Things that Go Bump in the Night.

Unfortunately, I believe in ghosts.  I have had several encounters in my life that I've tried my hardest to rationalize, but alas, I just can't.

That being said (I feel like Larry David whenever I say that...anyone else a fan of Curb Your Enthusiasm?), I am 90% sure the stupid hotel where we're staying is haunted.

And I think the dude who is haunting our hotel lives in our bathroom.

I can't prove this beyond a shadow of a doubt, but I hear a lot of strange noises coming from there, and no, they're not from Hubs.

In order to avoid any scary encounters, I've been trying to fall asleep before Hubs.  You see, my theory is that once I'm asleep, Mr. Scary Ghost Man won't be able to haunt me.  I'm such an amateur, I know.  Anyway, there have only been two nights while we've been staying here where I've been unsuccessful.

Last night was one of them.

I don't know why the Hubaroo was so exhausted, but he was snoring literally one minute after he turned off the television.

As you all know from reading previous blog posts, it's never a good thing when I'm left to my own devices.

And in this case, "devices" means imagination.

The night dragged on, and pretty soon, I had been wide awake and in bed for hours.

Hubs was no help.

He actually made the situation even worse by snoring.

In order to keep my mind off of scary ghosts who may or may not have wandered from the bathroom into the bedroom, I began to study my husband's snoring pattern.

It was very erratic.  At first, it would start out sounding like coffee percolating.  And then somewhere in the middle, it started to sound like a deflating balloon sounds when you squeeze out of all of the air.  And finally, it started to taper off after the motorboat period, which is probably self explanatory.  Sometimes it would go straight from percolating coffee to motorboat, then to deflating balloon, then back to motorboat.

At one point, I started giggling hysterically and had to hide my head in the pillow.  I was giggling so much that the bed started to shake.  Hubs stirred and I thought I was successful in waking him up, but then he just went right back to Motorboat World.

After the giggling fit subsided, I became even more freaked out, and so I reasoned that since most husbands and wives feel psychically linked to one another, I would give that a go.  So, in my head, I began chanting, "Hubs, wake up!  Hubs, wake up!"

And it worked!  But I think it had more to do with the fact that I started screaming this chant out loud rather than keep it in my head.

Sadly, that rat bastard woke up for two seconds, sighed, and fell right back to sleep.

I spent the rest of the night on the couch with the light on.

...but not before I made enough noise getting out of bed and slamming the bedroom door.

I heard him recommence snoring before my butt even hit the couch.

Do you believe in ghosts? Have you ever experienced one?  Let's scare the crap out of each other so that none of us can sleep at night, shall we?


PS: Thank you, Abigail and Pauline, for putting up with my paranoid Tweets last night!  ;-)

We Didn't Start the Fire...

...but we did set off the hotel's fire alarm.

Actually, Hubs set off the hotel's fire alarm; I'm just an accessory because I was in the room when it happened.

Ok, we are livin' la vida loca in a hotel room, where we've been for the past THREE EFFING WEEKS.  We really can't complain too loudly, though, because Hubs' job has been paying for it.  It's actually a sweet deal, and it'd be even sweeter if we didn't have a teeny tiny stove top in the room.  You see, if they had been unable to find us a room with a kitchenette, they'd have to give us a food allowance.  So because we have a teeny tiny stove top, we are expected to shop and cook just like we would if we were living at home.

Well, theoretically.  One would actually have to shop and cook in order for that to be true, and since this girl's specialty is grilled cheese, we spend most evenings allowing others to cook for us.

Anyway.

The other night, Hubs decided to make some bratwurst.  Since I don't eat sausage, I opted to have a microwavable vegetarian lasagna dish.  It was just ok, but I didn't like the taste of the spinach.  Popeye would have been all about it, though.

So Hubs was frying some bratwurst when we noticed how smokey the room was becoming.  We were quite alarmed because it was still smoketastic even with the window open and the fan going.

We became even more alarmed when the smoke detector went off.

Which then set the entire hotel alarm system off.

Which meant everyone and their brother had to vacate the building and wait for the fire department to arrive.

I was pissed because I had just nestled into bed to watch Celebrity Apprentice and had to put a bra back on and get out of bed in order to vacate the premises.

Whilst outside, I was trying to look as nonchalant and innocent as possible, which basically translates to me standing there in my sweat pants and whistling a happy tune, all while giving Hubs the death glare from Hell.  I'm pretty sure the other guests smelled two American rats, but I can't be sure because my German is still pretty rough.

After an hour of waiting in the frigid German night, the fire department finally cleared us to go back in.  I patted myself on the back for not giving it away that we were the ones who triggered the fire alarm, until I heard one guest say this in German...

Dumm amerikanische Touristen. Wann werden sie lernen, wie man kocht?


Sometimes, I really hate Google Translate.

An Update On Turning European.

Once again, I've lied to my dear readers.  I promised I'd blog more, but instead, I've blogged less.  It's amazing how busy being jobless and homeless can actually be!  For instance, today I have three whole things to accomplish on my to-do list, and I'm freaking the eff out about it. How can one person be so busy?  Ho hum.

Also, I'm pissed off at Hubs right now.  I mean, why does he have to have a social security number anyway?  You see, one of the items on my to-do list was to register at a dental clinic today.  In order to do that, though, I have to go through Hubs' work.  They want Hubs' social security number in order to get me into the system.  Um, I'm pretty sure all they'd have to do is look up his information in that nice little database on their computer, but apparently this is a big corporate no-no or something.  So now I'm in a public place with computers, desperately waiting to hear from Hubs so that I can give the clinic biotch the golden numbers.  I'm also pissed at myself for having yet to memorize Hubs' social security number.  This is yet another reason why I firmly believe one should have to take a marriage orientation class before marriage.  There should be a list of all of the shit I'm supposed to magically know as Hubs' wife.  I mean, I basically know his bowel movement schedule, which is actually helpful since I know when to avoid using the bathroom, yet I don't know his social security number, which I actually use more than I'd ever expected.

This computer keyboard is really loud, and people are getting pissed at me.  I don't really care because I'm still pissed about the whole social security number debacle. 

Next on my to-do list is an eyebrow wax.  Europeans don't wax their eyebrows over here--they just use tweezers or get them threaded.  I got my brows threaded once, and I vowed that it'd be a cold day in Hell the next time I ever have another one of those torture sessions.  I also hate having them tweezed, so I had basically decided I would just go au naturel for the next three or so years that we're here.  BUT!!

Then I found a place that actually waxes brows!  I am really hoping that I know the German term for "brow waxing" and that I don't get in there and they ask me to drop my pants and give me a Brazilian instead.  Just the thought of that made me cross my legs.

Anyway, the brow place can't get me in for another hour or so, which is another reason I'm in this public computer place.  Speaking of which, the woman next to me is now giving me death glares because of the loud keyboard.  I'm getting scared.

I still hate the food here.  I've basically been living on pizza and bread, and even though I'm on carb overload, I've managed to lose about ten pounds.  I've pretty much resigned myself to the fact that becoming the next Heidi Klum is my destiny.  It will be a difficult life, but I think I can handle it.  Also, I've decided to become the next diet doctor (even though I don't have an MD) and start a new diet that involves only eating carbs.  You'll probably see me with my own show on the Oprah Network soon.

The best part about living in Europe is the fact that Suri Cruise is a virtual no-name over here.  No one cares about how many blisters her Jimmy Choos gave her, or what she ate for breakfast.  Do you know what this means?  I'm winning, Suri.  I'm winning. 

Schnitzel is Shiz...and not in a Good Way.

Since I am a woman of my word, and I've promised to blog more, I am writing my second post for this week.  I rock.

Currently, I am hiding in the hallway of my hotel.  You see, the housekeeper has yet to tidy up the room, so I'm waiting in the hallway, and I'm hiding because I don't speak German yet and I don't want to chance anyone coming up to me and speaking.  I am taking my anti-social tendencies to a whole new level over here.  Sometimes I forget that I can actually speak.

Anyway, I've been here less than a week, so I can by no means call myself any sort of expert on...well...anything, but I'm here to tell you that this American does not like German food.  At all.

Call me crazy, but I've never loved pork.  Having German grandparents means having been exposed to many-a pork dishes, but I just don't love the stuff.  You see, I am a processed meat kinda gal: I like my pink slime Chicken McNuggets, my ground-up-bones-and-organs hot dogs.  My four food groups consist of potato chips, Fruit Roll Ups, Coca-Cola, and Sour Patch Kids.

Do you know which meat is the most popular dish in Germany?

DING DING DING!

That's right, folks!

PORK: THE OTHER WHITE MEAT!!

Gah.

Surprisingly, Germans also make a mean pizza, so I think over half of the meals I've eaten here have been individual-sized cheese pizzas.  YUM.  I did try Schnitzel yesterday, and I seriously tried to like it, but after hours had passed and the thought of the dish still made me nauseous, I've decided that no, I'm not a Schnitzel type of gal. I'm also not a spaetzle type of gal, either, apparently, which really surprises me.  Spaetzle is basically just egg noodles, so I thought for certain I'd like them.  The consistency, though, really grosses me out because they look a little too much like worms.

Things were ok until today, though, but I have a feeling the schnitzel is about to hit the fan.  I had been hoarding some American delicacies in my luggage to last me for part of my stay here (you know, because I'm so good at stretching food over a three-year period), but alas...I savored the last cherry Pop Tart this morning, and I finished up my Lay's salt and vinegar chips last night.

I have no idea what I'm going to eat for dinner tonight, but I will tell you that last night I had fish sticks on my salad.  I thought I had ordered fish sticks WITH my salad, but apparently I asked for them ON the salad.  It really wasn't a big deal--I just picked them off--and they weren't half bad.  The entire time we were waiting for our food, I was praying out loud: "Please be Van de Kemp's fish sticks.  Please be Van de Kemp's fish sticks!" and they essentially were...I just wasn't expecting them to be on my salad.

I just really, really wish someone from Wise Potato Chips would read this and help a sister out.  I would kick kittens for their puffy Cheez Doodles or Onion Rings right now.

Anyone?

Anyone?

Wo Wohnst Du?

The title of this post, my friends, is the only German phrase I know to date.  What's it mean, you ask?  "Where do you live?"  Not sure how useful this will be for me now that I'm living in Germany, nor am I certain it's a question I really want answered by the natives here.  I mean, if a complete stranger came up to you and asked where you lived, and you were silly enough to actually answer that question to the stranger, what type of person would you be?

 I'd say either A. a child, or B. crazy.

I love kids, but I'm pretty sure an adult asking a child where he or she lives is one of those universal no-nos in any country one travels.  And in regard to the crazy part, well, I'll quote Jack Nicholson by saying, "Sell crazy somewhere else; we're all stocked up here."

So, here I am, in all of my American glory.

The first few days have been rough, mostly because I'm still trying to adjust to the language barrier (I'm a Rosetta Stone dropout, yo!), the time difference (I slept nineteen hours the first day I was here.  Yeah, that's right--NINETEEN), and the food (I will be devoting an entire post to German food in the near future).

I've been here less than a week and I've already managed to insult a woman with a baby on the train, but you know, one should never assume just because there is an official language in a country, that everyone is fluent in said language, and that non-official language speaking people should really just be treated like children because that's how we feel.  READ: IGNORE US AND PLEASE DON'T TRY TO TALK TO US BECAUSE WE ARE SAD AND SCARED AND TWO SECONDS AWAY FROM CURLING UP IN THE FETAL POSITION AND SUCKING OUR THUMBS.

MAMA.

In typical Hubs and DDB form, Hubs has been busy Googling places for us to live, while I've been researching more important and pressing issues such as the murder rates of the city in which we live, and where the nearest Starbucks is (had a hazelnut cappuccino today--HOLLA!).  I would also like to add that I did said research while munching on MY LAST BAG OF LAY'S SALT AND VINEGAR CHIPS.

FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY, SOMEONE SEND REINFORCEMENTS.

But, as they say, every day is a new day and all that crap, but it is pretty true.  I'm getting accustomed to not knowing what the hell anyone is saying around me, and the fact that these people WALK EVERYWHERE is also starting to rub off on me.  Seriously, we walk five miles a day.  I've already had to tighten my belt, so I'm assuming I'm going to look like Heidi Klum by Christmas, which is cool by me.

Also, I hope to be blogging more, especially since Hubs starts his new job tomorrow, which means I'll be holed up in a hotel room for most of the day since I'm too scared to venture out on my own.

That reminds me--I still don't have a job, and a publishing company still hasn't contacted me about writing the next bestseller.  I'm certain after they read this post, however, they'll see what an asshole a contributing member of the human race I am.

Tschuss!