overnight it had snowed, the temperature had fallen below Zero, and the Wombi ignored it. She took the plaid jacket from the hook, which had been made by the manufacturer for the Transition, slipped into her Sneakers and was almost at the door out there. “Stop!” I said, and she turned around in slow motion. I pointed to the ten inches of bare leg, which had remained between Jeans and socks beginning. “And?”, the Wombi asked, as you would not understand what there is to explain. “So do you want to go?”, I asked, “it’s Winter, if you have not yet noticed.” The Wombi assured me that she was at all cold, and that they themselves could decide what is for your body to the Right. This is a point I doubted strongly. “This can’t be pleasant to walk with bare ankles through the snow,” I said. “Everyone will find something else pleasant,” replied the Wombi, “You hear, for example, volunteered the music of Helene Fischer. And is really sick.” My objection, which could lead to your light clothing to health damage, it threw me. “This is not to exclude the case of Helene Fischer.” This time, I was the one rolling her eyes.
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 … 😉
“And how would it be with a hat, gloves, a scarf?”, I asked. The Wombi shook his head . “Too dangerous,” she said, “I could lose the stuff, and then you give me no pocket money, because I have to buy the parts.” I felt bad. What I was in for a miserable miss rottenmeier.
“But the boots I bought you last year, you will probably not so easily spread,” I said. “Boots?”, the Wombi asked, and it sounded so scornful, such as “lens pot?”, “I put on but no boots. I can also hear the same Helene Fischer.”
I looked after her. Her Sneakers sank in the freshly fallen snow and thick flakes were sitting on Canl? Bahis her Curls. Soon they would stick to soaking wet to her head.
When shopping, I came by the bus stop in a group of Wombis. Both sexes showed their bare ankles and parts of your calves. Heads, necks, and hands were uncovered. Not the Wombis like nervous horses trippelten cool on the spot. It looked as if all would have to urgently go to the bathroom.
The only boots which were waiting at the same time on the Bus, belonged to a woman of my age. You even wore a hat, resulting in the Wombi would conclude that she likes to listen to Hansi Hinterseer or Andreas Gabalier.
in The afternoon, it was already dark, came to the Wombi trembling and frozen home from school. “I have to get in the bathtub,” she said and turned her damp sneakers. Her jacket was a rag, and wet. “You can’t be cold?”, I asked, “maybe you dress in the morning but warmer.” “No. Why? This has nothing to do with it,” said Wombi, “climate change is to blame for everything.” It was a Wombi logic.
C. Tauzher: The Pubertäterin yikes! The daughter can wash, clean, bake! (Not at home)
in the Evening, as your feet in soft socks were stuck, and the Rest of her body in a fluffy jumpsuit with unicorn hood, I raised the topic of “clothing in the Winter”. “Why are you so strange?” I asked. The Wombi yawned, bored, as if it were as clear as sunlight, and I would not have it understood, once again. “It’s about the Fußtaille.”
Fußtaille? What was that again in a hurry. I had never heard of it. “Uh,” I said, “where is this Fußtaille?” The Wombi sat up, pushing the stuffed sock to the bottom and showed me her Achilles tendon. The higher this is, the sharper you lift-off from the Rest of the leg, the better. “And that means Fußtaille?”, I asked you to. “I’ll Fußtaille”, explained to me the Wombi, “you can also tell tendon or Helene.”
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
“And it’s about who has the most beautiful Fußtaille?”, I asked. The Wombi sighed: “no. So in a way, also Yes. This is hard to explain. I always look at the Fußtaillen the other.”
I looked at the “Fußtaille” the Wombi and said “Aha”.
“Yes, I know. Yours is much nicer than my,” she said, “this is totally unfair.”
“You know how my Fußtaille looks like?”, I asked in surprise. The Wombi nodded.
I didn’t know it. We both stared at my tendon that resembled a harness with side dimples. “Maybe this is a symptom of old age, that my fullest,” I said, “maybe yours is just cool.”
“I mean, not so much to Helene-Fischer-music around you”, said the Wombi, “if that is the price for a nice Fußtaille, I’ll keep my dear.”
