DARN TEUTON!

Send some good vibes my way this week: I had a job interview in Hamburg on Friday and have another one here in Munich on Wednesday. Law of averages says that I should get at least one job offer, no?

I actually don’t know anything about the law of averages. Had I taken any statistics classes, I would probably be in a better employment position than taking a seminar titled: “European Witchcraft”. Unfortunately, Monty Python is having a hiring freeze.

video courtesy of YouTube

I really wish there were Loehmann’s-y type stores in Munich. I have a job interview tomorrow in Hamburg — what’s more American than a Hamburger? — and wanted to buy a grown-up lady handbag that could hold my binder and a change of clothes. It’s only a 1 hour flight, but there’s no air conditioning anywhere and women still wear pantyhose, so I’m going to do a presto-chango in the airport bathroom rather than sit around all day sweating in my hosies.

Back home, I would have worn a path down my usual route of Century 21, Loehmann’s and Filene’s Basement. But those holy grails don’t exist here — presumably, because all the European castoffs get sent off to the U.S. leaving cheap European dwellers to fight it out at H&M. I tried to side-step the fisticuffs by going to some second-hand stores, but could. not. afford. even anything USED (at over 300 Euros, I may just bring my reusable shopping bag and claim it’s designer. I mean, it was designed by someone.)

I’m sure my lack-of-handbag will not stop me from getting this job when I have so many other lackluster qualities to choose from. If only I had that one *perfect* accessory …. alas, I shall never know…

I want to thank The Accidental Teuton (a.k.a. Frau X) for welcoming me into her merry band of kvetchers.  It is a true honor to have been given a vehicle for my Unibomber-esque ramblings and I’m thrilled to play Robin to the Teut’s most excellent Batman.

So who am I?  Just call me SAHMy Davis, Jr. and watch me tap dance around my unbelievably bad mothering skills.  I am an opera singer and mother of Things One and Two.  I also used to teach music but, thanks to the economy, find myself both between jobs and ten seconds away from rocking naked in the corner.  I mean, is this really happening?  I used to travel the world singing and now I consider it an adventure just taking both kids out to the Trader Joe’s.

I love daycare.   Besides the constant social interaction, I adore that Things One and Two dine on lamb and cilantro for lunch, speak both English and Farsi and still have no idea what Disney is.  Sure, there are downsides.  Thing One sat at the dinner table last night singing, “Jeebus Loves Me,”—not exactly on list of sanctioned tunes, seeing as how we are Jewish.

Let’s be honest, I also love daycare because it gives me the opportunity to have an identity outside my children.  So when I was faced with the reality that my current employment situation was coming to an end, I panicked.

No job=no daycare and Things One and Two would have to spend all day with me.  And yes, I do see the irony in the fact that I have sent no less than 350 resumes and yet have somehow been selected to perform a job for which I am completely unqualified: motherhood.  Guess I should actually install those smoke alarms I bought a year and a half ago.

M has weaned himself. He was already down to two nursings a day, with the one at night a barely noticeable nip. Then, he refused the night time booby. And a few day after that, he refused the breakfast booby for two days in a row.

Even though I hated nursing in the beginning, I started to enjoy it in the last few months when it didn’t hurt anymore and it was a pleasure rather than a punishment. I especially liked those nights when he would “slurse” — fall asleep while nursing. But he’s a big boy now — almost 9 months, pulling himself up and just today, putting himself in a sitting position for the first time.

Why can’t he just stay this age (minus a week or so when he was still nursing) forever?

We moved to New York about one month before our wedding, and, like most women, I had lost a bunch of weight and was the thinnest I have ever been in my adult life. I hadn’t had any time (or much money) to purchase a wardrobe for my new body, and my “midwestern comfortable” clothes were not exactly fashion forward. What a perfect time to go shopping in SoHo. It was like the scene in Pretty Woman when the snooty sales woman tells Julia Robert’s character that she probably can’t afford anything in the boutique because it’s “very, very expensive.” I immediately took my schlumpy self shopping. (Yes, I know I should have stood up to that woman making $7 an hour to talk about the dignity of all mankind, but, eh, she was right. I looked dowdy and ill-fitting.)

Since then, I’ve always tried to look as fashionable as I can for the situation, which is generally not that difficult in Munich, where the northern climate and bloodlines combine to form a hardy, but not particularly fashionable, people. There’s always lots of hiking jackets everywhere.

But, after gaining and losing 10 kilos of baby weight in 18 months, the clothes I bought for pregnancy and nursing are too big, and I’m back to looking schlumpy and ill-fitting. What a perfect time to go shopping to one of the most expensive department stores in Munich. It was like a flashback to that SoHo trip (“Alles sind sehr sehr teuer.”) And they’re right — being a new mom doesn’t mean you have to look like one. There were plenty of women in that store with young kids who looked like they could pilate you into a pretzel. True, they were probably wealthy with personal trainers and such, but it doesn’t mean that us mere mortals can’t, at least, just buy clothes that fit.

So I put away everything I purchased in the last year, put on my not-super-comfortable-but-fashionable shoes, tied on a jaunty scarf, and went about my day. It’s easy to get into a rut, especially if you’re home all day, but I feel a lot better when I look better. Even if the only person who sees me eats his own feet.

I had some free time yesterday and starting reading my “What to Expect” book. I should have expected that I would just start to fret about M’s development. He’s almost 9 months old now and still has no teeth, scoots around on his belly but doesn’t crawl, can’t play pattycake, doesn’t speak in baby sign language, can’t play the violin or recite sonnets, and sleeps most of the day away.

And the other day, I read some article about child genii who started to read at 10 months and got their Ph.Ds while in diapers. When I read to M, he just tries to eat the book. I like to think that he’s revolutionizing reading the way the iPad will revolutionize publishing. Both are changing the way we “consume” media.

…. squeeze other people’s babies. I had always heard that the Italians LOVE children, but never having had an available child when I backpacked through in my early twenties, I was not able to experience it first hand. Let me tell you. It’s true.

We brought the shitty weather with us when we arrived on Thursday. So we napped all afternoon, and when it was still thunderstorming into the evening, we decided to eat dinner at the hotel. Unlike Gran Canaria, where the the 6:30 p.m. dinner seating was full, there was only one other couple in the dining room. (Remember when eating that early was So. Lame.?)

We siddled up the stroller to the table. We ordered our appetizer and glass of wine. We took turns eating while the other held M. All of the waitstaff come by to give M a little foot tickle and tell us about their kids. Halfway through our stuffed artichoke blossoms, our waiter asks if he could take M into the kitchen so that we could eat. I’m not sure he waited for us to respond before scooping him away. As more diners arrived, he greeted them with M as his “assistant.”

It was like that everywhere. I had to change his diaper in a public bathroom, and the toilette lady grabbed him out of my hands before halfway to the diaper station. I took M with me into the hotel spa’s changing room while I changed out of my wet bathing suit, and out of nowhere, four Italian ladies swoop in on M and take him off of my hands.

That would never happen in the U.S. or Germany or, presumably, any non-Mediterranean country. But why not? Wouldn’t you like to squeeze that little baby on the train, or give some parents 20 minutes to eat dinner in peace? But could you imagine asking a parent on the New York subway if you could hold their child? They would simultaneously mace you and call the police. Those New Yorkers — always multi-tasking.

M is definitely our son. He seems to have inherited our sleeping-in-why-wake-up-if-there’s-nothing-to-do gene. It is 11 a.m., and he’s still sleeping. Sure, he wakes up every few hours, but if I don’t come in, he just goes back to sleep.

P and my laziness has passed down to another generation. Sniff. This may be my proudest moment as a mother.

]I’m not all that upset about being my own cleaning woman because we have a brand new vacuum. It’s a little Happy Homemaker to be so excited about a new appliance, but I hate.Hate.HATED our old one. We bought a canister vacuum in the U.S. that P just loved. He always sniffed at the uprights everyone else had and crowed about the canister’s better sucking ability. Pulling that rolling thing around was like vacuuming while being followed by an annoying robotic Star Wars pet. No matter how well it sucked, I just thought it sucked.

So we compromised on what I call a “regular” vacuum with a bulbous little belly. It’s called a Vampyrette, which I think is adorable. (“I want to suck just a wee little drop of your blood, if I may.”) It sucks just fine. I don’t know why people need industrial strength suckage – exactly how much do you need to suck? Never mind.

I accidentally fired our cleaning woman this week. She wasn’t really that good or thorough AND she charged 13 Euro an hour (which is 1 Euro an hour MORE than I make), but I was too chicken to fire her before and felt all this liberal guilt for enslaving the poor Croatian immigrants — and by “enslaving,” I mean paying her more than me.

But, when she called to change to an inconvenient time, I took that chance to “let her go.” “Let her go” is a nice phrase I can say in English, but not so much in German. In German, all I can say is “I don’t need you anymore” which is a lot harsher than what I was going for. At any rate, I can do an equally adequate job for free. (And here I was complaining about having nothing to do. I could, theoretically, add a little housework to my day. Theoretically.)