy. Usually while driving or doing the dishes.

I will be the first to admit that outside my own head, I don’t sound like a Grammy winner. But neither does Mary J. Blige, and that’s not slowing her down. So my neighbors and immediate housemates are often treated to some rousing renditions of Aretha, Katy Perry, Bonnie Raitt, Beyonce–hell, I’ll even throw in some Flo Rida or Fiona Apple if I’m feeling saucy. But I always save a special nerdy corner of my heart for the show tunes.

Ahhhhhh, the show tunes. It is a sad fact of my childhood that I didn’t listen to anything other than show tunes for probably the first 10 years of my life. I think I may have dabbled in my older sister’s Pat Benatar records, but I always got sucked back into Grease and Annie. The first song I ever learned was the theme to 42nd Street. I know way too much about South Pacific and The Sound of Music.

Yes, while my cooler compatriots were clamoring for NKOTB tickets, I was singing the Andrew Lloyd Weber medley while my best friend accompanied me on the piano. I’ll just let that image sink in for a minute and let you wonder how I didn’t grow up to be a cat hoarding musical theater critic.

But other than one bit part in a high school edition of Guys and Dolls, the only chance I ever got to sing some show tunes for a (real, willing) audience was middle school chorus. My eighth grade year Mr. Lang the music teacher broke out the Les Miserables medley and every single alto and soprano girl collectively squealed to the brink of combustion. Dear lord in heaven I wanted to sing that Fantine solo more than I wanted my braces off, more than I wanted nice bangs, even more than I wanted to “go with” the older, extremely cute boy who lived next door. And that’s saying a lot.

Alas, I did not get to sing the Fantine solo. Actually, I think Mr. Lang wisely made it a group number, to prevent the girls from clawing each other’s eyes out in a jealous rage. But I never stopped dreaming about that song, secretly holding out hope that a Broadway bigwig would hear me singing it out the car window and ask me to join the cast of the upcoming world tour.

And then today I watched the Les Mis movie trailer. I immediately wanted to claw out Anne Hathaway’s eyes and watch it 100 more times. My inner show tunes nerd is currently squealing with glee in between throaty riffs of “but the tigers come at nigggggggghhhhhht…”  I might have to get Husband some earplugs so he doesn’t divorce me.  

Boob envy.

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My first 6 months in Paris I didn’t have much going on. My freelance “career” hadn’t gotten much farther than building a neat-o portfolio website and this here blog. French class was always on some kind of 2 week vacation. So I filled in the hours tracking down random people with whom I had tenuous connections at best and asking them to meet me for coffee. I don’t even drink coffee. But I needed friends and advice on French living, so I put myself out there knowing that there’s a kind of special friendliness code among expats. They’ve all been there on a rainy day talking to the walls out of sheer loneliness, so they’re usually willing to throw a fellow foreigner a life-preserver or two.

Most of these blind friend-dates turned into really good friends. Some didn’t. One of the epic failures was a woman around my age who was a successful writer and had just completed a book. I thought, hey! I want to be a writer! Maybe we can talk writing! Maybe she can offer some sage advice to another diplomat spouse stuck in a foreign land with no job! I was sure she’d want to take me under her wing, at least for the afternoon.

Sadly it ended up being the most awkward 20 minutes of my life. When I told her I was thinking about pitching a few ideas to magazines and asked if she had any tips, she said “Yeah, it’s really hard.” Crickets.

When I brought up her book and said I looked forward to reading it, she said “Thanks.” Crickets.

When I asked if she had any advice for a writer just starting out in Paris, she said “There’s a lot of competition. You should really try to work on a longer-form project, like a book.”

At that point I said “thanks” and made some excuse about having to catch the metro home. She looked relieved and practically bolted out the door. I sniffed my armpits to make sure I wasn’t the problem and sulked all the way back to the 17th.

So much for writer’s camaraderie. I decided she probably didn’t drink champagne anyway so no love lost. But the book idea stayed with me. And when I got pregnant and became saddled with the most ridiculous boobs in the history of boob-dom, I knew I had my topic: the history of breasts.

Ok, so it probably wouldn’t earn me a PEN/Faulkner award or a Pulitzer. But I would be able to put all my recent boob-related google searches to good use. And I’d be able to finally answer all those boob questions that have been gnawing at me for years, like why do we only have 2 nipples? And what sadist invented the breast pump? And why does the size of the boob not correspond to the amount of boob-juice it can make?

I pictured a well-researched yet funny tome in the vein of Mary Roach’s Bonk. I even started a bibliography. Then I had a baby and all my big plans went to hell in a hand basket. But the soul of my dream project lived on, waiting patiently to come to fruition.

And while I waited, this damn lady went and wrote my book.

What the hell!? I’d be really angry except it sounds really good. I mean, if I’m being totally honest, this woman probably covered the topic way more thoroughly than I ever could, “flying all over the world to interview more boob experts than you can shake a pasty at.” I don’t have any experts to shake pasties at other than Cynthia the “fit specialist” at my favorite lingerie store.

So I guess I’ll just have to read the book I should have written and go back to the drawing board for my “long-form project.” I’ll totally have time to tackle that with two infants crawling around my apartment in the dead of Austrian winter, right?

Deep thoughts.

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I spent the better part of Sunday afternoon pondering baby formula. The Babe has been off the boob juice for a few months now, and happily guzzles whatever brand of formula we happen to put in her bottle. This amazes me, because all baby formula smells like drinkable drywall that’s been painted with vomit.

To be fair, the Babe also happily chews on Husband’s soccer cleats. So perhaps her palate is not discerning enough to be trusted as a true arbiter of taste. But then again, maybe formula doesn’t taste as bad as it smells? Or maybe it does, but that’s what breast milk tastes like, too? And what goes into the process of making formula, anyway? I know it’s as close nutritionally to breast milk as possible, but what about the taste? Do they also try to make it similar tasting? And wouldn’t that mean that someone at Nestlé has been hired to be a boob juice/formula taste tester? How do you end up with that job? Really piss someone off during your interview?

After about an hour of discussion, I finally looked at Husband and said “I’m just gonna taste it.” I unscrewed the bottle and took a small sip. Not surprisingly, it tasted like liquid drywall with a touch of vomit. Sweet vomit.

Not to be outdone, Husband grabbed the bottle and took a swig. He paused for a minute, swallowed, and then ran for the sink to flush out his mouth with water. I think he considered plunging his face à la Ace Ventura.

So the lessons learned here are simple:

1. Baby formula tastes as bad as it smells.

2. Babies still like it. And seem completely healthy and happy because of it.

3. Go to college so you don’t have to grow up and be a boob juice/formula taste-tester.

Number Two.

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Ohhhhh blog, how I’ve neglected you. It’s been days since I posted anything fun here, days! And to be honest, with each blog-less week it was starting to feel like my well of inspiration had run dry, just a few sad months out of France. I mean, really–there’s only so much I can say about cleaning bananas out of the ears of a sweet child who looks increasingly like Marlon Brando circa Apocalypse Now.

But I missed writing! I missed sharing the sometimes hilarious everyday insanity that made up my life in Paris. I felt committed to jumpstarting this blog again, if only I had some good material: A funny story. A goofy encounter. Or, you know, another baby.

Yes folks, that is in fact another baby human in my uterus. That’s how far I’m willing to go to keep this blog alive! At least until the baby comes out and I have no time to do anything but wipe other people’s butts.

I know what you’re thinking: I am super dedicated to my readership (all 4 of you). So dedicated that I’m going to have this bébé all the way over in Austria, which means I’ll most likely have some big nurse named Helga barking at me in stern German to poooosh! And if that won’t make for good blog material, I don’t know what will.

So enjoy! I’ll promise I’ll be posting more updates about Number Two and The Babe and my exciting foray into the world of Irish twins. While getting ready to move abroad. Again. You’re welcome!