I think my husband’s in love with Paula Abdul. It’s okay. I know he still loves me more.

After all, I might have a little crush on Simon Cowell myself. I know, eek. But also strangely understandable. (It’s the accent, guys, the accent.)

He’s trying to think of something to take his little wife to for a lovely Sunday evening. He’s also going through job vancacies on the internet, so it got kind of mixed up.

Me: You want to take me to Baden-Württemberg¹? That’s too far I think.
— Pause —
Me: We could go to France. Or to Belgium. Hey, we could go to Belgium!
Him: We would have had to get going yesterday to do that.
Me: To France yes. But Belgium’s just one and a half hour away.
Him: You honestly want to go to Belgium?
Me: Nah. But we could.

It’s true. We could. Just my way of making some of you jealous of our weird European ways. Did it work?

—
¹That’s a southern part of Germany. It’s also where my cousin lives, but even Amsterdam is closer. I wonder if Denmark is, too.

I recently got into the whole cocktail thing. Remember the cocktail set I gave my husband for his last birthday? Did I write about that? If no, you know now. I gave him a cocktail set. You know, one of these completely selfish presents, because he wouldn’t possibly make cocktails just for himself, but also for me, me, me!

Whatever.

Turns out I’m making the cocktails. I mean, what was I thinking? That after five years of successfully scaring my husband out of the kitchen I wouldn’t be the one responsible? Yeah, right. For lack of ingredients matching any of the cocktail recipes but Planter’s Punch I’ve started with a lot of Planter’s Punches. Which are really tasty, by the way, so we could have just stopped there. But since I bought a whole book with cocktail recipes and tempting pictures of the cocktails we wanted more.

So some days ago I made a Martini. My first Martini ever. Now I wonder what the fuss is about. Sure, I liked the olive, but I can just eat olives and don’t have to sip through 5 parts Gin, 1 part Vermouth to finally get to one.

Today I went some more cocktail shopping, so tonight I made a Rum Swizzle, which was just great. I love cocktails. I’m okay with beer and wine, but I don’t necessarily need beer or wine. I’m actually fine with lemon ice-tea as well. But cocktails, YES! Especially when they’re fruity and with ice or drunk from fancy glasses or all of it.

And since I’m getting into it we will have an excellent cocktail booze selection in no time, so if any of you ever plan to come visit me I can at least promise to make you a fine cocktail. Doesn’t that sound like fun?

I just realized that I’m already totally envious of all those kids just turning eighteen, going off to school, making big new experiences and I just think about it and get mad because I can’t have that anymore. Sure, I can go back to school, but that would be totally different now.

I want my youth back, damnit.

The really really sad thing is that I’m only 25 years old. That’s still pretty young, and I can’t help but being extremely jealous of everyone six years younger than me.
So, now I’m afraid that in no time I will be a mean bitter grumpy old lady you better stay away from, because she’s mean. And grumpy. And very bitter. Give me five years.

Where do all these spam comments suddenly come from? I don’t like to be spammed. Especially since I love getting comments so much, and it’s always a big disappointed when it turns out to me spam.

On the other hand, WordPress‘ spam filter works really good. Thanks for that, guys.

And while we’re at it: Never use the word phentermine in one of your comments. Because that’s blacklisted now, so any comment containing that work will die on the spot. I will probably add more words soon, because I’m tired of deleting spam comments, but I want to make sure that I’m not accidentally killing innocent comments by loving readers. I’d never forgive myself if that would happen.

Today I watched the episode of Gilmore Girls where Rory has her first boy with idiot-sits-on-the-same-side-of-the-table-as-his-date-guy Trevor. Never mind. He had funny hair. NEVER date a guy with funny hair.

And here we are right where the problem is. Who am I to give dating advice? To anyone? It’s not like I’ve ever really dated. Plus, I’ve never been on a bad date at all. I’ve been in bad relationships, but all these relationships were preceded by pretty good dates, since obviously in the other case there wouldn’t have been a bad relationship.

Also, Rory is supposed to be 18 or 19 now, isn’t she? I mean, she turned 16 in the first half of season 1, so I should be right. See, about four months after I turned 19 I met my husband. Who I’ve been together with ever since. Whom I’ve married. Who makes me happy every day. So, who the hell do I think I am to give anyone any kind of dating advice? I don’t even know how it’s supposed to work. I’ve been on three dates exactly, all of which were fine and not because I’m so damn good at dating, but because I was lucky.

Bottom line is, if you have any relationship or dating problems, don’t come to me and ask. Because I honestly can’t help you. Not because I don’t want to, but because I really, really don’t know. Any advice I can give I probably just made up and more than likely has no connection whatsoever to what’s really going on out there.

Although I think that the funny hair advice might not be too bad at all.

Today I got my Gilmore Girls Season 4 box from the post office. The clerk vanished into the back room for about thirty minutes to find it and I was on the brink of saying „Hey, do you need my help looking?“ but then she found it and all was good.

So, don’t be surprised if for the next few weeks you will hear me whining constantly about the fact that I don’t live in Stars Hollow.

That’s it. TV is calling. Gotta go.

Contrary to my own belief I survived this weekend without constantly thinking about this.
I’m such a brave girl.

But I still can’t wait to rush to the post office tomorrow.

Today we installed our new radio/CD player in our car. Before we had only radio and tape deck and that just didn’t seem enough. Now we can listen to radio AND listen to CDs AND listen to MP3s AND plug in any MP3-player (including my iPod) when driving.

As great as this is it also means that in no time we’ll be arguing about who’s turn it is to choose the music. As much as we like each other’s music our tastes are indeed different and while I would want to listen to Hello Saferide, Jenny Lewis and the Watson Twins or Nellie McKay (among lots of others) he’d prefer Oscar Peterson, Teddy Wilson and Erroll Garner.

Maybe we can compromise on Blossom Dearie.

Watching the first two episodes of American Idol (and yes, I can, because the internet is a good thing) I must say that:

a) I love Simon. No, seriously. Mostly because he’s British and because he doesn’t insult me and probably never will get the chance to. But the British! I cannot hate someone who talks like that.

b) I discovered that I really like Paula Abdul. Why’s that? Hell if I know. She just seems really nice. Yes, I’m confused, too.

c) I still have no idea who Randy Jackson is. Who is he? What does he do? Why is he on the show? It’s not that I mind him being on the show, I just don’t know why. Today I tried to explain the judges to my husband: „Well, there’s Simon, he created the show. And there’s Paula Abdul, who’s – you know – Paula Abdul. And there’s Randy and I don’t have a clue who he is.“

d) I’m still enjoying that show more than I feel I should. Guilty pleasure all over.

Update: Apparently Simon Cowell is NOT the creator of the show. I know that now. Simon Fuller is. But they’re both Simons and they both have two l’s in their last names, so you’re just bound to confuse them.

Update of the Update: Apparently Simon Cowell and Simon Fuller are considered co-creators. Thanks to Srah for helping me investigate this important matter to everyone’s satisfaction. We learned a lot tonight. Anybody else wants to throw his two pence of TV knowledge in?