The Story of Sally and Mrs. Mally

Three things you need to know to "get" the story I have written.
1.)When my mother - Sally - cooks something it is always enough for twenty people. We call them "Sally Batches".
2.)As long as I've been alive, my mother hasn't had many friends. But, the ones that have come and gone over the years have always been, well, peculier.
3.)This story stems from an e-mail I got from her. She was very upset about having hit a kitten on the way home. She stopped at the only house around, and asked if it was their's. The old man told her that people just dump litters of kittens out in the country, and not to be too upset, and that he would bury the kitten, like he has for the past twenty years.

Out of those three things, and a very warped sense of humor, I have written,

The story of Sally and Mrs. Mally.



The old man appeared out of nowhere carrying a weather-beaten shovel. His green faded overalls hung low and saggy in the back, and one of the metal clasps in front was missing. His wife, a hunch-backed old woman, walked as if her left leg was shorter than her right. Her hair was pure white and pulled into a loose bun held together with bobby pins. She hobbled towards a simmering black kettel in the side yard and stirred it with the most enormous wooden spoon Sally had ever seen.
„I‘m Mr. Mally," he said in a consoling voice. „Don't worry none about that kitten. Happens all the time. People just think those poor little things can take care of themselves, and they leave whole litters of ‘em out here in the country. And, well, they wind up getting hit by a car.„ Sally listened to old Mr. Mally, still in shock from hitting the kitten. She didn‘t know what had happened. It was as if the kitten had actually flown through the air and landed in front of her car. „Can I interest you in one of the missuses fine crocheted couch throws?“ Mr. Mally asked, startling Sally back to reality. „She spins the yarn herself. Ain't nothin' softer than kitty yarn." He spit a stream of brown chewing tobacco out of the right side of his mouth and pointed towards a green roadside stand.
"Got free samples of jerkitty today. Smoked-n-dried right down yonder in what used to be the old outhouse. Just the right size for a smoke house." He hooked both thumbs into the sides of his overalls, gave a Skoll stained grin and continued with his sales pitch.
"And everything here is Or-ganic." That's just how he pronounced it, with a pause between the Or and the Ganic.
His wife gave a friendly wave as she stirred the kettle. "Won't you stay fer stew? Got plenty. With your hit, that makes five today. I'll have to freeze it if you don't stay."
Sally's eyes darted from the makeshift roadside stand, to the old woman, and finally stopped on the still warm road kill.
"Name's Nellie Mally," the woman said hobbling towards her. "I always make too much. My young-ens call it a Mally Batch when I cook."
Sally couldn't believe what she was hearing. It was like the good Lord himself had brought these two woman together. Destined to be best friends.
"Well?" Nellie asked her. "You gonna stay? Can't you speak woman?"
Sally gave a sly grin. "Oh I beg your pardon." She said sarcastically. "Guess the cats got my tongue."
This made both women laugh so hard they wet themselves right there, together, by the side of the road.
And so began the friendship between Sally and Mrs. Mally. Sally sold her trailer and moved into the old farmhouse. Old Mr. Mally spent his time raising kittens and putting them by the side of the road when he heard cars approaching. Sometimes giving them a friendly nudge, or toss into the oncoming car. Most folks bought a little Jerkitty, or handmade scarf. Sally and Nellie sat on the porch sipping lemonade and spinning "karn" as they so called it. (and giggled like schoolgirls every time they said it. Sometimes they would say it for no reason at all but to have a little laugh. Karn. Tee-Hee, Karn.) If they weren‘t spinning and giggling they were busy cooking up Sally-Mally-Batches of soup or stew.
And they all lived happily ever after.

The End

Capweats

Sharon and I became friends the day she came over, handed me a cup of coffee and said, “What the hell is up with your husband’s sweat pants. Is he waiting for a flood?”
“Haven’t you heard? They’re all the rage. I call them Capweats.” - And when I said it, I sounded like Barbara Walters or Elmer Fudd.
The famous sweat pants were an indiscernible shade of green, and the length of a pair of capris. He wore them with black dress socks and sneakers. (Why would I make that up.)
The thing with my husband is, he cannot part with his old clothes. They are “perfectly fine”. And hell hath no fury like Uwe’s anger if he finds I have pillaged his sock and underwear drawer and thrown out the pairs that crunch when you stretch them. Elastic shouldn’t crunch. And that, my friends, is a fact. If we have an argument and I want to really piss him off, I head for his underwear drawer. He follows. “Liz, don’t you dare. I’m warning you!”
I take out a pair of his mommy -wear (Underwear his mother bought for him back in the 90’s) and rip them. Childish? Yes. Effective? You betcha.
My friend Trixie’s husband has the same 100% polyamide white Adidas shorts as my husband. I can hear some of you reading this squealing “Oh, Oh! The one’s with three black stripes on the sides and a draw-string waist!” The very same. Bikini cut and lined with a 100% cotton banana hammock. (Thank God.) I dare say they are pre-1980's. The label says Made in West Germany. And I am willing to bet money his mother bought those too.
What prompted me to write this? Well, the green sweatpants are long gone. (A tragic accident involving gasoline and matches.) However… He went out, and bought the same sweatpants. (Adidas, by the way, with three black stripes down the leg. Just like the shorts.) And while I’m at it, how do men manage to replace their old clothes with exactly the same thing? Anyway, as I was saying - he replaced the sweatpants ten years ago, and now, they too are the length of capris. It made me think of Sharon, handing me that cup of coffee. And all the cups of coffee we had together thereafter. Her’s black, mine with vanilla-toffee flavored creamer.
Just a little trip down memory lane.
Well folks, Uwe has just changed out of his sweats, and left the house. Time for me to wrap this up. The gasoline and matches are ready. Oh don’t worry, there’s an Adidas store downtown. Unless his mother has already bought him a pair…

Go Green!

Every year it’s the same. We go stateside to visit my family, and I am mocked for my excessive recycling. I wash out the yoghurt cups, and put them in the blue recycling box. Empty cans, plastic laundry soap bottles, gallon milk jugs, glass, and paper - all in the blue box. The problem is, the blue box is the size of a laundry basket. After roughly three days, it’s full. Really full.
I’m puzzled. Everyone in town has a recycling box, yet none are ever full. (Except for mine.) They are put out on garbage day next to a “family size” (it could hold an entire family) trash can.
This got me wondering about the whole Go Green! slogan that is popping up everywhere. Google to the rescue. Ahh Haa… Going green means switching to solar power and hybrid cars. Turning down your thermostat, and being more energy efficient. Well, that makes sense. I googled further, and came upon an interesting website.
http://www.employmentspot.com/employment-articles/going-green-americas-10-greenest-cities/
It is a list of America’s 10 greenest cities.
Austin Texas is #1 on the list. The city hopes to convert some of it’s vehicles to hybrids. I think they should make all the cars like Fred Flintstones. Just cut out the floorboards so the folks can get a good running start. It would also help the obesity problem in America.
The obesity problem, however, is actually helping “Green America”. Boston, Massachusetts, #3 on the list, hopes to generate its own power in one community by utilizing the used cooking oil from area restaurants. Heiliges Schmalz! Americans eat A LOT of fried food. Chicken wing grease alone could power most of Boston. Add to that fried fish, onion rings, mozzarella sticks, chicken fingers, and super-sized portions of french fries and I think we could light up the entire east coast. Seattle, Washington is spending $30 million to be the best bicycling community in the country. I thought Seattle was known for its rain. Let’s hope their raincoats are environmentally friendly, made from recycled plastic, or possibly the cooking oil from Boston.
From now on, I am going to do more than just sort my garbage to help save the planet.
That’s right, I am going green! I am switching to energy-efficient light bulbs, turning down the heat, and hanging the laundry up instead of using the dryer. I wonder if I should write to Angela Merkel about turning the Schnitzel grease into energy? Yes, I think I will.

Gramma Hart

We called her Gramma Hart. My mother called her Ruth “did you put two in dear” Hart. She had a maid, Ola. Ola was a black woman with gold fillings - paid for, no doubt, by my Grandmother. The only apartment I remember visiting Gramma Hart in was 1100 East Avenue. My dad said it was one of many that she lived in, as she kept getting evicted for falling asleep while smoking in bed. (Or possibly her chair.)
Gramma spent 90% of her day propped up on the left side of her king size bed. The right side of the bed was an array of magazines, the newspaper, a tube of blood red lipstick, and the TV remote - which had only two buttons. One for on & off, and one to change from channel eight to channel ten or thirteen. Channel 21 came in fuzzy and only if you fucked around with the rabbit ears antenna. Which was strictly verboten. Last, but by no means least, was the large aqua blue stone ashtray. Emptied every few hours by Ola, and NEVER into the trash can lest another fire.
Gramma’s left leg, complete with stocking and shoe, stood in the far right corner of the bedroom. What was left of her leg, amputated just above the knee, rested on a pillow.
I think I was about ten when I realized why my mother gave her the nickname. Gramma handed me her cut crystal glass and asked if I knew how to make a drink. Having no idea, but much too afraid of the woman to say I didn’t, I shook my head yes. So I trotted off to the kitchen and filled the glass with ice, and then filled it to the tippy top with bourbon. Ola caught me in the living room and promptly took the glass back to the kitchen. “Now we always put a little bit a water in Ms. Hart’s drink,” she told me. Then she dumped most of the alcohol out and added water to the glass. “We don’t wanna haf another fire.” She handed me back the glass and told me when my Grandmother asks if I put two in, to say yes. And sure enough, Gramma asked,
“Did you put two in, dear?” “Yes, Gramma.” I lied, as I reached across the bed and put out the cigarette teetering on the edge of the ashtray.

Got Arnica?

There is no turning back, I am officially German. It has been creeping up on me over the years. The eco-friendly 100% cotton bags I take to the store to pack my groceries in. The Birkenstocks with socks. I argued with my inner self - The bags are practical, and the socks keep my feet warm. I even told myself they were signs of ageing. Maturity had set in. I pick things up when they are lying on the floor instead of kicking them under the furniture. I am an adult. No shame in that. I would rather admit to getting old, than turning German. But lately, I have been doing things that have nothing to do with maturity. Last week at Top Bau - the home improvement store - I toyed with the idea of hanging flower boxes over the edge of the balcony, and filling them with geraniums. This is more German than Sauerkraut and Bratwurst.
Anyway, the final leap happened this morning at 11:46 when the pharmacist handed me Arnica Kügelchen. For all of you Motrin gulping, Tylenol popping readers out there, Arnica is a homeopathic medicine. It can be taken after surgery to reduce pain and swelling. It can help alleviate sprains and strains, and is used for bruise relief. It is also used to manage the pain before and after labor and delivery, as well as lessen trauma.
I looked like possessed Linda Blair when I asked for painkillers during labor with my first child. The midwife gave me Arnica. I threw her out the window. Poor thing. Oh don‘t worry. It was only the first floor, and they gave her plenty of Arnica for the pain.
Needless to say, my whole take on these oh-so-popular little white balls is, pass the Oxycodone, please. I never, ever, ever thought I would have them in my medicine cabinet. It’s just so, German. You know that saying, “More American than mom’s apple pie.“ Thay have one here, it goes, “More German than Homeopathic Arnica pellets.”
I guess this is it. Tomorrow I’ll buy a basket for my bike and ride into town to shop. I just hope my dirndl doesn’t get caught in the chain.
I’d hate to fall off my bike. Oh wait, It’s okay, I have my Arnica!

I don't know who is glowing more, Angela Merkel or Karenne Sylvester

Barack Obama was in my neck of the woods last week. First in Baden Baden and then Straßburg. Current events gal that I am, I knew about it AFTER he was gone. There he was on the front page of the newspaper next to a blushing Angela Merkel. She seemed to be glowing in his presence. Anyone who's seen Angela knows she is not one to "glow". Well, Barack has that effect on people. Especially on the leader of Writers-in-Stuttgart (yes, that was a plug for our writer's group) I don't think I have ever seen Karenne like this. She was still floating on cloud nine Saturday morning.
"I shook his hand." She kept saying. As I watched her make the coffee for the meeting, I noticed her being careful NOT to get her hand wet. Will she ever wash that hand again?
After the meeting, she gave me an animated play-by-play account of her day. Photo after photo. The alarm clock - "This is what my clock looked like the day I Shook Barack Obama's hand." Her breakfast - "This was what I had for breakfast the day I shook Barack Obama's hand. Her morning dump - "This is what my poop looked like the day I shook Barack Obama's hand. Is it just me Liz, or do you see a sort of shroud like shadow of Barack in my toilet bowl?"
Oh all right, she didn't snap a photo of her poo.
I exaggerate this Blog because I am jealous. Did I mention she was sitting in the front row? The friggen front row for cryin' out loud! I mean, at first I was like - Okay, big deal you saw Barack. Then she said she shook his hand. And I was still thinking, yeah, you stood in a crowd of hundreds and stuck your paw through... Then she hits me with, "I was in the front row!"
So, yes, I was jealous. Perhaps if I spent less time on Facebook & YouTube, and more time on current events I would have known Barack was coming BEFORE he had already left. From now on I am going to keep up on what's happening. I'm going to know all the breaking news. And the next time President Bill Clinton comes to Germany I'm going to shake his hand!


Thanks to Karenne Sylvester for this blog inspiration and the great photos!
Check out her web page and blog spots. http://www.kalinago-english.com/
http://kalinago.blogspot.com/ (for teachers)
http://how2learnenglish.blogspot.com (for students)

posting not edited yet, might get to it soon

Onto the homework.The notebook came out, as did the spelling list. Word number one: “Füller“. Capitalization was forgotten, as was one of the l’s. He happily killed his mistake, but forgot to use the other end of the killer pen and tried to write over the blank spot with the Füller. It didn’t work. He switched back to the killer. Both ends of the killer were now open, and one of the tops had fallen onto to floor- (swallowed up by the same monster that takes all the hair bands, socks, and puzzle pieces) - never to be seen again. Next spelling word, next mistake. Switch pens, back and forth, back and forth. Now there was a new problem. The killer wasn’t quite dry. Let me take this opportunity to share with you one of my favorite rules in life: Less Is More. In mascara, in garlic, and in killer pens. If you don’t let the killer dry completely you can’t write over it. Also, when killing a word, it takes a few seconds for it to disappear. Newbie’s don’t know this and scrub at the word on their paper. Then they try to write over it using a sharp fountain pen, then again with the killer marker. (yes, it’s a marker, not a pen as I kept writing. And isn’t a marker also in the category of things you SHOULDN’T give to a six-year old?) Anyway, what happened next was a damp, messy hole in the paper. By now it has taken him forty minutes to write six words. Frustration has set in and he has begun to cry. I couldn’t just rip the page out because they aren’t perforated. That, and there are only 16 pages in the notebook to begin with. (See previous Blog). I desperately try to calm him down and find a solution. I Offered to cut a piece of paper to patch the hole. It was useless. He was so overwhelmed from getting homework to begin with at age six, having a teacher that expects perfection, and the pressure of having a “dictation test” the next day, that nothing I said helped. EXCEPT… offering to by a new notebook. So it was back to Toto-Lotto. I bought three new notebooks and another killer. Home again, home again jiggity jig to start the whole thing over again.Eventually he got the hang of it, and soggy holes became a thing of the past. Inky hands, however, NEVER become a thing of the past. The fascination of checking the ink level, or taking the stupid pen apart just for the heck of it never wears off. One of my favorite tricks with the pen is to shake it. Like you would shake an old-fashioned fever thermometer, or a normal Bic pen. This causes the ink to fly out of the tip at an amazing speed and splatter everything within a six-meter radius. A good fight between siblings is a sure-fire way to get ink on the walls and possibly the ceiling. One of them grabs the other’s pen, and a fight breaks out. The owner of the Pen tries to grab the pen back, causing the other to whip it out of their reach in an arc like movement up and over his head. Up and over, left to right, back and forth. And while they do this, they run. Yes, one is running with the pointy pen, waving it wildly and laughing like Jack Nicholson in The Shining. The other is screaming hysterically like Jack’s wife Wendy.“Gib mir mein Füller du Arschloch!”And where is mom while all this is going on? She is sitting on the floor in the ink splattered living room talking through her right index finger, “REDRUM, REDRUM…” Sorry, back to reality. Oh wait, that was reality.I believe this is a good time to end this blog. And Remember, Tintenkiller is your friend.