“Baby!”  I hear Tony calling out as he comes down the stairs to the bathroom where I was in the shower.

“Baby?!?!” He calls out again before bursting into the bathroom.

“What’s wrong?” I ask him reaching for the towel.

“Well, that damn cat.  That damn cat keeps on bothering me.”  He says shaking his head.

“What’d she do this time, baby?”  I asked, as this is quite a normal conversation in our combined domicile.

“Well, I went up there to see if the cheesecake was thawed out, and she was trying to get it.  I had to push her fat ass off the table just to get to it.  She went down swingin. It was like she was trying not to let me get it.”  He says, serious as can be.  “I think she’s got something against me.”

“No baby, she’s a psycho.  It’s not just you.  She attacks anybody and everybody.  She’s an equal opportunity hater.”  I try to mend his feelings.

“That’s not all she did, baby.”  He laments.

“Ok.  Tell me.”  I roll my eyes as I towel dry my hair.

“Then I decided I had to pee, and she followed me in there.” He goes on, “She jumped up on the toilet as soon as she saw me go in there.  And I shewed her down, so she jumped up on the sink and she started swatting my butt while I tried to pee.”

“She’s always hung out in the bathroom, Tony.  She’s not out to get you.”

“But the cat violated me.  She was grabbin my ass while I was in a vunerable position.  I was tryin to pee!”  He protests.

“Well, baby.  All I can tell you is to keep your back to her or she’s liable to swat somethin else.”

Of course, by Fuzzy Little Foreigner, I am referring to me and the fact that I went on a 10 day trip in Germany.  I went on strike and didn’t shave my legs (I know TMI) until the night before I came home.  Can you say Woooolie-Boooooger?

I never realized eating in a forgein country would be so damn difficult.

First, I am the second pickiest eater you will ever meet in your life, behind my step-son… he’d have starved to death.

Ok, being the typical American tourist type, not to mention a closed minded, livin in the box kinda girl, I never realized that Chinese people that run a chinese restaurant in Germany wouldn’t speak English.  It was odd to me that they spoke Chinese and German. But, the place was across the street from our hotel, and smelled really, really good.

Won-Ton Soup: #3 on the menu.
Mini-Spring Roll:  #2 on the menu.
Cashew Chicken:  #42 on the menu.

Best Won-Ton Soup I ever have consumed… EVER.

Since I am afraid of anything ending in -wurst or-snitzel, I steered clear of tradtional German food.  God forbid I pork-peniswurst or something like that.  It’s not like I can translate German to English very well.

We were in Pforzheim the first several days, so, we ate Chinese food at the same place on Sunday and Monday nights.

The Tuesday night, we switched off for some Itatlian. The spinich manacotti was yum and the wine was a-flowin.

The Wednesday night, we were gonna give the Brazilian place a crack, but I wussed out, paid for my beer and ran away.  The couldn’t speak English and I couldn’t figure out anything but shrimp from the Brazilian/German menu and I don’t do shrimp.  So, we ended up back at the Chinese place again, where we were greeted with..”Hello. You wanta Coka Light and Hotta Tea, yes?”

With a sweet smile I tell her, “Of course and can we have the same table by the window?”

I know she had to be thinking… Crazy American bitch won’t eat anything.

Then we went to Hannover…

Thursday night we ate food from the hotel bar, which is always tasty with beer.

Friday night, we had another awesome Italian dinner with the owner of my company.

Then to Munich…

Saturday night, I finally broke down.  Mom took me to a Beer Garten (pub) in Munich.  Oktoberfest was over, but you couldn’t tell it by the guy on the table who had a bucket on his head and was leading the whole place in a sing-along.
After several pints of some delicious brew, I was starting to pack a nice buzz.
So, I broke down and ate stewed steak smothered in roasted onions (DAYUM!!) and potatoes. 

The beer was the best ever though. It didn’t have that watery as piss taste to it.

Sunday night, we found us another Chinese place. It was pretty tasty too.

So, I guess I totally blew the opportunity to expand my culinary palate… NOT!

I do know one thing for shizzly: Germany  has the corner on the ice cream market.  It was grub, and I had my fair share.

My pal Markus decided that we needed to go to Heildelberg to the Castle grounds and wander as it was a beautiful Sunday afternoon. We parked the car and looked up the hill. There it was, as it was last time I was in there, very eery yet beautiful.

I assummed (ass-u-me) that we would go the same way I had went in last time. Up a nice stable incline to the front of the grounds. Let’s just say I assumed way wrong.

We ended up climbing the STAIRS OF DEATH.

315 of them. Straight up. On the bright side, I felt bad that I thought I was gonna have a heart attack because I smoke and I was climbing stairs… until my non-smoking mommy almost fell out too!! Thanks for making me feel good about being me, Mom!! I loves ya!

And here are Mommy & Me at the top in the gardens. Three weeks later, I can say it was worth the climb.

Although in total ruins from WWII…

…it’s still a very beautiful place…

“I’ll give ya $5 if you’ll jump across and act like you’re makin out with that pee-ing statue,” I picked at my Mom. “Obed (her pastor) will never know. I swear I won’t tell anybody.”

“Ya right, you take pictures of everything and use them for your benefit,” she quipped back.

She’s right. I’d have saved it as leverage for later… “Be nice, or I’ll send this picture of you to the ladies group, Missy.” That’s just the way I roll. (Kidding).

So, the front of the place is actually in pretty good shape, considering bombs were droppin all around.

Rumor has it that the last Prince to reside in the castle, was beside himself with the recent lady troubles he was having… that he jumped….

… and all that was left was his footprint where he hit the ground so hard…

GOTCHA!

     Every once in a while, I run across some crazy names — things which are innocent, but could certainly sound like a prank phone call if you didn’t know any better.  These are all true:

• I once knew a girl named Sunshine Beam.  I knew another named Sunny Rae Dawn.  Someone said their parents did drugs.
• I have a friend named Anita Brown-Dixon.  Of course, I don’t think she’s ever had one, and certainly wouldn’t tell her son anything of the sort.
• I met a woman in Nashville named Anita Boner.  She really loves her husband… A lot.
• I have another friend, a Pirate Chick no less, named Robyn Cox.
• A friend of a friend called to ask me for help with something.  “Mark?  This is Dick Sells.”  I asked him who was buying.  
• I once knew a guy named John Ope.  His middle initial was L, and he usually went by Jack…  “Hello, Mr. Jackalope!”
• I met Ira Fuson a few months ago…
• …and imagine my surprise to meet the real Benjamin Dover.
• Everyone knows at least one John Turner.
• There’s a huge family of Fags just south of here.  Poor Richard… and some of them married Johnsons.
• There actually was a guy in a local high school named Mike Hunt.  He lives in Oak Ridge.

As if hunting for a smoking area wasn’t fun enough to occupy our 4-hour layover at O’Hare International Airport, mom decided that she needed airport food. Now, it wasn’t that she was hungry. No, this wasn’t the case.

“It’s almost like tradition,” she says beaming that smile of hers.

“Yogurt is somehow a tradition? Do tell,” I ask.

“Not really yogurt, but eating in the airport,” she quips back.

“Oh hell, now I’ve heard it all. That’s like me running right to Manchu Wok for Lo-mein everytime I hit the ground. It ain’t tradition, Mama. It’s a matter of eating from being bored. Pure and simple,” I lecture.

“Well, whatever you want to call it, Missy. I want a frozen yogurt and we’re gonna walk until we find one,” she commands. “Did you see anyplace to get one?”

“I saw a fat guy up by the security check thing, but I think it was ice cream, not yogurt,” I tell her.

“I want fat-free-frozen vanilla yogurt…” she says dreamily thinking about diggin’ in.

Not ice cream. Not chocolate. Not full of fat…. No.

With that I pick up my 50 pound carry-on bag at Gate K-5 and we start walking. We see a sign for frozen yogurt and head that way.

I have to say this should have been an extremely simple and painless task as right there in the “K” terminal are TWO, not just one, but TWO TCBY’s!!! Easy right?

Well, not so much. Off we go…

The lil dude at the first TCBY didn’t have any vanilla, SO, he pointed us to the other food court way the hell down the way at gate K-15.

We get there, and sure enough, TCBY. We walk up smiling, only to see that the lady has the frozen yogurt machine torn down for cleaning. The sparkle immediately left my eyes.

So, we decided to take another walk and ended up in the “L” terminal. Only one TCBY and no vanilla. So we follow back out of “L” and wander over to “G”, only to find out after walking 2.5 miles to get there, that it’s a commuter terminal and they have no TCBY at all. Figures.

Defeated and depressed, we turn around with our heads hung low. The pep in our step was lost long ago as we shuffled along. All of a sudden, my mom happened to see a hidden food court area that we had somehow walked right past at least 3 times.

And in the very bad end of that little hidden jewel sat a TCBY. We walk up, skeptical that anything will come of the visit.

“Vanilla?” Mom asks the girl with that desperate tone in her voice.

“Sure. What size?” The girl says with an angelic smile on her face.

“Large!” Mom says completely satisfied.

It was as if the clouds parted, the heaven’s opened and a choir of angels started to sing Halleluja in unison.

“Want one?” Mom asked me.

“Nope. I wanna bagel.”