The Wombi slept three nights cheek to cheek with a red wine glass on the edge of the last SIPS of the bonded, such as a dried Blood product. I send, before I tell how it came to be, anticipate that the Wombi has previously been drinking any alcohol and not to drink in the next time – up to their wedding – planning alcohol. It of course never would, to beschwipsen in the presence of their parents, is actually superfluous to mention, but for the sake of completeness…

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 … 😉

So. The story starts with the fact that we, Olaf and I, celebrate each year around the turn of the year, a Feast with our friends. The Olaf like under a year, no guests, because it strains him to be a good host and we have different views about what the role of a good host. Olaf does not find it necessary to have the house so clean that you could take a photograph of it for an interior-magazine. “That’s all exaggerated,” he says. He has no idea. We would not have agreed to THE Festival, we’d be divorced for sure by now.

so Far, the Wombi always slept with a friend, when our party increased. This year they wanted to be there and “a few” of their friends to invite. “Well,” said I, “but not a super mini-dress, no ripped Jeans, no platform shoes.” The Wombi nodded, as if that were obvious.

The evening of the Feast had come to the Wombi was seen during the preparation time. The day before, I had pressed a box full of baubles and stars in the Hand, with the request that they may adorn the potted plants. After some time, I went to look and found the Wombi asleep on the Couch. They had hung TWO balls, before she had to rest. “That’s enough,” she said, “too much decoration is cheesy.”

About the matching Festive clothes had not talked to the Wombi and I. What turned out as an error. The first guests arrived already, as the Wombi on High Heels (MY High Heels), in a outrageously expensive bands skirt by Lena Hoschek (MY bands rock), makeup like Kim Kardashian, in a cloud of Chanel (MY Chanel) wrapped, down the stairs teetered. I looked at her from top to bottom. “I’ve followed your dress code,” said Wombi, “so be happy.”

Once your friends have arrived, moved in, had NOT cleaned up the Wombi, of course, because it “would have been meaningless”.

C. Tauzher: The Pubertäterin Who is lying to mom, expecting the Worst

The evening run its course. To me wanted my best man on the page and know what was wrong with the Wombi? I had not seen her for hours. A friend asked me at this Moment, according to our plans during the semester break, and I forgot the Wombi. “Have You seen the Wombi?”, Olaf asked me about a half hour later. “Why?”

“Me Andi asked if our daughter is always like that.” “How?”, I asked. Olaf shrugged his shoulders. I pushed the thoughts to the Wombi for the second Time this evening. But then, as our guests passed by and by, I saw you. She leaned disheveled on the Couch and laughed pretty loud. My High Heels had you stripped and on my tapes rock a large stain flaunted. “Hahaha!” She patted the Hand on the thigh, and shot a Selfie with a Peace sign. All of a sudden she stood up, said “Good night. I’m so tired!” and toddled off in your sleep cave. The High Heels she left behind like dead fish.

“your daughter was today, but very funny,” said a friend from Olaf in the adoption and winked at us. “What was that for?”, I asked the Olaf. He shrugged again, the armpits.

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

When all were gone, fell we exhausted on the Sofa and drank the last Rest of the berry punch. On tiptoes, I went to the Wombi into the room. She was snoring softly, and the naked worm-eyebrows were threatening from your bright, thickly powdered face. I collected the glasses, I found. There were a few. Champagne, Wine, Punch.

“Were adults in the Wombi in the room?”, I asked the Olaf. He shrugged for the third Time, the armpits.

In the Morning the thirst drives, and the head pain the Wombi before your normal Wake-up time in the kitchen. “I need water,” she croaked, rubbing over the eyes and spread the mascara on her cheeks. “Yesterday was everything okay with you?” I asked. The Wombi on bot all of your power to look surprised. “What should not be okay?”, she asked. “Oh, nothing,” said Olaf.

“yesterday I put away some glasses with you…,” I said. The Wombi told us in the slow movements, that “the other” of alcohol had been drinking. She had only sipped a little.

As I plated three days later, your bed is fresh, I found the red wine glass next to your pillow. “I thought you’d only had one SIP?”, I said. “I also”, replied the Wombi, “of everything that was there. And the red wine was much too cold.”


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