A few days ago I asked my mother, "Mom?  Are you voting early?"

"No", she answered, "I'm going to City Hall on Tuesday."

"City Hall?  Mom...  errrr, our polling station is Olympic Heights High School.  I've taken you there before."

"You have?"

"Mmmmhmmm", I say, "Two times before."

"Well, where is it?"

"Just north of Glades, on Lyons Road, Mom.  Past the TJ Maxx on the west side of the street."

"Really?"

Sigh.  "Yes, really.  You want me to take you there?"

"Do you mind...?"

So I was up today at the crack of 6:30, bleary-eyed and silently wondering, over two cups of strong, sweet coffee, why I was taking my mother to the polls.  She is on the complete opposite end of the political spectrum than I am.

A Republican for life.  Scoffing any time any sort of Democrat or liberal crosses our television screen.

I've tried to explain how her party has changed since the time she became a United States citizen.  I tried to explain that she's a woman, and although she doesn't have to worry about her reproductive rights anymore, it would behoove her to worry about mine.  I tried to explain that she doesn't make over $100,000 a year.  I've tried many things, to no avail.

And I get it.  She's one of those stereo-typical bull-headed, stalwart German women.  I come from a long line of them, apparently.  (And she's a Capricorn on top of it.)  She is what she is.  And that's it.

So I stood--- proudly--- with my mother, third cup of coffee firmly entrenched in my hands, while she cast her ballot.  For the opposition.  And I looked around and smiled.

Fall 1986.

I entered Fort Lauderdale High School on my first day, Freshman year, wearing a bustier (Esprit), fitted white jacket, white shorts and gladiator sandals.  I was showing off my newly (very) impressive figure and dark Hawaiian Tropic tan.

While walking through the halls, I saw a boy that I immediately crushed on.  Green eyes, square jaw, beautiful smile.  I hesitate to call it lust.  I didn't know what that felt like yet.  Er... yet... ish.

We became friends.  I was a soccer manager, he was the captain.  We sang in choir together.  While I never wanted to run for office, I ran a couple of campaigns for him.  I smiled like an idiot, like little girls do, whenever he was around.

When I finally (thought) I knew what lust felt like, a smile from him made me... well, mmmmmmmmmm....  mmmmmmmmm!

We almost hooked up, one night, after a party at his house.  (His wisdom teeth.)  And then again, on our senior choir tour.  (Gretchen gave him a lap dance.  Bitch!)

And when I moved to Arizona, I found his number and got in touch.  At that point, I just wanted to feel.  Something, anything.  I used my sister dying as an excuse to call; his brother had the biggest crush on my sister EVER.  (And why didn't that work both ways?!  With different family members, of course.)  We chatted for a while--- he was in bed with his girlfriend--- but I did smile.  The crush was still in place.

After that, every month or so, I would think, "What happened to...?" or "I wonder what he's doing now?"

I found him on Facebook yesterday.  Wife.  Two kids.  Hunter with Bambi.  And while it's wonderful to hear from him, I've got no desire to fuck his brains out anymore.  Ha!

It only took 22 goddamn years to get over him.

I'm going out tonight.  I'm feeling frisky.

Ah, here I sit on a Friday night.  Itchy yet strangely comfortable in my beer-fueled codeine haze.  Normally I hoard my codeine like a squirrel.  It's never used for pain-killing; I prefer to use it more for mind-numbing.  Mmmmmm-mindnumbinggggggg.....

This really isn't going to flow too well, is it?  Eh.  What do you expect from someone who's been wandering around her house like a not-completely tranquilized tiger--- picking up and putting on the detrius of her life strewn throughout her cage.  I'm currently wearing gym shorts and a tee, my floppy Deutschland soccer ball hat, pink elf-toed clogs (kinda--- one's fallen off and out of reach of my toesies under the desk), 3 watches (Michelle, Chanel, Invicta) and my peacock feather earrings.

scratchscratchscratch

Earlier this afternoon I innocently walked in to my kitchen to get a glass of water, blissfully unaware of imminent disaster.  I picked up my water glass from the counter and was pivoting around to fill it when--- Crack!  The glass collapses in my hand and the jagged, heavy base made it's descent down the back of my calf.

It makes me a little nauseated, no, very nauseated to see the back of my leg slit open;  the pink/white of my interior, before the blood realizes "Oh shit!  We gotta go!  Things to drip on and stain and all that!".

25 stiches later.  25 horrible stitches later--- the doctor asked me if it looked good only after he was finished.  I wish he would've stopped and asked me intermittenly.  It's not like I was gonna ask him to pull 'em all out and start over.  I'm sure that 's what he was betting on.

Funny, the only other time I've had stitches (16, thank you very much) is on the same leg--- from a broken wine glass.  Glass hates me and I don't know why.  Maybe the ones that hurt me heard about how rough I treat all the other glasses.

So, now I'm off to Munich with a Frankenstein leg.  I wish it were a bit cuter; like Sally from "Nightmare Before Christmas".  A Frankenstein leg in my Betsy Johnson dress, in my dirndls.  I should be a rousing success.

The very, very worst part will be not hopping whilst watching the Bayern / Lyon and Bayern / Bochum matches.  I mean, if you know me--- that's fucking impossible.  I hop during every match.  It's part of my charm.

Sigh.

scratchscratchscratch

Whaddya wanna bet I'll be seeing a doctor in Munich?

In the past week-and-a-half, on Facebook, I've suddenly become friends with 50 or so people that I haven't seen/stolen street signs with/spoken to/made out with/caught wind of/fucked since, like, high school.

Whywhywhy?

Are we all sitting, wine-drunk (Stag's Leap Cab, thx.), relaxing after work or perhaps doing fuck-all before work; staring at our respective monitors?  We're all wondering why did he marry her?  Oh, I wonder what she/he looks like now?  Why don't they have a picture posted?  Awww... what a cute family (gag.).

These are people I loved truly and falsely, people I fucked and fucked over (neither are likely to forget it, yeah), people I smoked pot on the beach with, people I went to prom with, people I had very very meaningful conversations with when everything was of the utmostimportance.  People who lit lawns on fire, TP'ed houses eloquently, listened to the same music I did (StoneRosesNINPinkFloydTheyMightBeGiantsBeastieBoysDepecheModeRHCPDuranDuran..."I saw you at the airrace yesterday... april showers get out of my way...").  People who ripped off 7 11's for MD 20/20's I could sip whilst saying "fuck that!", people who had fake ID's better than mine.  People who thought I was gonna be somebody.  People who shook their heads and said, "Those Schaaf sisters!  I can't tell which one's worse."  (I thought that was a compliment.)

Is it because we're all rapidly approaching 40?  What are we searching for?  Do we have to catch up to our blessed peers before our 20-year reunion?  Who had surgery?  Oh your boobs look great!  (Sigh.)  Are we so unhappy we need to bring up memories of our unfettered pasts---  when the whole fucking world was open to us, if only we could pry our lithe, tan (hot!) bodies out of our beach chairs?

Ah, the halycon days of Jimmy'z skirts, pegged jeans, Flying L's (wehailtheealmamaterandsingthygreatpraisewithloyaldevotionrememberingthydaysbesteadfasttrueandfaithfulflyinglsblueandwhiteherestoyoualmamaterfortlauderdalehigh)!  Mooning the ROTC, lighting farts in the hallway, passed notes/notebooks!  Spirit stick (we got hosed), George English Park, skurfing at midnight!  Weekends spent at the park tripping our faces off, church on Sundays (still the weekend)!  Cavariccis, white boots, big hair!  Ahhhhhh... yes.  Yeeeeeessssssssssssssss....

We're all grasping for that elusive, shifting light of innocence (but not).  Aren't we?!

Or maybe that's just me. 

My left big toe hurts.

It's hurt, for... oh... 4 years or so now.

For a few years I just thought I had been standing up too much.  (I've been bartending for about 18 years now.)  But as I started working less and the pain continued, sometimes very acutely, I began to think it was something else; despite being dilligent about pedicures and sloughing off--- blech!--- dead stuff and cleaning and scraping (with a power sander, no less!) and pedicures.  Oh, my!

I think I have gout.

Yep.  Gout.  In corset-ripping novels, you know--- the ones that use words like "tumescent", "turgid" and "dampen curls"--- only dukes get gout.  And have a squint and a club foot.  And they rest in their club chairs, say "What ho!  Good man!", drink brandy, play cards and have quizzing glasses.  And although I use the word "turgid" every-once-in-a-while, none of the rest of this paragraph applies to me, except "corset" occasionally.

Gout is a disease of privileged people.  (Hence the ducal idea in my mind.)  It's a build-up of uric crystals in your joints (normally starting with your big toe.  A-ha!) due to a diet heavy in protein:  Shellfish and dark meats especially--- neither of which I eat--- which led me to believe I was hypochondriacal.  Er.  Until I read...

..."It is also is caused by moderate to high alcohol consumption, particularly beer."

I totally have gout!

Hence forth I will speak in a crusty accent whilst wearing breeches. I'll talk about hounds and my crumbling estate.  I'll eat custard and cucumber sandwiches while my legs are crossed... at least, I will when my gout's not affecting me.

Note:  This is my final piece for espn.com regarding the German team.  If football's your bag, I hope you enjoyed reading.  :)

Three, Two, One?
I've pondered, for days, what to write in this, my final piece for Euro '08. I'm terribly sorry that it's so long overdue--- travel and mixed emotions have conspired to make me, as late, a not-so-prolific writer.

Without taking anything away from the Spanish side, Germany fielded possibly the worst second place team I've ever seen. I've tried, rather unsuccessfully, not to be too critical throughout this wonderful tournament... ...but there it is.

So what does that say about Germany? Rather a lot of good things, I would think. What they lacked in talent was made up with a bullish, determined mind-set to win. It wasn't pretty to watch. It was exasperating, frustrating and even mind-boggling, at times.

I was very fortunate to spend three weeks in Basel, Vienna, Munich and all over the Bavarian country-side. To feel the love and pride that the German people have for "die Mannschaft" makes the hairs stand up on my arms in a mixture of awe and wonder. This game, football, is a truly beautiful thing.

My favorite moments? Meeting a group of fans on the train to Basel that I'd hugged in Vienna after the Germany - Austria match. The last minute goal against Turkey that sent the Markplatz, in Basel, in to throes of unadulterated chanting and whooping. Seeing the starting line-up for the match against Portugal; smiling and thinking, "You know? This might actually work!". And finally, sitting with a couple hundred Germans in a biergarten in Vienna, surrounded by Austrian fans imploring us to sing "Das Deutschlandlied". We stood together and sang. And I cried. (I'm such a girl!)

Of course, changes will have to be made. (Jens Lehmann, anyone?) But Germany is blessed with a wonderful youth system and the fabulous, entertaining Bundesliga. And if you look at our past two tournaments, we're only moving up.

World Cup 2006: Third place.
Euro 2008: Second place.
World Cup 2010: Dare I even say it?!

Postscript. As I sat in Munich, after the final match, a bit dejected but pragmatic, a friend turned to me and asked, "Susie, what are you doing tomorrow--- your last day in Germany?" I told him I'd thought about taking a tour of Berchtesgaden. As a World War II buff, it's a place I've always wanted to visit. He smiled and said, "You know, it's FC Bayern's first practice tomorrow. Jurgen Klinsmann's first practice. And it's open to the public."

I smiled broadly. And got excited about football all over again...

Sigh.

First class train travel is nice.  Especially when the air-conditioning works, I thought, as I settled in to my compartment.  Within two minutes a waitress was taking my order for, erm... breakfast and a Fransiskaner Weissbier.  (Breakfast of champions!  I know.)

I munched on a croissant with butter and cream cheese and let my mind idly wander,

...I now take a break in this regularly scheduled blog to watch the otter outside my back window hop about!  Yay!...

(5 minutes later)

...Where was I?  Mind idly wandering?  Got it.

...glad that I was on a cool train.  After a week of cold and rainy weather, it was exactly the wrong day for it to be hot in Europe.  As transferring luggage on a warm day is a less-than-pleasant experience.

I was going to meet Achim, a friend from the internets, and party in Basle for 4 days.  Oh yeah, there was a Germany - Turkey match too.  (!)

One hour before my arrival, I decided to "put my face on" and get my hairs aright.  I pull my mirror out of my rather extensive cosmetics bag, flip it open and squint.  Eh.  I've definitely looked worse, I thought.  I reapplied powder, blush and pushed my eyeliner back into its initial position.

Now, what to do with my mop?  I pull the elastic out of my hasty, messy bun and shake my hair out.  I hadn't done my roots before my trip, so I was going with the... errrr... "rock-and-roll" look.  You know, the one where you can't be bothered with silly things like roots because you're so cool.

I glanced at the abrupt change in color when I see a glint out of place.  "Ping!"  That's wierd.  That's not supposed to be blonde.

It wasn't.

Oh my god.  I can't...  I don't...  My mother didn't go gray until she was in her fifties.  Oh fuck.  I'm only 36!  Oh wait, that's not really that young, is it?

Well, this can not stand, I harrumphed, and "Ping!" plucked the enemy out.  Ahhh.  I felt much better until I started reviewing the rest of my hair.  And then I got a little hysterical.  If I plucked out all of those, I will definitely have a "receding hairline" which is just slightly worse than having grey hairs!!!  Gah!!!

I sighed today as I dyed the offending hairs in to submission.  I am not old.  I am young.  And blonde.  And young.  And blonde, damn you.  I know I am going, but I'm going kicking and fucking screaming.  With tweezers, if necessary.