He must know what he's talking about...

The art of living is more like wrestling than dancing.
Marcus Aurelius

Annabee for President !

So a study came out in Britain this week that testosterone is linked to greater risk-taking which in turn may lead to greater profit but also greater losses in business affairs.

The study focused on the effect of predominantly young male investors trading in the stock market and concluded that less testosterone-clogged decision-makers (i.e. women and older men) make better traders.

With fewer hot-heads around there would be fewer ups and downs and a better overall turn-out for everyone. And how true is that! Not only for stock markets, one might add.

Just think of all the time, money and energy that could be saved if young men stayed off the streets at night, for instance !!

Instead of cautioning women on where to go and how to behave, training them in defensive martial arts, and reserving extra parking spots for them, we could just put a curfew on 14 - 30 year olds.

Now there is an idea!

Check !

It is a good thing that I scavenged some extra plastic receptacles from the pile of odd shaped multicolored containers before we hit the cash register at our last IKEA outing.

“With kids you can NEVER have enough receptacles!” I explained to Matt whose blank stare went right through me. “Uhuh.”

“You know, they are great for storage, waste paper baskets, Jules likes to use them as a drum, the girls can organize their itsy bitsy Polly dolls in them and last but not least they can PUKE into them...” “Really?”

Oh yeah! You better believe it.

The last three days of my motherhood were spent with three kids either threatening to or actually throwing up into different sized (and colored) IKEA containers. At times unisono.

A moment of pride in a mother’s quest for perfection. I did good!

This Much I have figured out...

1 - The Brits hate tea because they will only drink it with milk.

2 - Their point about drinking is not to enjoy life but to forget how much they hate it.

3 - They like food but they don’t like to cook it -- especially not their own.

4 - They have a problem with time because they have to stay on top of it.

5 - They love to mimic nobility by living in crumbling over-prized dwellings and perpetually
broke.

Cat Person

Zoë is in love. And since she is only nine years old, she still tells me everything: There are ants crawling up her neck, her stomach feels like a sponge, the kid, a pudgy Brit, is as sweet as chocolate fudge ice cream, and life just became colossally more complicated.

The poor child does seem awfully afflicted. Her big brown eyes have acquired a tragic quality and getting her to empty the dishwasher is sheer impossible. Her mind no longer dwells on earthly matters, so much is for sure.

It all started when she enrolled for a musical workshop and met the cast for the first time.
“I am in love with the panther, mom” she declared as I came to pick her up. “We are not getting a cat!!” was my prompt response. “Mo-om, I mean Bagheera, the panther, I don’t know the boy’s name yet.”

Lea, with a big smile on her face that wasn’t without malice added, “It’s pretty bad, mom. She’s all lovey, lovey.”

Lea, six, rejects the notion of love unless it is directed at her blanky. “I am too young for this yucky stuff,” she says and amplifies her words with a heartfelt shudder. And right she is!

Anyway, Zoë is in dire straights and she knows it. Only two days are left and than this Jungle encounter in which she stars as Prickly Pear No. 2 will be over and cat boy will be gone from her life. My only fear: He may remain in ours for a while.

The 'Überich' strikes

As I pushed open the door to our home with my behind, balancing orange and white grocery bags in my arms, the metal taste of my car keys between my teeth, I was greeted by an exhilarated six-year old.

Her voice was vacillating in the upper levers as she announced: "Mom, you won't believe it, I didn't run off to join a gypsy band, I didn't burn down the house, and I also didn't flood it. I was OVERLY good!!"

The actual German word she used was 'übergut.' Freud would have a field day!

Hail Ludmilla

I am back from my little escapade. Can you guess where it took me? Yes, indeed, I went to Prague but that’s not the whole story. When I took to my heals the morning after Easter Sunday I was looking forward to getting some time to myself with nothing but two paperbacks to keep me company.

But alas, motherhood is not shaken off as easily as that. In a way it is latched onto one’s soul like velcro and turns any act of self indulgence into a sordid back alley affair.

So when I got into the car to go to the airport, the grip on my bag was almost as tight as the cheerful smile I managed to dig out of the muddy trenches of my heart. Three little faces betraying nothing but utter misery were glued to the window.

Well done, Anna, I thought, at least you have made sure that this one childhood memory will make it into their bestselling memoir. And quite deservedly so, one may add.

But off I went anyway, heart palpitations, sweaty palms, deep remorse and all. Off into the skies and onto a wintery dream a thousand miles away.

There is nothing that will put an end to sappy feelings as swiftly as a Czech masseuse. After four days spent in their unrelenting care I was ready to forgive myself.

What came next was the realization that life can be good on the other side of blazing purgatory. And somewhere there, between the playful facades and shady colonnades of that dignified metropolis, I realized that it was okay to be perfectly content by myself.

In fact, it is quite a marvelous spot on the mental map. And it’s worth visiting especially when it lasts longer than a bubble bath.