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!
I should never be allowed to touch another glass... ever.
Category: Travel and Places
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?!
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...
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.
sorrysorrysorrysorry! i know, it’s been for, like, ever!
Category: Sports
I've not been around for ages. Have you noticed? 80-hour workweeks makes Susie a dull girl. VERY DULL GIRL.
Buuuuut, I'm leaving (finally!) on Tuesday. Finally. I so very much need this vacation. Bratwurst, schnitzel, knoedel, bier, strudel, bier... and football (duh!). Yep. The kind you kick, not the kind you throw.
So, I did manage to snag the German team correspondent's position from espn.com. If you'd like to read my footie-writing skillz, click here.
(P.S. Lyds! I love you! I'll call you Saturday, pinky swear.)
"I'm sorry, Officer." I smile wanly. "I must respectfully decline a Breathalyzer."
"Ma'am? I'm now going to ask you to step out of the car and do a road-side sobriety test."
"Once again, Officer, I must politely decline."
"Step out of the car please, ma'am."
"Yes sir."
Fuck. I hate handcuffs. And this time, I was going to real jail.
Jewelry comes off. Bracelet, two rings, watch, earrings. My belt... my shoes. My bra?! Seriously? Like I'm gonna make a shiv with one of my under-wires... Ugh. I mean, I suppose I might, but then my boobs would be all crooked. Soooooo, I am resting my boobs on my right arm / temporary bra when an officer asks me what's wrong with my ribs.
"Er... nothing?"
"Why are you holding on to your ribcage?"
"Uh. I'm supporting my chest since you won't let me wear my brassiere. Is that OK?" My eyebrow is, of course, sardonically raised. And I like to seem intelligent and important by using the word, "brassiere". I take my victories where I can get them.
"...."
"Hmmmmph."
Here is where I give you some excellent advice. Well, besides: "Do as I say, not as I do." (As if that weren't painfully obvious.) Keep a parka, a pair of those ugly-ass Ugg boots and fingerless gloves in your car just in case you ever get arrested. Jail is like Antarctica in winter. It's walking down Michigan Ave. butt-ass naked in March. Oh yeah, and it's cold too.
I get felt up.
I go in the holding tank.
I listen to conversations and start a few of my own. I'm taking stock of who is in and what they're in for. I count three DUIs, four DUI accidents, grand theft auto, petty theft, 2 whores, two girls shaking uncontrollably with no fucking idea what they're in for, one assault and two girls passed-out on the floor sleeping amongst the discarded bologna and orange peels.
Me and grand theft auto become friends while trying to stay away from the whore with the open, weeping sores. I tell her I've never been in this jail before, therefore making me seem "hard" like I've been in other various and sundry jails.
"Eh," GTA says, "Same as most."
"Yeah," I nod my head in agreement, "Same as most."
We are silent, amicably, as we wait to go upstairs to our cells. We eventually drift off to sleep, sitting up, to the sounds of recriminations and chattering teeth.
5 hours later we finally get to go upstairs. Yay! And a warm blanket! Double yay! Really, by this time, all I'm thinking about is how much I'd like a nap. Oh, and when am I getting the hell out of here? I rest fitfully for about an hour until one of the clueless girls refuses to listen to instructions making the officers to come in and force her in to a seated position. Stupid girl. She spends the rest of my stay huddled in a corner swathed in her blanket like Yoda. Crazy she is.
Unsurprisingly, I give up my lunch. The weeping-sore whore gets my bologna and bread and I manage to give it to her without actually having to touch her. Score! Assault girl gets my orange. GTA gets my cookie 'cause that's how I roll, yo. I go back to my spot on the floor, noticing the subtle hostility from the girls that get to sit at the table to us girls that have bail money and are actually getting out of jail today.
The TV and the phones get turned on for our good behavior. I am disappointed but completely unsurprised to have Jerry Springer and cohorts spring to life. With the volume turned all the way up. Fucking hell. I take a risk and turn the volume down, but no one really notices because they are listening to what everyone who is on the phone is saying.
Again, I sit on the floor next to another DUI and we watch a gay boy beat up his boyfriend's lover on TV. Well, kinda. More like he slapped the shit out of him. I glance around the cell and !Ping!... a movie comes to mind. As I jump up, I think to myself, "I can't not do it! It's perfect."
Everyone turns to stare at me while I start doing fake karate moves.
"That's the quart of blood technique," I say, "You do that and a quart of blood'll just drop out a man's body!"
Crickets.
The smile leaves my face as I sit down slowly wondering how come nobody in this cell thinks "Trading Places" is as funny as I think it is.
"I wish my bitches would get here. I ain't got the time to be sittin' in this cell with you. Didn't I tell you that my phone in the limousine is busted, and I can't get in touch with my bitches?" I repeat the lines softly to myself, laughing. "Yeah. The phone in the limo was busted. What is you, ig'nant?!"
"Schaaf. Susan. Please stand by the table. Everyone else, in to your cells."
Haha. Just like in the movie! I'm free! Well, almost just like the movie. I mean, there's no big black guy choking me to death as they call my name or anything... OK. So... it's not really like the movie...
After collecting my belongings in a brown paper bag and having the officers tell me how good I look in my mugshot (!), I stand in the sun and wait for my dearest friend to come and collect me.
As I wait, a "gentleman" walks past me, waggles his eyebrows and leers, "How YOU doin'?"
I feel my gross hair as I pointedly look down at my prison slides and then very pointedly hold out my brown paper bag with my last name first and prisoner ID number written in black Sharpie.
I grit my teeth. "How. The. Fuck. Do. You. Think. I'm. Doin'?"
Damn, I wish the quart of blood technique actually worked...
I have created an alternate universe for myself, and I've sucked you all in to it. It is (I am) very persuasive. I understand. Because if I weren't, how'd I fool so many people for so long? Or maybe it is as I've always understood it to be...
People want me to be the shiny happy party girl. She's so much fun! She's always smiling! Isn't she clever? It's so much easier to be my friend that way. Not the complicated, fucked-up depressive who is so fucking far from having her shit together it's scary.
I've finally crossed the line. Been to jail. Wrecked my car. Put other people in danger. I used to only put myself in danger.
I'm done.
I've stopped drinking until I can get a handle on my depression. For apparently, I can no longer be responsible. Well, I can be responsible when I'm not blacked-out. (!) Heh.
I am utterly emotionally distressed. And that's putting it lightly. I would just like to lie on my couch forever and continue to read about the Middle Ages. And nap. I've been napping a lot. And crying. And then napping again. So, sorry if I haven't returned your calls. Or commented on your blogs. Or been a crappy friend. This behavior will probably continue for a while. Indefinitely, let's say.
I've got nothing left. For anyone. And talking to you will probably just make me cry again. So, just don't.
Maybe I'll clean my bedroom. Maybe I'll pay some bills. Maybe I'll get a lawyer. Maybe tomorrow... Maybe I'll just go lie down again. Yes. A nap sounds nice right about now, doesn't it?
My skin prickles. I feel slightly dizzy... nervous. I can't sleep.
My mind is restless. It always is before (don't laugh!) matchday.
I know, it's stupid. But it's also an intrinsic part of me.
For those who follow football, in the immortal words of Gus, "The kind you kick, not the kind you throw", you get it. You might obsess over starting line-ups. What your away-kit (kit=uniform) is. Why did this person sub that person for that person last match? The last 17 times we were at that park... ad nauseum, ad infintium.
The past couple of seasons have seen me back at home, re-introducing football to my mother. The same mother who has taken a liking for it. A lot. Heh. I knew I got it from somewhere!
This season, mein Verein (my team!), is on top and looking to win the Bundesliga, we're in the semis for the UEFA Cup (rather miraculously and tear-stained by me) and later today we're looking to take home the DFB-Pokal (inter-Germany competition) against Borussia Dortmund. We crushed them in Bundesliga competition on Sunday. Seriously, fucking crushed 'em. Sigh.
I can only hope, later on today, for the camaraderie of strangers... Bavarians... and FC Bayern fans across the world.
My heart swells with every fast break, corner, set-play. I hop around a lot. I swear in German. And English. And prolly a few other languages. My body-english enhances the curvature of the shot. I berate shoddy off-sides calls and defend, to the death!, anything we get away with.
To sit in a stadium of like-minded individuals is a curious thing... for an American. In the United States, we let our fans co-mingle. Unfortunately. Nothing good can happen from that! To watch a footie match in a home stadium is a pulsing, throbbing thing of beauty. Tens of thousands of people willing to put aside color, stature, creed, religion--- united in a singular goal. (Some countries may or may not qualify...) And sing, in unison, to attest to...
Beat the piss out of 'em! (Whatever language you choose.)
CODA: "Das Lied Der Deutschen" will be performed ahead of the match! Yay! Also unlike the States, the national anthem of Germany is used sparingly. Remnants of condemnation from WWII, no doubt. I, however, am always glad to hear it.
Das Lied Der Deutschen
Stern Des Suedens
And just 'cause I can...
And, mind you, I know all the words to all these songs... and so does my mom. And I'll teach 'em to your mom. She likes it when I do that...
