Would apply the Wombi today for a Job that would be at the point of “my Hobbies”: Sleep, Shopping, Makeup. Yes, theoretically, she has to Swim at some point in a previous life, archery, Painting, Cycling, chess, Yoga, rock Climbing, playing the piano and ice-skating learned. But we all remember only dimly.
Christiane Tauzher: The Pubertäterin
Since puberty, our daughter, the mosquito, shortly after her 13. Birthday in your violence, we keep the Windows closed so the neighbors call the police. The Pubertäterin is not loud and unpredictable, when she sleeps, just like a Wombat, or eat – what you do for luck often.
The stories I tell – a journalist, 41, from Vienna, married to Olaf, a 46 – here, not act, of course, the Pubertäterin in my family. No. They come from my thriving imagination or come from other families. There, it is arg in the other families … 😉
“Why are you reading anything,” I asked you the other day when I surprised you in the bright of day when you Doze off in your sleeping area. “Later,” grunted they, and no longer hung, nor is it a “maybe” in the back, which meant as much as “safe today.”
I stood for a while at the foot of the bed and looked at the large, sleeping child, in the hope that it would make me want to say on the topic of reading. Quiet snoring loud rattled out of her mouth, and I saw that it was useless.
Later, she came to me in the kitchen to inform me that she will wash hair. “What are you reading again?” I asked again. “What do you mean by that?” back she asked. “A book,” I said, “a thing made of paper with pages and letters. We have quite a lot of them. In the work room, there is a whole wall full of books.” The Wombi rolled her eyes. “Karl Lagerfeld had 300.000 books,” she said, “I READ in the ‘Gala’.”
“Yes, Karl Lagerfeld was a very educated man,” said I, “And you know why?” The Wombi knew to report to Mr Lagerfeld, he had taught all of them self, and never to a University. “Did you get that from the ‘Gala'”, I asked. The Wombi shrugged his shoulders, did not matter. I took up the thread again: “Mr Lagerfeld has every book he has obsessed, read.”
C. Tauzher: The Pubertäterin
daughter wants a new hairstyle. I: panic attack
“you really Think so?”, the Wombi did not ask, “but in the ‘Gala’.” You pulled your Smartphone out of your pocket and calculate that Karl Lagerfeld is 80 years (with five he learned to read) could have a maximum of 4200 books to read, if one assumes that he had read per week. “You can also read more than one book in a week,” said I, “if you have no children, no husband, no dogs, and no budget on the cheek, to create hundreds – no thousands – of books in the shortest amount of time.” The Wombi looked at me with a “Poor black cat”look.
“I’m not Karl Lagerfeld,” she said, “I’m not going to read 300.000 books.” So, that was once very clear. The Wombi will not be the next Karl Lagerfeld – although I would in principle had nothing against it. Only because of the Chanel bags.
Mama’s novel does not apply
“Well,” I said, “let’s leave Karl once. You would do well to stick your nose in real literature.” The Wombi countered that you have read the I have written the novel to the end and make it “all okay”. “This is not true,” I said. “I’m talking about Hermann Hesse or Thomas Mann or Oscar Wilde. Books lead to knowledge, and the language are brilliant, the timeless music of Mozart or Beethoven.”
Meanwhile, Olaf was come home, and Not to forget blared “: Italo Calvino,” in the kitchen. “I was at the end of ‘the Baron in The trees cried because I was so sad that there was no continuation,” said Olaf. “For me, it was so in the ‘portrait of Dorian Gray’,” I said. We saw love and felt connected to. To the Wombi said that we should “stop ‘reading Harry Potter’. Since there are seven volumes.”
“Read Oscar Wilde,” I said.
and More of Christiane Tauzher
“I’ll say it now for the very last Time! Stories from the nearly perfect life of a mother”, by Christiane Tauzher, Goldegg Verlag, 14,95 Euro
“fishing with Italo Calvino,” said Olaf. We stood there like two barkers who wanted to install their jars. “Hermann Hesse is also enthralling,” I said. “I don’t want to be Packed,” replied the Wombi. When we presented the books, they flipped around bored in it, and noted, “that the Scripture urklein”. “Your eyes are still young,” said Olaf, “it will not fail.”
“I take the Oscar Wilde,” she said, after they had compared the number of the page. “Good choice,” I said. The Olaf took the “Baron in the trees”, tenderly and gently as a weggelegtes child. “Fishing today”, after I called the Wombi, who left with Oscar Wilde’s the place, “and stay tuned. You have to get used to the language.” “Yes,” she answered in an exasperated tone, “I got it” and was almost around the corner. “Karl Lagerfeld”, I, “has called according to his mother, by the way, revered as a Saint.”
Since the Wombi stopped, turned his head in my direction and smiled: “You shouldn’t believe everything that you read in the ‘Gala’.”
P. S.: Read pages for book delivery two weeks ago: eight.
Olaf: “I told you so: you would have to start with the ‘Baron in the trees’.”
I said: “Well, now it’s too late for that.”