Waiting Room Table: a Still Life. For a society obsessed with privacy, zee Germans have such a weird way of handling medical appointments and prescriptions. One has to announce and describe to the admin behind the front desk, and to everyone else in range, in explicit and repetitive detail, exactly what is happening to your body and why you have arrived to spend time in their office. Such conversation is then repeated to the pharmacist downstairs.
I shall bring earplugs next time. I don’t want to know.
I came home from work, and started [good-naturedly] teasing Miss C about her booty shorts, and fashion, and summer style. Lola chimed in, and before I knew it, the gauntlet was thrown, and an ultimatum was given … if Mom can fit into said booty shorts, they become Mom Shorts, and therefore lose all trendiness, and can no longer be worn by teenagers, even in a heat wave.
To everyone‘s surprise — and I do mean EVERYONE — I now own a ”new“ pair of Mom Shorts.
My first adventure out of the house! I figured the supermarket would be easy enough. I WAS WRONG! It‘s Easter weekend, and today is the only day the shops are open. Zee Germans are packed in here, moving with a speed and aggression I haven’t seen since the last 10 minutes of “Supermarket Sweep.”
They weren’t expecting me when I showed up to work for them last May. I found myself in an office full of retired and active-duty military pilots and strategists, all men, none of them communications experts, but they were somehow responsible for implementing the commander‘s vision for a strategic communications team … and I was put there to help them.
11:14 a.m. – The snow is melting, and the roads and sidewalks are mostly clear. I‘m here sipping my coffee this morning, and furiously debating with myself: should I go for a run? It‘s still so cold. But a run will be good. But I will probably find ALL the black ice. But … you need a run, Julie. Just go and do it. But … it‘s winter …