La Entropista

Hoo, y’all. It’s ten to one and instead of packing I’m touching this thing for the first time in ages. It’s not too late for us; bedtime’s been around four in the morning these days, once we get around to everything, including reading to each other from various things, like old people do. My Christmas tree is alive and in a giant pot and is tiltly and pregnant looking, much like my sister. I have to take a photo of it next to the fire place for posterity’s sake before I banish it elsewhere. Ten bucks says it moves onto the patio and stays there for the duration. I wanted to plant it (about seven feet tall) in between the palms in the front yard, but digging a hole for the composter took like three days, so forget that idea.

I’m dancing again! Yay!

Babies. They turn into children.

Berlin for all next summer. Postponed a year.

Frederik Pohl. Enough with the robots.

Tivo. I’m a slave to “recording space used.”

Voting. Now they know where I live. 

I never thought I would miss home because of food. I have been so sick of that damn diet that I thought a brief respite in the land of unlimited Entenmann’s would lift me out of the culinary doldrums. But no. I had forgotten my parent’s house is the place you head for when you get the hankering for grilled cheese sandwiches made from cheese that one unwraps one sheet at a time, fakin’ bacon, and periodic threats of “fish soup.” The boyfriend would be horrified. Also on offer this week, lovely halusky, Polish sympathy food modified to suit the other 48% of the ethnic population of the region by substituting farfalle for the egg noodles. It seems like everything I have eaten here has been various shades of white. Which brings me to fond memories of this:

That would be chicken in mustard sauce and braised leeks with tarragon. One kid ate the chicken without coercion and I managed to get both of them to actually try the leeks- touching their tongues to and even chewing and swallowing something they had never tried before- and their heads didn’t even fall off or explode in horror or anything. The leeks- just cleaned and halved and thrown in a casserole with white wine, little lumps of butter, salt and pepper and fresh tarragon. Maybe some stock? I forget, but simple comfort food eagerly gobbled up by the adults. But not by babies. Oh hey,

BABIES!

P.S. I think I wrote this because I was a bit embarrassed by the previous post.

I’m doing this thing right now where I sit on my parent’s sofa in Philadelphia at two in the morning because I fell asleep at 8 pm and woke up at 10 completely missing Masterpiece Theater’s Casanova on one of the five channels (via antenna!) my parents get on their tv and now I’m not going to fall asleep until four o’clock in the morning. Why am I here? Because there is more dying. I guess this is what happens to people around you when you become older but it seems that there is just so much cancer in my family right now that it makes me wonder if this is how we are all going to go in the not too distant future.

I got here too late. The person that I knew was already gone- in a morphine coma, not dead yet- but nothing like the person he was, and although I knew to expect that from past experience, it is still so upsetting to see. There is guilt of course, for moving away and not seeing him more often, and anger and a bit of jealousy, because I didn’t get to see him like I knew him again. Also helplessness, and something else I can’t pinpoint. So tomorrow, I guess I can cook, or clean or something to help out, and try not to feel selfish because I don’t want to be here. I don’t have to go back to the hospital again, but I’d rather be at home, of course. I’d just rather be at home.

Okay by now if you have at all been interested you have seen the Flickr photos of our little das Parfum jaunt back to Germany. First of all I’d like to apologize to the folks that I mean to get together with but didn’t. This trip consisted mostly of dealing with jet lag, staying up all night at post-premiere parties, and sleeping through the day/plane flights/the actual movie. Next time, please.

The first night back in Munich we hit the team premiere party which was crowded and hot but totally great in part because we saw people we knew and cared about but also because I was tag-team hit on by a hungarian architect and his documentary director wingman, which was important and awesome because I have been feeling like a total cow lately and it was nice to be reminded that I am found desireable by other people besides my loving sweet potato who has basically admitted that no matter how fat I get he would still get a stiffy over me. Also there was good conversation about the World Trade Center/ Libeskind debacle which made me feel smart and opinionated, too. So, after tons of prosecco and choco-mousse parfaits, we headed to the doener stand across from Constantin to celebrate. Nothing like a pile of pommes with curried ketchup and a beer to round out a pretty fantastic night.

Then oh god, the real premiere: all red carpet and swishy socialites at the Mathaeser. Slept through the german version of the film then headed over to the Residenz for the party. Wanna know what the VIP area was like? It was like you have to stand around with snooty uptight Muenchen schikeria wondering what the hell you are doing there surrounded by no one you care about and all you want to do is get some air and sit down and have some food and a good stiff drink. Evening saved by another late night stop at a bar next to the hotel with a self-proclaimed wee Irish lass swapping divorce stories. Oh yeah, this is what being an adult is like. Right.

Berlin: thank god for Berlin. By this time we are exhausted. He had meetings all day, I was so tired I couldn’t make it across the street to see what was going on for Fall at the H & M. I was that tired. Slept through the english version of the movie then watched Eichinger (can I say not entirely sober?) give an endless speech and slober all over Tom and then proceeded to Borcharts for the after party. An excellent time as there was plenty to drink and people with glass eyes and girl-gossip and the inevitable drunk text messaging to various friends at four a.m. We were back at the hotel by six (shared a cab with the director of Goodbye Lenin and his wife- just as sweet and down to earth as the Muenchners are uppity a-holes) and in bed by seven. So as far as evenings in Berlin go, quite successful.

Then spent the next three days staring with slack-jawed wonderment at the insanity that is the boyfriend’s family in his bucolic little hometown, but that is a story for another post. Literally- open mouthed, big-eyed wtf happening there. In the end, it explained so much, but man, it’s hereditary? Lord Jesus.

I’m headed back to Germany tomorrow and it would be nice to see you. I’m in Munich on the 6th and 7th, Berlin on the 8th, and outside Frankfurt from the 9th to the 11th. I’m going because Perfume is premiering there and it would be good to be in a country where people- like it or not-  gave a shit about the novel and the film, because here in the US, ain’t nobody gonna care. I’ll have my handy with the charger and the sim card. If you owe me money, be prepared, I’m going to collect.

Local girl on the Isar. Ever see a lineup like that?

This past month has been approximately 50% horrible, 50% okay and 25% confusing. Some of the problems I had anticipated are actually worse than I thought they would be, most likely exacerbated by my poor expectations and the hypertense state that accompanies them. Other issues, like coming to terms with things like I’m kind of living with children, are equal parts pleasure and pain. For every morning I’m woken up at an ungodly hour there are moments that sort of make up for it. Like our recent back-to-school preparations:

mohawking the children

Slowly this place is starting to feel like mine, and this town? I feel like I am hovering above it, circling in a landing pattern with every intention to touch wheel to ground, but I’m not quite there yet. The change of address form was submitted yesterday, so that’s one step in the right direction. Almost everything is unpacked and there is a gigantic why have I been lugging this around for so long purge in progress. But still, I’m in seclusion mode, trying to get a grip on the immediate world around me. Things are better today and reconnecting with family has been helpful, but I’ve missed two important birthdays and professionally I’m at a stand-still. Soon I will face the email, return the calls, resume the base-line level of self-flagellation and all will be back to normal.

Also: I’ve got stuff. A lot of stuff that I’ve truly missed, a lot of stuff I’ve forgotten I had, and a lot of stuff that can just go. If anyone is interested in giant IKEA bags full of purses, shoes, professional clothes, or kitchen paraphenalia, let me know. There’s nothing like a mild depression to make you not care about things you own. Out it goes.

Tomorrow we are off to Los Cabos for two weeks. Granted, the temperature is predicted to hover around 100 degrees Farenheit but I’m hoping the beach, the pool and the constant flow of tequila-based beverages will help keep us cool. Of course we’ll be going to the hotel with the pirate ship in the swimming pool, which seems to impress me more than it does the children, but once they get there and find out that there is a hot tub on the deck, they’ll be full in.

While all of us will be headed south tomorrow, today my nether regions got a head start and went to Brazil. They’ve only gone there once before, in a traumatic vodka-soaked episode with a Persian aesthetician in Irvine, after which I showed up at the graduate computer lab drunk as a skunk, and later blabbed every inappropriate detail to those sitting around me in Land Use Law. This time I went to a nice tinkly music place in Santa Barbara where what looked like an eighteen year old girl was down there taking care of business while up above I had my Kelly Clarkson moments silently biting my lip and cursing my poor memory for pain. In the end it went a hell of a lot smoother than my first attempt at a home job that ended in me lying on the kitchen floor underneath the microwave with tears in my eyes knowing full well that I’d still have to do the other side. The last time this process was considered was with Maya in Berlin, when we rode past this place (which Bowleserised covered so nicely here) but I thought if I were to scream obscenities at the person torturing me, I’d really prefer her to understand fully what I was trying to communicate.

So then, I guess the point of all that is now there is one less bathing suit issue to contend with. Will promise to wear loads of sunscreen, eat dozens of lobster tacos, and try not sell the children to any migrant farm worker families in some random moment of weakness.

click on the photo and have some fun.