These are not my mother’s thumbs

22 Jul

Nope, definitely not. While mine are brown and able to kill almost everything, my mother has a gift with plants.

She also probably has a sadistic streak, for she sent three of her darlings to our place for torture and slow death.

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My very own avocado plant.

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A tiny orange tree.

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And wine. The picture is blurry because it is trembling with fear.

(I keep trying to explain that wine should only enter our home in bottles.)

I’ll do my best to keep the plant babies alive, but their chances are… well, surprisingly neither apple nor currant nor blueberry have died so far. Maybe I can help breed resilien and strong post-zombie-apocalypse (flesh-eating) plants…

 

 

Update: The marvellous glossary

16 Jul

If you look carefully, you will find a new category at the top of the page: Diandra’s marvellous glossary. It may help you learn a bit more about your favorite German Knusperwitch.

Ringfingers and reproductive organs, the seven-year-anniversary rant

15 Jul

Today is our seven-year anniversary. And originally I was going to make you nauseous by once again swooning about my perfect guy and how we are disgustingly romantic together, and sometimes plain disgusting. Last night I licked his elbow, and that is no euphimism.

Instead I thought I’d amuse everyone with a quick rant.

Last Saturday we went out in pursuit of a fancy dinner. We tried a new Indian restaurant in Cologne. It was nice – not as good as our go-to place, but that’s still not bad. We stuffed ourselves with a four-course meal complete with vanilla icecream and mango sauce. And then, because I love sharing our boring everyday adventures, I posted this picture to FB:

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“Celebrating seven years of disgusting romance with Indian food. And while we were staring into each other’s eyes, the Duck stole our dessert. ^^ “

Not too creative, nothing exotic. You all know the Duck, right?

Then the annoying comments started pouring in.
“Has he finally proposed to you?”
“I bet you were testing wedding venues.”
” When are you getting married?”

I told them to stop asking, to no avail.

To make things clear, I followed up with this:
“For the records: For f***’s sake, stop asking us whether we have “finally made it official”. First, it’s none of your business. Second, don’t you think we’d let you know? And third, we have had seven great years. We plan on having at least seventy more. And we really don’t have to get married in order to love and cherish each other. Should we ever decide to tie the knot, we’ll tell you when (and if) we think you have to know. Just back off and smell the flowers and stuff.”

To which a friend said, “You sound as if they really struck a nerve.”

I was tempted to strangle her on the spot. But they did, kind of.

Because, honestly, the whole their-nose-deeply-buried-in-my-business attitude offends me.

I am not secretly pining for him to “ask the question” and to finally get married (because, after all, women get married, the same way that furniture gets bought).

I have not chosen a white dress or spent sleepless nights planning floral arrangements.

There are no baby clothes hidden in the back of our wardrobe, “just in case”.

To me – and this is important, I am not judging anyone else’s decision – marriage is mostly an organizational issue. I know some women are different. Some of my best friends have had amazing weddings, which they spent months planning and preparing, and glowed as if it really was the best day of their lives (so far – it is supposed to be even better after that, right?).

I have seen others move in together or marry in a hurry, only to have devastating fights and break-ups not even a year later.

But I don’t see myself worrying about dresses or shoes or cake – okay, maybe cake – or spending days handpainting invites and nametags. Should we get married (not saying we will, we could spent the next seventy years in unmatrimonial bliss!), there will be cake. And probably real food as well. And of course we will tell the world immediately – as if I could ever keep a proper secret! But it simply is not our focus, and I don’t see how our ringfingers or reproductive organs are anyone else’s business.

For seven years I have been swooning (and at times complaining) about Richard. Many of you have been there with me, probably gagging at all the sticky candy love. For four and a half years I have been cooking most of his meals without ever being tempted to poison him. We have shared everyday life, from sore feet to hangovers to shitty days at the office to terrible moods, including shouting and tears. And we still don’t want to kill each other. When he is home in the evening, instead of getting shit done we spend time together on the sofa cuddling – every single night. (At this rate I’ll never finish the next novel. )

What will change if we get married? First there are the tax breaks. And I’ll get to pull the plug if he ends up in hospital as a human vegetable.

Yes, I am that romantic.

What is my stance on all those nosy, hopefully wellmeaning people? Quite simple: No, they don’t get to interfere with our personal decisions. They don’t get to imply that we are getting too old to marry, or have kids. (We haven’t even decided whether we want any.) We still have tons of stuff to do – see the world, take the pictures, write the stories. Getting married and changing diapers has not even made it to my top ten to-do list for the next years. Doodling dirty jokes, on the other hand… So, there’s plenty of stuff they can ask about if they want to know more about our lives.

“Where are you travelling next?”
“Has he bought a new camera?”
“How long do I have to wait for the next short story?”
“Are you really into dirty doodles?”
“What about your plan to make the ultimate orange and cream cheese cakepops?”

I will gladly share the answers to these and many more questions with everyone (somewhere sunny; we’re still negotiating; almost done; maybe; I’ll share the recipe if I ever make it back to the kitchen).

(Now they have to come up with their own questions, bummer.)

But if people continue to pester us about our personal stuff, I’ll retaliate by asking wildly inappropriate questions about their own personal lives:
“Have you pooped today?”
“I bet you haven’t slept with your girlfriend in ages.”
“Does your husband like your new wrinkles?”
And if they even think about touching my belly – I am fat, not pregnant – I may try to break their favorite finger.

Source of life

3 Jul

I am the Mother of the Ocean
All life comes from me
At the end, all life returns
I bring peace
I bring destruction
Hear me sing

Test EOS400 053

Where do wicked witches draw the line?

26 Jun

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Image found here.

 

You all know me. I am not much of a “fluffy bunny filled with light and love” kind of witch. I adore Dorothy Morrison’s Utterly Wicked and may have hexed an apple or two in my career. To be honest, there are two hexes brewing at home right now. And as opposed to other witches I know, I am also not flat out against hexing and cursing on behalf of other people, as long as I could bear going to hell for the action in question – just in case I am wrong and at the end of our lives we are all judged by a giant pink hippopotamus.

Anyway, a friend has been asking me for help getting revenge on her husband and his mistress. I totally understand her – the dumbass has started cheating on her two weeks after their marriage, right after the honeymoon, and has stolen her jewellery to pawn it off. To make things worse he has the nerve to complain that she is not being a good wife because she is upset about his behavior. Under different circumstances I would happily hand her all the curses in the world (and add some of my own, since he is hurting a friend), but…

This friend is from a really conservative monotheistic religion. One of those “Thou shalt no suffer a witch to live” clubs. Even if right now she is willing to do everything and even (at least in her own understanding) hand over her sould to eternal damnation, I am convinced that in a few weeks or months she would start hating herself for having allowed “evil sorcery” to enter her life. See, I have never made a secret of my witchy way of life, and she has never said a single bad word about it. I even convinced her to go to the cinema for the first time in her life, at age 26, and try her first alcohol-free cocktail. Bad influences everywhere! But I try hard not to compromise people any more than necessary, so… when she started hinting about how she would do “anything” to get back at him, I told her that there are possibilities. I also explained that I would never let her try any of them because it would be against everything she believes in.

Instead I am trying to find ways to help her make up her mind – divorce or work things out? Break his legs or hide the body? Tell their families what a scumbag he is or protect his (and her) reputation? Believe me, these things are way easier when you are going to hell anyway. ^^

What is your stance on wicked witching? Yes or no – and for whom and why?

It is not heavy metal unless you swear (you have been warned)

23 Jun

Last weekend, Metalfest, St. Goarshausen, Germany. We had just listened to the set of Steel Panther, a not-too-bad hair metal band (until you start paying attention to their lyrics, but apart from that the show was good). The band had dragged a few female girls on stage for part of their show, and – from the looks of it – much fun was had by everyone. We had then retired to the shadows for a drink and some rest, and met a few acquaintances on the way.

“I wish these girls would realize how slutty they are”, one guy said. “Dancing on stage in their bikini tops and degrading themselves like that…”

I thought, “That’s some real fuckshit you’re telling.” Out loud I said, “And what exactly would be wrong about their behavior?”

In return I was showered with a list of reasons why women shouldn’t “degrade themselves” by

  • showing too much skin,
  • dancing in public,
  • getting drunk in public,
  • making out with guys they hardly know,

Imagine sulfuric steam coming from my ears. If Richard hadn’t been there, I might have gotten in a very metal shouting match with the dickhead. My guy knows my temper and carefully led me away towards the coffee vendor. Probably saved at least one life in the process. (He deserves a fucking medal.)

I mean, this guy was going shirtless, wearing nothing but cargo shortsriding low enough so you could see the top of his designer briefs, and styled to the max, including what I assume was a sunbed tan. Nothing wrong with any of that, but he somehow failed to see why whatever was totally cool for him might be just as fine for any woman on festival grounds.

And to make matters worse, he seemed (drunk as he was) convinced that he was being a good feminist by “protecting the girls’ virtue”. Let me say this much: If you are berating woman for their “inappropriate” appearance or behavior, then you are exactly what is wrong with this society.

Stupid fucking fuckshit.

Give yourself a sunshine shake!

3 Jun

Sunshine Shake

One side effect of our vacation was the discovery that, yes, I am still sensitive to UV light. In 30°C and more, I had to run around Amsterdam with a scarf wrapped around my upper body to keep my arms, shoulders and neck from bursting into raspberry-like itching blisters. This happens to me in some years, with and without sunscreen (up to SPF 50).

One thing I tend to do in years with less sun-related trouble: Eat more calcium. So this morning I set about making my very own Sunshine Shake with everything good and tasty to help my skin withstand the blistering German heat (ahem).

SUNSHINE SHAKE

Ingredients:

  • 500ml buttermilk (or 250g yoghurt plus 250ml water)
  • 1 mango, peeled and diced
  • 2 nectarines, diced
  • 250ml carrot juice

Instructions:

  1. Blend.
  2. ^^

This makes about 4 large glasses, or enough for one very indulgent breakfast.

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