Man in the Moon

Put me in a dark cave for a month, and I can tell you with 99.9999% accuracy when it's a full moon.

We lovely ladies of 600 N. State always got a chuckle over the proven fact that the crazies came out at WallyMart on full moon nights, but I kid you not--the Man in the Moon has a physiological effect on me. (And no, I am not one of the WallyMart full moon crazies.)

Every month, right on schedule, the Man in the Moon generously endows me with the most vivid, lucid, all-out bizarre dreams...and very little restful sleep.

Last night it was all about running. I had a big race, but suddenly couldn't find my shoes. Enter hyperventilating anxiety attack. Then I found them ... in the tidal beds by an island. With big waves and the tide coming in fast.

Mom and our old dog were with me as I frantically pulled them out of the water, only to find that they had already become home to all kinds of sea creatures: barnacles, urchins, mussels, sea snails ....

I pulled and scratched, but I couldn't get those suckers out (it would help if I could ever stop biting my nails, of course). Then Lucky ripped my shoe out of my hand ... and started eating it. I gave up. It was a loss. No shoes, no race, no way to run. 'Til he kindly regurgitated my shoe ... with all sea creatures removed.

Never mind the rest; I don't remember it now anyhow, but I'll be darned if I didn't wake up a full hour before my (real) 6AM alarm so anxious to run now that I had my shoes (!) that I actually DID get out of bed. And run. At 5:30AM. In the dark. (Crazy? Who said crazy?)

T.G.F.M.W.I.O. (Thank goodness full moon week is over). I need some sleep.

Note to self: All blenders are not equal

Meet ProMix 474.

A frequent perk (?) to living in a city where people move in and away as quickly as the seasons change, I have by now inherited quite a sizeable collection of useful items. Like blenders.

Of course they are "gently used" items, though, and as the ProMix 474's last owners kindly noted as they lovingly gave her away, they were "not so sure how well it worked anymore".

Fast forward to tonight's tomato soup making. Of course, it SEEMED like the perfect chance to give the good ol' ProMix 474 a debut run, I mean, it had to be easier than getting my fingers all cramped up around my usual hand held puree "gun".
Dump chunky soup concotion in, slap lid on, give 'er some power (low!) and .... holy *@&#&^%#.

Let's just say that Old Faithful doesn't stand a chance against ProMix 474. And yes, Jojo and Robert, it most definitely works.

So well, in fact, that even my superwoman muscles couldn't hold the lid on ... when it was on low. You get the picture: Old Faithful geyser spewing chunky tomatoe and carrot puree up to the ceiling and on everything between there and the floor. This would include everything from my head down to my toes, ALL of the kitchen cabinets, ALL of the clean dishes sitting in the drying rack, two out of four sides of the refrigerator ... EVERYTHING covered in dripping chunkies that look suspiciously like "chuckies".

And those of you (like me) for whom "hyperactive gag reflex" is an understatement, I leave it to your imagination just how fun the cleaning up acidic chunky tomatoe carrot puree process entailed.

Note to self: ProMix 474 is a professional food puker.

All in a day's walk

Considering that walking to work involves 3 miles of idyllic "European old town", tree-lined parks, a riverside and infamous Lake Geneva, complete with spouting fountain, my own two feet are generally the preferred mode of transportation. Next time I'm contemplating whether I'd really not rather sleep an extra half hour and take the tram, however, I'll have to remind myself of all the exciting things that I'd be missing - as per this evening's wander home:

100-odd aspiring runners

dozens of dads out playing with their kids

2 burka-clad bicyclists

4 Lamborghinis

1 tremendously well-dressed man-woman

3 joints worth of second-hand weed

90-odd super cool rollerbladers

4 jugglers

1 remote control airplane crash

3 teams of sparring jousters

And last, but not certainly not least,

1 well-groomed 50-year old man, squatting slightly, holding his pants up in one hand (though still well below the bum), a mini boom box in the other and ... clucking like a chicken.

Mysteries of domestic demise

This is my evil-eye beam of disgust at those "Improve-YOUR-life-today! (gleaming twinkle smile here)-experts" ... you know the ones, the ones who claim that making a to-do list and crossing off your accomplishments will make you feel like a real winner .... the ones who insist that keeping a spotless, peaceful home is just a snap away.

Well I've got news. If you've come to my house and found it spotless, it's only because the situation had become so desperately exasperating that I had to invite someone over just to force a mad-dash "quick! Clean before the guests come" manuveur. I don't know how it happens, really, seeing as I rarely seem to be home these days. I leave for a trip, cleaning right before I go, only to return to find half an inch of dust blanketing all that is visible and dust-bunnies that are practically big enought to be dust RABBITS happily frolicking beneath my bed, windows that have collected enough grime to nearly convince you that everyday's a grey day.

And YES, I do make to-do lists, thank you very much, but I have to admit I've become a WEE bit disenchanted with the whole gimmick.I mean I do laundry, I cross it off my fantabulous list, pat myself on the back for being such an accomplished woman just like the "experts" say I should and then, by golly, wouldn't you know, six hours later I have another heap of laundry looking up at me forlornly, meaning that it must be AGAIN included on the dang to-do list, to be yet AGAIN checked off ... it's a pointless perpetual circle, a real mystery of domestic demise.

Then there's the beast in the drain. Ladies, I know you've met this one. You know, the one that engorges itself on loose hairs that have escaped your attempts at early capture until it has finally grown so large that you stand in the shower and, by the end, might abe slightly confused as to whether you're actually taking a bath or a shower, based on the water level. If we're talking domestic mysteries, this one's gotta be at the top, right there alongside the habitual laundry room disappearance of socks. I've shoved forks, knives, and unwilling fingers down that black hole and still come up with nothin'. While I'll pass on the cheesy Ms. Domesticated car-sales-grin advice, I'd gladly hear you out if you've got any advice on mastering the drain beasties ...

Ode to my electric toothbush

Oh, how I missed you, dear toothbrush! I know, I know, mom and sissy painstakingly tried to convince me of your worth for months on months on months on end, me thinking you only an expensive, consumerist gimmick. The first time I tried you, my lips went numb, my gums tickled ... my sister laughed. And yet, after that first time, well, you know what they say, once you go electric you'll never go back - I, Little Miss Anti-Electric Toothbrush herself, bought an electric toothbrush.

How could I help it? Every time I brush with you, it is like getting a relaxing massage. My gums grow strong, my teeth sparkle; my tongue is a happy being. Oh, how proud my mother and dentist must be!

After a week of long work days in 10,000% humidity and dust, after a week of adrenaline rushes amid close-by suicide bombings and near constant military checkpoint searches, after a week of mouthwatering food so spicy that you unconsciously break out in a sweat in the company of fabulous new-found friends ... after more than twenty hours of travel to return home, I would imagine most people would be dreaming only of a hot shower and their own bed.

All I've dreamt of, however, is getting back to you, my electric toothbrush (well, among other people and things, of course). Home, sweet home indeed.

When I grow up

Oh, the internet. Rumour has it that this was printed in a Baltimore newspaper - an elementary school student's "When I grow up" illustration, together with mom's response to the surely flabbergasted teacher...

Dear Teacher,

I wish to clarify that I am not now, nor have I ever been, an exotic dancer. I work at Home Depot and I told my daughter how hectic it was last week before the blizzard hit. I told her we sold out every single shovel we had, and then I found one more in the back room, and that several people were fighting over who would get it. Her picture doesn't show me dancing around a pole. It's supposed to depict me selling the last snow shovel we had at Home Depot. From now on I will remember to check her homework more thoroughly before she turns it in.

Sincerely,

Mother

Women choose dogs over babies

And I quote:

"no kids + no room for Barbie + mothering in our genes = pampered pooches"

Prepare yourself, and then check out this hilarious slightly disturbing one minute BBC video HERE.

So what is it about mothers and staples?

So what is it about mothers, that when they discover that their ingenious, highly practical children have decided to skip the time consuming (and therefore inherently less practical) process of hemming their trousers "properly" and instead go the instantaneous and highly practical route of grabbing the nearest hand held stapler for a two-second pants shortening ... they go bezerk? They give you the you-didn't!-did-you?? smirk/glare, suddenly take on a horrifically embarrassed/apologetic role if anyone outside of the family happens to be around (as if such ingenious is somehow reflective of them!) and they quickly take your pants out of your hands only to run off and ever so kindly hem them "properly".

I think the first time I observed this phenomenon was when my younger brother had his pants stapled ... and somehow ended up at the hospital getting x-rays taken. X-ray + metal staples + questioning lab technicians = sheepishly embarrassed/apologetic mother. Daughter, however finds this strategy quite ingenious, having upgraded from duck tape to staples and continuing to prefer this tactic to"real" hemming even at the ripe old age of 25. I mean, really, how else can your pants be the perfect length whether you are wearing them with heels, tennis shoes or flip flops? We're talking versatility, adaptability AND convenience here, folks.

Enter Marcel, assigned to dress as a bit of a preppy geek as auctioneer for his sister's birthday charity auction. What does Yours Truly advise? Of course! A preppy geek auctioneer MUST have geeky short pants and no way better to arrange that than with your trusty ol' hand held stapler. Party was fun; auction was a success; short pants were definitely geeky; short, geeky, stapled pants lie to rest for weeks thereafter on the back of the chair in the kitchen.

So now, what happens when loving mother finds a pair of stapled pants lying on the back of a kitchen chair at her son's apartment? She does what every mother apparently does at the sight of a staple hem ... she gets the "I-can't-believe-you-did-this!!" smirk and eye roll, silently dies of embarrassment and takes them away for a "proper" hemming" while son is away for work ...

... And as son returns home to find the lovingly hemmed-to-Singer-perfection folded perfectly on the table, he thanks his lucky stars for wonderful mothers ... and for the fact that his new found high waders were not borne of a favorite pair of jeans!

How to work out, relax, stress out and go broke all in one short weekend.

1. Get the weekend off to a kick-start by consuming TGIF drinks in colleague's office, behind closed blinds ... TGIF drinks being 5 bottles of wine between 8 people in 2 hours.

2. Play several terrifyingly embarrassing rounds of billiards to remind yourself of a few more "well back in the old days, when I was a kid I could put 'em down behind my back and with both eyes shut" stories ...

3. Decide to get the fall gardening done: purchase 20 kilos of topsoil, 5 kilos of fertilizer, 3 boxes of bulbs, 1 large plant and 1 medium flower pot. Carry all purchases home in plastic bag perched on shoulder, destroying any resemblance to a proper back that you may have had formerly and facilitating your discovery of muscles you never knew you had over the course of the subsequent days.

4. Spontaneously decide to invite a couple friends over for dinner. Recall that you have no food in the house, run to the airport grocery store (the only one open, of course, it is Switzerland), return home and observe that your afternoon gardening activities have endowed the balcony with three inches of topsoil, numerous bags of organic trash and towers of empty plastic pots. Remedy the situation, then beg forgiveness from your guests for not serving dinner until 10PM.

5. Receive phone call from exhausted and travel weary significant other. (Mutually) convince him to travel four more hours to Geneva "to relax for a day", arriving at midnight amid dinner entertaining and pleasing the neighbors by running laundry at 2AM.

6. Rise and shine early in the morning to attempt to join in on group hike, hoping they can squeeze a spot in for significant other despite required pre-registration. Inquire as to whether and confirm that, indeed, the group will have returned to Geneva by 7PM in time for significant other to catch last train back home.

7. Convincingly pretend to enjoy the spectacular fall colours while noting that significant other's pulse is increasing by the second as it becomes obvious that our overly large hiking group will, in fact, NOT, under the best of circumstances, possibly make it back to Geneva at the promised hour.

8. Make wise decision to leave hiking group in the dust and return to civilisation, while the hope of hitchhiking into the next town and catching a bus back to Geneva still glistens.

9. Curse the thousands of cars that pass without having pity on two good looking hitchhikers, pump your fist at the four buses that bypass the designated stops without doing as much and chase after the ONE taxi you see cross your path as the minute hand continues moving steadily towards stressed significant others' "I'm-going-to-miss-my-train-and-never-make-it-to-work-tomorrow" meter.

10. Become desperate, beg hotel to call a taxi. Get stuck in traffic. Hire driver to take you the entire hour's drive from France to Geneva. Negotiate fixed (very cheap) flat rate of 100 EUROS. At this rate, it's a bargain.

11. Thank God and all the heavens above that they didn't stop us on the border for review: significant other is travelling internationally without personal identification. Inform taxi driver thereafter with hoots and hollers of glee at having made it across without incident and endure unmistakeable, incredulous, "you've got to be shitting me" looks.

12. RUN out of French taxi, run INTO Swiss taxi at designated taxi jurisdiction line (do we WANT to know how much our "low-cost" hiking day has just cost us??), then run up to apartment to hastily throw still-damp laundry into suitcase.

13. Make mad dash for tram in order to catch last train out East. Steal a hug, a kiss and three relatively calm breaths on the platform.

14. Then realise it's practically Monday, your whole body aches, you've been running all day and you officially haven't a penny to your name until pay day at the end of the month.

Just another manic week-end.

Ladies and gents, we're not there yet

"Other people in the room were looking at you and thinking that you are beautiful, but when I look at you, I not only see your beauty, but I see that you are an angel".

Ladies and gents, does this seem like a normal thing for someone to tell you in a work setting? And no, I'm not talking about your snookums smothering you in these *sweet* words, I'm talking about a total stranger.  Or perhaps we shall refer back to one of the other winner lines this man slipped into a professional conversation, and which I mentioned in my last post ...

"Your speech was absolutely phenomenal, I'm wondering if I might interest you in adapting it to print form for a journal that I publish regularly and submitting it as a guest editorial for our next edition?  Oh, and I also run an on-line dating service?"

Or how about the time when a certain well-known Washington State representative ever so slyly slipped me his business card along with a second, unmarked "personal" card containing only his name and cell phone after I refused his invitation to "chat more up in his room" (we were at the same hotel for a conference) about the people the contacts he could get in touch with to get me an "extremely well paying job" in Washington State politics?

Or perhaps the time when, in the middle of a business meeting where we were supposedly discussing the financial terms for running publicity, the bank CEO begins telling me "what beautiful eyes" I have and how they "match so nicely with my earrings" ... only to be followed by a barrage of half questions-half accusations about how "women like me" shouldn't be in the business world, they should be "at home, raising just as beautiful children and looking after themselves".

Leaving aside American electoral politics, in which so many seem to think that women will quickly switch from one party to the next simply to support a woman (of course there's no logical, intelligent reasoning behind womens' decisions!) ... there's always the age angle to boot.

"So when did you get out of school?"  "How old are you, if I can ask?" Come on, I may be young, but would you really ask this question to anyone else??  I get these questions quite literally at least once a week. I have to wonder, as well ... why is it that the vast majority of interns in this town are female ... when the vast majority of top posts in the field are filled by men? My theory after some serious observation, the men are hired on permanent contracts, the women are hired as interns.

Ahhh, and lest we forget that sexism is not soley found in the workplace, I just about turned around and knocked the wind out of a guy that was kissing to me the other day.  I'm used to the comments, the whistles, etc, (not that I care at all for it either), but come on, kissing?? You kiss to your dog to tell it to come, you don't kiss to women walking down the street.  Then there was the guy that literally came up and grabbed me by the shoulders at the train station yesterday. I swear to high heaven that I DID punch him good in the chest (ok, so maybe not the most effective target area, but I wasn't really thinking straight either). And then there was the guy who would have done God knows what in the dark tunnels of the catacombs in Paris last year if a group of people hadn't walked up right at that very second. I still shudder when I think how "close of a call" that was ... and wish I would have punched him where it counts and/or reported him ... for my own sake and that of any other women traveling through there on their own.

We talk about gender equality, we talk about equality in the workplace, but I can absolutely guarantee you beyond a shadow of doubt that we are not there yet.  I have absolutely nothing against men, but you can bet your bottom dollar that I have something BIG against those, including women, who somehow think that, because of one's gender, because of one's age, they can say, do or ask things that they would never dream of in the face of someone older and, quite frankly, male.

I, for one, have had enough.

His week, her week

He catches a plane, pops malaria pills and hopes he won't have problems with his visa.

She catches a train, pops ibeprophin and walks through customs without bothering to take out her passport.

Both dash to get out of the monsoon rains ... and run into bitty hotels.

He stands out irreconcilably as the only white person for miles around, finds a terribly sloppy job done at the bank and resigns himself to another meal solo.

She finally speaks French well enough to blend in just a bit, finds that no one knows what's going on at the the conference (who said the UN is organized??) and resigns herself to a stiff drink, solo.

An acquaintance invites her to a ritzy dinner, she gets a bit tipsy on good French wine and decides it best to head back to the hotel.

An acquaintance invites him to tour the town ... he is chased by flocks of merchants who want to sell their artisan goods and gets a bit tipsy on some unknown substance.

He decides to buy many sculptures, bowls, masks, paintings and other semi-interesting, semi-useless things and is chased by even larger flocks of merchants, then decides to go home with said acquaintance in the slum area of town to play the drums.

She receives SMS message which reads " I went to explore the city with some Africans and bought a whole lot of stuff that we don't need and got drunk on drinks that I don't know what it was, but it was a lot of fun", gives her presentation, and receives an interesting proposition from someone in the audience that went something like this: "I was fascinated by your presentation and would really like you to consider writing a guest submission in the journal for which I am editor.  I also run an on-line dating service?"

He loses his bags; she loses her patience.

Ahhh yes ... just another manic week.

Dear filthy rich people ...

To the summer Geneva visitor population who has taken over the city with fancier luxury cars than I have seen in my entire life ....

To the drivers of these disgustingly fancy luxury cars (driven, or more likely shipped, from their happy garage homes in the Middle East) who park them (or have them valet parked) ten in a row in front of every Starbucks in town ...

And, especially to the woman who purchased five twenty swiss franc shirts at H&M with a freakin' 500 EURO BILL (about $760) ...

Do you really have to drip your riches in front the noses of us "poor" folk??? Honestly now, Starbucks may be a bit of a luxury even in this town what with a latte putting you out about 12 bucks, but H&M? Come on, leave us alone!

If there is one single place in town where you might be able to prevent price-depression around here, it's H&M ... it's rough enough walking down the street in your proud H&M wear and realising all the other student/intern types are wearing exactly the same diggs, but having you come in and getting five hundred dollars back in freakin' change is quite enough. I might have a different opinion if you offered to, say, sponsor a shirt for each of us while you were at it, but seeing as it clearly did not even cross your mind, please kindly remove your fancy-schmancy cars from sight, at least pretend you don't have quite so much extra money to burn by paying with something a little more normal like, say, twenty dollar bills, and remember, it's not exactly normal to have chauffeurs, servants and nannies as everyday escorts!

Sign sightings

Spotted in Murten, Switzerland. Translation from German: "Fox Fashion House".  Though I'm told the proper pronunciation is "fooks", I find it far more entertaining in its ignorant anglophone pronunciation of the German form :-)

Spotted in Fribourg, Switzerland above long climbing staircase. Translation from French: "The city of little lost peas - the original" ... except that the first time I read it, I thought it said "poids perdus" ... or lost "pounds" and thought it was a funny joke about losing weight from climbing so many stairs. Ok, I'm an idiot, but it was funny at the time, I promise ...

Dear voyeur...

To the gardener who watches me from the rooftop garden at the hospital every Monday, Tuesday and Thursday morning:

YOU ARE A SLEAZY LITTLE PIECE OF SLIME!

Perhaps you are attracted to my abundant terrace gardens (the only ones in my building) and thus think we perhaps have something in common, but let me assure you, we do not.

While you seem to find great pleasure in watching me in the mornings, I detest you and, correspondingly, I now detest Monday, Tuesday and Thursday mornings. I remember our "first encounter", when the weather finally turned summer-like and I blissfully settled in to have breakfast on the balcony in my pajamas, only to find you blatantly staring at me.

I thought perhaps I was imagining things; you surely wouldn't be so lame as to watch people's every morning move, are you? Apparently you are.

Yes, I see you duck behind the bushes when I look over my shoulder. And yes, I am slamming the curtain shut because of you. Yes, I notice how you make sure to be "pruning" the bushes directly in front of my apartment at the same time every day. Can the same bush possibly need pruning every day?? I think not.

Because of you, dear voyeur, I cannot enjoy breakfast on my sunny, flowery balcony. Because of you, I cannot enjoy getting ready in the morning with the windows and curtains open, letting in fresh air and the first morning rays of sunshine; not because I am in an "indecent" state, but because it gives me the creeps knowing that you are watching my every move.

When Marcel is here, he makes a point to linger around the windows and eat breakfast on the balcony ... anything to suggest to you that I am not available to you as your suckling prey. Oddly enough, I don't see you on these days. Is it because he scares you off, or have our offensive tactics merely been poorly timed on days when you are not around?

Whatever the case, BUG the *%"?! OFF. The dozens of other people who use the rooftop gardens daily seem to be able to enjoy their beauty without depriving me of my ability to enjoy my peace and quiet ... it's about damn time that you learn to do the same.

The near-mortal sin you never knew you committed

Grocery stores - or shopping in general - in Switzerland could really provide enough fodder for several lively (if not to say ranting) blog entries, but in an effort to stay focused here, I'm going to comment on what it perhaps my biggest Swiss pet peeve ... the near-mortal sin you never knew you committed ... failing to put the separator bar down between your purchases and those of the person behind you on the check-out lane conveyor belt. Heaven forbid.

Shopping hours in Switzerland are quite limited, with stores closing in Geneva at 19h every day except for the famed, beloved and much appreciated "late night shopping Thursdays" (open until 19.30!! Ooh Aah! or occasionally 21h for stores other than groceries...) and Sundays, when, of course, everything is closed all together. For those of us who are therefore left with no other alternative than to shop on the hellishly busy Saturday mornings, even getting to the checkout in one piece is a triumph, let alone getting there with a smile on your face.

So you get there, start loading your five necessity items that will inevitably put you out 60 buckaroos, and allow your mind to momentarily drift as you think about what order will allow you to do your other must-do-Saturday-because-my-schedule-never-matches-the-Swiss-store-hours-schedule errands and, GASP! you do not put down the separator bar behind your things!!! Meanwhile the person behind you has left three feet of empty space on the conveyor belt before s/he begins placing her/his things down, and yet still begins the following ritual:

1. loudly clears throat


2. moves up real close to you, poking a knife into your personal bubble


3. makes a point to roughly brush against you as s/he huffily reaches for separator bar that is just as easily reached by him/her as it is by you


4. heavily sets the bar in the mile-wide gap, making sure that it makes audible noise upon touch-down


5. you, unknowing committer of a near-mortal sin, turn and give you-are-absolutely-ridiculous courtesy smile


6. s/he returns icy if-looks-could-kill glare and mutters something about people being so rude and uneducated these days


7. check-out woman pretends as if she's seen nothing, when really, she's seen it all one hundred times before

The whole process is actually quite entertaining, really. And while I use the busy Saturdays as an example, in fact, it doesn't matter when it is ... you can just as easily witness the same phenomenon at 2.30 in the afternoon on a Tuesday ... when no one is buying more than one or two items each ... and there is absolutely NO line of people waiting to checkout.

As I'm now rapidly approaching my one year anniversary of moving to Geneva, I learned this essential cultural nuance loooonnnng ago, however, Geneva sees an endless sea of visitors and non-Swiss newbies that ensure that these fine shows of grown-up temper tantrums continue to proliferate. Then again, maybe they're not visitors or newbies at all ... maybe they're just people like me who think shoppers need to just get over it and thus selectively "forget" (i.e. refuse) to put the bar down just to make sure no one loses their knack for giving killing glares in a country that is otherwise the epitome of politeness.

A shimmy, a shake and a whole lot of groovin'

With threats of torrential rains and thunder showers looming overhead, I got my first taste of a street parade with the Geneva Lake Parade ... four hours of shimmyin', shakin' and groovin' people parading around town at a snail's pace, displaying all kinds of incredibly sculpted, waxed and tanned bodies; flabby, saggy, bulgy but proud bodies; impossibly high heels; feathers; lingerie ... you name it. It was a good show, though surely nothing like the ones in Zurich, Berlin or Rio de Janeiro, and the crowds were out in full force lest they miss part of the action.

Summer in Geneva is interesting, particularly with a notable change in the city's demographics, aka the arrival of hundreds of Middle-Eastern summer residents, the vast majority of who don beautiful head scarfs, if not the full only-see-your-eyes burkas. A friend of mine recently recommended a book that looks absolutely fascinating, entitled "Who speaks for Islam: What a billion Muslims really think", and talking a good bit about gender perspectives in the two cultures. To cite just one thought-provoking quote that he threw out there:

"While Westerners still often see the veil as a symbol of womens' inferior status in the Muslim world, Western womens' perceived lack of modesty signals their degraded cultural status in the West. In both cases, the assumption is that women are either covering or uncovering to please or obey men. For example, a woman that Gallup interviewed in Malaysia says she feels sorry for the women in the West because they don't love themselves enough and feel they must give in to men's sexual desires"

If this quote - and perspective - struck me at the time, it hit me all the more as we were watching the first of the twenty-four discos-on-wheels parade by, carrying women (and men) who were as scantily clad as possible ... not so often in the "this is how we dress for the festivities" Rio de Janeiro kind of way, but rather more in the "I really need attention to make myself feel beautiful and this party is the perfect way to do it" kind of way. And funny enough, my very first thought as I watched them go by was what Geneva's Muslim summer residents in particular must be thinking at the sight of such a public skin fest. Would they find it disgusting? Pitiful? Fascinating? What a shock it must have been to anyone who happened to be coming into town yesterday without a clue about the event....

All that said, I it was a great time ... especially for anyone keen on dance, drink and people watching ... after my first street parade, I'm already looking into the "biggies" to see how I can rally the troops for a rally up to the Zurich or Berlin renditions. If I might leave you with just one more thought for the day though ... check out these Ghostbuster beer-meisters and their hot bods (look closely, the pic is not so good)! The parade organiser's were smart enough to make every third "float" a bar-on-wheels ... no more missing out on the action or battling to recuperate your four inches of viewing territory ....

Is that Tarzan with his pants down?

I have always found the differences in ads and publicity - along with graffitti - to be one of the more interesting things worth analysing in their varying degrees of humour, cheesiness, etc.  Switzerland would certainly be no exception to the rule, and I most certainly did a double take as the tram rumbled by this newly posted billboard last Monday.



Yes, my dears, that would be Tarzan with his pants down.  Not so into Tarzan?  Try this one:



Haven't quite identified whose crack that is yet, but the lady friend certainly looks happy.  And just to throw another one out there, how about a shot of Ariel's sister?



Good thing she's got a good hold on that seaweed.

The annual Swiss "Love Life Stop SIDA" campaign has admittedly been tagged as "racy" by several of the local news agencies, but other than that, the highly creative, potentially offensive campaign ads have done little more than brighten my work day commutes, receiving little or no great public attention.  To date, I think I've heard a grand total of ONE comment on them, suggesting that the images are degrading to women.  That's it.  Nothing more.  Interesting, especially considering that I have a hunch that if these same ads appeared in the States, there would be uproars of every variety. 

Kudos to the creativity, as outrageously WEIRD as they may be.

Happy Halloween!!!

Somehow I feel all the memories of childhood Halloween mayheim flooding back this evening ... and think I just committed a serious Halloween sin.

While this may seem irrelevant at first, stick with me. I bought new speakers today, to (sadly) replace my little set that I love that somehow broke in all the moves. While I wanted a set with bass like my old ones, I had no idea that I was going to get BASS. Running home to try them out, and gloating over the steal of deal they were, I ripped off the plastic, plugged them in ... and just about got bounced of of the sofa from the BABOOM, BABOOM. In the always quiet, always courteous world of the Swiss, such rambuncious sounds do not go over well.

Turning them down as much as is technically possible, I went along my way in the kitchen, thoroughly paranoiod that the neighbors were going to start banging on the walls. That's about when the doorbell rang. *&^@&#. I try to gain some composure as I scurry over to the door and peek though the peep hole. *&#^^$#. Most definitely a short elderly neighbor with white hair. Can't pretend I'm not home - the music gives that away. Can't pretend I can't hear over the music - then I'd have to admit that it was too loud. Only one option left. Putting my sweetest-smile-ever face on, I slowly open the door ... only to find a whole slew of trick-or-treaters ...short, of course, and with grey wigs and ghost get ups.

Mad neighbor problem solved. New problem on hand. I have no candy. You can't exactly blame me ... I haven't seen trick-or-treaters at all since living in Bellingham, and even then, they were few and far between. So I'm stuck. I have six little faces staring hopefully at me (though it should be noted that there was no rambunctious shouts of trick-or-treat or any similar translation ... simply bags held high with little puppy dog eyes saying please) and I have no candy. I know this, but go to the kitchen anyhow as if I might find some scrap of something artifically sweetened . Nothing. Finally, I grab all the kiwis sitting in the fruit bowl and drop them in the kids' bags. Ooohhh you should have seen the disappointment.

Not that I blame them ... I too remember the "weirdos" who gave anything but candy. And as they left, all I could think of was the Charlie Brown (?) movie where the woman becomes the "Grinch" of Halloween.

Running with a twist - meet the Hash House Harriers

(HHH Shield, complete with bottle opener, eating eagle runner and the "So What" mantra)

As many well know, I have gathered a great affinity for running in the last couple of years and thought that perhaps joining up with a Geneva running club would be a brilliant idea for combining the sports passion with a similar minded social group. Per recommendations from random people meetings in Tokyo this past summer, I thus sought out the Geneva based Hash House Harriers club ... with the promise of many a good laugh along the running trails.

And indeed, many a good laugh there have been ... I know not where to begin. Let's see, first of all, everyone goes by nick-names such as Frog Chopper, Hover Crap, Cats & Dogs, Sexposure, Tightass, Sputnik or Forest Dump, just to name a few ... the rookies are Virgin 1, Virgin 2 etc, until appropriate names can be determined. Club officers? Forget such drab and boring positions such as President and Treasurer, the Hash House Harriers are kept in line by a Beermeister, Grand Mattress, Hash Habber Dabber, Songmeister, Hash Cash, Geek and Trail Master. Ahhh ha. Geneva now requires not only a pocket atlas for identifying "weird" countries of origin of your collegues, a dictionary of the billion-and-one organization acryonyms, but ALSO an guide to understanding Hash House Harrier lingo.

Following group "stretching" (a phenomenon that must look something like the hokey-pokey performed by drunkards) sung to the song "Father Abraham had many sons", a debriefing is offered on the signs of the evening. You see, the Hashing is more than just running ... it's entails running getting lost, finding your way and getting lost once again as you attempt to decifer the codified course along forest trails throughout the greater Geneva area, which the "Hare" has marked with a series of different chalk and/or flour symbols that can lead to false trails, turn arounds, group meet-up points, etc. Essentially it's a fast-paced orienteering ... in the dark and in the FREAKING cold of what they tell me is Fall, but really feels much more like an Artic Winter.

Of course, the Beermeister officer is not there for nothing ... one of the symbols along the trail is the coveted "BS", shorthand for Beer Stop, where a car miraculously appears with ice chests full of beer and other munchy nummies. "Shots" of beer are poured - and chugged - by anyone who happens to look the wrong direction ... and more songs are sung, including "Why were they born so beautiful?" or the "Wild Rover". Did I mention there is actually a song book? Ah yes, that would be the responsability of the Songmeister ... running/orienteering club-cum-choir. When the BS has been closed with the appropriate songs, a short trotting brings the entire club of slightly off their (our??) rocker expats to the "On-on", ie designated dinner location of the evening.

As I apparently have yet to do/say something stupid enough pass through the coming of age rites, I remain "Virgin 1" and come home laughing to myself as I wonder how in the world I have ended up in the crazy mix of 90% British expat beer and sport lovers ... nearly all of whom are about 40 years my elder. (Indeed, we celebrated Cats & Dogs' 66th birthday last night) Crazy comes as crazy goes, I suppose ... I've yet to come upon a more entertaining crowd!

If you're bored and looking for a good chuckle or two, check out their website ... it will explain the whole Hashers phenomenon far better than I've been able to; I'll be waiting to see who starts a new club in their corner of the world :-)

genevaingear.pdf

American candyland in the world of expats

Geneva is the epitome of an expat town.  You could easily - very easily - live the perfect anglo life here, speaking only English, eating only American foods, seeing American movies in English and, in fact, easily buying all "American" foods. This is a 360 degree shift from Spain, where the only time the opportunity arose to speak English was when calling home, movies were all terribly dubbed in Spanish, American foods were outrageously expensive if found at all and, in 6 years, I never met another American aside from the seasonal tourists. 

Today's spontaneous visit to a little store ever-so-creatively named "American Market", however, has taken Geneva to a whole 'nother lever on the expat ladder of severity.  Cheesily painted in red, white and blue and with stars and stripes to boot, I had passed the place several times and, while the overall feeling was one of "big cringe, how aweful" the little voice of curiousity in the back of my head won the best of me and I had to know, just what might one find in an "American Market"? 

In the spirit of good 'ol American consumerism the store was right on the ball - you never know you're missing anything until someone sticks it in your face and sells it to you.  Aside from the occassional twinge of a craving for rootbeer or, ironically enough, a bowl of mac'n'cheese, very rarely do I ever crave "American" food.  This is not to say that I do not thoroughly enjoy it when I'm back in the States, nor that I don't absolutely love getting "Mom's best" carepackages with a few of the favorite nummies, but I really truly don't miss the food.  And yet, walking into the American Market was an experience in and of itself. 

Wall-to-wall shelves crammed with "stuff" - much of which you don't even realize you haven't seen in the stores around town until you see it here.  Lucky Charms, Cheerios, rootbeer and Dr. Pepper. Doritos, Betty Crocker cake mixes, brownies, peanut butter cookies, junior mints, York peppermint patties, Reeses peanut butter cups, BBQ sauce ... Campbell's soups. Marshmallows, halloween peeps, Pez, oatmeal, Orville Redenbacher microwave popcorn, Gushers, cinnamon gum and, of course, Aunt Jemima's maple syrup.  Mac'n'Cheese - not just one variety, but all of them, Shrek, Scooby, you name it, they got it. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, this is how the good 'ol U.S. of A. is seen in the rest of the world ... everything microwaveable or easily prepared in 5 minutes or less and stocked with sugar.  Seeing as we somehow have the reputation for all being filthy rich as well, I guess the prices shouldn't have surprised me ... almost $9 for the smallest size JIF peanut butter. 

With all this American "stuff" - and seeing that the common language is English anywhere else in town - one might logically expect the owner to be American and the store language to be English.  And yet, in good ol' international Geneve fashion, my York peppermint patty, Shrek mac'n'cheese and peanut butter (not the $9 one, I might add) were cheerily checked out by an appropriately American-sized French man, politely smiling "bon soiree" as he handed me my bag ... and suggested that next time I might place my order on-line.

Oh, so American, indeed.          

www.americanmarket.ch