I woke up because of Olaf rattled me like a rusted garden gate. “Are you crazy?” and I solved my aching shoulders hissed from his grip. “You’re not different, Wake up,” he defended. I looked up to the digital alarm clock. “This is probably due to the fact that it is 3.30 am,” I said. “You had a nightmare,” said now, Olaf, “or maybe it was the opposite of a nightmare.” I moved a piece of him, maybe he was crazy and I would go straight for the jugular. “What do you mean – I had a nightmare, or was I not?”, I asked. Olaf scratched his head, “well, you’ve quite laughed out loud, and in between you have gritted their teeth and ‘that’s what you get” and ‘I’ll always love you’. Then you have stretched the poor as a beggar, and began to cry.” He pointed out to me a tear from her cheek. In fact, I had been crying.
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
“Can you recall nothing?”, he asked, “was I in your dream?” I shook my head. Olaf was disappointed. And now it came back to me. My subconscious had dreamed up a scenario in which there was for the puberty of our daughter in a solution. Shuddering, I put the puzzle pieces of my dream in front of my inner eye.
it was Clear: The dream had not been looking for me without any preparatory work of the Wombi home. Started the Easter weekend with the fact that you complained, to have a few gifts to get. Her brother (4), moserte you have twice allowed as many nests as you. Also, be Easter grass was edible and just “made of cheap paper fringe”. To my question whether you would be happy about a giant soap bubble Set, rolled your eyes and said: “Haha, very funny. All laugh on Three, One, two, four.” Olaf and I zerkugelten us about this joke, what the Wombi was spinning even more and she spent the majority of Sunday in her room.
The day was still, as they rushed out suddenly, frantically, and began to wash the convertible of her uncle, the had this turned off on Friday, just in our alley. Apparently, he had sent her a message that he would “now and then” to be clean, pick up the car and the “hard-working Wombi” to pay their wages. As the Wombi with the Cabrio was finished, the garden hose has a kink, the foamed Sidewalk, and three of our best bath towels were soaking in the front yard. I breathed in, I breathed out. Then I blew called a giant soap bubble to the clouds, and the Olaf “Bravo!”
C. Tauzher: The Pubertäterin hate Three questions, the Teenager: “Where are you going? With whom? When are you coming back?”
My brother just came around the corner and was delighted by the accurate and precise washing work of the Wombi. “Wow!” he said, “how did you get the Inside of the hood so clean?”
“wet wipes,” replied the Wombi proud of. Before I freaked me mad, I moved in considering that it is a cleaning cloth that may have been, the had dipped the Wombi in liquor. But nope. The wet towels had been moist and had, before the Wombi had been with you in the car, on the toilet. The lavender scent. “You clean with our wet toilet paper a car?”, gritted between clenched teeth. The Wombi meant that the wipes for sensitive skin and for sensitive cars would be equally beneficial. “Be glad that you didn’t use for the paint the soap bubble water of your brother,” whispered to me of Olaf.
the Initial scent of lavender, then guts
The uncle, it was no matter, he gave the Wombi 25 Euro and roared off in the lavender scent.
The day ended, I snatched it from the Wombi my Laptop, you had it made in the comfort of your own bed. The movie that you had already half seen, was from the age of 18. “This is so childish”, echauffierte, “I’ve seen much worse things. This is baby stuff.” I turned the “baby stuff” in the various mutilated, the intestines spilling out from the bodies, yet the juice.
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
Hardly had carried me to the bedroom, I saw it clearly before me: The baby hatch for a Teenager. I patiently lined up in the queue, in the mothers and fathers were, provisionally stunned Pubertäter in wheelbarrows or roll-away beds in front of herding. I had thrown the Wombi, which was surprisingly light as a feather, over the shoulder. Finally I came to the series. “That’s what you get,” I muttered, as I pushed the Wombi behind the garage door large door. “I’ll always love you”, after I called her. The door lock buzzing. The next mother, a pimply young man, Duke in a hammock behind, pushed me further. Then there was suddenly an earthquake before the Teenager shut up, everything trembled – because of Olaf shook me at this point of the dream is half-dead. “And as it went on with the Wombi behind the door,” he asked, after I had finished told. I was still crying or again. “It was just a bad dream,” I said, “she probably died a short time later for us.”
“Probably,” replied Olaf. There was a Pause, in which I dried my tears.
“We could with the teenager, a Startup valve,” said Olaf, “We are rich.”
“Sure,” I said and patted reassuringly on his Arm.
In my next nightmare I’ll tell him some of the corpses, and intestines.
