From domestically hopeless to domestically deficient

Before Thomas and I moved to Germany back in November, I worked as a writer in large company’s public relations department. I can still hear my Journalism 101 professor in college saying, whatever you do, don’t go into television news. So what did I do? Majored in broadcast journalism.  Fine, he said. Just please, please don’t go into PR! Sorry Mr. J. But if it’s any conciliation, I’ve hung up my PR…um pen? At least for awhile.

These days, my time is spent buying German language books, looking at those books laying on my kitchen table, and occasionally opening one – if only by accident when my cat pushes it off the table.

I kid, I kid. Well mostly.

In order to prepare myself for the daunting task of (eventually) working on my master's degree in German, I've been attending a language course, practicing with anyone unfortunate enough to get stuck standing near me (although my charades skills seem to be improving faster than my German) and watching local TV (it's amazing how little vocabulary you need to understand a show like Bauer sucht Frau (translation: farmer searches for a wife). In between that, I've been getting to know Munich, doing a little writing and even taking care of daily Hausfrau tasks like cleaning, cooking and laundry.

Some of these tasks have proven harder than my German studies though…and given the complexities of German grammar, that’s saying a lot. Take ironing, for example. The other day, I spent about 30 minutes ironing one of Thomas’ dress shirts, only for it to look a whopping five percent better than it did when I pulled it out of the wash.

Yeah, this is post-ironing. Awesome, right?

Since then, I’ve tried each setting on the iron, various levels of pressure and contorted my body in more ways than Linda Blair in the Exorcist to get a better angle (okay, that last one was a slight bit of an exaggeration). Nothing has helped. Well, at least I can rule out ironing from my list of possible, hidden superpowers. Whew. That would have been lame anyway.

Of course, no one has ever called me domesticated. Back when I was single, my idea of a balanced home-cooked dinner was a chocolate Sunday and a dirty martini. That said, I’ve at least done pretty well in cooking since moving to Munich.

Exhibit A: one of my latest cooking endeavors: tofu sauté

Can you hear that? That’s the sound of me patting myself on the back…if only to smooth out the wrinkles in my shirt.

A doctor's note

A wake-up call instead of a house call

I, like many people this time of year, have been under the weather off and on for the past couple of weeks. So, while off work on a sick day, I did what any normal person with extra time and unfettered access to the internet does, I researched my symptoms. After a couple of terrifying hours spent analyzing those symptoms … and talking myself into a few new ones, I decided to drag my usually stubborn self out of the apartment to seek professional medical attention. Sorry internet.

What does this have to do with my impending move to Germany, you ask? I’m getting there. I’m sick. Don’t rush me.

After numerous questions and standard tests, my doctor concluded I had bronchitis. Twenty minutes, and a weird hookah-like treatment  later, he changed his mind. It was a common cold … or maybe pneumonia. So off to x-ray I went. 

An hour later, he decided it absolutely, surely might be allergies. So he wanted to set up an appointment with the allergy clinic. Problem was that there were no open appointments until late November. As in, I’ll-be-in-Germany-by-then-late-November. 

Suddenly my move became real. Sure, Thomas and I have been making preparations for a couple of weeks now. But, just like when you jolt awake from an intense dream, I was struck with the very real fact that in about six weeks, I’d being saying good-bye to friends, family, Madison and my English-speaking life.

And speaking of, well, speaking … When I told my doctor why I wouldn’t be able to make the allergy appointment, he replied, “Oh, sind Sie eine Deutsche? Nein? Also, dann müssen Sie sehr gut Duetsch sprechen, ja?” Trying to fake confidence, but feeling my body temperature elevate and my pulse quicken, I simply nodded … resolutely of course. Satisfied that I was sufficiently fluent, he then rattled off a short quasi-soliloquy in German, which I really hope didn’t directly relate to my health as I had no idea what the hell he just said. 

If only he could write a doctor’s note excusing me from learning the difference between Passiv and Zustandpassiv verb constructions. I’m pretty sure they’re bad for my overall mental well-being. But I guess I’ll just need to hit the books hard soon. But first, back to bed …