Crap. I leave for Berlin in 10 hours and I forgot to learn Germish.

Conversation at dinner several weeks ago:
Me: Hey guys, in March I have to go to Berlin for a few days.
#4: Where’s Berlin?
Me: It’s in Germany
#3, who is 13 and twirling her hair: Does that mean you’ll have to learn Germish?

See this picture?

Isn’t it beautiful? It’s not mine. My step-sister took this on her honeymoon. It’s like Spain or something. She had to leave her hotel, in a foreign country, and somehow become situated in a place where she could take that picture.

This one’s mine.

It’s a picture of a dead rat in the ceiling of the theater in London.

I’m a terrible traveler. This is ironic, considering that I lived on the road for five years. Lived out of a suitcase, didn’t keep an apartment, the whole deal. In every city my sightseeing consisted of:
1) the airport
2) the loading dock of the theater
3) the rest of the theater
4) the hotel bar/restaurant
5) my room in the hotel
6) the nearest Starbucks

I might also get to include the local hot yoga studio if there was one, the grocery store if I had access to a kitchen, and a place to buy shoes. I traveled an entire road box full of shoes, but that’s another post.

There are people that, when they travel for work, go see stuff. I’m not one of them. I spent a lot of time in my hotel room wishing that I was one, but eventually I came to realize that I liked being in my hotel room and I wasn’t really interested in seeing the Second Biggest Ball of Mud West of the Mississippi. Not to be a dick, but most places in middle America are really not that interesting. I am allowed to say this because I lived in Indiana for twenty-four years.

But Europe? Their Second Biggest Ball of Mud is older than our whole country. That’s something else entirely.

My boss was supposed to do the Berlin gig but had a conflict, and very awesomely set it up for me to cover him. It’s a short trip, but I am woefully unprepared. I’m not packed. I think some of my laundry is done. I had to buy a suit Friday. The saleswoman was panicking on my behalf because I needed a suit by Sunday; I told her it was no problem because I actually had an entire 35 minutes to find a suit. I found it. It’s a good suit. I plan to write it off on my taxes.

I am fortunate that one of the people I am traveling with is quite possibly the greatest traveler on the planet. He is a very adventurous soul and is pretty much always moving from one exotic locale to another. He goes and sees stuff. He’s also a stage manager, so he’s terribly, terribly organized.

I’m staying an extra day in Berlin at the end because, let’s be honest, when the hell am I going to get to go to Berlin again? At least not until #5 is out of high school, and that’s nine winters away. Not that I’m counting.

My fantastic traveling companion is NOT staying the extra day. This day is also my birthday. Where I will be in a foreign country, where I do not speak the language, because in addition to not being packed yet I have not read past page twenty-three in my travel guide, only just now downloaded Anthony Bourdain’s No Reservations Berlin Episode, and I forgot to learn Germish.

For the Record

For the record, when a parent asks “Who’s cleaning up the kitchen?” the wrong answer is “I don’t know.”Also wrong is the name of a sibling, any sibling, followed by a judgment of why they deserve to be the one to clean up the kitchen. All of these will get you the job of cleaning up the kitchen.

The only answer that might possibly on the slightest off-chance get you out of cleaning the kitchen is to say, “I’ll do it!” because then the parent just might possibly say, “That’s so nice of you to take responsibility! I’ll make your sister do it; you’ve done enough. Go have a cookie.” But this is only likely to happen if you volunteer immediately after your sister has made an ass out of herself by arguing that she shouldn’t have to clean up the kitchen because she did it yesterday.

It is far more likely that you’ll both clean up the kitchen, and I’ll eat your cookies.

Shock Treatment

I like chocolate.

Anyone who knows me and read that just spit their coffee all over their keyboard. It’s kind of an understatement.

Before we got the kids, I bought chocolate. . . frequently.

After we got the kids, I bought it. . . more frequently. Bags of Dove milk chocolate hearts at Valentine’s Day, which I ate out in the car with the doors locked, crying on the phone to CC, asking him when his stupid show was going to stupid open so he would be home again. Dark chocolate Easter Eggs that never made it into Easter baskets. I cleaned up in the candy clearance aisles the day after a holiday with no pretense that it was all for the kids. I started making excuses to run out to the store by myself, and found good hiding places to stash bars and bags. And bags of bars.

The chocolate got darker. It got stronger and far more serious. I was looking for chocolate that bit me back.

These days, I have a bar of Green & Black’s 85% with me at all times and god help us all if that isn’t the case. It is simple, powerful, and it works. I eat it as needed, in one-inch-square pieces.

Every so often though- when I just can’t field another phone call from school, make another dinner nobody will eat, referee another fight- when I would cheerfully trade a kidney for the ability to finish a single thought without being interrupted- at those times, I need something a little bit stronger than Green & Black’s. Something that isn’t chocolate. Yesterday was one of those days.

Yesterday was a Sour Patch Kid day. I love Sour Patch Kids because they are soooo bad for you. They stick in my teeth. They make my eyes water. I eat them until my tongue hurts. Once you hit that point, you feel it for days. Also? The kids love them. They hate my dark chocolate. When I sneak Sour Patch Kids, I have the added bonus of knowing that they would want them, only I’m not sharing. Somehow it makes them even tastier.