January 2016 – column that life writes like this

March 30, 2016 — by MCutts0

"If you wear sweatpants, you have lost control of your life."

This statement comes from the mouth of the man who penetrates himself with sunglasses and in black leather gloves with a fan penetrating and with what feels like 1200 fan strokes / minute: Karl Otto Lagerfeld. But I just found his sweatpants on the Internet: For a flop
169.95 euros or so (reduced, is clear, right?)
I don’t know about you, but jogging pants or a bathrobe ring in my ECP, “extreme chilling phases”.
For me there is nothing hotter than tearing good old jogging pants out of the closet after a long or hard or caustic day and demonstrating this to my environment: “
Quiet now, the Wernerin switches off, drives down and hits tons of chocolate and chips in Koppe. ”
Although I’m more of a total bathrobe fetishist. My piece of jewelry has been around for many decades, so you can look through the back of it. But he’s my buddy who was with me in many important moments. My striped terry buddy accompanied me on various hospital stays, was the first to see the short one after birth, and after many full baths, cold baths or cold baths (when I drank a thirsty summer and wanted to come back to me) hugged me a little and snuggled with me. My bathrobe was present when I was in love and excitedly puffing in the kitchen, he was present when I had a heartache and howled in him puffing in the kitchen, he was present when I had no guy at the start and was bored in him sat puffing in the kitchen. My bathrobe followed me … I am not saying this now … to the kitchen for a tipping afterwards, it ensured eroticism if I staged it well at the right moment and let it slide down on me with music in the background * with the pelvis sensual bob *
Dear 1200 fan beats per minute, my bathrobe and my jogging pants have experienced things that you will not even remotely experience (which is also because you are a boy and I am a girl, you are rich and I am broke chronically). I don’t know how to relax and chill, I’m assuming sitting in a loden two-piece set with suede gloves and silk slippers on a sinfully expensive couch, crossing my legs and just not losing comfort.
You have the money and the success, I have a bathrobe that would receive the Grimme Prize if it could speak.
Happy waving, good man. ^^

# Sweatpants # bathrobe # KarlLagerfeld # chill

I invite you to just go (from December 2014)

Yes, every now and then nice and funny things happen in life, like the following story:
A few weeks ago I was in the district town of Northeim, 35 km away. The short one had an appointment with the orthodontist. He went there alone, I rammed into the Grafenhof, that’s a shopping arcade. I strolled around there, looked here and looked there, strolled through the shops, totally relaxed. And realized that I needed a sanitary facility, I had to get out of my pants. If I have to get out of my pants, I have to get out of my pants quickly, almost really quickly. Then there was a sign, on the first floor there are toilets. Me up the escalator: the toilet was only for employees. Already slightly panicked and crossing the legs down the escalator and looking for the next toilet. I found it too.
Quick step towards the door, and there is a turnstile, you have to throw in 50 cents, then you can pass the turnstile and come to the toilet. I get out of my wallet in no time at all, crossing my legs extremely, looking at the stock market: no more 50 cents! I had thrown the change into the parking ticket machine! And no more bills.
So there was panic, total panic. I was hot and cold, total despair. There is a corner up to the bank where I get money, which I then have to change into small change, buy a poppy seed roll or a nut corner or whatever to get to the small change, back to the Grafenhof, coal in the turnstile and pants down. But I knew that I couldn’t do it anymore in terms of time. I thought I was going to break. I couldn’t think anymore, it almost came out of my eyes and ears, you are really desperate. Then a gentleman stood behind me, I saw him and said absently:
"Go ahead, I don’t have any coal, I can’t go to the toilet."
I took the whole handbag apart in the hope that there are still 50 cents hidden somewhere. And while rummaging around in there, the gentleman put 50 cents in my hand and said something like this:
"I invite you, just go."
I didn’t know what was happening to me. I thanked you, handbag over my shoulder and with a monkey tooth on the toilet.
I wanted to remember the face of the unknown man because I would have liked to thank you again if he ran into me later. But I was totally off track. So off the mark that I could not operate the soap dispenser and these new modern devices that dry your hands. There are no buttons where you press soap out: you hold your hand underneath and the sensor then distributes the soap. Nothing more with a paper towel or something like that: Today you put your hands in such a machine and it blows around like crazy and then your hands get dry. That in turn was explained to me by a lady who was also on the toilet and was waiting for someone. You felt like a Truse from the village for the first time in a larger city and you don’t even know that you have to put your hands in such a machine so that it gets dry. She definitely thought I would never wash my hands after pee.
In any case, I was totally grateful that the unknown gentleman just helped me out of trouble. You rarely experience it today. Would I recognize him: A coffee as a late thank you would be safe.
If the lady reading this explains me the soap dispenser and hand drying machine: At home I do it with a bar of soap and a towel, they both have no sensor. ^^

What rumors can do for the Carnival in Vienna

A few weeks ago on the way to Vernawahlshausen, the car sprayed to the roof with pupating boys, we drove past the sports field in Vienna.
Says one of the boys: "Carnival is back there in the barn this year." (The new hall on the right towards Verna).
Wat? I couldn’t get over it, and from the second I wonder what the DGH porter says about it, and the visitors, and the Prince’s Guard and the laid paper.
Where should they park??
Then they all have to boot through the pampas to the barn?
What’s in there in the barn anyway??
Food? Appliances? Or even animals?
Where to go with the animals when it’s carnival? They have to go into retirement with another farmer?
Is that isolated in there? And the floor: there is floor in there?
Have to borrow a floor from a tent rental company?
Is there electricity? Light? Loo? water?
Don’t smell that?
Why are they doing that in the hall??
When I went to work, you could always see colorful lettering on or in this hall. It was clear to me: Carnival is really there this year in the stable / hall.
Until I drove my car in the direction of Vernawahlshausen, again up to the roof full of the same troop of pupating boys. One says:
"They only stored the neon signs, carnival is in the DGH."
I briefly thought about kicking these funny boys out in the hall at the back right and sending them on foot.

Snap-snap: hair off!

Yesterday they fell, my totally broken, split ends, fuzzy, fuzzy hair. I have bred for four years, knocking in everything you need for vital, shiny, strong hair. Nothing helped, because of the constant blow drying and smoothing and dyeing, the mat was almost in the ass.
I also felt like a change. It always means that we women, when we generally plan or control or rethink a change in life, underline this process with a different hairstyle to the outside, communicate it to our fellow human beings in a virtually encrypted manner. It’s not like that for me now, so I’m not planning anything along those lines. Unless I’m somehow sensationally surprised.
For days I searched the internet for hairstyles, printed out all that I liked, put on a small portfolio and so yesterday I went to the salon of my trust, JACWELL, to the hairdresser of my trust, Inge. Inge is allowed to speak to me as my mother always did, and that is what she does. Don’t smear honey around your mouth, we’re talking Tacheles. I had informed you that please plan more time, it is not easy to say goodbye to just under 10 cm. You also get advice, I thought I would cry for a moment, sniffing, hysterical gibberish: Nothing, worked like clockwork. I was sitting on the far right, the boss Jacqueline opposite me under the hood, so we were always connected with each other in terms of eye contact. Boss Jacqueline was also tidied up (although this woman always looks great, always). There’s always a mood at JACWELL, I said before, it’s a bit like the Musikantenstadl, the hairdresser’s guild in this salon.
I’m just happy, no more hours of blow-drying, no tears while combing because I couldn’t comb them anymore, no waking up at night because the hair on the face tickled, no waiting in the morning for the short time because he wanted to go in but couldn’t because Nuts had not yet been styled. And since boys of that age never want to be in the bathroom with their mother, I always had to accelerate in front of the Alibert.
I know dear men, you like a long mane that you can reach for when mating: Not possible with me now. But the next stage companion should pull my earlobes if I have to. But only if you have to, okay? ^^
Thanks again to the JACWELL team, especially to Inge &# 128578;

Invasion of the stick figures on Facebook

Everything is full here on Facebook, everything is full, everything is full of Bill, Max, Tobi, Paul etc., and they probably all want to bring us up to date in terms of posting technology. You could also call it rules. For example, the stick figures tell me not to annoy the DJ but to just dance.
Or just keep scrolling if I’m insulted.
Or don’t post my lunch but just eat my lunch.
Or tell no one that I am vegan but just be vegan.
Or also that I may have my opinion, but should also accept that of the others.
The cheese always ends with “… is smart, be like….”
Time butter with the fish: I am quite awkward! And not only that, I almost miss the most valuable thing. Because what makes Facebook special? Exactly, the pictures of the toast Hawaii of the neighbors, the latest oath of love for the queen of hearts from the colleague, or really explosive and slippery debates of the friends.
I continue to say and post and write what I feel like, that’s Facebook, exactly that.
But there are also stick figures that I like, and these are the stick figures that remind us to form a rescue alley when an accident has occurred, or generally stick figures with a social background, i.e. fire brigade or rescue service, etc..
Now there are the sisters of Max, Bill and colleagues, and they tell us women, for example. B. we should not put our horns in the spotlight on the profile pictures. So I’m waiting for the day when Tobi and Paul’s aunts open here and give me tips on how to add seasoning to the bean stew or stains from my cooking clothes.
I could now also look in various apps to see if there are stick figures called Steffi and what message they have: I won’t. Because surely something totally embarrassing would come out of it:
“This is Steffi. When Steffi drives a car, she just crawls and causes so long traffic jams. Steffi is lame, don’t be like Steffi ”. ^^

Those were good times when I was on duty almost every weekend as a medical assistant.

The days I happened to meet a man again on Facebook who worked for a security company years ago. Back then we worked a lot together on various events. Many also know that: if z. B. Events where a VIP is present and many people are expected are medical personnel on site and also security personnel. I saw DJ Ötzi, Willi Herren, the Kastelruther Spatzen, and the King of Mallorca, Jürgen Drews. Of course, you don’t necessarily get closer to them than all the others. Except for Mickie Krause, I insisted on a photo, I had been on duty all day to see him in the evening. I was penetrative, also worked.
At large events I always found it interesting to see the condition in which people arrive and in which condition they may go again. The most blatant thing I experienced was a drunk young man we had to put in hospital because of the alcohol and who gave us approx.
1 hour after being admitted on a bike came back when we had to drive the next patient to the hospital.
Or the woman who came to us in the supply tent and asked about the “breaking point”. I didn’t know what she wanted, and a comrade, full-time RA, then found out that she wanted to vomit. When he explained to her where the toilets are and that you can “relieve” yourself in this way, she was totally grateful. The question of whether this is a real ambulance on the premises is always entertaining. Most of the time this question came from people who had drunk some beer. Or just men who come to you and grab their chest for fun, complain of heartache and want mouth-to-mouth ventilation. Even if you can no longer hear it sometimes, you stay friendly and are happy about the compliment.
And very often, even though I had been wearing red work trousers for years, I heard mothers say to their children: "Look, the woman is at the fire brigade." At some point, I stopped trying to explain and nodded my head.
You can already experience a lot as a plaster adhesive, I could go on for hours.

I can no longer see this whole "Bodylove Circus".

I’m just noticing how all these "I’m fat, take pictures in my panties and spread this out in the world" actions start to get on my nerves.
On my homepage on Facebook I see pictures and articles over and over again that report that overweight women fight for more recognition and acceptance, more self-love and so on.
As I have written before, as a slim woman I am stupidly addressed from the side, by women and also by men. It will never stop. For a while I didn’t wear tight pants because stupid sayings kept coming. Today I sat on it with my butt. And I no longer try to question why someone insults me or wants to force a conversation on me or tells me that he finds women with my figure unsightly, unoticotic or turning off. It’s just so.
Now the world thinks that suddenly people who can not do anything with overweight people or it is just not their thing, because of the penetrative reporting and photo series, a lever in the head and this suddenly great Find?
For me, such actions no longer have anything to do with self-confidence, on the contrary. A confident Rubens woman would probably not go along with this and continue to do her thing.
Speaking directly, these whole pictures really get on my balls.
We’re all not perfect, totally different, and that’s a good thing. I could also stand in front of the mirror tonight, scan my varicose veins, then upload it here and fight for more acceptance for women with varicosis. Then maybe I would have thousands more readers, I would be patted on the back for my courage, I might be the hero of the "Varicose Vein Guild". But: I don’t justify myself for that, that’s a bit too stupid for me.
If you don’t like slim women and men, you won’t like it the day after tomorrow.
If you don’t like more stout women and men, you won’t like it the day after tomorrow.
If you don’t like blonde women and men, you won’t change your taste tomorrow.
If you don’t like brunette women and men, you won’t change your taste tomorrow either.
We are who we are and do not have to explain ourselves in terms of form or to seek acceptance as is currently the case. And if we’re dissatisfied with ourselves, it’s in our hands, not our environment.
I judge people by their charisma, their charm, their humor, their intelligence. I don’t give a shit about the weight.
When it comes to men, their physique, I have favorites and no gos. That is so, I can and I will remain true to myself. No picture or article in the world could reverse my opinion, because tens of thousands of guys in underwear could stand on the street.

I almost broke my poncho!

Was there today – the first drive on snow with the other car – nervous breakdown alarm of the first order.
The first few kilometers went quite well until I saw a brake light coming on again and again. It was a truck, fuel oil or something. It drove 20 km / h, we all followed 20 km / h. And he was braking all the time, my front man too, me too, the one behind me too, we were the brakes. I was happy when I was able to turn, but then found that something was wrong with the left wiper blade. Exactly where I looked out, he didn’t wipe everything away. So I deeper into the seat and head tilted so that I saw something. When I arrived in a wooded area it started to snow and the stupid wiper let me down. Sit there for almost an ¾ hour with your head tilted to the left, that’s not nice. And I didn’t see where I was anymore High beam on, high beam off, high beam on, high beam off, like a rolling disco. I was happy about every car that came to me so that I had halfway a plan where I was driving. I was in the clinic 30 minutes late. But that is not bad, we have security and if I am 3 hours late, nobody says anything, that is an agreement between us.
Then the return journey came. It was snowing little dogs, and when I stand at the time clock with my colleague, another colleague says: "I now stand at the exit from the parking lot during the break, because no one comes up, it is as smooth as a mirror."
I felt sick. With the right eye the car is cleared of snow, with the left eye the exit in view. And really now: some did not come up, tried again and again, rolled down, started running. I put in my carrot, first tilt and plan B. I waited until I saw no car, gear in and attack. The colleague was really at the exit and held my thumb up as soon as I made it, I had the slip under control, despite the tip in my hand and tears in my thighs.
And then through the pamp in the forest. Luckily there was no one behind me, the rest came to me really sensibly. Both hands on the steering wheel, the right hand always going to the gear stick. If this gear stick had been made of flesh and blood, it would have stood the good guy for 50 kilometers today, I was so loving to him.
I talked to myself in spirit, things like:
"You do the Steffi, you can do the Steffi, everything will be fine Steffi, you have it under control here Steffi, you little Nicki Lauda of the country road."
And I always thought of my father’s words:
"Apply the engine brake, drive in top gear, stay calm, don’t puff so much and don’t cry now."
And so I arrived home after about 1 hour, ready to go.
If the winter bag wants to take out of the car, the thing drips. At first I thought that my bladder had quit the sphincter because of excitement, but then it was the disc deicer that was leaking. I don’t know whether the pouch wanted to leave my car in a hurry. Anyway, I have a crush on my Toyota today, it’s so good to me. ^^

You come from Uslar, even if you know the "little boy"

What do you do if the tippers have gone out after 10 p.m.?
Off to the booth.
When the buddies fly in unannounced and there is no beer in the house?
Off to the booth.
Chocolate cravings with whole nuts late in the evening?
Off to the booth.
A spontaneous date on which a bottle of wine would add to the mood?
Off to the booth.
For everything else that could intensify the date, there is also a condom machine, I think, so I heard.
And recently I have also been able to buy stamps there.
Is the little boy the extended arm of Langen Strasse / Wiesenstrasse. If you didn’t buy anything until 10 p.m., you can get hold of it until 11 p.m..
I still know the little boy when it was known by Sollich, that was the owner in the 70s or 80s. Back then, when I was 10, I bought a brown bear after the next, or a colorful bag, today an XXL pack of tippers and fresh bread, often with many people on their way to work very early in the morning. Coffee to go is also offered there.
And who you meet everything from time to time, I am always amazed.
I think I was sitting there once, a long time ago. But the mood is always somehow, at least what you hear when you queue there.
I am glad that we still have the little box and that I can have a bag of chips or a colorful bag of eggs at 10.43 p.m..
I have never seen anyone standing at the condom machine. Perhaps this is also due to the unfavorable location directly on a main road

When a few seconds destroy everything

We parents, we mothers and fathers, teach our children so much as they grow, grow up. Among other things, with the aim of safely accompanying our children through life, protecting them from evil and pain, protecting them from wrong decisions, etc. Because we will be gone at some point and want to be sure that they always have everything under control and it they are always well.
We parents surely all know the queasy feeling when our children become more and more independent, the first course to school alone, the first disco visit, moped or car license, etc.
Nibbling off and becoming independent is normal, healthy, and is part of it. Because our children become adults.
And yet it sometimes costs us nerves, our trust is required, for us parents our children are sometimes still the “little ones”, just like we are for our parents.
A few seconds, or a fraction of a second, in the wrong place at the wrong time, can destroy everything.
Many will now ask: “What does she have? Is she spinning now? ”
These days I have a few messages and experiences that have shaken me very much and that my thoughts are not coming to rest. For various reasons, I don’t want to go into specific situations.
An 11-year-old girl in Lower Franconia stands on the street and watches fireworks on New Year’s Eve, and is shot because a mentally ill man loses control of himself and shoots through the area out of blind anger.
How do you live with it as parents? How do you process the daughter’s death? How much you have to despair that it was such a senseless death?
The two brothers from Balve, 22 years and 17 years old, whose relatives found out about their fatal accident via Facebook because someone was so pious and tasteless and uploaded the pictures to show them to the public.
What shock must it be to find out about it? What a hard and for me not remotely conceivable message to have lost both children?
I don’t like and can’t imagine how it should be when the doorbell rings and police officers accompanied by pastors / the crisis intervention team ask for admission to deliver a terrible message.
When doctors have to tell parents that the child has no chance of recovery from a serious illness.
When a child falls victim to a violent crime.
It must feel like your heart is being ripped out of your body.
Do you then wonder if you failed because you couldn’t protect the child?
If you then wonder if it would have been better the child would have started / started 5 minutes earlier or later or could you have prevented it if you had forbidden it?
Do you then wonder whether education failed? You didn’t do your job well enough?
Are you blamed for having inherited sick genes in your child that cost him his life? Or whether you can’t make it healthy enough nourished and therefore cancer cells could already form in the body of a small child?
What I find very bizarre is the situation when parents are just given the sad news that the child is no longer alive, and the sun is still shining, birds are chirping, school children are walking home laughing a few meters away, the traffic is rolling, entertaining neighbors someone buys a few new sneakers a stone’s throw away, a young couple argues loudly a few balconies away. And I’m sitting in front of my salad and I’m almost ashamed that I can eat something because I suspect that there are people around the corner who won’t even think about food.
For a mother, a father, for a family, the sun goes down before evening. If and when this sun shines again, if it can shine again or if it always hangs behind a cloud cover, only those who have had to go through this horror trip or are still going through it know.
And then there are parents who brutally torture their babies to death … not just bizarre, but perverse.


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