Super mABIo

We Americans ask some pretty dumb questions to foreigners. I, for example, have asked Germans if they celebrate Thanksgiving. Because, why not? I don't ever really think of it as the settlers landing on Plymouth Rock or whatever. It's really just an excuse to eat turkey and pie all day while watching the Lions fumble around, right?
Oh wait, you guys like soccer not football. Because they are called football and soccer. Stop trying to confuse the rest of the world with your American football and normal football, phff.

One thing I never assumed though was that other countries have proms. Because that's all American, baby. Well, wrong on both accounts. They do have them, at least in Germany, and they're called Abiballs. An abiture is the German equivilant of a diploma (I'm sorry I'm shortening that definition, German readers, but it's too confusing for us simple folk.) and the abiball is where they hand them out. It's a mixture of prom and graduation ceremony. Yesterday I attended Nick's with a couple of his friends and it was pretty cool. And in a palace.

Staying classy while taking the subway. I'm 90% sure there's a hobo in the background shaking his fist at us.

We did the formal picture things...

This is Nick for all who don't know.

 ...the not so formal pictures...

 This is Falco for anyone who cares.

...ate some awesome food, made a lot of toasts, watched tap dancers, listened to a mini-band sing Johnny Cash, and saw Nick get his abiture to the soundtrack of Kill Bill.

Classic abiball. 
In a palace.

Did I mention the place was a palace? Beautiful, beautiful venue. I could see three monstrous chandeliers from where I was sitting alone, marble pillars, the works. It was straight out of a James Bond movie -- think Roger Moore not Daniel Craig-- I desperately wanted to ask the waiter for something shaken and not stirn....

Champange flutes and tuxedos for everyone!

I couldn't tell you if there was dancing at an abiball, we left just after all the programmed stuff had finished. By left, I mean ran out of the hall as quickly as we could in red pumps because Nick and his friends wanted to make it to another kids birthday party and his parents didn't want to miss the last train home. I opted to go home. Good thing, too as Nick got back at four in the morning.

What makes that great is because today is the dreariest, rainiest day I could imagine. Perfect for not getting up until ten-thirty and then lounging around all day. It was a day for the books, too. Around two I decided to start blogging and Nick looked at me in all earnesty and we had this conversation:

'I'm going to take a nap.'
'Okay...What? Do you need me to show you how?' (I am a napping master.)
'Maybe...'
*minor eye roll* 'Just curl up and go to sleep.'
Two hours later...
'I should have never napped, now I'm just hungry and more tired. ...Will you make me pancakes?'

Classic abiball.

Done! ...with Avengance

Today I am invincible! Finally am I finished with all of my referats.  For the rest of the summer semester I can sit back, relax, enjoy the rest of the show because as of this morning I no longer need to worry about teaching my class about stereotypes, or Clemens Meyers, or assisted suicide in Switzerland. (Yeah, that last one was a doozy of a topic.) I am free! Did I also mention that today also begins the week-long Pfingstenferien? That's right. A week off for Pentacost!

At this point in my blog post I was prepared to tack in a picture of me jubilantly jumping into the air with the torn bits of my speeches fluttering down around me. I took the picture too, I just forgot the camera and am therefore much too lazy to worry about going and getting it before I post this. So, everyone, please just mental picture that.

The freedom of this is only topped by what I found in my e-mail this morning. Summed up, it seems that hell hath no wrath like a mama bear.

To prove my point, give one off-hand comment to your mom about how you can't get into a bathroom and this is what you'll get back:
      "About the bath room situation.  Pound on the door and say I need to use the bathroom.  If that doesn't solve the problem pee in her paperbasket."

That is the answer, my dear friends, to all of your personal problems. Don't politely ask her to shorten her bathroom excursions, just go straight ahead and  pee in her paperbasket. You can all stop wondering about where I get my awesome from. I found the source.

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Thanks for the questions, now I'll gladly answer:

 1. How did you get to be so awesome?
At the ripe age of four, I already knew that wrinkle-free socks and bathing suits were the superior clothing line, and that all cemented the fact when I learned that you cannot spell 'awesome' without 'me'. From there on out it was a lot of hard work and daily meditation. (That and possibly a godmother who told the best stories about karate-chopping Grandmothers. Heee-ya!)
 
2. Have you ever considered writing a how to book on being awesome?
Of course. But too soon I realized it would become adapted for a straight to DVD movie or aired on the Lifetime Channel and I didn't want to deal with all the legal struggle.

3. Could you possibly bottle your awesomeness and sell some to those of us who are, well, less awesome?
I'm glad you asked. I'm currently working on a fragrance line with Christian Dior. It's to be called , "Eu de Sonnybrooke Farms" or something haughty like that. I haven't quite decided. What I do know is that it's set to premiere in mid-September. I'll keep you updated.

Bathroom Wars

Reality shows are based (somewhat) on a kernel of reality, yes? Then it's only time before MTV gets their crews in here to film my bathroom. Have you seen what they'll put on?

If he can have one, then anyone can.

After they run out of ideas they can go ahead and head into the depths of my bathroom to film the rat race going on in there. It's a cruddy little cement block of a windowless room that kind of smells like...well, a bathroom, but you get my idea. But when I have to resort to going into another dorm to use a bathroom because my roommate and her boyfriend live inside of it, I think it's a little ridiculous.
That could be the plot: Everyone lives in the bathroom and the first one to actually use it for bathroom purposes wins! Then they get to leave and go on with their life.

Last night, I walked into my apartment and the bathroom door is closed. I was tired, so instead of waiting I just took my contacts out in my room, flossed my teeth in my room and went to bed. They came out of the bathroom almost an hour later. This morning, woke up and of course the first thing you have to do is go to the bathroom. Like my bladder was about to explode. It is about to explode. Present tense. They're still in there. It's been almost two hours. That's not even the worst part. The worst part is this is a daily occurrence, and maybe the fact I'm too much of a wuss to actually say something to her about it.

I know, I know. Not the most provocative blog entry ever done, but when you write about daily life long enough, you hit the life part of it. Welcome to my life.

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Seeing as how I really need to pee but keep writing to distract myself, I thought it'd be an idea if you guys could toss out a couple of questions to me. Anything at all about life in Germany, life at all, how awesome I am, take your pick.
Because right now the craziest thing that has happened lately was our attempt to go to a booked ballet. That just resulted in walking around Stuttgart drinking milkshakes and watching fire performers for a couple of hours. In formal attire.

It would be beneficial to both students and staff if we scheduled more snow days

-J. Warner

Never more true words by a very intelligent man.

For the first time in my life I do not have school five days a week. I am blessed with only three and the other two are mine, mine, mine! Germany is also pretty awesome in the sense that they have holidays gallore. The kind where you get school off. For everything.

Feast of the Ascension? No school.
Worker's Day? Nope.
Pentacost? A whole week of no school.
Father's Day? Good morning, sunshine! Sleep in, today you don't have school.

If we find that 3 day school week = t. And high amounts of days off anyway = h.
Then t + h = a really happy Becca.

And this would be where my math skills go down the drain because the less days of school I have means the less of those holidays I actually get off. So while today may be a really neat excuse to get out of school, I don't even have school anyway. Bummer.

Either way though, I am pretty sure I win.

However, I disgress. Today is Father's day in Germany and while I've heard some horror stories of middle aged men being carted around in wheelbarrows out of incapacitated-ness it is currently noon in Germany and I haven't seen a one. Maybe later, who knows? Either way, here's a shout out to all the dad's in my life. You know who you are. And if you don't, chances are you're Eric.

Because getting the Thumb is Way better than the Finger

Raise your hand if you have seen the movie Clueless. Chances are if your hand is in the air you, for one, feel silly because you just raised your hand in front of a computer, two, grew up in the nineties, or three, are a fan of Alicia Silverstone.

Remember the scene where all the snobby girls are getting ready for tennis in gym class and the new girl walks out in a pair of jean-short overalls and a red shirt and the mean girl tee-hees, "She could be a farmer in those clothes"?

Watching that movie at the ripe age of seven I never realized that was intended to be an insult.

Consider your world flipped upside down! In Tübingen I have met a couple people who think farming is cool. And not just cool in the sense that it respectfully provides them with food and clothing on a daily basis, but rather they think it would be interesting to intern on one. In a sense, they actually want to milk a cow. People who have traveled Europe, backpacked Africa, own BMW's, live in nothing short of a palace, actually want to milk a cow. It's like this reverse yuppie effect. People who grew up with everything I've ever wanted are jealous of me because I have the life that only ten percent of United States citizens enjoy. The one with "real world experience and work ethic." Eat it, Mark Zuckerberg! Real farming tops Farmville!

Forget imported labor, just start hiring the city slicker.

I have siblings who are face-palming right now because I am not even that farm-y. Sure, I grew up on one. I drive tractors, milked cows, hoed sugar beets, bailed hay and straw with the best of them. They, however, were the E&R Gentner of E&R Gentner farms.  I always prefer working back at home. Don't think it's not any less important or hard. Imagine Betty Crocker on amphetamines.
I guess it's just because out of my sisters I am the "refined one." Which is funny because my Mom was always very inclined to tell me, "You could be a hobo in those clothes."
As if.