Strange Problems

You thought it was over. You thought our little alpine world was once again safe and reasonably sane. You thought that purple cows and indigenous incest were our only real problems. But honestly, will it ever be safe to go out after dark? 

For those who haven’t heard yet, Jörg Haider is back. (Heinous music from Jaws in the background)

Now, if memory serves me correctly, amid international indignation in 2000, he said something about never ever ever again returning to national politics (cross my heart, hope to die…).He retreated to Carinthia to lick his wounds and pull the strings of his then still beloved blue party from his retreat in the Valley of Bears, deep in the heart of Lei-Lei Land.

Good news for the country, distinctly trying for (some of) the Carinthians (I’m sure we’ll  have the opportunity to talk about that disturbing some of them part one day).

So anyway, as the story goes, after several years of political turbulence (what else) and exhausting (for Austrians, not him - he jogs a lot) political antics, he got into a miff with his blue party and started an orange one, except in Carinthia, where blue remained blue and orange remained out (how confusing).

I hope you’re still with me, because this is where things start to get complicated. 

Since he was still with the blues (the old blues, not the new blues) in Carinthia and the oranges (who were all new) in the Austrian federal government and things weren’t running quite as they could have been, (although Gorbi gave his best, bless his little heart) he passed his duties (the orange ones) on to his good friend and buddy, Peter Westenthaler, a gentleman (I use this term loosely) with views close to his own.

Unfortunately for the oranges, Westenthaler was recently convicted of perjury in an assault and battery trial against one of his bodyguards. Now they (the oranges) no longer want him (Westenthaler) as their top candidate for the upcoming general elections. (You gotta give them credit where credit is due; they readily recognized that a convicted perjurer probably isn’t the best representative for their party. Perhaps a sign of progress.) So who is the best representative, you ask? Jörg Haider (enter stage left). 

Well, it should certainly be a fascinating fall (no foreshadowing intended … I think). No end of material for bloggers to write about.

Here are some interesting posts for those who haven’t had enough (German): BZÖ - Notizen über eine Spaßpartei, Der Orkan, Lupe, Wahlkampf

 BTW, read the wikipedia link about Westenthaler. Did you know that his last name is actually Hojač? He assumed his mother’s maiden name, I suppose, to sound less foreign. ;-)

austria jörg haider peter westenthaler gorbach BZÖ FPÖ perjury carinthia bärental hojac

I don’t know if you have cats, but I do. I like them. We have, you know, a working relationship. I feed them. I pet them. I clean up after them. They sleep on the couch. It works.

I don’t know how it goes with your cats, but my cats can be a bit demanding. I tried to train them in the beginning, tried to get them to follow certain rules (you know, the usual - no claw sharpening on the couch, no sleeping on the kitchen counter and the like). Well, it did and didn’t work.

Over the years we’ve sort of reached an uneasy truce. They’ve learned to basically do what I ask and I’ve learned not to ask too much. 

cat dinner simon’s cat

Perhaps this is an inappropriate topic here on my blog, but I was breezing through one of my favorite reads this morning, boing-boing, and found this incredible post.
I simply could not not post. 
Strictly speaking, I’m no marketing whiz-kid and I certainly don’t profess to be an expert on men’s grooming products, but if I’m going to buy a special gift for my guy, it probably won’t be:

Balla Powder - Scented Scrotum Talc for Men

The name alone will put you off your feed a bit, but continue, if you will, on to the product description:

Balla Powder for Men is the ideal anti-chafing and anti-wetness solution for clammy sacks. Guaranteed to prevent the dreaded “bat wing” syndrome, Balla Powder for Men is lightly scented with a masculine fragrance, for anyone else who plans to work in your close quarters. Can be sprinkled into your fudgies for all-day-long comfort and dryness. A fabulous post-workout treatment, Balla Powder for Men can also be used between your cheeks, as well as on fetid feet and aromatic armpits.

What in the world is dreaded bat wing syndrome? It does conjure up a few visuals, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard that term before. I didn’t find anything in wikipedia, and I googled it but only found lots of other bloggers wondering what the hell it is, like here, or here, or here . (Hmmm, I’ll have to ask Roy, he tends to be up on strange physical ailments.)

I sort of put this post in the vocabulary category for its educational uses. There are great things here.
Clammy sacks, for example (something certainly no man ever wants to have and no woman ever wants to have to touch).
Or maybe fudgies. (I believe I know what they are referring to, and I also believe I know where the connection is between that which I (and most other people) always used the word fudgie for and the item of clothing they mean here, if you follow me.)
And what about fetid feet, or aromatic armpits…
A virtual cornucopia of descriptive reasons to use this powder (or not to use, as the case may be).

You can also buy this product at amazon for $15, so if you really do need it, or know somebody who does, then you can easily order it in internet.

(p.s. look at the amazon page and read the customer reviews)

testicle talc bat wing syndrome clammy sacks fudgies scrotum powder

Sorry, due to an incident involving a fondue skewer, a door handle and The Cat, pretty much all of my left hand is bandaged (no, I don’t want to talk about it) and I’m having lots of difficulty writing. I’ll post again as soon as I can figure out how to get my fingers out of this damn wrap…

I went to the barcamp in Klagenfurt with Werner yesterday. We had to leave early because yesterday was Faschingssamstag and, you surely understand, you can’t miss the Fasching parade in Villach. I promised myself I’d go back on Sunday.

But I didn’t go back. I couldn’t go back. I just simply didn’t have time to go back, I was busy. I had some serious thinking to do.

My head was reeling from my one and only session on Saturday, Time and Ideas for Blogging (Monika Meuter, soisses and Bindestrich). 

Monika slapped me around and battered my head. She was ruthless and unrelenting. She told me terrible things and was adamant that I listen. She out and out told me some truths (don’t you sometimes just hate that?).

She told me that blogging had to do with establishing rituals and routines. She said she had noticed that I seriously lack both. (But she did not mention my lack of self-discipline, for which I was grateful).

She urged me to turn over a new leaf and become the blogger I was, perhaps, meant to be.

Hmmm. Let me put this together a bit in my own head.
Routines have to do with rituals, rituals have to do with self discipline (I got that), self discipline has to do with planning, planning has to do with organization (there’s a tough one), organization has to do with less work (I’m beginning to like this), less work has to do with effectiveness, effectiveness has to do with success, success has to do with lots of money, lots of money has to do with more leisure time (there just might be something to this), more leisure time has to do with, well uhhh, me.

Okay, okay, okay.
Monika, you win. I’ll do it. I’ll change my slovenly ways. I’ll pull myself together. I’ll get, and stay, organized, routined and ritualized.

My blog shall reflect these personal changes.

1) Every Sunday I will post about current affairs, off-topic items that catch my attention, bring video clips, poke fun at politicians, go on and on about my marvelous horses, or something completely different.

2) Every Wednesday I will post about communication and language.

3) Every Friday I will post about jobs, head hunting and things of that nature.

I am going public with this moment of personal growth, so be supportive here. I am putting myself under immense peer pressure to stick to my new and modified blogging behaviour (and that while living out of boxes, eating corn flakes out of kitty-dishes - figuratively speaking, of course).

Watch me, help me, keep me in line. If I start becoming lax and far too casual then please yell at me (or post appropriate comments) and get me back on track.

I can do it, I know I can.

Here, in case you’d like to read about it, are some posts about some of the other sessions, and here, here, here, here …

barcampsenzaconfini klagenfurt monika meuter blogging routine ritual self discipline

The Centre for Disease Control has issued a medical alert about a highly contagious, potentially dangerous virus that is transmitted orally, by hand, and even electronically.

This virus is called Weary Overload Recreational Killer (WORK). If you receive WORK from your boss, any of your colleagues or anyone else via any means whatsoever - DO NOT TOUCH IT. This virus will wipe out your private life completely.

If you should come into contact with WORK you should immediately leave the premises. Take two good friends to the nearest grocery store and purchase one or both of the antidotes - Work Isolating Neutralizer Extract (WINE) and Bothersome Employer Elimination Rebooter (BEER).

Take the antidote repeatedly until WORK has been completely eliminated from your system.

(Thanks, Michaela)

Others have reported about this virus, for example here, or here …

I don’t want to get too much into the reasons why this is so, but the fact remains - I’m cold. And I think my son’s cold too. And while we’re at it, damn it, we’re all cold. So cold in fact, I think I can see The Cat’s breath (which is something I never really wanted to see, especially not indoors).

So just how cold is it?

Well, according to internet (my close friend and advisor), it is about -2 degrees centigrade, give or take a few degrees (outside, not in here). That translates to roughly 28 degrees fahrenheit, which sounds a lot warmer than it is, if you ask me.
Inside it’s about 15 degrees centigrade (I don’t really want to talk about the reasons why), which translates to about 59 fahrenheit, which sounds really toasty, but it’s not.

The hot water bottle that’s on my lap is about 45 degrees centigrade, which is approx. 113 degrees fahrenheit and sounds as if it should burn a hole through my legs, but it won’t. It’ll just lie here limply, keeping my lap warmer than my ear lobes, which have gone down to about 30 degrees centigrade (86 fahrenheit) which is distinctly below normal body temperature, in  case you’re interested (roughly 37 degrees centigrade or 98 degrees fahrenheit).

Although I have been avoiding the situation all morning, I realise that I will, at some point, have to go into the bathroom, which, as I write, has reached the tropical temperature of 10 degrees centigrade (a whopping 51.8 fahrenheit).  If I’m patient (and nature helps me a bit), I may be able to wait until it has warmed up to 14 degrees centigrade (57.2 fahrenheit), which is an acceptable temperature for a short visit.

Again according to internet, if we’re lucky it’ll get up to 0 degrees centigrade (32 degrees fahrenheit) today, which is warmer than it could be (and sometimes is) this time of year. A daily high of -10 to -18 centigrade is not unheard of around here in winter (14 - 0 degrees fahrenheit, which sounds just dandy, but isn’t).

I hate winter. But it does offer us the opportunity to explore the differences between centigrade and fahrenheit (There’s always a good side to everything. There’s always a good side to everything. There’s always a good side to everything, There’s always a good ……).

If you’re interested in more fahrenheit information, have a look at this post  from Adrian (Kerstin this one’s for you - and it’s in German).

centigrade celsius fahrenheit cold

Curious.

Hans Dichand started blogging. (He’s the editor of the Austrian tabloid Krone Zeitung -I couldn’t find anything about him in wikipedia in English, so you’ll just have to put up with some German.)
Well, you say, that’s no new news. And true, most Austrians have, by this time, already heard that. Perhaps even those of us who don’t blog.

But have you heard how many Hans Dichands are blogging?

At last count there were two of them (this figure could rise). 
Exciting, huh?. We now not only have the opportunity to get a deeper understanding of his views by reading the Krone, but we can also wade through his blog and the blog of his double (which I prefer, personally).

Judging from the real HD’s reaction, I don’t think he’s all that happy about being parodied. Frankly though, I think somebody is paying him much more attention than he needs.
If he’s lucky, he’ll even make the front page of the Krone - bold 64 point type.

…

By the way, for all of you who are trying to learn German, this is a great learning tool. The sentences in the Krone are short and simple enough to be easily read even by non-German speakers. You will, however, have to excuse the typos, incorrect grammar and content.

Hans Dichand blogging double boulevard press Krone Zeitung

What’s with the story about the Austrian woman, her daughter and the deceased rabbit?

I don’t know if you pay attention to stuff like this, but I just couldn’t get around this one. According to, ahhh, ehhhmm, news  sources (also here, or even in a foreign language) and several blogs, there was an interesting incident in Baden the other day.

According to reports, the pet bunny of a certain Hilda Morgenstein passed away of unknown causes. She (Hilda) and her daughter decided, it seems, to bury the lifeless hare in the countryside. With the expired bunny in a bag, they purportedly were waiting for a train to take them to an undisclosed place to do just that.

(We, of course,  all know the crime rate around here and it’s implications for travelers. Hilda and her daughter, however, did not.)

As they were waiting, dead-bunny-bag in hand, a pair of muggers allegedly took advantage of the moment and made off with said bag. (Weren’t they surprised when they saw the “loot”).

Hilda, evidently deciding not to complicate the situation further, told her daughter that they were angels and were taking the departed bunny to a better place.

….

This just has to remind you of the famous story of some family on vacation in Turkey, whose Grandmother dies (with them, on vacation). In order to avoid a bureaucratic nightmare, they roll her up in a rug (bought specifically for this purpose) and tie her to the roof of the car and begin the journey home. Whilst on a coffee and/or potty break the car, rug and the defunct Grandmother are all stolen. (Angels took her to a better place?)

Have we all gone daft?

I don’t know if you have a cat, but I do. 

In fact, I have several. (Every time I said, “How sweet. Let’s take it home.” signified a relapse of my not-yet-clinically-diagnosed insanity.) 

Here’s a fairly accurate rendition of what it’s like to live with them, bless their hairy little hearts.

(Thanks, Nikk)

Okay, I don’t really know why I’m showing you this video. I guess I want you to know that I have never given my son this many instructions, especially not during a 24 hour period.

However, even as that may be the truth, I am convinced that many a mother (and a father) out there will have some sympathy for the lyrics of this song. If they have never really made that many suggestions for improvement (especially not during a 24 hour period) I’m sure that they have known parents, or seen parents, or even heard of parents who have.

And even if they themselves have never given their child that many tips and hints in one stretch of time, they perhaps have been ignored as many times anyway (even though there was no instruction giving during those times).

This does not represent a maternal moment of mine.

I had a bad day yesterday.

It started out okay. I even thought it might be a great one, but it just didn’t pan out like I expected.

A couple of days ago I got an email from The Managing Director of A Big Company. This Very Important Person asked me for an appointment. He would like to discuss his communication strategies with me and see if I could support him and his Big Company.

I’m the person they want to see. I’m it. I’m the BMOC.

I got ready for my appointment. I figured I should look business-like, but not overdone. Perhaps even a bit academic, intelligent; at any rate well-read and, of course, well prepared.
So I slipped into an understated Harris Tweed with soft light-grey slacks and an off-white turtle neck.  My leather oxfords sort of rounded off The Look.

Feeling like a million bucks, I was off at the crack of dawn.

But wait. First I had to swing by the barn to unblanket the horses. It gets pretty warm during the day, and I didn’t want them getting hot and suffering whilst I’m enjoying lovely appointments. 
So I  drove by the barn, and pulled the blankets off them and gave them a few carrots and a couple of pats.

Then I was off. Got to The Big Company and met The Managing Director. I talked, and explained, and smiled, and talked, and smiled some more and did some more explaining. I showed him some reports and figures and other professional looking things and generally tried to make a Good Impression.

After about an hour I left - with a signed contract.

But somehow I had the feeling that he had been looking at me so strangely the whole time. And was it just me, or had he avoided sitting too close?

As I was walking to my car I saw my reflection in a shop window. A business woman in a smart tweed jacket - with hay in her hair, slobber on her shoulder and manure on her shoes.

Sigh.

horse owner interview manure hay tweed

I don’t know if you speak German, but I do.
If you do too, you might like this blog. It’s kind of fun to read about crazy Americans as seen by crazy German speaking Europeans.

I like that sort of thing.

There’s a great post from the weekend about how German speaking Europeans are afraid of draughts  (drafts for those English speakers who only speak American). Isn’t it true? Have you ever tried to open a window in Austria? The first thing you hear is, “Mach zu, es zieht. Ich verkühle mich sonst.” 

Austrian Angst.

So anyway, in case you don’t know yet, I have a son. He goes to school here, and in Austria it’s customary for kids to wear house shoes during school (like Birkenstocks, for instance). I assume it’s an effort to keep the floors clean, in case anybody wants to eat their lunch off them.

At any rate, my son is good about taking his sneakers off, but not so good about the Birkenstock part. He runs around in his stocking feet, a fact that makes his teachers go wild.
Now do you think his teachers go wild because his socks are hard to wash (as in, they feel for me and my washing machine)?
Noooooooo, of course not. They’re wild because, “Du machst deine Nieren kaputt, wenn du bloßfüßig herum läufst” (You’ll ruin your kidneys running around in your stocking feet).

I never realized that kidneys and feet were so closely related.

Isn’t that weird. Isn’t that completely Austrian.
I mean honestly, where is the connection between the feet and the kidneys? Is that the same connection between the draught and the cold?

How about this one - “Wenn du kalte Getränke trinkst, bekommst du Halsweh.” (If you drink cold drinks, you’ll get a sore throat).
Do I have to mention how many Americans should be running around with sore throats? Have you ever ordered a Coke in America? Have you ever been served a tepid one?
I think drinking warm beverages does more for the green house effect than for the throat.

Here’s one of my absolute favorites - ”Sitz nicht auf dem Boden - oder auf Mauern - in Monaten, die mit “r” enden” (Don’t sit on the ground - or stone walls - during months ending in “r”).
If you do, you’ll get salpingitis (Eileiterentzündung). I had to look that one up in Leo, because I’ve never needed to refer to this condition in English, save ever having suffered it.

I guess Americans just have tougher fallopian tubes than the average German speaking European.

austrian angst draught cold drinks kidneys sore throat

I  don’t know about you, but I’m a mother.

Now, generally and under normal circumstances, I consider myself to be an intelligent, sensible and sound person. However, like I said above, I am a mother.  And it seems that being a mother can sometimes override any intelligent thought that you might otherwise be likely to entertain.

Situation 1: We’re in the kitchen. I’m showing my son (16 years old) how the bread cutting machine works. I explain the various buttons and how you can adjust the slice width and rotation speed. Satisfied with my demonstration, I turn to leave him to his own devices. I haven’t quite gotten out  the kitchen door, when I suddenly go maternal, “And don’t cut your fingers off.”

Good thing I said that - perhaps he didn’t realise that it would be bothersome if he did.

Situation 2: We are at a friend’s house, enjoying a comfortable summer evening outside. Because it sometimes gets cool in the evenings here, we have a camp fire to sit around. The fire begins to get low, and my son asks where he can find wood. We show him the pile and without warning, a serious Maternal-Moment rolls over me, “Careful not to let your clothing catch fire.”

Ahhh, right - fire can burn.

Situation 3: We are standing on the balcony, looking out at the back garden. The Cat is generally not allowed on the balcony, because she dances on the railing and generally plays with her own mortality out there; but at any rate, my son is holding her, letting her look out with us. Major Maternal-Moment: “Don’t let her fall.”

(”Oh please, mom, just  this once….”)

mother teenager worry stupid statements maternal children

Many people seem to be talking about this disorder again these days. I’ve suffered from it for years and have learned to live with it and the problems associated with it. If you think you may also be suffering from it, don’t despair!  You can still lead a semi-productive life and will be able to provide family, friends and colleagues with endless hours of entertainment.

It generally starts around 30 and this is how it manifests (as found in internet):

I decide to wash my car. As I start toward the garage, I notice that there is a pile of mail on the hall table.

I think I’ll go through the mail before I wash the car. I lay my car keys down on the table, put the junk mail in the trash can under the table, and notice that the trash can is full. What a mess!

So, I decide to put the mail back on the table and take out the trash first. But then I  think, since I’m going to pass my study and my computer when I take out the trash anyway, I might as well sort the bills first.

I start to open the first envelope and notice that I’m not wearing my glasses. My glasses must be on my desk in the study, so I go to my desk where I see the glass of orange juice that I had been drinking.

I’m going to look for my glasses, but first I’d better push the orange juice aside so that I don’t accidentally knock it over.

I notice that the orange juice is getting warm, and I decide I should put it in the refrigerator to keep it cold. As I head toward the kitchen with the glass, a potted plant on the counter catches my eye. Goodness, this plant hasn’t been watered for days!

I set my drink down on the counter, and discover my pda which I’ve been searching for all morning. I decide I’d better put it back on my desk (so I know where it is), but first things first! I’m going to water that plant.

I set the pda back down on the counter, fill a container full with water and suddenly I spot the remote control for the TV. Someone left it on the kitchen table. How sloppy! (Must have been my son).

I realize that tonight when we go to watch TV, I’ll be looking for that remote control, but I’ll never remember that it’s on the kitchen table, so I decide to put it back in the living room - where it belongs. But first I’ll water that plant.

I splash some water on the plant, most of it spills on the floor, so I set the remote control down on the counter and get some paper towels to wipe up the water on the floor - I don’t want The Cat walking through it. She’d leave muddy paw prints all over the whole house!

Then I head down the hall. I was planning to do something, but I can’t remember what.

At the end of the day I’m exhausted. The car isn’t washed, the bills aren’t paid, there is a warm glass of orange juice sitting on the counter, the plant is bone-dry, I can’t find  that remote control, my glasses, my pda or the damn car keys. And there are muddy paw prints all over the house!

When I try to figure out why on earth nothing got done today, I’m baffled. I was busy all day long and I’m tired to the bone. And what really gets to me is the fact that my son is so sloppy. Teenagers.

This is a serious problem and I’ll try to get some help for it, but first I’ll check my email (and I really need to find those car keys).

age activated attention deficit disorder aaadd