You’ve got to be kidding me.

No seriously, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me. Ahem, let me elaborate on that.

As you may or may not know, I founded a student newspaper at my journalism school, which didn’t have one until I came along  (shame on them). It went pretty well in the beginning. Actually, it went really well. Each issue was better than the last and overall, reception was fine. Not overwhelming, but definitely fine. And then the core staff started disintegrating. We had troubles getting new writers and since we’re getting busier and busier as our studies progress, we have less and less time to devote to the paper. We tried getting new writers, but it didn’t catch on. I’m sorry to say this but most people at my school are sheep and I think they’re fearing to overexpose themselves to criticism if they write for a newspaper. Especially one read by fellow journalists. I hate that passive, defeatist attitude but what can I say, at least I know that when I go out into the real, hard-business world of professional journalism, they will not be my competition. That’s always a thought that cheers me up.

Anyhoo: we had less people on staff of my paper and then, in June of last year, I got diagnosed with my Hashimoto’s and since then, things have pretty much gone down the drain for the paper. I was wrapped up in my illness (literally, at times) and trying to get better and I was insanely busy (which is my default status these days anyway). Finally, it got to a point where I decided that I had to let go of some responsibilities. I decided that I had been editor-in-chief long enough (a little over two years) and that it was time to pass the torch to someone whom I knew really wanted it. I passed it to P., who has been working on the paper like a madman ever since it started. He seemed like the perfect choice. And then, in his first semester as editor-in-chief, even before he could publish his first issue, P. fell ill. Seriously ill, we’re talking hospital for months on end. No cheeky Hashimoto’s for him, he got a double whopper with extra bacon kind of ill. Unfortunately, at that point I couldn’t really care too much about the paper. This was just fate and I didn’t want to go back as editor-in-chief because P. couldn’t do it just yet. So we put the issue on hold and a few months later than anticipated, we did manage to get it out. No biggie. But… it was not a good issue. Really less than stellar.

In my gut, I could feel a stir. My gut told me: “this is not making you look too good”. But I kept at it and this semester, after much hassle again, we put out the second issue with P. as editor-in-chief. And when I say “we”, I mean P. and Carola did. My only contribution was referring someone else’s piece to the paper and getting it in. My own text? I actually produced one but when it came time to print the issue, after many delays, it was old. It’s kinda hard to put out a text about winter when the birds are chirping throughout the night and the cherry trees are in full bloom. So my text didn’t make it. I’m not miffed it didn’t get in the issue. That’s totally logical. What I am miffed about, and here comes (part of) my actual point, is that nobody told me. P. had oodles of time to tell me he couldn’t bring the text and to ask if I wanted to submit something new. I am busy but I would have tried. He didn’t ask. He didn’t say anything, layouted the issue and only because I came up to him and asked what was going on, he told me there wouldn’t be a piece of mine in the next issue. No apologies, no explanation other than “it’s old news, sorry”. At first, I was just miffed. And I didn’t really fret much about it. And then… then I saw the new issue. It’s dismal. He forgot to put my name in the impressum’s staff list but I’m actually grateful for what is usually a total faux-pas. I don’t wanna be associated with that at all. The layout is crummy and we have about 6 pages which somehow ended up being printed twice. The editorial is the worse I’ve read in ages and it’s just generally a disaster.

I had no separation issues when I gave up my role as editor-in-chief. I also don’t want it back (not really before I saw that last issue and certainly not now). I am too busy and too happy without that drag on my morale and I’ve made peace with the fact that the paper is dying. But let’s face it: this is not a normal death. This is a gruelling, gory, cruel, slow death. It’s playing out pretty much in public too. And I just have to say: mama ain’t likin’ what’s a-happenin’ to her bebeh. There just comes a point where it’s just painful to look at. This was my baby and while I’m a pretty laid back mum, I’m not pleased with seeing that it went to hell in a handbasket the minute I let someone else have custody. Just a tangential thought: I sure hope this doesn’t scar me for life and screw me up but good for when I get a real baby. Just sayin’…

Anyway, just when I thought it couldn’t get worse, it got insulting. I just got an email from P. – and here, ladies and gentlemen, is finally my whole point – in which he says that we need to take up regular staff meetings again. You’ve gotta be FUCKING KIDDING ME! First, you take over and it all goes down the drain. Granted, not your fault entirely, but still, I think it could have been managed better. Second, you cut me out of the latest issue, pooh-pooh my newest ideas (I hadn’t mentioned that gem before) with ridiculous arguments, don’t print my name on the staff list. And then you expect me to fucking come back, play nice and attend regular staff meetings, quoth P. “ideally once a week, on a set day”?? No way, José. No fucking way. P. has a lot of time because of a chronic illness but he knows, he bloody knows, that’s not the case for the rest of us who are working at finishing their studies, working at having a life and just plain working. The email was in a dry tone but pretending to be friendly. It was definitely an order but it pretended to be a common decision. It also just plain said “in the future, we will be having regular staff meetings again”, which to me implies “and that means you better fucking come, buster”. It also pisses me off that P. is pretending the paper is doing peachy. Obviously, because he layouted it and was responsible for most of the content, he’s damn proud of it. And that blinds his judgement on the dire state of things. Some people whose texts did get published in that catastrophy of an issue came up to me and said “Anna, I’m so embarassed I’m in this, I don’t think I can write another text for that paper, I am truly sorry.” There go our last writers and rightly so. Talk about rats on a sinking ship. I know I never want to write for the paper again and I bloody founded it. This is what the cousins of the Fritzls probably feel like. “No, I don’t know that man. No, he’s not a relative, you got the wrong Fritzl here, buddy.”  But P. seems to want to go on doing this. In my opinion, there is no way this can be turned around now. There are no new writers, the old ones are leaving, the core staff is composed of four people (if you count me), one of which is leaving town in July. G. and I both work and study and there is not a snowflake’s chance in hell that I’m going to devote more time to this doomed enterprise. It’s already embarassing enough (and boring enough, might I add) that most texts in the issue were written by P. and this will not get better unless we get new writers. Which, I as I’ve said, is highly unlikely after this pile of whale barf. Man, I am furious. I considered writing back  to P. right away but thought that might not be such a good idea. Writing emails late at night in an irate state is never a good idea. So I furiously blogged about it instead. I’m so great at channeling my emotions in the right directions, aren’t I? Yes, yes, thank you. *bows low*

Do you think I’m overreacting? Do you think I should be supportive of P. and try to save my baby by helping him turn this mess around with all my might? There’s not much might left as it is, I should add for full disclosure. I think it’s time for us all to let this paper die. My biggest problem now is: how do I tell P., without hurting his feelings too much and maybe even without hurting our friendship? We used to be really good friends but we haven’t been much in touch lately. I think he’s pissed at me though I don’t know why, it’d be interesting to know. I’ve never mentioned any of this to him or others. You are the first people to hear about it like this. I kinda wanna salvage the friendship but at the same time, I’m not sure that’s possible once he hears what I have to say about our paper being moribund and us needing to give it the coup de grâce. And to be completely honest, I am pissed at him now. Ugh, what a mess.

Live long and prosper, peace,

Anna

How could it be meaningless? I saw my son become a man. I watched a man with courage and integrity drive the pants off of every other driver on that road. This is not meaningless.

There’s a person in my life – let’s call him T. -  who has recently decided to seek the help of a therapist in order to overcome some trauma. I’m currently reading “The Unbearable Lightness of Being” and as I was reading tonight, my mind wandered to that person. We live in different cities and so I can’t be around as much as I’d like to. I was asking myself what T. would answer, if asked what gave his life meaning or what others thought about him. And then I got scared. I got scared because I thought: “What if T. doesn’t say, or worse yet, know what I think of him? The therapist needs to know that or he won’t get a good enough picture of T.!” T. has a habit of putting himself down and in most cases, needlessly so. So I was afraid that the therapist might never get to see what tremendous positive impact T. has made on other people and how infinitely valuable he is, even when he doesn’t feel he is. I know T. reads this blog and so I’ll do something that I usually don’t do. I’ll address him directly. Because some things, I can better say in writing. And some things, the world should know.

T. – I love you. I have two guardian angels in this life. One of them is my long-dead dog Mara (as stupid as this might sound) and one of them is you. And not just now, you will always be there. Just like Obi-Wan Kenobi came back to save and guide Luke, I’m sure you will do for me. But that’s a long time from now. I also promise that should I die tomorrow, I’ll come back as a semi-transparent, slightly flickering ghost and make sure you know someone up there loves the heck out of you.

You’ve always been an inspiration to me. Your knowledge, your wit, your humour and your love for those you love are incomparable. I know that sometimes you feel less than stellar but to me, you are a guiding star. You have a way of loving me that is second to none. You accept me as I am and yet you don’t. Often, I don’t like to hear you say it, it hurts when you tell me I suck but deep down, I know that you’re being this harsh to wake me up and get me going. I know I don’t always actually get going but I do try. I don’t think I’d keep trying or try half as hard as I do if it weren’t for you.

Your life is not meaningless. It has touched many people in profound ways. You leave a mark on everyone you encounter and that mark is always ruled by one sentiment: love. Sometimes it turns sour because people are stupid, arrogant and selfish but that’s not your fault. I know that you are a being ruled by love and to me, that’s the most beautiful thing there is. You come from a good place, a place that you found and claimed all by yourself, but because the world is often bad, you are easily hurt. Don’t be, don’t waste your time on that. You have made so many people happy (and I’m sure there will be many more), I wish you would acknowledge that and give yourself credit for it. Moreover, I wish you could take that and make yourself as happy as you’ve made others. You deserve it. One might even say, you owe it to yourself. It’s not fair that others should profit from your presence on this planet but that you yourself shouldn’t. You are a good person (the best, in my eyes).

I love you for the joy you have brought to my life and continue bringing me. I love you for everything you help me do. There are so many things I couldn’t do if it weren’t for you. I love you for teaching me that it’s okay to embrace life fully. I’m not quite there yet but I’m hustling to make it happen in your lifetime. I love you for telling me “If you’d only let go of all your stupid fears, you’d be invincible and unstoppable”. When you say it, I believe it and I dare to hope that one day, I’ll make it so. I love that you get me.

I love you for your gentle heart, for your laugh, for your touch. I love you for being so brave and yet so vulnerable at the same time. I love you because no one else in my life could have made the difference that you made. I love you for kisses in kindergarten, signatures with “Dr.” on them and you saying that if you met him again, you’d get a baseball bat and beat the shit out of him. I love that you care. I love you for a dead cat under a cherry tree, tishoos at three unexpected (and totally uncalled for) deaths and you saying that I’m the one doing the actual work, you’re just helping adjust what’s already good.

You are the best  T. that a girl could ever ask for. Most people who have a relationship (formally seen) like ours bitch and moan about what they don’t like. I feel utterly blessed that this is not the case with us (although you may bitch and moan when I’m not around, I don’t actually have proof that’s not the case and I do give you a lot of grief, I suppose) and I can honestly say that there is not a moment in my life in which I haven’t loved you, from the bottom of my heart. I’ve always been grateful for what we have, even if everything wasn’t always rosy on the outside, we somehow managed to keep it rosy on the inside. I’m not sure I really had a hand in this. It’s your magic, through and through.

So please, when your therapist asks “How would you say other people see you, Mr. T.?”, make sure you tell him this. Make damn sure to tell him that there is a girl out there who always has and always will adore you, for a myriad of reasons, some of which she hasn’t even found yet (but I’m sure they’re there). If you can’t remember everything I’ve blurbed about right now, I insist you print this post out and show it to your therapist. I want him to know everything. Because the truth, the real, honest-to-god, truly real truth is: you are the wind beneath my wings.

And I will stop now before I break into song.

Live long and prosper, peace,

Anna

Did everything just taste purple for a second?

Today I bought a food item that is completely unusual for me: something with whiskey in it. An ice cream, to be precise. An ice cream with a whiskey swirl and shortbread crumbs, to be very precise. And it tasted like… Egpyt.

I hardly ever drink alcohol but it’s not like I make a religion out of it. I just don’t like the taste. But today at the grocery store I wanted some ice cream. And when I saw this Mövenpick special edition, I decided what the heck, I’m gonna play gourmet and try it. To be honest, it’s more the shortbread crumbs that tipped the balance than the whiskey. I had a few spoons for dessert and it was very unusual but in a good way. I can recommend it, it makes a fabulous dessert. It’s definitely not an ice cream that you can eat by the gallon, which is a very good thing in my book (because I definitely can eat some ice creams by the gallon). The whiskey taste is definitely present but not overwhelming.

That’s the formalities of it. But that taste, that taste… it just brought up so many memories that I hadn’t reckoned with. I had whiskey for the first (and only) time in my life when I was in Egypt. I know, it sounds kinda strange that I had a whiskey, hard alcohol, in a Muslim country. And it is. But you see, there’s a tradition at the White House (that’s the name of the German Egyptological Mission on Luxor’s West Bank – in case you haven’t been reading me that long). This tradition says that whoever comes to stay and hails from a country that eats sausages, pork and drinks regular alcohol, is required to bring some of that. Because the director of the German Mission spends most of his year in Egypt, he misses all that terribly. If you saw him, you’d know why. He’s a giant with a heart of gold and a great head on his shoulders but sometimes he seems like… let me quote Dwight from Sin City, talking about Marv: “He’d be right at home on some ancient battlefield, swinging an axe into somebody’s face.” Hence, the dire need for real liquor and anything meaty, sausagey, porkey.

And so it came that over the years, while the meats were slung down rabidly the minute they got out of the latest guest’s suitcase, an impressive collection of whiskey formed, lining the top of the long bookshelf in the dining room. People, especially the visiting men, make a point of bringing good whiskey, not just any cheap booze from the airport’s duty-free. After dinner, the men would usually retire to the back of the dining room, smoking cigarettes and a pipe (the Munich dean of Egyptology), drinking whiskey and chatting away, letting go of the literal and figurative heat of the day. Some evenings, they are joined by one of the women and then they make a point of being particularly charming, intellectual and worldly but as the evening turns into the night and the whiskey takes its toll, the jokes become delightfully cruder.

One night at dinner, the men were already discussing what whiskey they were going to try next and somehow, I got pulled into that conversation. To which I didn’t have much to add, except that I had never had whiskey and would probably not be very fond of it anyhow, judging by the way it smelled. They said that I’d just never had good whiskey and that they would pick a really good one for me to try and I would see, it’s divine. Even if I don’t like alcohol much, I’m always willing to try new things, so I agreed. I also didn’t want to hurt the men’s feelings, they were so proud of their whiskey collection and their connoisseurship. Once we were all comfortably lounging in the great wicker armchairs, Thomas poured the drinks. “Three fingers for Anna!” he declared. I shook my head no, not three fingers, that is too much even if it’s the best whiskey in the universe. “Two then” he conceded, slightly put off. He handed me my glass and we clinked solemnly. The men waited with baited breath for me to take my first swallow. I did and did not quite succeed in hiding a grimace. It was awful. It tasted like dishwashing liquid mixed with 90% pure alcohol to my very unaccustomed tastebuds. I hated it. “What’s the matter? Don’t you like it?? It’s one of the best we have!” I smiled and took another gulp. “It’s… pretty strong and umm, unusual, but kinda good…” I answered gauchely. I knew I could not take another gulp of that stuff. The men seemed satisfied with my answer though. The conversation thankfully went another way and I just clutched my glass of whiskey, listening. I would occasionally pretend to nip at it but held the glass with both hands, so as to conceal the fact that the level of liquid was not dropping. At the end of the evening, I stood up and just as I was trying to dispose of my glass and thought I was in the clear, Thomas caught a glimpse of it. He immediately saw that I had not had more than the two swigs at the beginning of the night. He was so rattled, he almost made a scene. I tried to explain but there was no explaining, there was just betrayal and rejection of his favourite beverage, of what this beverage represented to all of them. I was terribly embarassed and didn’t know what to say to make it better. A few days later, Thomas, who in another lifetime had been a 5 star chef, made us some spumy fig creme with whiskey and to this day, I believe that he deliberately added more whiskey than any recipe could have originally called for, just for my attention.

I hated whiskey all those years and until today, I’ve never had it again, in any form. Back then it tasted horrible and today, today it tasted wonderfully and laden with the memories of those unforgettable moments at the edge of the desert, four years ago.

Live long and prosper, peace,

Anna

ps: incidentally and just to lighten the mood: I love the chemical smell of port-a-potties. Not because I actually like the smell but because when I was a set intern for a German TV crime movie, back when I was sweet sixteen, we had port-a-potties when we shot outside. I loved every second I spent on that movie set and so I associate the smell of these vile things with that internship. I.e. I love the smell of port-a-potties!

I’m not lost. It’s just a big boat and I’ve only lived here for three years.

Stick a fork in me, I’m done. As of right now, there are officially no films, in this life or the next, that I will ever truly need to see. Because I have seen the best of them. The ultimate film. The best film ever made and ever to be made. Nothing compares to… The Boat That Rocked.

There is no need for me to go into details, anything you can possibly ask about, cinematography, script, cast, editing, MUSIC – all is perfect. There’s no need for me to tell you what you’ll experience, what you’ll feel because you will experience and feel it all. It. Is. Perfect.

It’s a strange, almost sad feeling to know I’ve come to the end of every film freak’s quest: to see the best film of all. At the age of 23. To quote from the musical Evita: “High-flying, adored / What happens now, where do you go from here? / For someone on top of the world / The view is not exactly clear / A shame you did it all, at twenty-six / There are no mysteries now / Nothing can thrill you / No one fulfil you / High-flying, adored / I hope you come to terms with boredom / So famous, so easily, so soon / It’s not the wisest thing to be/”. Ahem. Sometimes, emotions are so overwhelming you can only express them in song (see: The Boat That Rocked).

Sure, there are minor quests left, like, say… seeing all the films ever made. But seeing the best of them? Check. Double check. I need to find an additional hobby. Maybe learn another language or take painting classes. Pottery?

Any which way: you have to go see The Boat That Rocked. That’s not a suggestion, it’s an order. The most imperative one you’ll ever get (are we sensing a trend with the superlatives here?). GO. SEE. THE BOAT THAT ROCKED. You have not lived if you don’t. And you’ll be frittering away in a useless existence if you don’t. Seriously mates, don’t take this lightly. You can start taking it lightly again once you’re in that cinema watching this dazzling, shockingly perfect movie. That’s right, I’m still shocked by how incredible it is.

Live long and prosper, all ye who will go forth to watch The Boat That Rocked, peace,

Anna

ps: credit where credit is due: I used the wallpaper maker from the film’s official website to create my new header – I can’t live without these boys!

I’m looking forward to a good cry.

This has had me in tears every time I’ve seen it for the last few days. Watch, cry, love and learn:

Susan Boyle on Britain’s Got Talent 2009

(http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q0HYrwT9vBE  – in case the link didn’t work)

This is the best video I could find. Sorry I can’t embed it but all the videos with her have disabled embedding. Please, go and see it anyway.

Seen it? Okay, take a deep breath.

Now, I have no words, literally, no words. I know that millions of people have already seen this and probably blogged about it but I just had to as well. What the clip doesn’t mention is that Susan tended to her sick mother until she died, about a year ago. And even though this is something she felt she needed to do for herself, she dedicated the performance to her deceased mother. I hope Susan wins this whole damn thing. Sometimes, reality TV is a grand thing.

I’m sure she won’t be able to save herself from kisses now. What a truly beautiful, incredibly talented, amazing human being. I bow before her courage, inner strength and beauty. May we all learn from this. Now go get yourself someone to hug!

Live long and prosper Susan Boyle, peace,

Anna

We get the warhead and we hold the world ransom for… one million dollars!!

Hey everyone! Ok, so this is another meme post. Yes, I’m addicted. I’ve got a problem. Maybe there’s a meme that can help me with that?

Anyhoo: it’s another one I got from Maria at Just Eat Your Cupcake. I find it highly amusing that I found her blog through a meme and now she keeps having more and more fun memes and I just can’t help doing them. So here it goes, the gazillionth meme. An Alphabet Meme.

A.

Age:

23. Oh god, I’m one foot in the grave already!

Annoyance:

People in a cinema doing something other than watching the films or making out. Making out is cool in my book. Oh yeah, and people who leave before the credits are done. Heathens!!

Allergic:

Raw tomatoes, pollen of all sorts, cats, kiwis, melons (not the boobie kind), some types of grapes and anything remotely pineapple connected. Seriously. I get an allergic reaction just from the smell of it.

Animal:

I’m a total dog person. I love how they love you unconditionally, as long as you’re a little nice to them. I love their eyes. I miss my dog who’s living in Munich with my parents. *cries in a corner*

Actor:

As in favourite? James Stewart. I’m hoping there is a heaven just to get to see James Stewart in person (or rather, in angel). I’m also crazy about Zach Braff (brains and looks, mmraow!), David Duchovny, Keanu Reeves and lately, Robert Pattinson.

B

Beer:

Well, I was born in Beerland. In its capital Beercity. Otherwise known as Munich, Bavaria. And I don’t drink beer. Like, ever. I hate the bitter taste all beers have (yes, all beers!) and I just don’t see the point. It’s probably my least favourite alcohol ever. But please don’t tell any Bavarians.

Best Friend:

Carola. She’s moving away in July and I don’t know what I’m going to do without her.  Just thinking about it makes me sick. Next question!

Best feeling in the world:

Kisses on the lower back. Enough said.

Best weather

Sunny autumnal weather is my favourite. Weather where you don’t need a coat yet but there’s also no need for sleeveless tops. I hate being sleeveless.

Been in love?

Hell yeah. See last post for all the gory details.

Been bitched out?

As in hit or as in cussed at? I’ve never been hit. And I don’t really remember ever getting into a nasty verbal fight either… Did I miss out on something?

Been on stage?

Yes, several times in high-school and later with Entity Theatre. Man, I miss those guys. Should I ever live in Munich again, I’ll certainly rejoin them. I like being on stage. I like that feeling when I transform nerves into energy to play. It’s so powerful!

Believe in life on other planets?

It’s not a question of belief for me. Of course there is life on other planets. It’s statistically impossible for there not to be. But I do hope we find it one day and that I’ll be there to witness it. Right now, I figure that if I lived to see a black man become president of the United States, there might also be a chance I’ll witness the first contact. But then again, I’m really good at wishful thinking.

Believe in miracles?

Yes, but not the divine intervention kind. For example, I believe that it’s a miracle to have a Dad like mine.

Believe in magic?

Let’s just say, I really hope it truly exists. As for me? I do a little hand-signal whenever I’m at a door with a motion-sensor and pretend like I’ve got telekinetic powers. Yup. I’m batshit crazy. But that’s why ya luv me, innit?

Believe in God?

I’m agnostic (in tune with the magic thing I guess). I would really, really love to believe in God. Any God. The people I see who do seem to have it so much easier in life. They have outside guidance and something they can always rely on, always fall back on. I wish I could believe, truly believe. But I can’t. I don’t think I ever really could but I know that my years studying Egyptology have made it even worse. When a religion becomes a purely scientific object you need to study, there’s not much room left for all the mystical magic surrounding it. I don’t mind that having happened. But I sure wish I had religious faith sometimes.

Believe in Satan?

Nope.

Believe in ghosts?

More than I do in God. A part of me says ghosts et al are rubbish but another part of me thinks (and hopes) there might be something to it.

C

Car:

Don’t have one and it’s probably gonna be a while before I do. But I like anything Jeep-ey, anything that remotely looks badass military. I love Humvees for example. They make me want to take a lovely girl, throw her on the backseat and have my evil way with her. They are fucking hot. But I’d never drive one because they are gaz-guzzlers of the worst kind and an ecological crime. Damn that Jiminy Cricket!

Candy:

White chocolate pralines. And caramel. And maple syrup. Do all these even count? Oh god, now I want some. Good thing I haven’t any in the house.

Color:

Wine red and turquoise.

Cried in school?

No, not that I can recall. I have cried because of school but not while I was there.

Chinese or Mexican food?

Definitely Chinese.

Cake or pie?

Cake. Squishy.

Countries to visit:

India, New Zealand, Holy See, South Africa, USA, Mozambique, Iceland, Australia, Peru, Japan and lots of others I can’t think of right now. Oh yeah and, does space count?

D

Day or night?

I seem to be a night owl. But I do love dawn in the arms of a lover.

Dream vehicle:

As I said, a Humvee. Other than that, I really like the car Thelma and Louise drive.

Dance in the rain?

Oh yes! I love dancing in the rain. It gives me a sense of peace and freedom. Almost feels like being removed from time and space and melting with the rain. Wow, now I badly want it to rain.

Dance in the middle of the street?

Umm… don’t think that has happened yet. But I would if another person were involved. By myself, I’d feel like a crazy person. Ok, so I’m already crazy. But I don’t need to advertise it every chance I get, now do I?

E

Eggs?

Best in an omelette, scrambled or in baked goods. I make a mean omelette. But the best omelette I ever had was in Egypt, the one Ahmed the Cook used to make me on Friday mornings, our day off. He’d always ask “Kibir?” (“Big one?”) and I’d say “Kibir, kibir!” and then he’d make me a four-egg omelette straight from heaven. I’ve tried reproducing it but I’ve always failed. Maybe the butter and eggs taste different in Egypt than they do here.

Eyes:

Yup, got those. They’re blue-green-grey. Sometimes, I even have a third one but I don’t know what colour that is.

Everyone has a

book that’s made them cry.

Ever failed a class?

Yes. Maths, physics and chemistry. I wasn’t proud of it but I didn’t dwell on it either. I was always perfect in all my other classes, it was never a problem to fail these. Besides, it really wasn’t my fault, it was the horrid teachers I had.

F

First crush:

Two, in kindergarten: they were called Stefan and Isidor. Stefan used to love being kissed by me and I loved to kiss him. He has the smoothest skin I’ve ever felt. Isidor said he’d judo-kick me if I tried kissing him again but… he didn’t. Ha. And yes, I had Stefan and Isidor around my little fingers simultaneously. My goodness, I was poly in kindergarten!

First thought waking up:

“Pee first. Then wake up. God, how the hell will I ever wake up?”

Food:

Kinda necessary for survival. If it were strictly up to me, I’d live on nothing but sushi and ice cream. Served by cute geishas and Robert Pattinson respectively.

G

Greatest fear:

Losing my Dad.

Gum

Hate when it sticks to my shoe.

Get along with parents?

On the whole, I suppose you could say so, yes.

Good luck charms:

Don’t really believe in those. I think the jewelry I put on serves a sort of good luck charm though. I feel special all day when I’m wearing a piece that was given to me by my mum or my grandmother. It actually makes me feel a little invincible when I wear one of the diamond rings my grandmother gave me. My German grandmother.

H

Hair color:

Sort of a dark honey-blonde.

Height:

Tall for a girl. 174,5cm.

Happy?

Trying very hard to be it. Please tell me I get at least an A for effort.

Holidays?

Like ‘em but celebrate a lot less of them since I moved out. Which kinda stings a little. Especially at the moment, where seemingly all of Switzerland has gone into an Easter-frenzy.

Health freak?

In some ways. I’m working on the other ways, mmkay?

In (guys/girls)

Eye color?

I prefer green or any kind of fascinating blue. But I also like black in guys.

Hair color?

Don’t care at all. But I do have a weakness for naturally ginger girls.

Height?

Girls: like the Amazon type height but it won’t affect my ultimate decision at all. Guys: like ‘em taller than me (waaaay taller if possible) but always seem to end up with ones that are the same height or, ack, smaller.

Clothing style?

Anything that reflects the personality of the person inside the clothes (and some creativity maybe) is fine by me.

Characteristics

I love it when a person is passionate about something. Especially about me. Nah, just kidding. I also like people who know their essential films and directors. It’s not a must but it helps if you’ve seen Annie Hall, Spartacus, Star Wars and Vertigo.

I

Ice cream:

Vermonster, Peace of Cake and Mövenpick’s Tiramisú. Half-molten Cookie Dough is also great.

Instrument

I’m more of a singer. My piano and violin lessons never paid off.

J

Jewelry

My favourite kind of jewelry is the kind with a history. Hence, pieces given to me or pieces that I’ve bought for myself but with a certain meaning attached to them. Like my Tiffany’s ring and necklace.

Job:

My money mainly comes from ghostwriting these days. But I consider my job to be: journalist.

K

Kids

I have a feeling I’ll be one of those people who only like their own (if I ever have some at all). But I’m cool with that.

Keep a journal?

My blog is my main journal. But I do have a notebook on my nightstand that I write things in that I wouldn’t publish. I also have notebooks where I write my poems and songs in. Actually, I write a whole hell of a lot. Privately and for work. But yeah, my blog is my journal.

L

Longest car ride?

None comes to mind. The longest travel I ever had to endure was by plane. I was coming back from Egypt and there had been, unbeknownst to me at the time of take-off, terrorist attacks in Cairo only a few hours before my plane left the ground. We were subsequently stuck in Hurghada for about 6 hours (before flying another three to Germany) and all the while, I was sick as a dog, not having recovered yet from a bug that had struck me down something fierce two days before. I have a knack for needing to travel on days where I’m sick as a dog.
Love:

In BDSM terms: it’s a hell of a switch. A frightening, bitch-smackin’ top one day and a sweet, cowering bottom the next. It’s mood-swings give me whiplash (no pun intended and bonus points for those who discover the hidden movie quote).

Laughed so hard you cried:

Many, many times. My laughing-fits are absolutely notorious.

Love at first sight?

Hasn’t happened to me yet (except with Robert Pattinson) but as I said in my last post, my first boyfriend fell in love at first sight with me. I do think it exists.

M

Milk flavor:

Does milk need a flavour? I’m not a big milk drinker… The best milk beverage I ever had was in Spain and it’s called leche merengada. If you ever have the opportunity to try it, don’t let it pass you by. It’s divine.

Movie:

Yes, I like movies. No, I can’t tell you what my favourite one is. It took me over 20 years to figure out who my favourite actor is, so please, bugger off and leave me alone with that favourite movie stuff. I haven’t got the brainspace for that right now.

Mooned anyone?

Not intentionally, in a “I’m pulling my pants to moon you” way, no. I’ve flashed people though. Both my boyfriends used to turn 14 shades of purple when I flashed them in public, which only made it even more appealing.

Marriage?

Only with the right one. I figure that the person I’m going to be willing to marry will also be the person I’ll be willing to have kids with. Let’s see if it happens.

Motion sickness?

God yes, especially in cars, even when I’m riding shotgun. I hate motion sickness. It stays with me for hours afterwards.

N

Number of siblings:

One baby brother.

Number of piercings:

None, I’m too much of a pussy to get some. Though recently I have been thinking about getting my earlobes pierced. But I’m sure I’ll chicken out.

Number

I like 42 and 47 best. Super bonus gold star points if you figure out why I like 47.

O

Overused phrases:

“nOOb!” and “I’m fine”

One wish

70kg for the rest of my life.

One phobia

Arachnophobia.

P

Place you’d like to live

London or anywhere where I can look out on a body of water. Any body of water.

Pepsi or coke?

Ginger Ale.

Q

Quail?

Yummy when my Mum does them. “I feel totally ridiculous. Like why do I have to be in camouflage? So the big bad quail doesn’t see me?” Name that silly movie.

R

Reason to cry:

I cry all the time and I don’t seem to need a good reason anymore, these days. A really good reason though? When my Dad is not healthy. When my dogs died.

Reality tv?

I love America’s Next Top Model. Especially if I’m having ice cream while it’s playing.

Radio station:

Don’t really listen to radio. It’s not my kink.

Roll your tongue in a circle

What’s the point, you can’t see me doing it anyway.

S

Song?

House of Hope by Toni Childs is pretty amazing.

Sushi?

Yes. Anytime, anywhere, anyhow.

Skipped school?

Twice in twelve years. With my Mum teaching at the same school I went to, this wasn’t a good or practical idea. And one time, I got caught by precisely the teacher whose class I was skipping.

Slept outside?

Yep and I loved it.

Seen a dead body?

Yes, I’ve seen (and worked on) many mummies up close and I’ve also been to a “fresh” autopsy once. It was fascinating. My previous studies which got me in touch with all these things did teach me one thing though: great respect for the dead. Not in the “don’t talk bad about the dead” sense but in the sense that if you study a dead person, you need to realise that this was once a human being, just like you, breathing, laughing, talking. Even though I’m pretty hardened about these things and not squirmish at all, I can’t remember ever touching a dead body without a lot of reverence and gratefulness that I was now able to learn something from that person’s death. Working on dead bodies has been very humbling for me.

Skinny dipped

Yes, many times. When I was a child we used to spend every summer in Cannes. Right of the coast there is an island we used to take day trips to. There was a special spot there, with lots of cliffs and sheeted, pointy rocks where we used to settle for the day. My great-grandmother used to call it “Le Bain Des Nymphes” (the nymphs’ bath) because it was difficult to access (i.e. almost no other people), yet the best spot to swim on the island. And she used to swim there naked. So my Mum and I did too, often.

Shower daily?

Yes. At least on days when I need to leave the house at all.

Sing well?

Yes, but my voice has changed over time. I used to be a soprano back when I was singing in choirs, now I can’t naturally reach those high tones anymore. I’d have to train for that and I don’t.

Sing in the shower?

Regularly.

Swear?

Hell yeah, motherfucker. I also recently discovered that the funniest swearword ever is “numbnuts”. I just love that word. It’s fucking hilarious.

Strawberries or blueberries?

Strawberries. And cream.

Scientists need to invent

A cure for my Dad’s cancer.

T

Time for bed:

Usually not before 1am. I try do be better but… I don’t manage very often.

Thunderstorms?

I like them a lot. A lot, a lot. I love their raw power.

U

Unpredictable?

At least they call me that. I see myself as annoyingly predictable sometimes.

Under the influence:

Never have been, probably never will. And that’s fine as is. I also don’t really like other people when they’re drunk. I think it’s gross and embarassing.

V

Vegetable you hate:

Artichokes. Yuck. Double yuck.

Vegetable you love

Broccoli! I HEART broccoli!

Vacation spot:

I’d love to go to London again.

W

Weakness:

DVDs. I’m starting to run out of place to put them.

Which one of your friends acts the most like you?

None of my friends act at all like me. What does that say?

Who makes you laugh the most?

Simon Pegg. My darling, darling, darling Simon Pegg.

Worst feeling:

Hurting my Dad.

Wanted to be a model?

Yes, especially when I’m watching ANTM with some ice cream and think “Oh, I so would have nailed that!”

Where do we go when we die?

Back into the circle of life and hopefully we stay in the minds of our loved ones.

Worst weather:

Snow and rain. Ugh.

Walk with a book on your head?

Never tried it. Hold on. Ok, I picked my prettiest hardcover (Dostojewski short stories) and did the runway walk with it on my head, with pose and the end, turn and go back. I totally rocked it. See, I told ya I should be on ANTM.

X

X-rays?

A few but not an alarming number of them.

Y

Yellow

Snow.

Z

Zoo animals.

I like having the opportunity to see rare animals but I do always pity them when they don’t have enough adequate space. And they often don’t.

Zodiac sign?

Cancer.

Live long and prosper, o ye who have come to the end of this post, peace,

Anna

I know only one world and in this world, I have loved you.

Spring has finally sprung here and the weather is charming. It’s also made me think however. A few posts ago I mentioned how my first boyfriend had contacted me to tell me he was getting married on the 15th of April. I wrote him a short, nice reply and wished him all the best. I thought that would be that but he answered me. He asked how I was doing.

That was almost a week ago and I haven’t answered anything yet. Anything with the truth in it seems like too much information he doesn’t need (or will want) to know. But I don’t want to lie to him either. I’ve been racking my brain to come up with an evasive, roundabout, euphemistic way of saying “Not so hot. I’ve been single for about 2 1/2 years now, I hate it and since we last spoke, I was diagnosed with an incurable disease” – all of which I don’t want to sound like I’m fishing for pity or, worse yet, fishing for a “I’ll drop everything and get back with you” response from him. That whole pickle has got me thinking about love and what role it has played in my life so far.

I have only been in love twice. Maybe that’s not even so bad for someone who is 23 but it feels like… not a whole lot. I was in love with my first boyfriend, Elmar, and I was deeply in love with Steve. And although both of these souls that have been a part of my life have been loved, they have been loved by me in very different ways. Oh yes, and the fact that both of them were male is just a coincidence.

Elmar was the perfect man at the perfect time and place. I suppose a great part of why I loved him was simply that I loved the universe for having made all the circumstances converge in such a way that nothing could have stopped this all from happening. Elmar crossed my path in life at a time where I most needed proof that I could be loved. I know that on his part, it was love at first sight. Me? It took me about four more days to fully realise what was going on. He told me he was in love with me on a bench outside the clinic I was in at the time. A day later, I kissed him in the TV room and I think he almost cried. I love first kisses. They are so unforgettable. We had a great time together. It was like we had been made in the same mould, then broken apart only to find each other years later and finally come together again. We… fitted each other. All in all, we weren’t together for a very long time but since it felt, every day, as if we had been together for years, that was of no importance. We broke up amicably, no hard feelings on either side. I never once cried about that break-up or was otherwise saddened by it. I think Elmar was, at times. At least, he has repeatedly told me so. I loved him because it felt a little like he had saved me and I had saved him from a worser fate. We unlocked each other’s hearts and then we went our separate ways. That is certainly not the worst thing that can happen to a pair of lovers.

I got together with Steve almost by accident. I didn’t even realise I was attracted to him until I actually spent a night at his place, by sheer hazard. Nothing happened that first night, we slept in separate beds and he went to work in the morning while I woke up, dazed and most confused as I realised this was the first night I had, without planning it beforehand, spent away from my home at my parents’. I had a post-coital glow about me as I went back home and since we hadn’t had sex but the glow was undeniably present, that kinda clued me in about my attraction to Steve. We got together quickly, again. We were like magnets and there was no escaping that. Steve changed me in profound ways. My relationship with him made me grow up a whole lot. I knew for certain that I loved him one night when we were watching one of the Blade movies at my place (I had moved out of my parents’ by then). We touched our indexes together and he smiled a special smile and I knew right then and there. I didn’t say it though. Actually, I didn’t say the three words until the day he broke up with me. I didn’t because he was new to what we were experiencing. I didn’t want to push him too hard, frighten him away by saying “I love you” before he did. I don’t have many regrets in my life but this is one of them. I regret not having told him what I felt the moment I was sure about it. The bitter truth is: Steve never said “I love you” once. Okay, so this one time he said “I love you in the mornings” but I think he was referring to me being cute when I wake up (he saw things I do not see) and so that doesn’t really count, does it? I kept thinking I had to give him space and time to say it when he felt ready for it. I wasn’t worried at all because I thought we had all the time in the world and that he would surely come around. I wasn’t worried because I felt that his actions said he loved me even if he couldn’t. I deduced that talking about our children’s names and the bedroom-wall paint for our flat in Zurich meant that he loved me. I must not be up to par with Sherlock Holmes because apparently, all that meant diddly-squat to him in the end. Funnily enough (in a tragic kind of way), some heart-unlocking was done here too. Steve had been in a world of hurt before he met me and it was like he was a prisoner of his own misconceptions about himself. I showed him, very consciously, that his aching past did not have to affect his present and his future. That was a delicate thing to master but I succeeded. I did too well, in fact. Unforeseeable to me, there came a point where he didn’t want to continue digging in his psyche. He wanted to gloss over the pain of the previous years instead of working on it to exorcise it. Since it must have been obvious to his subconscious that he would never be able to do that with me, he chose the comfort of another’s arms. And the other he chose would never know and never ask. I unlocked his heart and gave him the confidence and validation he needed to know that he was loveable. He took that and ran before I would delve deeper. My heart was of no importance in all this. Not to him and, in a strange way, not to me either, I think.

In the end… it doesn’t matter anymore what he felt or didn’t feel for me. All I know is that I loved this man, all-consumingly, ardently, wildly and – this was probably a mistake – unprotectedly. I don’t regret having loved him because loving him taught me a great deal. The main difference between my love for Elmar and my love for Steve? My love for Elmar is in the past. It’s a part of my history as a human being. My love for Steve transcends time and space, no matter how much I wish it were not so. It’s become a part of my being. This doesn’t mean that I would want him back or that I’ll never love again. But it’s there, like a scar on my heart. The wound has long since healed but you’ll always know it was there, once. Elmar? No scar.

I’m glad to know that I have loved. I don’t know if I’m loveable anymore or if I’ll ever know love again but at least, I can say I know what it feels like. And you know what it feels like? It fucking hurts, most of the time. I don’t recommend it.

But I do.

Live long and prosper, peace,

Anna

and for a little lightheartedness in this serious post, one of my favourite songs ever – My Interpretation by Mika:

How about four hours in a freezing museum auditorium listening to Professor Pitstains and his “Hey everybody, remember that thing that’s been dead for a gazillion years? Well, here’s a little bone we didn’t know it had!”

I’m coming from Maria’s “just eat your cupcake” blog (amazing, by the way, check it out) and she just did a “10 things I bet you didn’t know about me” meme and asked her readers if they’d share 10 of their things. And because I’m admittedly (and that you do know about me) meme-crazy, I’m doing it. As if there’s anything left you don’t know about me. Let’s see what I can come up with, eh?

1) I am totally paranoid about losing my housekeys and my glasses. So paranoid, that I’ve never, not once in my life, lost either. I always double and triple check if I have them with me and so far, I’ve yet to lose a set of keys or my glasses. I have no idea where this paranoia comes from, but it sure is there.

2) I recently bought two beautiful wineglasses although I never drink wine. As you know, I hardly ever drink alcohol (twice a year, tops) so this makes no sense at all. But I saw them and lusted after them and being a woman makes it really easy to come up with excuses as to why I absolutely need these wineglasses and “They don’t have to be used for alcohol, I can fix desserts and other stuff in them too!” We women, we always find an excuse why we need things we don’t need. Since I’ve had the glasses, though, I’ve actually started using them to fix myself a drink, about once a week. I keep a small bottle of ginger ale in my fridge and I fix myself a Shirley Temple. In a wineglass. And then I feel all grown up and cool when I slowly sip on it. I love the feel of a wineglass.

3) I like porn. But not gay or lesbian porn. I find queer porn incredibly boring, no matter how extravagant they try to get in the set-ups and get-ups. I’m just bored to death by it. Straight porn, however, is pretty cool. My dad always says “You’re such a guy” – I guess he’s definitely right when it comes to porn. Studies have shown that men are easily visually stimulated, which is why they love porn so much. Women on the other hand are hard to stimulate sexually by mere visuals, which is why women tend not to like porn or find it boring at best. I’m definitely visually stimulate-able, so I guess what my dad says is right. However, I am picky about the porn I watch and I can’t watch it for hours. 10 minutes is my maximum. I wonder how long men can watch it? Okay, stopping here.

4) I once inadvertently killed a frog. I must have been about nine years old and I brought a frog egg all the way from the pond in the park to my house. I just scooped it up in my palm and transported it for about 10 minutes and no harm was done. Then I put it in a jam jar with lots of water, rocks, dirt and a few plants. After a few days, a tiny, cute-as-a-button tadpole hatched from the egg and began happily swimming in the jam jar. I watched it grow bigger and bigger for weeks, diligently changing the water and the other contents of the jar. One day, legs starting growing on it. Then I went to school one morning and when I came back, there was a minuscule frog floating, belly-up, in my jam jar. I was heartbroken and couldn’t figure out why he had died. I buried him in a matchbox and cried all day. A few days later, someone told me that when they start growing legs, it means they are developing lungs and will soon go out of the water. But they need something to help them climb out of the water, a ladder or a ramp. My poor little frog had had no such thing and had drowned in his own home. *sniffles*

5) In kindergarten, I mainly hung out with the boys and loved rough-housing with them. I was a wild thing. But even though I was always with the guys, when we built forts and obstacle courses in our padded play-room (god, I love that room), I always got chosen as playing the damsel in distress, the princess in need of rescue. Of course, I’d put my own spin on things and usually ended up wrestling with the thugs and monsters holding me captive, but to this day I remember how much I loved being the princess. I’d still like to be the princess. But that time is loooong gone, I suppose.

6) I already know what I want in my first normal-sized appartment, when I start making some real money. I want a real study. In it, I’ll have a huge desk, a TV, a couch, a leather armchair, my PC, a CD-player and books and DVDs everywhere.

7) Even though I’m not sure I’ll ever want or have children, I have their names picked out. And they will have those names.

One day, I want to dress up as Lara Croft and go to a comic convention.

9) I love to wear silk stockings. There’s no feeling in the world that is comparable to it.

10) I have three different perfumes I use, depending on the occasion and the mood. I wear Marc Jacob’s Daisy when I feel sultry and grown-up. Or when I need to make an official appearance, at a meeting etc. I wear L’Occitane’s Cherry Blossom on what I call “Whatever Days” – days when I feel low, don’t care about my appearance, just quickly wanna get out of the house. I wear Burberry’s Baby Touch on days when I’m cheery, playful and in an energetic mood. Daisy and Baby Touch are also my date fragrances and I wear them depending on the date and the time of day I’m meeting my date.

So there ya go. More useless trivia about me. Now I’m off to do some spring-cleaning and my laundry!

Live long and prosper, peace,

Anna