Category Archives: Funny Stories

Adventures having very little to do with Germany.

American Expat Celebrates 2nd Year Living in Germany

broken-red-wine-glass-funny-germany

“Every party has its casualties.”

Holy monkey! It’s been 2 years since I packed up all my crap and flew to Germany. Honestly, I thought I’d been here for 3 years, but my German wife reminded me it only feels that way. Anyway, to celebrate last night, we made a pizza, uncorked a bottle of wine and watched a movie. (Which actually means we tossed some extra onions on a frozen pizza, unscrewed a €2 euro bottle of Merlot while the movie started playing and then passed right the fuck out.)

Early the next morning, my wife interrupted my precious Earl Grey time by attempting to show me how I would be cleaning the house after she starts teaching again next week. She pushed a broom around the living room, explaining how I would actually need to lift the furniture in order to sweep beneath it. That’s when she knocked the broom handle into one of our empty wine glasses from the night before. *DONG, smash!* The sound it made as it shattered was like music to my ears.

“HAW HAW!” I laughed, pointing. “Do you realize if I had done that, you would be all super pissed right now? But look at me! I don’t even care! Please learn from my example.” That earned a grudging smile and a quiet chuckle from my wife as she continued sweeping, albeit without the verbal instruction. (Gentlemen readers, I ask you to examine the picture above. Notice how perfectly the glass shattered, yet retained its overall shape? This is the most beautiful example of household justice you will ever see.)

The past 24 months here in Hannover, Germany, have been filled with moments like this; funny occurrences, jam-packed with adorable Denglish quotes and mortifying culture shock encounters. I can honestly say I have yet to experience even one dull moment in this fine country. Every day brought something new. There was that mandatory integration class to deal with, a terribly frustrating visit to the dentist, a surprise delivery from the mailman, the omnipresence of our evil old neighbors, and two memorable trips to the zoo. These are just a few of the adventures described here at Oh God, My Wife Is German, and you, my awesome readers, have been so gracious as to share them with us.

Thank you for reading and for always being so supportive. You’re just the best audience ever, and I look forward to (attempting) to make you laugh for years to come.

Enjoy the rest of your summer!

– OGM

NOTE: If you have been reading this blog and commenting on our posts for a long time, please send me an email and let me know, because I would like to make sure I have a link to the blog or website of your choice in the sidebar section titled OUR FRIENDS.


 

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My German Wife Attempts to Reheat A Soft Boiled Egg in the Microwave

reheating a hard boiled egg in the microwave

Right from the start, I think we all know where this post is headed.

My German wife and I like to eat a few soft boiled eggs for brunch on the weekends, but sometimes we make too many, and one egg goes uneaten. Being the stingy nerds we are, we always save the remaining egg and put it in the refrigerator for later. We do this knowing we will never actually eat it, because eating cold, soft boiled eggs is like slurping the mucus out of a giant eyeball. My wife has a special method for reheating these eggs, however, so I want you to imagine last weekend, when this small German woman explained to me with an adorably subtle accent and just a hint of condescension exactly how it works:

“This is how you heat up a soft boiled egg in the microwave; you just put it in for 5 seconds on low, but you have to be very careful.”

I nodded without a trace of interest and left the kitchen in order to set the table in the living room. As I was arranging the knives and forks, I heard the microwave run for exactly 5 seconds. Then, curiously, I heard it run for an additional 5 seconds. This is the sound it made:

Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz, ding!
*microwave door is opened and then closed again*
Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz, BOOM, ding!

When I returned to the kitchen, I saw my wife holding the microwave door open, mouth agape, with a mixture of silent shock and confusion on her face. She was staring at the remains of an egg so utterly devastated it actually spilled out of the microwave and into the sink below. It was like the Devil himself stepped out from the maw of hell, extended one clawed finger and said, “Fuck THAT egg…” and detonated it with a hex of black magic, then descended once more into his fiery lair, smiling to himself because human suffering just got a little bit worse.

“I thought the egg could handle another 5 seconds,” said my wife, pawing at the orange and white mess with a sponge. “I think I was overconfident.”

an egg after it exploded in the microwave

I was laughing so hard I had to take this picture like 5 times to get one which wasn’t blurry.

The Pipe Story: The German Scores a Free Briar Wood

After a long workday, The Wife and I enjoy smoking tobacco out of a pipe and drinking a few PBRs on our back porch. It’s our thing. We refer it as, “having hell of brew doggies and pipe rips.”

Anyway, we bought a cheap pipe from Amazon.com, but it didn’t draw very well; getting any smoke was like trying to breastfeed from a doorknob. We took it to a local tobacco shop and presented it at the front counter.

“This pipe doesn’t draw very well. May I gain some advice from your resident pipe expert?”

A plump little cigar troll appeared from the back storeroom. “Let me see it,” she said, taking the pipe in one clawed hand. “It’s probably just clogged.”

She began violently twisting the stem from the pipe, her meaty hooks wringing the life from it like a farmer throttling a chicken, and then came the sound: *eee-err-eee-err-SNAP!* The stem fell to the counter, shattered. You could practically hear our thoughts:

THE WIFE: Du Narr! Ich hasse dich! (You fool! I hate you!)
ME: …Oh you ditzy prostitute.

That’s when we were joined by a new pipe expert — Nervous Girl. She was at least 6′ 2,” which I did not appreciate, and visibly anxious. She hurriedly explained we would receive a replacement pipe, though my ears must have been plugged, because I didn’t hear an apology in there anywhere. She then examined our broken pipe and informed me it wasn’t drawing very well because it was too cheap. So, apparently, a hollow stick with one burning end has to be lined with gold dust and pixie dreams in order to put smoke in my lungs.

“It probably wasn’t working because it’s not a brair,” stated Nervous Girl.

“What’s a briar?” I asked.

“A pipe made of briar wood,” she replied. “We only sell briars here.”

“Oh good,” I replied. “C’mon honey, let’s go pick one out.”

Nervous Girl gave us a brand-new briarwood for free, and all condescension aside, The Wife and I were rather pleased with the result of our quest for advice. I did feel a little bad for that rotund smoking gnoll who broke our pipe though, for later that night her cobblestone pillow would surely run slick with nicotine tears.

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Automobile Tales: Sideswiping the German

The Wife and I were driving home from work last night when suddenly I realized we were out PBR.

“Honey, we have one beer left in the ‘fridge. This isn’t happening.” I swerved across two lanes of traffic and pulled into the darkest, shadiest convenience mart you’ve ever seen. I leapt from the car, darted inside and grabbed a case of beer with all the feline grace you’d expect from a man who spends all day making pretty on the computer.

An unmentionable sea hag with kelp-brown hair came shambling into the store and asked the clerk if he had any matches. “No, I don’t have any,” replied the predictably Asian man. He gave her a healthy dose of stink eye as she left. In fact, he seemed unable to look away at all. Jesus man, I thought to myself. She’s just an unruly ocean troll; it’s not like she tried to steal your horde of magic seashells.

I paid for the beer, turned to leave and that’s when I saw it; my wife, having exited our car with the passenger door open and the engine still running, using her supple German body to block a huge van from exiting the parking lot. The clerk hadn’t been staring at that hideous tide nymph at all — he was watching a massive camper van sideswipe my car.

The Wife was visibly shaken — a deadly mix of fear and anger upon her visage — while the two young girls inside the van were truly stunned. I would find out later they’d tried to drive away without being caught; my wife jumped out of the car and blocked their path, exclaiming, “Stop! You have to stay here until my husband comes back!” Of course, when I replay this in my head, she’s dressed like the Baroness from G.I. Joe, menacing a couple of bikini-clad teenagers with a leather riding crop, bellowing, “HALT! You vill remayne oontil mine hüzbint unt hiz pendulous nutsack reemerge from ze store.”

Though fearful, the girls were quick to profess their helplessness. “We don’t have any money,” stated the driver. “We’re from Lebanon.” And yes, I paused for a moment to wonder if she meant the Lebanon which borders Syria, rather than the Lebanon outside of Salem, Oregon, but I recovered and asked for her insurance information.

“We don’t have that,” came her reply. “What do we do now?”

“We call the cops,” I replied, snapping a picture of her license plate. That was right about when they produced some semblance of insurance coverage; a receipt for an auto insurance payment made by their stepfather last year. I took down all of the information, waved goodbye and asked them to drive carefully.

Turning back to my car, I saw the aforementioned sea hag peering closely at the scrape running the length of my driver side door. “Oh, you can probably buff that out,” she said in her ancient maritime tongue, poking at the paint.

“Don’t touch that!” cried my wife, slapping away her horrible webbed fingers.

“We’ve got this under control,” I chimed.

The Wife and I proceeded home, vowing never to return to that convenience mart, with its abundance of sea people and delicious Pabst Blue Ribbon, for surely thar be Pabst in fresher waters. Yarr.

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When the Stars Align: A Morning Straight Out of German Hell

5:15 am: During our morning jog, The Wife’s iPod suddenly refuses to play “Everything You See,” by Portugal The Man. It skips every few seconds, but plays perfectly on my iPhone; an obvious indicator I am somehow to blame.

5:30 am: Halfway through the jog, The Wife trips on a tree root, nearly falling to the ground. The crisp morning air is now rife with German swear words.

7:35 am: During our morning commute, I miss the exit for my workplace, thinking I first need to drive The Wife all the way to her workplace, as is our normal routine. The radio is now eclipsed by English swear words.

7:36 am: I miss the second exit for my workplace, which would have immediately solved the problem. The radio is now off, and I have fallen dangerously silent.

7:45 am: We arrive at my workplace, where I exit the vehicle so The Wife can drive to her workplace, late as balls.

7:50 am: My iPhone rings — The Wife is still in the parking lot, unable to attach our TomTom to the windshield in order to navigate through the wonderfuck maze that is Beaverton, OR.

8:15 am: Neither one of us is able to attach the TomTom; it seems to have lost its suction. And if anyone is thinking, “That’s what she said,” I swear to God I will come find you and kick you right in the hemorrhoids.

8:35 am: I deliver The Wife to her workplace. Tempers are high. Goodbye kisses are laced with frustration and danger sprinkles.

8:55 am: I return to work, only to be reminded I am expected in a teleconference and I only have 1 hour to read the preparation material and form halfway intelligent questions for the client. My coffee tastes like baby toots.

9:15 am: Reading preparation material so fast my eyes are bleeding. Co-workers have stopped talking to me. I recall the last thing my wife said to me in the parking lot — “Himmel, arsch und Zwirn!” — and though I do not know what it means, it shrivels my bacon bits.

9:30 am: The Wife calls me from her office phone, informing me her phone card has run out of minutes — she will be unable to tell me when I need to pick her up after work from the Max station. Co-workers are now sliding their chairs away from me.

10:30 am: I spend the rest of the morning writing a very important, very delicate press release. Somehow, my fingers sneak f-bombs between every fifth word. My body is now my enemy.

12:00 pm: I emerge from a blackout fugue state to find I am naked, my office is on fire and my co-workers are huddled together in the far corner of the room. The fire department is taking an axe to the front door and the police are yelling at me through a loud speaker in the parking lot. My press release, however, is entirely finished, and it is … breathtaking.

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Wakeboarding: Backflips May Not be Suitable for Children.

Last weekend, The Wife and I went wakeboarding with some friends on the Willamette River.  We put the boat in the water just outside of Wilsonville, OR, at the Boones Ferry Marina, with six individuals on board: five adults and one (easily influenced) 9 year-old boy.

After several hours of wakeboarding and drinking PBR and Canadian Club whiskey, we started swimming and jumping off the stern. Front flips came next, until some jerk (me) decided to kick things up a notch by performing a graceless back flip. I have a foundationless and totally irrational fear of breaking my neck — I am convinced I will, at any moment, compress my spine like a telescope — so when I performed my back flip, I unwittingly shouted “Titties–titties–titties!” before hitting the water.

All of the adults laughed until the 9 year-old boy scaled the ladder, turned around and launched himself backward into the air like 60 pounds of deathwish.

“Titties–titties–titties!” *splash*

His impression of me was spot-on, which is why I was informed by his parents I am no longer welcome on their boat.

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