Anyone who knows me relatively well can tell you that I tend to have odd dreams. I chalk it up to an overactive imagination, which is fun and convenient during waking hours, and but can wreak havoc in the middle of the night. Just ask any of the girls who were on a houseboat with me during my youth group's summer retreat in 1997. Let's just say that the middle-of-the-night episode in question began with a dream about a large snake, included lots of screaming (first on my part, then on everyone's part as each sleepy mind created its own fantastic reason for my screams), and ended in complete and utter chaos until our counselors could get us calm and back to sleep.
When my dreams don't involve giant reptiles, they've been known to include uncovering terrorist plots of which Emma Thompson is the mastermind, purchasing rodents for a meal who were such foul creatures that their souls had to be sucked out before consumption, and so many marriages to different mystery grooms (whose faces I never seem to see) that I must live in Utah in my dreams.
One of my most recent dreams touched on the grisly topic of murder. Though most of the details were lost, thankfully, to the mists of whatever dreamworld I inhabit (is it misty in Utah?), I distinctly remember kneeling next to the murder victim and weeping uncontrollably. What I didn't realize at the time (and didn't recall until the next morning) was that the murder victim was Junior Asparagus. Yes, Junior Asparagus from Veggie Tales. Needless to say, this recollection turned an intense dream into an intense fit of giggles. Thank goodness for a crazy, overactive imagination can turn scary dreams on their heads!
30 July 2009
18 July 2009
Nicknamed Neighbors
One of the charms of living in a small town and maintaining a consistent morning routine is seeing the same people in and around my town on a regular basis. Since I don’t know their names, I give them nicknames and sometimes invent little histories for them to amuse myself as I make my way to the bus stop.
For instance, I often ride the morning bus with Bright Eyes and Google Eyes, a middle-aged couple that boards a few stops after me. Since they didn’t seem to be a couple when I first began seeing them, my romantic notions strongly suspect them of falling in love at that very bus stop. As they waited there morning after morning for the ever-late bus to arrive, casual conversation turned into love. It’s sweet, really. In any case, Bright Eyes is so-called because her eyes always seem alert, cheerful, and smiling. Google Eyes earned his rather snarky nickname because his eyes are slightly bugged, an unfortunate feature which is sadly enhanced by his glasses.
On occasion I encounter a grey-haired lady who walks with serious purpose (i.e. really fast). I call her The Grey Comet. If I ride the bus at a certain time, I’m sure to encounter Pippi Cellphone, so named for her (dyed) red hair that is usually braided and a mobile phone that seems to have been surgically attached to her right ear. And almost every morning, I exchange a friendly greeting of “Morgen!” (Good morning) with Herr Morgen, the man who owns the small fruit and vegetable store on my street.
But my favorite Nicknamed Neighbors by far are the couple that I encounter most mornings shortly after I emerge onto the street from my flat. She is Tall Blond Woman, or TBW (the nickname and abbreviation are a nod to the TV series Psych). TBW is always smartly dressed and walks in the direction of the train station. After repeated encounters with her, I discovered that she lives in a building up the street from me, just past Herr Morgen’s fruit and vegetable store. TBW is most often accompanied by an equally tall, balding, bespectacled British man, Lover Jack (kind of like the Union Jack, only not). Lover Jack is enshrouded in mystery. It’s not yet determinable if he is, indeed, TBW’s boyfriend, if he actually lives in Austria or just visits TBW from time to time, or if he is perhaps merely a work colleague who happens to live in the same building as TBW.
In any case, TBW and Lover Jack are living proof that fiction is more romantic than reality. Many mornings as I see them walking towards me, the Snarky Narrator Who Lives in My Head will invent little lovers’ dialogues for them. Lover Jack will say, “You walk with the grace of a gazelle, darling TBW.” At which comment TBW will blush becomingly and make some demure reply about how his love has a positive affect upon her posture. In reality, however, the snatches of conversation that I hear as the pair pass by are far from romantic. More often than not, Lover Jack is discussing some item of business. I’ve heard such thrilling comments as, “If you scan the entire e-mail…” Nevertheless, there are times when the Snarky Narrator Who Lives in My Head has the distinct impression that, though Lover Jack may wax eloquent on the most boring of topics, TBW finds his monologues as gloriously melodic as love sonnets. But alas, fiction is, indeed, more romantic than reality, as was demonstrated on one particular morning of note.
I had just left my building and begun my walk up the street when I spied TBW and Lover Jack in what at first glance appeared to be a tender moment. They had paused on the sidewalk and she had her hand on his face. The Snarky Narrator Who Lives in My Head immediately began a lovers’ dialogue (“I just love you SO much!”) and I chuckled inwardly. As they continued walking, however, I realized that the assumption that I had witnessed a romantic moment couldn’t have been further from the truth. Just as I passed the couple, I overheard TBW say, “Ah, so you have been picking your scabs?” Apparently, TBW had been wiping blood from Lover Jack’s face and romance had nothing to do with it. Though I didn’t let loose with the raucous laughter that was bubbling just beneath the surface, I couldn’t repress a few giggles as I continued on my way to the bus stop.
Stay tuned for future musings on my Nicknamed Neighbors!
For instance, I often ride the morning bus with Bright Eyes and Google Eyes, a middle-aged couple that boards a few stops after me. Since they didn’t seem to be a couple when I first began seeing them, my romantic notions strongly suspect them of falling in love at that very bus stop. As they waited there morning after morning for the ever-late bus to arrive, casual conversation turned into love. It’s sweet, really. In any case, Bright Eyes is so-called because her eyes always seem alert, cheerful, and smiling. Google Eyes earned his rather snarky nickname because his eyes are slightly bugged, an unfortunate feature which is sadly enhanced by his glasses.
On occasion I encounter a grey-haired lady who walks with serious purpose (i.e. really fast). I call her The Grey Comet. If I ride the bus at a certain time, I’m sure to encounter Pippi Cellphone, so named for her (dyed) red hair that is usually braided and a mobile phone that seems to have been surgically attached to her right ear. And almost every morning, I exchange a friendly greeting of “Morgen!” (Good morning) with Herr Morgen, the man who owns the small fruit and vegetable store on my street.
But my favorite Nicknamed Neighbors by far are the couple that I encounter most mornings shortly after I emerge onto the street from my flat. She is Tall Blond Woman, or TBW (the nickname and abbreviation are a nod to the TV series Psych). TBW is always smartly dressed and walks in the direction of the train station. After repeated encounters with her, I discovered that she lives in a building up the street from me, just past Herr Morgen’s fruit and vegetable store. TBW is most often accompanied by an equally tall, balding, bespectacled British man, Lover Jack (kind of like the Union Jack, only not). Lover Jack is enshrouded in mystery. It’s not yet determinable if he is, indeed, TBW’s boyfriend, if he actually lives in Austria or just visits TBW from time to time, or if he is perhaps merely a work colleague who happens to live in the same building as TBW.
In any case, TBW and Lover Jack are living proof that fiction is more romantic than reality. Many mornings as I see them walking towards me, the Snarky Narrator Who Lives in My Head will invent little lovers’ dialogues for them. Lover Jack will say, “You walk with the grace of a gazelle, darling TBW.” At which comment TBW will blush becomingly and make some demure reply about how his love has a positive affect upon her posture. In reality, however, the snatches of conversation that I hear as the pair pass by are far from romantic. More often than not, Lover Jack is discussing some item of business. I’ve heard such thrilling comments as, “If you scan the entire e-mail…” Nevertheless, there are times when the Snarky Narrator Who Lives in My Head has the distinct impression that, though Lover Jack may wax eloquent on the most boring of topics, TBW finds his monologues as gloriously melodic as love sonnets. But alas, fiction is, indeed, more romantic than reality, as was demonstrated on one particular morning of note.
I had just left my building and begun my walk up the street when I spied TBW and Lover Jack in what at first glance appeared to be a tender moment. They had paused on the sidewalk and she had her hand on his face. The Snarky Narrator Who Lives in My Head immediately began a lovers’ dialogue (“I just love you SO much!”) and I chuckled inwardly. As they continued walking, however, I realized that the assumption that I had witnessed a romantic moment couldn’t have been further from the truth. Just as I passed the couple, I overheard TBW say, “Ah, so you have been picking your scabs?” Apparently, TBW had been wiping blood from Lover Jack’s face and romance had nothing to do with it. Though I didn’t let loose with the raucous laughter that was bubbling just beneath the surface, I couldn’t repress a few giggles as I continued on my way to the bus stop.
Stay tuned for future musings on my Nicknamed Neighbors!
06 July 2009
Sweden: The Promised Land of Europe
I recently enjoyed my second trip to the city of Gothenburg, Sweden, where a friend and her husband live. After listening to Herta's descriptions of Sweden from her visits before she moved there to get married, I dubbed it "the Promised Land."
"The stores are open on Sundays in Sweden? Herta, it's the Promised Land!" I would exclaim, as I imagined what it must be like to be able to do your shopping on a Sunday. (All stores except those at major train stations and the airport are closed on Sunday in Austria.)
My first visit to Sweden in January confirmed my already firm belief in its Promised Land-ness. Not only are stores open on Sunday, but there are so many 7-Elevens that you'd think you were in a U.S. city, and Ben and Jerry's ice cream is available in many stores. Add on top of that the fact that most Swedes are very friendly and happy to speak English with you, and you might as well add Sweden to the list of Top 10 Best Ever Places to Live in Europe. And, as the crowning cherry to the hot fudge sundae that IS Sweden, I discovered a delightful new breakfast dish on the breakfast buffet at my hotel: plain/natural yogurt topped with crunchy cereal and honey. Does it GET more Promised Land than that?
While I'm perfectly happy in Austria, which has its own perks and lovely cultural aspects, it's like a breath of fresh air to visit a place that has some of the creature comforts that I miss from home, as well as a people that I would venture to say are even more genuinely friendly and helpful than my well-loved South (southeastern U.S., that is). Austrians, while noted for their cozy wine taverns and cafes, aren't exactly known for great customer service (and I've heard Austrians say so; this isn't a snobbish ex-pat sentiment).
So, Sweden, I hereby dub thee the Promised Land of Europe! May you continue to bear your title well.
"The stores are open on Sundays in Sweden? Herta, it's the Promised Land!" I would exclaim, as I imagined what it must be like to be able to do your shopping on a Sunday. (All stores except those at major train stations and the airport are closed on Sunday in Austria.)
My first visit to Sweden in January confirmed my already firm belief in its Promised Land-ness. Not only are stores open on Sunday, but there are so many 7-Elevens that you'd think you were in a U.S. city, and Ben and Jerry's ice cream is available in many stores. Add on top of that the fact that most Swedes are very friendly and happy to speak English with you, and you might as well add Sweden to the list of Top 10 Best Ever Places to Live in Europe. And, as the crowning cherry to the hot fudge sundae that IS Sweden, I discovered a delightful new breakfast dish on the breakfast buffet at my hotel: plain/natural yogurt topped with crunchy cereal and honey. Does it GET more Promised Land than that?
While I'm perfectly happy in Austria, which has its own perks and lovely cultural aspects, it's like a breath of fresh air to visit a place that has some of the creature comforts that I miss from home, as well as a people that I would venture to say are even more genuinely friendly and helpful than my well-loved South (southeastern U.S., that is). Austrians, while noted for their cozy wine taverns and cafes, aren't exactly known for great customer service (and I've heard Austrians say so; this isn't a snobbish ex-pat sentiment).
So, Sweden, I hereby dub thee the Promised Land of Europe! May you continue to bear your title well.
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