Balloon helicopter

We have surely all purchased products that come with manuals where the original language was rendered into English by a semi-literate person armed with a cheap dictionary. Even expensive products, such as cars, sometimes arrive with such manuals, and you wonder why the firms couldn’t spend a few more dollars on a decent translation. Really, compared to R&D, translators come cheap.

But this one takes the cake. A friend here in Germany sent G-girl a Chinese balloon helicopter, the kind where you put three blades in the hub, blow up a balloon, and set it loose, as in the picture. (I love how the shop where I got this picture lists it under annoying toys–quite apt.) She picked it up the other day and wanted to put it together. I was trying to figure out how to rig the balloon valve, so consulted the instructions. They read:

1. Assemble the propellor
2. Make the ball entangle the sebific duct
3. Blow the ball and close the mouth
4. Connect the propellor with the sealed ball
5. Now hold the balloon-helicopter horizontally and let it fly

Sebific duct? WTF? I think they meant “stick the fat end of the plastic thingy into the balloon,” but now I have the word sebific stuck in my head and have for days.

As if that weren’t enough, apparently it helps to have Popeye arms when assembling this thing, anchor tattoo included. Check out step four!

Get your Popeye arms ready!

 

Fire eater, originally uploaded by jda127.

This trip to Germany is different than the two others we have taken with the girls in the past. G-girl, in particular, is reacting differently to the changes around her. She is three years older than her last visit and knows that she is coming to stay for a year, so is seriously studying her surroundings, gathering clues on native behavior so as to better understand her place in this place. She has made some excellent observations, the key one being: “this is the first time I’m in Germany and really know where I am,” as an explanation for why she has to constantly interrupt us and ask questions.

Leipzig is not a particularly large city—180,000 residents, approximately—but it sure is ginormous by the girls’ standards. The density of people out and about on the sidewalk, in the parks, on the bike paths on any given day is quite a change from our small-town Kansas locale back home. Given Germany’s population density and, some would say, their natural reticence as a ‘people’ (ugh), this is not a place where you generally say hello or nod and smile to people on the sidewalk or on the streetcar. This dearth of open, friendly, smiling faces strikes many Americans as proof of Germans’ essential unfriendliness but I really think it is best explained by the fact that daily life in Germany is spent more out in the open than daily life in America. If Georg-German had to smile and nod at everyone he saw on the street while doing errands, he’d never get anywhere! Joe-America has that luxury because, chances are, if he is out walking around, he is simply out for a walk! Whatever the reason, however, G-girl noticed this difference within her first 36 hours here. She remarked as we were walking back from a local ice cream shop: “nobody says hi to us!” She didn’t sound particularly hurt by this realization, just aware of the differences.

And speaking of differences—boy howdy—are they visible in spades this weekend. The weekend of Pentecost (a German national holiday) is also the weekend, in Leipzig, of the Gothic-Wave-Festival: an international gathering of Goths, with merchant booths, music stages, and a daily sidewalk freak show with all the trimmings all over town. We’ve heard, in addition to German being spoken, English, Danish, Swedish, and Dutch and we’ve not seen much at all. Suffice to say that Goths come from all over Europe and the world to Leipzig this weekend to see and be seen, buy things, listen to edifying (cough, cough) music, and drink a whole bunch. Sunday we went with our friends to Dölitz, where a medieval village of sorts had been erected for the cavorting of the Goths. There were weavers and blacksmiths and mead vendors and jugglers and the like, but the real show was just people watching. I was too shy to get many good pics, but the variety of Goths is simply remarkable: Goths in vampire mode, Goths in Baroque mode, Goths with a death fetish, punk Goths, leather and PVC Goths, mostly naked Goths, Goths that looked more like Ren-Faire attendees than Goths. . . lots (and I mean LOTS) of black. The winner in my own private score book was a vampire Goth who had done up his ears Nosferatu-style. I couldn’t get to the camera in time: tall, thin, pale, big, pointy ears. . . some spooky make-up, a cape, and a young harlot in tow with the bustier and ripped tights and lace and . . . like Halloween in May.

I wonder if either girl will forever associate the Goth look with Germany, or if we are permanently imprinting the Foo’s fashion sense (she is most impressed by tall boots with lots of buckles). It’s been a fun introduction to the local culture, though, that is for sure!

I am not a Barbie fan. I don’t find it worth the hassle to ban her from the house but I do cringe inwardly when the girls get Barbie for birthdays, as happened this week with G-girl. She got a beach bum Barbie, with bikini, sunglasses, and a brush–everything you’d need to prepare for a day of boys looking at you poolside. On top of that, she got a Barbie set, wherein Barbie plays the role of dog show judge and has three little pups she can run through an agility course. The course includes a stand with a hoop for the pups to jump through and a spring platform to facilitate said jumping. Barbie stands (supported by patented Barbie acrylic stand) on one end of the hoop platform, springing pup on the other end, hoop in the middle.
G-girl runs the pups through various parts of the course before she gets to the hoop portion. Then, she positions one little pup on his springboard, gives it a flip, and watches as he sails directly through the center of the hoop and lands smack dab in Barbie’s “arms” on the other side. She giggles and does it again. Again, pup lands in Barbie’s arms and stays put. Slowly, it dawns on G: the pups are each wearing little metal collars and they are *sticking* to Babs magnetic chest. Literally. M-a-g-n-e-t-i-c C-h-e-s-t.
How awesomely awful is that?

Being a temporary single parent is better AND much worse than I thought. I’m tired and frequently lack the motivation to sit in front of an intelligent movie once the kids are in bed, prefering to stay connected to the outside world and the interwebs–my husband is out there somewhere–through my computer. Maybe lame, but true. A laptop may give you a warm lap (ugh) but it cannot warm the heart.  Yadayadayada.

The logistics of single parenting two kids are occasionally frustrating. This week I have picked up a kid late from school because I thought she had a Brownie’s meeting and she didn’t. (oops) I followed that stellar parenting performance with helping her pull out a front tooth and then FORGETTING to play tooth fairy. sheesh, Jennifer, get a grip! She knows I am the tooth fairy but was sooo hurt this morning when nothing was under her pillow. Mom = Toad, get used to it.

Those are minor emotional bumps, though, compared to the emotional ditches and gullies that lurk behind every blind corner in this house. Ingrid has been whiny and pathetic all evening and, par for the course, when it gets to bed time, she throws herself on the floor in a fit and begins weeping unconsolably for her Daddy. You see, you never know if she is suffering from general 5-year-old crankiness that the world is not as she would, in her infinite wisdom, have crafted it, or if there is some issue lurking behind the drama. Tonight, score one for the issue. So, we talk about what, specifically, each of us misses about Daddy. (I’m all about acknowledging our shared feelings here, people. It’s not all parenting failure around here.) So, she says: I miss his voice. And I love him. (pause) He’s my Daddy. (I’ll look away whilst you wipe that tear out of the corner of your eye. I need to blow my nose anyway.)

Greta is only slightly less inclined to melodrama. She prefers to weep silently in the corner of her room, waiting for you to notice something is amiss in her heart, so that she can talk about missing Daddy while one solitary tear dribbles down her cheek. She, too, mentioned missing his voice. Ironic, really, since his voice is all they really have access to. I think it’s the unmediated voice they miss, the voice connected to the body–the whole physical presence.

This is going to be a LONG year.

Greta came home from school yesterday and asked me to check and see if I thought her front tooth was ready to be pulled:

I’ll let the photo speak for itself.

She was a bit nervous about having it pulled for two reasons. Reason #1–there was a wee fainting incident a while back involving an attempt to remove a loose tooth that was not loose enough. Reason #2:–”Daddy always does it!”

This tooth looked like it was going to come dislodged in her next bite of banana, let alone apple, that I insisted it go the way of the dodo. It took a fair amount of hand holding and reassuring and one good yank.

All done!

 

soft ears, originally uploaded by jda127.

I am possessed of an iron will.
We snuggled not only this adorable spotted (parti-colored?) cocker spaniel pup at the Wamego Tulip Festival on Saturday, but his three adorable, soft siblings, as well. All four pups were tired from a morning playing in the grass at the fair. When we got to them, they were simply overjoyed at the prospect of having Greta or me hold them so they could drift off to sleep and make cute little schnorflly dog noises.
I did not inquire as to whether the pups were up for adoption. My will is strong.
Plus, I know, and you do, too, that this adorable pup will grow up to be a lovable, but rather dim-witted, canine with a tendency toward wet ears, soggy paws, and shedding on my couch.

Well, after drooling over the Rücktritt Tauglich, I quickly moved on to another infatuation. I had asked the friendly folks at Rücktritt to call around and see what they could find in the way of a single-speed machine. Amazingly (customer service in Germany varies a bit, to say the least), I got a call a few days later with the good news. They had found what I sought, and from a regional manufacturer no less. It’s a Volksrad, and the workers just bought the factory a while back, so I will ride knowing I supported some people taking care of their own business. Cheers to them! Now I just have to get used to the fact that I’m going to have to shell out major bucks to get an airline to fly it back to the States. I suspect we shall be quite fond of each other by then and I won’t want to sell it here. Oh, for the few bike types who read this, it not only has front and rear brakes, it has a coaster brake! No kidding. I may ditch the rear brake, since it seems extraneous.

The other big project I had this week–besides teaching my usual hellish load of classes (15 contact hours, countless more in prep time)–was visiting all of the elementary schools in the area. This was quite educational, since they are an entirely unknown quantity otherwise. Happy to find that schools here in the eastern states are a lot like those in the US, with child care both before and after school. It’s a much larger program, and they offer all sorts of activities in that time, from chess club to dance to art, etc. Really exciting prospect for the third grader in my life. Found one school I especially like, and two others that would be just fine, too. One school was really lame. The principal just didn’t seem to want to bother with me or my daughter.

Ingrid: (bumping into me) moooommm, can I have a drink of water?

Mom: (harumph, groan) but, Ingy, it’s night time. We’re all sleeping.

Ingrid: Mom! I need a drink of water. I promise I’m still sleeping.

Funny thing: I think she actually WAS still sleeping. She slurped down the water, laid her head back on the pillow and was snoring mere seconds later.

storage cube, originally uploaded by jda127.

Sung to the tune of “Twelve Days of Christmas”

The first few days of temporary single parenting have brought with them some. . . challenges. I don’t have a full list of twelve that I can put into song and verse this very moment. At this rate, though, you should just wait a week or so and see what I come up with.

The picture–a totem to my organizational craze on Sunday–will be the #3: a three-tiered shelf. It helped us put Greta’s room in order and clear out some of the clutter.
(sing along in your head: “A threeeee-tiered shelf”)

“Two dead bunnies”
Photo NOT forthcoming. Something broke into our rabbit hutch Friday night, bent the door open, killed the bunnies but did not eat them, and left their frozen carcasses to rigormoritize in my back yard. Saturday, for those of you keeping score at home, is the day Dale left for Germany. So we all awake to Papa’s imminent departure and the violent end of our bunnies’ short existence on this earthly plane. Awesome, no?

“And an eeeeeaaaar infection!”
Ingrid is sick, though thankfully not too sick to go to school and play.

I’ll work on 4-6 over the rest of the week, mkay? (four new gutters? need those; how do I work a leaky tub drain into the song? anyone want to collaborate?)

Yesterday morning, after I dashed back into the house to retrieve a forgotten item, I climbed into the car, buckled myself in, and heard Ingrid intone from the back seat, apropos of nothing:

Little kids can’t say SHIT. Only big people can say SHIT.

Me: That’s right, Ingrid. Who told you that?

Ingrid: (pregnant pause) Sophia.

Four years old and ratting out her friends. Where does the innocence go????