Tag Archives: German Wife

Denglish 82: My German Wife Ridicules My American Bathroom Habits

To be perfectly honest with you, this post isn’t really about Denglish. It doesn’t concern German or English, or the hilarious mistranslations and linguistic mash-ups which can occur between the two. No, this post is about my wife’s sense of humor, and how she wields it like a blind Viking at an axe-throwing competition.

Back when we were living in the States, The Wife and I went shopping every week. We kept a meticulous shopping list and updated it the moment we started to run out of something important. We were constantly adding items to the list — it was common practice in our household — so you can imagine my surprise when, out of nowhere, she hauled off and announced:

THE WIFE: “We are down to our last roll of toilet paper. We need to add it to the shopping list because YOU definitely won’t stop poopin’.”

Click here to learn more about the term “Denglish.”

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Denglish 81: German Woman Totally Destroys Yet Another Innocent Nickname

If you’ve been reading this blog for a while, you already know I come up with a lot of nicknames for my friends. And by nicknames, I mean random word combinations of an insulting or overtly distasteful nature. It’s a habit, and I couldn’t stop doing it if I wanted to; my brain pulls together a few unrelated words out of nowhere, then commands my mouth to spout them off at the people I love most.

By far, my wife bears the brunt of these nicknames, though in her case they tend to masquerade as adorable pet names. Over the course of an average day, I will call her between 10 and 15 different pet names, each one worse than the last. Here are just a few examples:

7:00 am, as I walk her to the door:
“Have a good day at work, my little donkey slap!”

10:00 am, in a text message:
“Hey fruit-jockey, where do we keep the regular size envelopes?”

12:00 pm, another text message:
“Yo yo thunder-bone, when you comin’ home tonight?”

5:00 pm, as I greet her at the door:
“How was your day, my little rotten apple core?”

7:00 pm, as I change into my pajamas:
“Hey broccoli brain, do these undies make my junk look good?”

10:00 pm, after I finish brushing my teeth:
“See you on the flip side, my little banana basket!” *swat on the ass*

11:00 pm, as I am turning out my reading light:
“Mother of God, your feet are so cold, you little refrigerator magnet!”

2:00 am, as I suffer from insomnia:
“I can’t sleep. Are you still awake, my little cotton ball?”

Being exposed to such a verbal barrage on a daily basis takes its toll upon my wife. Her scrambled German brain cannot help but adopt this pet naming habit of mine, so these days she fires them right back at me. Of course, some of them come out a tad warped from her internal translation process, making for quotes like this little gem:

THE WIFE: “How are you doing, my little peach-cock feather?”

Click here to learn more about the term “Denglish.”

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Denglish 66: My German Wife Is Violently Proud of Her Salad Dressing

My wife and have fun in the kitchen, like when we wage pizza wars, eat fat or narrowly survive food poisoning. And we’re pretty healthy eaters, generally speaking. We make spinach salads almost every night, upon which we pour a little bit of our homemade honey mustard dressing. I think our dressing is pretty good, buy my German wife loves it. She loves it so much, she compares it to all other salad dressings we encounter. Like that time back in the spring of 2011, when my wife took me out to dinner at Jake’s Grill in SE Portland, Oregon, for my birthday. As we were leaving the restaurant, my wife casually stated…

THE WIFE: “Their salad dressing was lame. I expected fireworks in my mouth. Our dressing kicks balls.”

Click here to learn more about the term “Denglish.”

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Denglish 65: My German Wife Attempts to Describe Menstrual Cramps

A smart, sensitive husband will never ask his wife if she is on her period. Asking this questions seems to evoke a surprising amount of anger from the fairer sex. I have been surprised by the sheer ferocity of this anger in the past, but since meeting my wife, I think I finally understand it; asking a woman if she is on her period is similar to asking if she is temporarily insane — it devalues anything she might be saying at the time while suggesting she is not in control of herself. For men, the equivalent insult is experienced when we finally open up to our wives about our emotions, share our feelings and even shed a tear or two in the process — only to have our wives turn to us with one eyebrow raised and ask, “Are you drunk?” (The answer is yes.)

Though I might not ask my wife straight up if she is on her period, I am still curious about the menstrual cycle in general. Like, how does it feel? Does it suck? (I bet it sucks.) So, on a particularly slow drive home from work, I turned and asked, “You’re on your period, right? What does it feel like?” To which my wife, in her High-German accent replied…

THE WIFE: “Like cramps in my ooteris.”

Click here to learn more about the term “Denglish.”

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Denglish 56: My German Wife’s Well-Intentioned Fitness Goals

My wife and I are fairly healthy people and we like to keep ourselves in shape. However, before we were married, my wife came to live with me while teaching primary school in the United States for a year; a 12-month span in which spare time became one hell of a valuable commodity. Between the two of us working full-time, planning our marriage, sharing one car, preparing our lunches in advance each evening, my German classes and her doctorate degree research, our exercise options were pretty much limited to joining a fitness club, where we hoped the financial commitment would guilt us into lifting something heavier than our totally awesome beer steins.

So, The Wife and I went back and forth over the issue of jogging around the neighborhood for free, or paying money to sweat it out with a bunch of grunting Philistines. My wife articulated her point thusly:

THE WIFE: “I really like the idea of gym membership right now because I wanna work out with you and then we both look incredible and feel healthy as shit!”

Click here to learn more about the term “Denglish.”

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Denglish 53: Proper German Conduct for Hawaiian-Themed Bars

Back in February of 2011, The Wife decided to join me for my German class at Portland Community College (PCC). We had a few hours to kill before class, so we stopped at a Hawaiian-themed karaoke bar on North Interstate called Alibi, where I ordered a big, steaming pile of macaroni salad. Immediately, I began complaining about the food and the fact that I didn’t feel like going to German class that night, which earned me the following rebuke:

THE WIFE: “Don’t be a dick in a tiki bar.”

Click here to learn more about the term “Denglish.”

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New York Liaison: A Tale of Love and Projectile Vomiting in the Big Apple – Part IV

New York Liaison: A Tale of Love and Projectile Voliting in New York City

It took the remaining 5 days of our time in New York City to recover from our illness, but we managed to have a wonderful time and will remember it for the rest of our lives. I’m almost grateful for those long nights of trial and pain, because they were an incredible milestone in our relationship. They brought my wife and I closer together than ever before, and showed us just how thoroughly we can rely upon one another.

To this day, we have no idea what made us so sick; maybe it was food poisoning from that prosciutto pizza in Little Italy, or maybe we caught a stomach flu from that same hostel guest who boiled his potatoes inside the teapot. We welcome your diagnoses, dear readers, and we thank you for reading our story.

Here are a few of the pictures my wife took during our trip. I think they’re awesome, and I hope you do too.

Click here to read New York Liaison: A Tale of Love and Projectile Vomiting in the Big Apple – Part IV
Click here to read New York Liaison: A Tale of Love and Projectile Vomiting in the Big Apple – Part III
Click here to read New York Liaison: A Tale of Love and Projectile Vomiting in the Big Apple – Part II
Click here to read New York Liaison: A Tale of Love and Projectile Vomiting in the Big Apple – Part I

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Denglish 52: My German Wife Uses My Awesome Nicknames Against Me

I use a lot of nicknames when I greet familiar people. Friends, family members, co-workers… no one is safe. On the fly, I come up with nicknames like “fruity cakes,” “jack weasel” or “slobber jockey,” and these are just the PG rated versions; you should hear the really nasty ones I reserve for my closest friends. My wife, however, has no regard whatsoever for our American content rating system, so in May of 2011, she asked me…

THE WIFE: “How are you doing my little monkey fart?”

Click here to learn more about the term “Denglish.”

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New York Liaison: A Tale of Love and Projectile Vomiting in the Big Apple – Part III

New York Liaison: A Tale of Love and Projectile Voliting in New York City

Central Park in winter, 2010

Nausea and freezing temperatures in Central Park

After sleeping most of the day, we finally ventured back into Manhattan, where we visited Central Park, took dozens of pictures and ate dinner at an Irish Pub on the Upper West Side — and by “ate dinner,” I mean my wife had exactly 3 bites of broccoli cheese soup and one sip of beer. (The only thing she could stomach was a near-lethal dose of Imodium). This may seem like a lot of activity given my wife’s weakened state, but trust me when I say this woman is tough. Tough as balls. Big, swinging, cast-iron, German balls. She had a great time that day, and except for the sunken cheeks and dark bags under her eyes, you’d never guess she spent the previous night filling our toilet bowl full of wet cheese and trichinosis.

Our bed, after that incredible first night. Oh God.

My wife feels queasy just looking at this picture.

We returned to our hostel room and tried to watch Shrek Forever After on my laptop, but fell promptly to sleep because Shrek sucks. When we woke from our nap, it had been roughly 24 hours since our meal in Little Italy, and that was when I felt the first tugs of sickness in my stomach. I was soon nauseous, bloated and weak, yet foolishly optimistic about my chances of escaping the nightmare to which my wife had so spectacularly succumbed. Still, we took the L Train back into Manhattan and met one of my old art school buddies at a little dive bar in the Lower East Side.

The bar was small, dark and the jukebox played nothing but death metal. To be fair, everything sounded like death metal to me; I was deathly pale, my abdomen was full of gas and I had a headache. My physical state was declining so rapidly I was unable to finish my beer (this has never happened to me before in my entire life). At one point, my wife took a picture of my friend and I hunched over the bar, and a desperate mantra began cycling through my mind while I waited for the flash — “Ohgodhurryup, ohgodhurryup, ohgodhurryup…” The moment that flash went off, I jumped off of my barstool, sprinted to the men’s room and projectile vomited so violently I hurt my back. Now, I’ve seen the photograph my wife took just before I hurled, and if I hadn’t been there in person, I would have sworn that picture was taken of my good good college friend sitting beside Milkface the Dying Oregonian.

The Wife and I excused ourselves for the evening and headed back to Brooklyn, and it was there, in the shared bathroom of our hostel, where I found religion. I am not a religious man — never have been — but that night I prayed to God. I prayed real good. Every 30 minutes, in fact, while peering deep into that porcelain void, I begged God to make it stop. But God did not answer my prayers. Instead, he decided I should start throwing up while loading my shorts at the same time. And just like my wife, I was purging my ungrateful soul out of both ends. I soiled 4 pairs of boxer shorts that night, which I angrily stuffed into the bathroom garbage can. (My wife actually went so far as to wash her panties and keep them, and she even tried to wash mine the next day, but they’d already been taken elsewhere by the cleaners.) I took 3 showers that night, brushed my teeth 4 times and changed into every last set of clothing I’d packed. Sometimes, a second or two after emerging clean and hopeful from a shower, I would vomit and spray diarrhea down my legs, sigh, and return to the shower once more. I don’t know what crime I committed in my past life to deserve this torment, but it must have been spectacular.

Toward the early hours of the morning, after I’d long since graduated to dry heaves so vicious they burst the blood vessels in my eyes, I somehow, mercifully, fell asleep. I rested for 45 minutes before jerking wide awake, instantly aware of the fact that I’d just shat the bed. I waddled to the bathroom and cleaned myself up while my wife removed the soiled sheets, cleaned the bedspread and covered it with clean towels. I returned to our room a broken man: pale, weak, shivering and ashamed. I was about as appealing as a bag full of smashed assholes. But my wife gathered me up in her arms and laid me down. She spooned me and held a warm water bottle to my stomach. She was amazing, and she proved to me for the millionth time why she is the love of my life.

Click here to read New York Liaison: A Tale of Love and Projectile Vomiting in the Big Apple – Part IV
Click here to read New York Liaison: A Tale of Love and Projectile Vomiting in the Big Apple – Part III
Click here to read New York Liaison: A Tale of Love and Projectile Vomiting in the Big Apple – Part II
Click here to read New York Liaison: A Tale of Love and Projectile Vomiting in the Big Apple – Part I

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Denglish 51: My Wife’s Horrible German Guacamole Dip

My wife loves to make guacamole dip, but she always adds an obscene amount of minced garlic to it, for some godforsaken reason. The garlic is so intense it  induces acid-reflux in both of us, resulting in the most heinous burps you’ll ever encounter. (I know this because my wife is a disgusting burp aficionado). So after finishing our last batch of guacamole, my wife finally agreed to modify her recipe.

THE WIFE: “We will use less garlic in the guacamole next time, and then we check our burps again.”

Click here to learn more about the term “Denglish.”

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