Flux=Rad. 
Somehow playing in a big pile of dirt helps him forget his ass is hanging out. Mommy just needs to remind him of things like this, and hoard these images until he’s old enough to appreciate how much we laugh at him.
I could go on for days about the ways in which Germany is different from the U.S., but be honest: you don’t want to hear me go on about that shit. If you don’t live here [most of you don’t, actually, only like four of you do] it’s probably just annoying. I’ll prove it:
Oh MAH God you guys! Today I went to the mall and the Europeans have so many different kinds of meats on display! Did I mention grown men wear pedal pushers [ie Capris pants!] or did I tell you the road signs with a big fucking H on them mark public transportation stops, not hospitals? OH SHIT THEY DON’T PUT EGGS IN THE FRIDGE! IT’S CRAZY LIVING OVERSEAS YOU GUYS!
See how annoying that is? Let me go on and tell you ways in which visiting your local Subway sub shop is exactly the same as visiting one in the U.S.
I walk in and right away know I’m not welcome. You know that look that people who make minimum wage give you when they don’t want you there? They might as well just fucking yell, “Jesus Christ go make your own food motherfuckers!”
As I approach the counter, the young woman prepares to make my sandwich by lifting her visor up just long enough to push back her greasy hair and then grabs the oh-so-important bread-splitting knife off the familiar white cutting board behind the counter.
“Can I help you?”
“Yes, I’d like a 6″ veggies and cheese on wheat, extra cheese please.”
“You know that will …”
“Yes I’m familiar with the concept of things costing money. I called my husband and we decided we would go crazy and invest in extra cheese today.”
“Heh. Ok then.”
I’m no Jerry Seinfeld - I totally didn’t have the nerve to ask her to put those little gloves on. In my mind I started going over things I know for sure that I’ve ingested that are more disgusting than sandwiches topped with hair sweat.
She took two slices of cheese and put them on the bread, then took one more slice and laid it across the two she previously assembled. I’m no stranger to extra cheese, so I felt it necessary to inform her that typically, when a person pays fifty cents for extra cheese, said person gets four slices: two on each side.
Don’t laugh: I’m supposed to be the fucking sandwich artist here, not Shitface McGee and her Pimple Popping Crew back there.
She groaned and agreed to my cheese demands, then asked what else I wanted on the sub. I watched her purposefully try as hard as she could to put the smallest amount of vegetables on my sandwich with awe. What does Sally Suckass stand to gain by shortchanging me on my toppings? I need more than a sprinkle of lettuce. I demand more than two fucking pickle slices, and Lord Help Us All two olives just does not cut it. As she attempted each topping, I corrected her calmly. When she got to the tomatoes, I nearly lost my shit.
“Excuse me, but would you mind putting two slices of tomato on the sandwich?”
“Ma’am these are rather large slices,” she held a slice of tomato up in the air to demonstrate her point. “Are you sure you want more than one?”
“Uh, I don’t stutter.”
“Whatever you say, ma’am.”
“Goddamn right whatever I say. I’m the fucking sandwich artist.”
“Uh, ok.”
This little adventure in getting what you pay for was topped off by me totally blowing her fucking mind. I like oil and vinegar on my subs instead of mayo or mustard. That’s just me, I can’t help it. I like a LOT of fucking oil and vinegar, too. So much so, it freaks people out all the time, but whatever.
“Mustard? Mayo?”
“Oil and vinegar please. I’ll tell you when - I like a lot.”
“I figured.”
“Uh huh.”
” … ”
“Keep going.”
” … ”
“Almost there.”
“Ma’am I’m going to have to stop you there.”
“WHAT?”
“That’s enough ma’am. That’s quite enough oil and vinegar.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“You can take it home and add more if you want, but I’m not comfortable with this anymore.”
“Not comfortable? It’s oil and vinegar and I’m on the other side of a large plexiglass wall. What harm could possibly come from you following my instructions?”
“Ma’am, please.”
She urged me to stop like a comic urges a heckler to stop hollering out “SUCK HER TIT” in the middle of his act about his girlfriend.
“Fine. FINE. I guess we learned who the real sandwich artist is here today.”
* My Flickr thing on the menu is hypnotizing. I can’t stop looking at it. I’m listening to Mahjongg and slipping into an alternate universe. Not since college have I been this … relaxed. Tom Cruise was right, damnit: I don’t need vitamins, I need Flickr and Diet Coke.
* Obligatory comment regarding Tom Cruise and his asshattery accomplished. I wrote a big piece about that whole debacle, but I’m not going to post it here (at least not today), because I fear the Internet will eat me alive. (I’m not a Scientologist, don’t worry.)
* People on the Internet are insane. Which reminds me, why the FUCK don’t I have a fucking fan club and message board where people kiss my ass and pretend to know me intimately all damn day?
* Did I tell you I got a really nasty burn on my ankle riding my neighbor’s Harley on the Autobahn? No? I will.
* I know there are all kinds of crazy Internet rulez but I just want to make it clear that there are three reasons I link to people: 1) so I have a link to the places I like to go, 2) so my friends can read other cool sites. I find all the people I like to read via other people I like to read, so I figure I’ll share the wealth 3) TO GAIN INTERNETZ POPULARITY AND WEALTH.
Just kidding about the last part.
This story will make my friend Jon very happy.
Daschel has started writing letters. I’m totally thrilled about this, considering he just turned three last week [we’re still waiting for a big box to arrive at the door that says “To Dash From The Internet” but we’ll be patient], but today his ‘writing’ startled me.
His first letter was “H”, and I discovered he could write it when we were making a birthday card for his friend, Haley. I drew an “H” to start her name at the top, and he grabbed the paper away from me and proceeded to write several H’s all over the paper, proudly proclaiming “H!” each time.
I was totally floored. He’s been singing his alphabet forever, and knows his letters when he sees them too, but I’ve never even attempted to encourage him to write, because I figured shit, the kid can’t even draw a shitty tree, how’s he going to write?
Anyway, he wrote almost all of his friend’s name on his own, and since then, he’s been spending coloring time each day writing various letters. Every day he chooses three or four that are his favorite for the day. He’s pretty confident with H and T, and A is fun for him [don’t ask, all I know is he giggles maniacally when he draws an A], then today he tackled E.
What’s funny is he started his E’s the same way I did when I was little: three parallel lines with a somewhat crooked perpendicular connecting them.
After coloring time I put on his Kids Songs CD in his room and gave him some new chalk for his chalkboard. Being the good housewife that I am, I went and shifted the laundry as listened to him sing along with FUCKING BARNEY for a while before going back in to check on him. What I found nearly sent me into shock.
A demon [probably FUCKING BARNEY] took over my child and forced him to write H - A - T - E over and over again on his chalkboard. At times the H’s stretched out vertically over the board, as if they had wobbly legs and were trying to jump off the canvas. The E’s appeared to be strange alien symbols, and the T’s were drawn with such force, little bits of chalk clung to the edges, scared to let go and suffer the wrath of A’s equally intimidating limbs.
“HATE HATE HATE ATHE EETAH HTEAA HATE HATE HATE”
Does Barney want my son to kill people, or does my son secretly resent me for subjecting him to that garbage? Either way, the kid has been listening to Clap Your Hands and Say Yeah ever since then.
Yes, he’s free-balling it. If you have a problem with that - ESPECIALLY if your child lives on another continent and you are repulsed by the very idea of your pristine and unsullied heir being stricken with pee-by-proxy via Internet - feel free to send me an email.
Until then, I will continue to save money on “swim diapers” by allowing my child to piss in the grass or pool. YES HE PEES IN THE POOL, because damnit, I’ve seen the shit they drag into that fucking pool, and I’ve emptied that pool when they’re done, and let me tell you: urine is about the safest substance in that thing.
