Why you so dramatic?

You guys know those days when you swan through the city to get to work like you just own it? I know, for me this also constitutes the exception. It is a bit like you find yourself thinking “did Susan put some MDMA in my drink, whynehell am I so motivated?”. Here I was today, cherishing my Motivation Wednesday. Struting through the hallway, totally feeling my fancy-all-black-I-am-so-Berlin-so-cool-so-fucking-cool look, feeling like an extra special scientist, giving off my usual “Come to mother dust, I will tell you how to solve all your problems”. Even singing “Rockabye”. So I enter my office and first thing I do is put the kettle on and prepare myself a big mug of coffee, then check emails and all this shindig.

To make coffee, we use this AeroPress machine. The one that has a little metal sieve on the bottom (here you put the ground coffee) and then you have to sort of press the boiling water through. So I am standing there, fidgeting like I do, and since the office door is closed, doing a little Mariah Carey turn (you guys know, the one when she just turns the chest and shoulders while having the hips still facing the opposite direction?). In that one second, my hand makes the wrong move.

Everything, I mean everything – the floor, the desk, the window, the fridge, the cupboard, the trash cans, my trousers on the spot gets covered in coffee (and milk, because I was cunning enough to pour it already in advance). Here I am, standing in the big puddle of double shot espresso, extra syrup, no foam (unavailable with AeroPress), Colombian grind, with liquid dripping from the window pane on my head, thinking which karma just came back at me. There goes my Motivation Wednesday.

I knew something was shady.


My Personal Queen

Heat. Hard to stand, overbearing sultriness accompanied by anxiogenic strands of hair sticking to the scalp. All you can imagine doing is starfishing with a pile of ice cubes nearby tantalizing with soothing cold. I, however, was at the Waldorff Schule, performing our jazz choreography in front of actual human audience. People that consciously decided to pay money and leave the house risking fatal dehydration, sit and watch dancers-to-be (not) failing at the series of wobbly grand pliés and screaming for a face whip, crooked arabesques. We got to be there the entire day, as everything had to be absolutely perfect. The school quickly filled up with frantically moving ballerinas in flashy green tutus, swarms of joyfully blabbering little girls in tiaras and tacky (but hey) pink hairpins and people looking like they really regret having said yes to the whole thing. Here I was, I thought, the sole representation of the ballet school’s male fraction, soon to be proven wrong and inspired to write this entry in my hipster online oh-my-god-so-cool-so-fucking-cool blog.

Three cutest boys, 6 years of age, as I quickly became aware of from their interrogation-like Q&A session, also happened to be performing. Because we were all trapped backstage, waiting for never-ending warm-ups or other rehearsals (arms higher and higher, legs in a split and stretch that bo-o-ody, breathe in and out, now FALL TO THE GROUND LIKE A BAG OF STONES, FEEL IT, FEEL THE GROUND UNDERNEATH YOU), I got to chat and make friends with all the ballerinas, especially with the remaining male representation (girls decided to fight over crayons and make squeaky sounds over a bag of unidentified snacks – ‘no, you already had one, Sarah, I’ll tell mommy’). So I – unwillingly – got to know pretty much everything about the habits of Francis’ guinea pig, his favourite TV show, favourite shoes, that I am really old, that next year I’ll inevitably turn twenty-nine and the type of drawings he is really good at right now at school. Suddenly I notice, that the queen-to-be is wearing a pink nail polish, pretty explicitly and is being absolutely shameless and fierce about it. So (as a grown up queen) I get to ask Francis: ‘Hey so why are you wearing nail polish?’.

He looks me in the eyes, clearly taken aback (what-are-you-stupid-or-something) and answers ‘Duh, because I want to?’.

This is a shout out to all the queens out there. Wear your nail polish like this kiddo. DO grown up and yeah, it gets better. And if it doesn’t – make it better. But it all has to start in you. Can now can I get an amen up in here?

(PS: After the bows at the end of fantastic show, the choreographers were giving out roses to people that helped with organization of the event. Naturally, Francis was very explicit about getting one too).


Venus Spring Blowout

The online dating is a thang now, you know. One of my best friends, Latina Rodriguez chats to me about it on a daily basis and I live for her stories! Especially now that I am back to single life (and not yet ready to mingle, but I am very slowly getting there).  Feels a bit like recovering from a long marathon that you didn’t really prepare your fat body and fossilized joints for. But enough of the cheesecake!
The dating app is – without beating around the bush – full of fucking weirdos. Seriously, there is a market for everything. I don’t want to turn into some kind of freegan poetry slam, but if you think you can’t make money of your used underwear, well let me prove you wrong right there! When you finally get to write with someone that is – a- normal (doesn’t want to feed you with Taco Bell nor wants to smell your hairy armpits while clamping their nipples) and – b- not ugly, it is like a Kinder Surprise. You’re happy to get one, still a mystery what is inside.
The other day I finally got to write with a really cute actor from Deutsches Theater. Very exciting, as he didn’t want to buy me and had a beard (equals superhot, yes). Suddenly he goes ‘Lust auf Kaffee morgen‘ and here I go squirting a long ass Mateusz style answer in his face, needy, desperate, pathetic. You know those moments when someone suggest something you really wanted and you answer ‘Yes‘ too quickly? Well multiply it by ten. Totally lost it. Explaining how long and why I work and proposing alternative time, naturally also including my telephone number, height, weight, number of fingers, colors of my bedroom walls and almost social security number. Not until the dude writes back ‘Luft noch‘ half an hour later (no need to be fluent in German to realize this means ‘Calm your faggoty ass down‘ ) did I slap myself with an imaginary frying pan and promised, again, to keep it together. Jesus Almighty. I will die alone eaten by my fifteen cats and it is going to be my fault. I feel like Bridget Jones, although my Daniel Cleaver seems to have given up already!

The Counselor and pulsating appendicitis

As I was lying flat, greatly tormented in the sultry room of the post-operative unit of the biggest hospital my ass ever landed in, my never-a-let-down friend called up and asked if I felt like watching a movie. Well, hell yeah I thought, but then it dawned on me how bananas she must have gotten to sacrifice her first sunny and warm Friday. It was the last day of my post-surgical care, I was actually almost mobile and mentally very ready to sashay away home (literally!) and starting to get tremendously depressed from all the crippled ambience. A movie – good or bad – would just be the perfect distractor and – most importantly – a killer for extremely slowly passing time.

As Irene reached into her big red furry box and pulled out a DVD, I only managed to catch a glimpse of the cover that shouted ‘The Counselor’ with Cameron Diaz among the cast. There are those moments, when your prejudice just does it all. Nope, no matter how long and untiringly you keep on trying to convince me, I know – for all it’s worth – it is a movie featuring a undeniably blond dumb bitch on at-least-twenty-inch high heels with a ridiculous skirt short enough to uncover her Brazilian. Embarrassing jokes interspersed with tacky love scenes (preferentially with some actor made of abs, handsome face and a dick bigger than the Fernsehturm in Berlin) and overall feeling of a roaring moral hangover once (if at all) you are done with it.

Well, wasn’t I wrong! Not only does Madame Diaz manage to lasciviously allure, virtuously emanate the queen bitch she acts and paralyze with her glance, she also makes me gag on all her looks! She is serving some bad ass ghetto queen surely equipped with a personal stylist, because some of her outfits look simply damn cool.

That is actually the best of what I got from The Counselor. I think the movie counts well among stories about thug lives of Mexican cartels and offers some yet another kinky ways to kill a man you ‘dislike’. It creates a very unsettling atmosphere of uncertainty, so very typical for movies about sex, blood, money and drugs (mainly because you never know when your favorite character is going to lose their next finger). All in all a semi-interesting plot with a very well executed roles of all characters (and obviously – stunning Cameron!). She definitely should get an award of some sort – maybe not for the overall role, but for (thumbs up) breaking up with the fossilized blond skank characters she slipped into.

The impression may of course well account for the fact that the process of watching the movie was interrupted several times by my phone announcing a new batch of incoming Whatsapp messages from my forever worried mum or unnaturally long and awkward gurgling of my freshly slaughtered belly.