Lydia’s Blog

As I was poodling around Stuttgart today, trying not to gnaw my fingernails to stubs over the start of Jenufa rehearsals in two days, I passed by Dr. Müller.

Dr. Müller is a pretty greasy sex shop chain in Germany. Well, I thought, a few minutes of looking at crotchless PVC thongs would be better than the next few minutes spent looking at ground plans of the rehearsal room.

I went in. There I found the most amazing feat of translated English…possibly ever. I spent the twenty euros to buy this odd contraption…for the sole purpose of bringing this magnificent literary artefact to you lovely people, word for incredible word (all errors original).

Enjoy.

LOVE FOLLY: Libido Pulsator

Multifunctional libido transmitter.

APPLICATION: Pull the air-filled pulsator over the erected penis as far back as possible to the penis root.

Effect No. 1: The progressive telescopic effect and air make the penis rampant, thick, superstiff and steadfast.

Effect No. 2: Powefully, stiffly beaming cock.

Effect No. 3: The rampant cock, enlarged in diameter and length, is now introduced into the vagina. The vagina voluptuously accepts the beaming cock which can intrude up to the uterus area. The rampant cock reaches now the G-point without the need for any auxiliaries.

Effect No. 4: The female partner is now exited to wild libido when the cock is thrust against the G-point and, simultaneously, the air-filled pulsator hits the clitoris. The result is a paramount fulfillment of lust.

INFORMATION G-POINT

Prior to the detection of the so-called G-point, this type of excitement was generally refered to as vaginal orgasm (contrary to the clitoral orgasm). Women, who experience the vaginal orgasm describe it as much more intensive. These women most probably get the so-called G-point stimulated. This makes obvious that the G-point (located above the uterus) is generally hardly reached and, therefore, some women prefer sex partners of anatomically strongly shaped cocks. Consequently these women prefer men from specific races such as Africans.

A PRODUCT OF A WELL REPUTED COMPANY

INVERMA

Upon request, I will also offer interested parties the Germany, French, Spanish, Italian, Russian and/or Polish translations.

Sick, eh?

I’ve been in the United States for exactly a week now. After five days of attempting and/or accomplishing nothing more than marking the skin of my buttocks with the upholstery of my parents’ couches in Connecticut, I decided to head down to New York City to take care of some business.

And by business, I mean the long-standing "loosely arranged" appointment with the Metropolitan Opera. The Met’s first request for said meeting came about a year ago. "Let us know when you’ll be available to meet"…to which at that point I could only reply "In about nine months, when I’m back in the U.S. again".

Declining my offer of a phone interview, I was told to simply get into contact with the Met should I find myself in New York. I did so about three weeks ago, in preparation for this Thanksgiving visit. I was told to check in on Monday, November 20–late morning–in order to arrange an appointment for later that day.

And that’s what I did. I put on my sleek black pomo best, jumped a train in New Haven (with my mother, who paid for the tickets and then gave me $50. I made the call at eleven, from somewhere near Rye. My contact at the Met, after seeming to totally forget who I am, began a long explaination about why "today and really also tomorrow" would simply be too booked for the colleague I’d hoped to see. During this monologue, my phone lost service (Verizon is a plague). About three minutes later, when I found a signal, I tried calling again.

The call went through to voice mail. I left a message knowing full well that this particular permanent floating crap game would probably not end up taking place in 2006.

So what does an overdressed, overambitious and overly frustrated girl do with an unexpectedly empty day in New York?

She drinks. Wine at The Cirque with my mother. Two cosmopolitans at my dear friend Beth’s HUGE new riverfront apartment (followed by a few rounds of straight Chopin). At some point the phone rang.

The Met: "Hi Miss Steier. Wah wah wah wah wah wah wah wah wah wah wah wah wuh-wah wah wah wah wah keep in touch."

Well. At least they called. I hope I was at least able to slur something gracious before hanging up.

Shortly thereafter, Beth and I bounced down the street, where I spent the $50 from my mother on a manicure and pedicure.

All in all, a perfect New York Day.

THIS POST DATES FROM NOV. 6, 2006
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So today I had the colossal good luck to fly on the very first day of Europe’s new “American style” regulations on liquids in carry-on. If I watched TV or listened to the radio, I might have picked up on that. As it was…I didn’t.

It’s a real shame, this. Flying within Europe was a unique joy…untouched by wide-eyed, code-orange hysteria. One would show up to the airport an hour or so before a flight…less if there were nothing to check in, stand in a short line for a boarding card, then in another one to pass through security (without having to remove belts or shoes, mind you…), and then have ample time for a quick browse through a duty free shop and/or an overpriced coffee before hopping on the plane.

Well. Those days are over. As wave after panicked wave of uninformed travelers arrived to spectacular lines (Germans don’t get so gay for queuing as, say, the British), plastic baggies, and the prospect of losing hundreds of Euros worth of male-grooming products to stone-faced security controllers, tiny mob scenes began to break out. People started shouting at airport employees, desperate not to miss their flights. People in line began to trample one another…people with earlier flights attacking people ahead of them, when it was found that they would fly a meager ten, maybe fifteen minutes later. Desperate people, especially desperate people before 6 a.m. are not good-humored or generous. They can barely even be considered decent. Or human. It’s not without some irony that I began to think about terrified Berliners trying to connive their way onto transports out of Berlin as the Soviet army circled the doomed city from the East….today it was overweight, groggy Bosch and Porsche employees trying to get to Frankfurt.

Oh, the fatherland. Cruel fate.

I derived special pain from being forced, passively, to listen to conversation after conversation about how base American paranoia was condemning evolved Europeans to a halitosis-ridden business trip (owing to the toothpaste ban). Ugh, the Americans. They can hang Saddam Hussein…so why can’t I at least have my L’Occitaine hair pomade?

How did I survive the ordeal, you ask? Well, the American way—naturally. I snuck to the front of the mob, quietly offered a 20 Euro bill to what was obviously a college student, and slid through the entire mess without much problem.

See, nobody can trump American-style jackassery like an American.