The Majestic Plastic Bag from Heal the Bay on Vimeo.

Unfortunately, on my side of the Pacific Ocean people behave just the same, if not worse. A few weeks ago, I discovered the most beautiful beach inside a protected country park. It looked like paradise from the trail above. Then I went down to the coast line and there was plastic trash everywhere. On the beach, in the bushes behind it, hanging from trees. Plastic bottles, styrofoam lunch boxes, toys, bags, and lots of shoes. All dumped into the sea one way or the other and then spit out again by wind and waves.

One of the commentators on youtube asked why the Pacific garbage patch can’t be seen from satellites. I read because the plastic is not necessarily swimming on the surface, but just below it. If you go swimming on one of Hong Kong beaches it’s just the same. It looks ok from the shore, but then you head out, and garbage bags touch your legs and wind themselves around your arms.

The big beaches here are cleaned everyday, but the cleaners find it hard to pick up tiny pieces of plastic and styrofoam. So there is this constant colorful line of miniscule plastic bits on the beach that marks high tide.

A year ago, I wrote an email to the biggest supermarket in Hong Kong commending them on the introduction of a HK$ 0.50 fee for plastic bags at the checkout, but also asking them to get rid of the excessive plastic trays and cling wrap they use for fruits and vegetables. Why does a single fruit need to be put on a plastic tray and wrapped in cling wrap?

I got a call back from them, and I got the feeling that the girl did not like her job, although I was very friendly. She told me that she would send my email further up the command line. Don’t think that I had ever any hopes. Writing emails has as much impact as cleaning beaches.

I have decided to buy more of my veggies and fruit in wet markets, where the produce is not disguised in cling wrap and where I can bring my own bags. I have also decided to leave excessive plastic wrappings right where I bought it, in the bins behind the checkout counters.

And I feel pretty helpless to be honest, and a bit angry, like that teacup yorkshire.

But I am a lazy mummy, and if you ask me if it’s a shitty day, there is no better adjective to describe it.

Of course you have to teach your kid that swear words are to be used like most spices… sparingly. They should never be used during job interviews, oral university examinations, or other situations where you have to appear properer than you really are. And if you ask me to call someone an asshole, especially to his face, says more about you than him.

I admit that little man learned to say shit in two languages (Scheiße in German, if you must know) at the tender age of two and probably from listening to me. German swear words tend to be “anal orientated” as one Anglo-saxon author of German habits put it. If a German calls you an “Arschloch” chances are he or she doesn’t like you.

From my own observation Anglo-saxon swear words tend to be sexually orientated. “F..beep” is a prime example. To a Teutonic like me fucking is very enjoyable, shit on the other hand smells badly, but listening to beeps on TV while you mouth-read every word of it is probably strangely satisfying to all of us.

A while ago little man came home and told me that is school mate J. is “gay”. Gosh I thought, J. is only eight years old the chances that he is gay before puberty are pretty slim, so I asked little man if he actually knew what gay means. He told me that gay means acting like a girl.

Well, that’s close but not really what it means, and not wanting to play tag on a boiling hot day is rather smart not gay if you ask me. Sometimes being a parent is quite complicated, because you have to decide in a snap what to say to steer your offspring to the right direction.

I told him that J. was right to go inside.

When he is a little older I will tell him that being gay is ok, and chances are that he will know that by himself by then, because in the end parents are the most crucial influences kids have.

Beeps on TV are useless if you ask me, and not letting your kids watch youtube videos is useless as well. They will hear it on the school bus anyway. On the other hand talking about it is very useful. Youtube videos in which people say fuck in every sentence are not bandwidth-friendly. My son knows this. They could be much shorter and to the point.

Teaching your kids what is appropriate by example and what will diminish their own worth is probably the most fucking awesome sweet thing you can do for them, not gay at all, nor sick.

My Dad is in hospital again. One foot is gone, now it’s the other one. Two toes got amputated on Wednesday, on Saturday my parents received the consent form to amputate the rest of the forefoot. My Dad said no.

Is life worthwhile without legs?

Yes it is, but it depends on all the other surrounding factors, like to what you grew used to the preceding 74 years, and how much pain you experience every night (screaming, terrible no sleep pain), and how much strength you have in your remaining limbs (not much), and how tired you are.

My Dad pinned his hope on this remaining leg. The leg with the black toe, blue foot, but the leg that would make it possible to learn to walk with a prosthesis on the other side. Now they want to amputate that too.

My Mum said that my Dad doesn’t care anymore, he just says no.

With the other foot I talked to him. I said that all that mattered is that we would have him, that he is needed , that he is loved. Now I don’t know anymore. My Dad has to decide.

I don’t think that life is fair. My Dad had a shitty childhood full of hunger, bombs, and beatings by his father, worked all his life, cared for his family, was stubborn, so what? Why can’t he have it easy in the end. Why?

2) I think that all the news I need about my home country is perfectly summarized by the website of the biggest tabloid (added benefit, they use very large font).

3) I am totally immune against the newest Apple product and especially their touchscreens. Keyboards work fine, thank you very much.

4) More often I think that the latest improvements to our lives are very unnecessary. In German there is this very true word “Schlimmverbesserung” (schlimm = worse, Verbesserung = improvement… equals a change for the worse)

5) I try, really try, but some things little man finds cool, I do not get at all.

6) I think hiking is cool.

7) I think the opposite sex is interesting, and I am hoping that I  will still think  that in 30 years time.  Little man (8 years old) can’t understand why anyone would want to spent time with girls. I will remind him of what he said in five years or so.

9) I know how to knit socks. Winter is coming up and self-knitted socks are vastly superior than bought ones. I should knit more.

10) My ass and tits are not what they used to be. I still bare them once in a while… those Germans… no shame

I called him and he told me “I don’t know what to talk about”. I didn’t know either, so I told him that I love him, and we said goodbye.

It would make me happy if my Dad does not have any pain anymore.

He taught little man how to bicycle and how to play chess. It would make me very happy, if he could teach him at least one more trick, or two, or three.

I want to spend Christmas with my Dad.

It makes me happy to go hiking. With little man or alone. It would make me happy if more people raise their voices to protect the last natural paradises we have in Hong Kong and anywhere else on earth.

Standing in lifts in high skyscrapers… gets boring very quickly. I wish more egocentrics around the world would find other hobbies than building the tallest tower. How about planning cities that are vibrant and made to measure for human proportions?

The only crop I got from my veggie garden experiment were a lot – I mean a lot – of yard-long beans very late in the season. They tasted wonderful, but a bit more variety next year would be grand.

Two grasshoppers mated among the yard-long beans. Little man saw a hands-on demonstration of grasshopper sex (giggle). He now knows that the smaller partner should be on top.

Baking bread with my own sourdough makes me happy. All you need is flour, water, salt and a few tries.

Watching “Flatfood in Hong Kong” made me happy. Bud Spencer is my childhood hero, and seeing him punch his way through a Hong Kong wet market was extra special.

Seeing M. the cat sleep with “alle viere von sich” (all four spread out) makes me giggle every time. I am happy that he feels secure here.

Speaking with my mum on the phone makes me happy.

And private things, that are too precious to talk about. That I have them in my life… Maybe God has a kinky love obsession with German atheists?

What makes you happy?

My Dad is finally out of the hospital. One foot is gone and during the summer his spirit was gone as well. I told him that we needed him foot or no foot, and I like to think that this is what pulled him through.

When we took care of my grandma who had Alzheimers and couldn’t walk anymore, we always agreed that her sitting in a wheelchair was the lesser of the problems.

The last words she lost was “Manno!” (hard to translate…  “Eh! Man!”) Which told us that we had done something wrong. You can’t imagine how important it is to know that you have done something wrong.

My dad is my soul mate, which is unfair to say because my mum took care of me more than he did. She once said to me “For you, he can do no wrong”.  No, he can’t, because he has the same faults as me. I know it’s unfair. For my mum, her soul mate was my grandmother, her mum, I can’t forget how much she cried when she died.

So that was the summer, but the autumn is definitely looking up.

Sometimes life reminds you that it is not all roses and that you really should hold, enjoy, and “einbrennen” (burn-into) your memory all that is and was good.

The garden is good. It’s full of mosquitoes and construction waste (gloves, concrete slabs, and iron bars), but harvesting yard-long beans and swinging my pickaxe to plant and move plants has been sweaty and satisfying.

Little man is the joy of my life. I don’t know if I will be his soul mate but he is mine. He just needs to smile and stand in front of me in his “Hochwasser”  high-water pyjamas (“Yes, I have brushed my teeth!”) and all is good.

And there is so much more. I love life even if it has it’s up and downs and if you ever wonder… yes, go forward.

Well, the arugula has been eaten by a dozen caterpillars a few months ago. They looked beautiful, grass green with bright yellow stripes on their back. When I discovered them it was much too late. A woman from the local gardening society told me that they would turn into beautiful butterflies. Little bastards!

They also ate the Kailan (Chinese greens). The Japanese cucumber and string beans climbed up the bamboo sticks and look pretty, but there is not a single pickle nor bean in sight.

The surprising winners are the cocktail tomatoes and carrots from seeds I bought in Germany. Thirty juicy and sweet tomatoes and a dozen small but very orange carrots. I also put supermarket ginger into the ground and it sprouted. However the lemon grass, which was such a success in Dubai, withered and died.

I knew it would happen. Gardening is about learning and sticking with the winners. It takes time and experience. Next year my compost will be ready and I will dig it into the very clayie veggie bed. Every morning I will search for caterpillars. I will construct a raised bed, because tropical downpours will turn level veggie beds into ponds (with tiny cute frogs). And I will plant German carrots and tomatoes and maybe have a second go at Japanese cucumbers.

While the caterpillars munch the rest of my veggies, I watch a BBC series Around the world in 80 gardens. It’s enlightening. Gardening is like religion, so different around the world, but the concept is the same, we all like it and it makes us happy, in a weird BDSM kind of way.

I have been fifteen years in Hong Kong, but having this little garden around the house has been such a pleasure and new discovery. The veggie garden is a work in progress, but the rest, the so-called weeds, the plants that just sprout up after each rain, they are so pretty. The ones I like, I transplant to prime spots where they will strive and grow.

Whereas gardening in Dubai was about watering thrice a day, gardening in Hong Kong is about cutting down plants you don’t like at least once a month. I feel like Tarzan in a jungle with a machete… ok, huge -made in Germany- garden scissors. I also spray myself with “Deep Woods” mosquito repellent. It lasts for about 15 minutes until a colony of these little devils break out in laughter and descent on me.

And then they are the palm-sized spiders, and the creepy crawlies in the compost pile, and at least three geckos inside the house. I was raised by a mum who threw the spiders from the ceilings under our bath tub to eat the silver fish. Nature is about balance, and we are a part of it.

Little man and I observed our bedroom gecko tonight. George the Slow climbed up the wall, ambled past the curtains, and then stumbled behind the TV. The insect population in our bedroom will be kept at a minimum, my task in the equilibrium will be to wipe the gecko shit away.

Tomorrow little man and I will leave for Berlin where we will take care of my Dad’s garden. He is in hospital and half of his right foot is amputated, but in spite of this, and because of this, his tiny allotment garden is Eden and I will help my mum to take care of it. I am so ready for the pleasure of a temperate garden in summer. A bit of grass cutting and watering, how hard can it be?

I was waiting for little man at the school bus stop. A little Dutch girl who was waiting for her brother together with her mum said “I don’t understand why Chinese eat dogs”. Another daddy (Australian, with Fido on the leash) said “At some point in time people had very little to eat, so I guess they started to eat dogs”. Little girl: “I still don’t understand. These poor little dogs. Just imagine. It’s as if they were eaten by GIANTS!”. Mum of little girl: “Lots of people around the world eat unusual foods. For example Germans eat horses” and looks at me with challenging eyes.

Lol… ok this was a new one for me. I usually have to deal with liverwurst and Hitler. How to respond? Yes, there is horse meat available in Germany, though you have to look for it really hard, and most Germans alive today have not eaten it, me included. But then I thought, what’s the difference between a cow, pig, chicken, dog, frog, monkey, or horse? It’s only in our minds and cultural upbringings. Many Chinese don’t eat beef, because they view cattle as loyal helpers that plow rice fields. It is very unlikely that I will ever eat horse sausages, dog drumsticks, or monkey brains, but I will not look down on people choose to do so, because I eat bacon, steak, and chicken breast, and like them. And liverwurst.

Me: “ Yeah, Germans are not the only ones. The French eat it too.” (Lame, I know.)

Little girl: Yeah (turns to her mummy). Do you remember? When we were in France, the people also ate snails… escargots.

Dutch mummy: Yes, with parsley butter.

Me: Have you tried snake?

Dutch mummy: No I haven’t. Is it any good?

Daddy from Alaska (“We don’t like Sarah Palin!”) stares at all of us opened mouthed.

Me: Tastes similar to chicken, almost the same like frog legs. I had it in a soup.

Little girl: The good thing about having a dad who is a pilot is that he brings you many different things from around the world. Clothes, toys, food.

Dutch mummy: Yeah (looks pained because she and daddy are in a nasty divorce)

Little girl: Do you remember when he brought emu and kangaroo meat from Australia?

(Australian dad smirks)

Me: Have you had Impala?

Dutch mummy: No

Little girl: What’s Impala?

Me: A gazelle, really tasty.

Gazelle eater. Dutch cheese lover. Sarah Palin… only well done.

My parents in Berlin just lived through an unusual cold winter, despite global warming. Dubai was unusually wet. Hong Kong has been hot-wet- cold, hot-wet-cold, hot-wet-cold one time too many. What’s going on?

My veggie garden has not been a success. Butterfly worms have feasted on the arugula and gai-lan. The rest has not even sprouted from seeds. Volcanoes break out and stop airline traffic.

Nature rules, and she is telling us. We can’t eat money.

The toads are croaking so loud that I can’t sleep, snails are everywhere, a thunderstorm has just drenched the laundry I painstakingly hanged outside, a colony of ants has discovered little man’s too sweet cocoa pops.

It comes every decade or so, doesn’t it? Too cold, too hot, too wet, too dry. To remind us that we are an important but fairly small part of the picture, and that finding the middle ground in our life is an objective worth keeping.

Other mothers-to-be crave pickled cucumbers, I craved Moevenpick ice cream. It was a delicious pregnancy. When little man was out, the scale was where it had never been before at 80 kilos (wow!). Ok, about four kilos went to Elsie (left breast) and Luise (right breast) to feed insatiable tiny man, but the rest attached to the bum, the belly, and (most bothersome of all) the face. I am pretty tall for a girl at 5’8, but 80 kilos dragged me down to snail’s pace. I felt tired and had no energy. Having a baby and a job was stressful and left little time, but after two years I draw the line. I started to go to the gym, even if it cut sleep from three hours to one. Exercise had always helped to loose extra kilos. Not this time. It gave me more appetite. Now I was 80 kilos and had the stamina to run 5 kilometers every day. Great, but not what I had hoped for.

A chat with my brother-in-law who had lost 20 kilos and a little bit of googling on the internet brought me to this site. My brother-in-law told me that he lost weight by counting calories. He had tried the Hollywood star diet (only tropical fruits) and other gimmicks, but nothing really worked until he wrote down what he ate and limited his calorie intake every day.

On the side, I normally hate my brother-in-law. He has about half a dozen girlfriends at any given time, a terrible temper, and an ego to match. However, I value his diet advice. Someone who has the need to attract women a dozen a night ought to know.

So I found the Hacker’s diet, and it made sense. I downloaded the Excel spreadsheets and adjusted them for my needs (grams instead of ounces, goat cheese instead of American cheese, etc.). I lost 15 kilos, was my pre-pregnancy self, and felt great.

Then 2009 came. Can we all agree that it was not the best of years? I was in Dubai, and hated it. Somehow food became comfort and a curse. 65 kilos, 68 kilos, 70 kilos (gosh), 73 kilos (no!!!).

So I am back to what worked before, an Excel spreadsheet where I put in all the food I eat, and I strictly stop at 1500 calories per day. It’s easy, geeky science. A woman in the prime of her years needs about 2000 calories a day. If you eat more you gain weight. If you eat less you loose weight. And depending on what you eat, 1500 calories does not need to mean a growling stomach. If you eat lots of veggies your stomach is going to feel full all day, and even a bit of chocolate is ok.

You may think it’s strange and over the top, but I know it works and I know what the alternative is. My dad is 73 years old. He is the best Dad in the world. He has been overweight for most of his adult life. Not obese, always active, just with a little pot belly the sun shone on. But diabetes runs in the family. In his sixties he began to need insulin injections, then the pain in his legs started, now the nerve damage is so bad that one of his toes may need to be amputated.

I am worrying about my Dad, trying to get him doctor’s appointments with the best specialists, wanting the best for him, but in the back of my mind I know that everyone of us needs to take responsibility for his/her own health. So while I am prep talking Dad over the telephone, I am busy putting the calories of my lunch into an Excel spreadsheet.

It would also be nice to be able to breathe again in my favorite pair of jeans.