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I suspect--and very fervently hope--that my mother has moved back to Florida. She was supposed to return from overseeing the renovation of her latest acquisition before the Fourth of July, but decided at the last minute to remain in Florida. Today, we returned her call and found out that her phone and Internet had been disconnected. Not only that, but PC, who had returned yesterday, was only there to pick up some furniture and would be leaving again Friday. After years of bitching and bluster, it appears she had finally made good on her threat to leave.
On the one hand, this is amazing. This means that she will no longer be able to hound me at all hours and drop by unannounced to nag me about my lack of enthusiasm at her arrival or to warn me about the latest catastrophe to hit the local economy or the latest tidbit of gospel truth she heard from Glenn Beck. No more weekend mornings in my underwear interrupted by a pounding on the door just before she lets herself in or opens the garage in order to use it as a repository for all her unwanted junk. This also means that my plans to visit Germany can be made freely now, without fear that some blabby bank teller or travel agent will let them slip in a moment of idle gossip.
On the other hand, this means that she'll soon start pressing me to uproot my peaceful, ordered, financially-solvent life so that she can "feel better about having me nearby." Because everything is all about her, always. Especially me. If I'm happy, then I'm happy because of her loving guidance, but if I'm angry or sad, then it's obviously because I failed to take her advice. As soon as she's settled into her new rhythm, she'll start calling and cajoling and making empty promises she has no intention of keeping, and when I point out that she had me nearby for her peace of mind and chose to walk away from what she swore would bring her comfort, she'll hem and haw and make excuses and try to guilt me with, "Can't you make just one sacrifice for me after all I've done for you? Do one good thing as my daughter. I've never asked a damn thing of you." If guilt fails, then she'll proceed to threats, and if that proves to be of no avail, she'll threaten to disinherit me and trot out the "I don't love you and am only doing my duty as your mother" canard.
It's going to be a long few months.
Roomie was utterly unfazed by my intent to visit Germany. In fact, all he said was, "I figured you would eventually start Wile E. Coyote-ing a foreign trip. You've been talking about Germany for eons. Rammstein just pushed it to the front of your brain." It's hardly a ringing endorsement, and I think he has misgivings he hasn't articulated yet for fear of bursting my joyous bubble, but neither is it the vehement opposition I was expecting. Maybe it's because he knows that for now, the trip is in an indeterminate point in the future, and that there is still at least one more Rammstein odyssey to plan before any thought can be given to international travel. After two rounds of Rammstein mania, he is well aware that I'm incapable of thinking beyond them as long as they are on the table. Were I to try to organize a trip to Germany while the possibility of Rammstein was open, my brain would become an unnavigable morass of, "RAMMSTEIN! RAMMSTEIN!RAMMMMMMSTEINbills food bathing airline tickets car insuranceRAMMMSSSSTEIN! I suspect he'll worry in earnest after the 2012 U.S. tour.
I won'r do any serious planning or research until after the last Rammstein odyssey, but I've started poking about various travel sites, and the German proclivity for organization enthralls me. Berlin has a twenty-four-hour wheelchair emergency hotline. If your crip chariot bites the dust in the middle of the street, you can call them, and they'll be there to repair or replace it. Now, I'm sure the service isn't cheap, but the fact that it exists at all makes me jealous and a little dewy-eyed. If my chair crapped out here, my options would be, "LOL, you got a prescription for that repair?" or "LOL, I might get there in three days. By the way, you have a scrip for that?"
Berlin apparently also boasts an organization for wheelchair-using people in the city, and while their primary focus is to assist locals, they extend their services to gormless tourists, too. As per the aforementioned penchant for efficiency and organization, they have separate organizations for the blind, deaf, dumb, wheelchair users, and developmentally-impaired. By giving each group of disabled people their own organization, they can better tailor their services and direct their limited resources. It's so simple in its genius, and I really wish the U.S. would adopt this model instead of lumping all disabled people into one group and making people with such disparate needs fight amongst themselves for woefully-inadequate resources.
I have also decided that I can't leave Berlin without trying a Boulette.
Speaking of awesome German things:
If Richard had a religion, I would be able to determine it from the tightness of those pants. Mmmm.
On the ficcing front, I decided to write a few interstitial stories from Calliope's POV to complement Sprache. They will be one-shots that can be read independently of the story proper. Their altruistic purpose is to help me flesh out Calliope as a character in her own right, divorced from Richard's besotted and biased view of her. Their not-so-noble purpose is to give curious readers a taste of my writing style, since a few mentioned that they don't read WIPs for fear of being burned. If they like it, then they can have something to look forward to when Sprache is done, and if not, then they won't have to waste time waiting for something they won't like in the end. A win for everyone.
On the one hand, this is amazing. This means that she will no longer be able to hound me at all hours and drop by unannounced to nag me about my lack of enthusiasm at her arrival or to warn me about the latest catastrophe to hit the local economy or the latest tidbit of gospel truth she heard from Glenn Beck. No more weekend mornings in my underwear interrupted by a pounding on the door just before she lets herself in or opens the garage in order to use it as a repository for all her unwanted junk. This also means that my plans to visit Germany can be made freely now, without fear that some blabby bank teller or travel agent will let them slip in a moment of idle gossip.
On the other hand, this means that she'll soon start pressing me to uproot my peaceful, ordered, financially-solvent life so that she can "feel better about having me nearby." Because everything is all about her, always. Especially me. If I'm happy, then I'm happy because of her loving guidance, but if I'm angry or sad, then it's obviously because I failed to take her advice. As soon as she's settled into her new rhythm, she'll start calling and cajoling and making empty promises she has no intention of keeping, and when I point out that she had me nearby for her peace of mind and chose to walk away from what she swore would bring her comfort, she'll hem and haw and make excuses and try to guilt me with, "Can't you make just one sacrifice for me after all I've done for you? Do one good thing as my daughter. I've never asked a damn thing of you." If guilt fails, then she'll proceed to threats, and if that proves to be of no avail, she'll threaten to disinherit me and trot out the "I don't love you and am only doing my duty as your mother" canard.
It's going to be a long few months.
Roomie was utterly unfazed by my intent to visit Germany. In fact, all he said was, "I figured you would eventually start Wile E. Coyote-ing a foreign trip. You've been talking about Germany for eons. Rammstein just pushed it to the front of your brain." It's hardly a ringing endorsement, and I think he has misgivings he hasn't articulated yet for fear of bursting my joyous bubble, but neither is it the vehement opposition I was expecting. Maybe it's because he knows that for now, the trip is in an indeterminate point in the future, and that there is still at least one more Rammstein odyssey to plan before any thought can be given to international travel. After two rounds of Rammstein mania, he is well aware that I'm incapable of thinking beyond them as long as they are on the table. Were I to try to organize a trip to Germany while the possibility of Rammstein was open, my brain would become an unnavigable morass of, "RAMMSTEIN! RAMMSTEIN!RAMMMMMMSTEINbills food bathing airline tickets car insuranceRAMMMSSSSTEIN! I suspect he'll worry in earnest after the 2012 U.S. tour.
I won'r do any serious planning or research until after the last Rammstein odyssey, but I've started poking about various travel sites, and the German proclivity for organization enthralls me. Berlin has a twenty-four-hour wheelchair emergency hotline. If your crip chariot bites the dust in the middle of the street, you can call them, and they'll be there to repair or replace it. Now, I'm sure the service isn't cheap, but the fact that it exists at all makes me jealous and a little dewy-eyed. If my chair crapped out here, my options would be, "LOL, you got a prescription for that repair?" or "LOL, I might get there in three days. By the way, you have a scrip for that?"
Berlin apparently also boasts an organization for wheelchair-using people in the city, and while their primary focus is to assist locals, they extend their services to gormless tourists, too. As per the aforementioned penchant for efficiency and organization, they have separate organizations for the blind, deaf, dumb, wheelchair users, and developmentally-impaired. By giving each group of disabled people their own organization, they can better tailor their services and direct their limited resources. It's so simple in its genius, and I really wish the U.S. would adopt this model instead of lumping all disabled people into one group and making people with such disparate needs fight amongst themselves for woefully-inadequate resources.
I have also decided that I can't leave Berlin without trying a Boulette.
Speaking of awesome German things:
If Richard had a religion, I would be able to determine it from the tightness of those pants. Mmmm.
On the ficcing front, I decided to write a few interstitial stories from Calliope's POV to complement Sprache. They will be one-shots that can be read independently of the story proper. Their altruistic purpose is to help me flesh out Calliope as a character in her own right, divorced from Richard's besotted and biased view of her. Their not-so-noble purpose is to give curious readers a taste of my writing style, since a few mentioned that they don't read WIPs for fear of being burned. If they like it, then they can have something to look forward to when Sprache is done, and if not, then they won't have to waste time waiting for something they won't like in the end. A win for everyone.
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