Results tagged “not germans” from Overlooked

Don't let him steal your heart away!

Against all odds, there is a new man in my life. I cannot believe it's true, but each moment spent with him is like another day in paradise!

I remember the day we first met. I was running late to court, ready to testify for a case involving a crime of passion (it's always important to hear both sides of the story, you know), when all of a sudden, two hearts collided.

Isn't it crazy how strangers like me and my love could just randomly cross paths one day? I was running one way and he was running another. Quick as I knew it, we ran into each other and I was knocked to the ground.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" he spluttered, bewilderment sullying his handsome face and showing me his true colors.

"Is that the least you can do?" I asked with a wink and indicated for him to help me up. He happily obliged, and I could tell by his eyes that he would find a way to my heart no matter what. Even though I was somewhat scared--just who was this angelic creature to whom I was already pledged all of my life?--I remember thinking, "That's just the way it is," and surrendering utterly. Separate lives were thereby linked forever.

After that first encounter, as we said hello, goodbye, he called over his shoulder to me, "Don't lose my number." (Do you remember, darling?) Perish the thought!

Since then, it's been nothing but magic. I just can't stop loving you, Phil Collins. Just can't stop loving you.

Ce n'était qu'un rêve

We were sitting outside an old cafe, at a small white table with a round glass top. It was a sunny day but it wasn't overbearing. There was a slight breeze, just enough to blow strands of her jet black hair across her face. We were sitting close to each other. I could feel her close to me. I was leaned over with my head propped up on my fist and my elbow on the table facing her. My hand sat on the back of her chair. She was sitting with her right leg crossed over her left leg. The top of her foot was coyly brushing against the back of my left calf. She was having some expensive weird coffee drink and I was having a dram of Cointreau. I leaned in closer to her and gently brushed her hair back, kissing her on the neck very slowly. I left my lips pressed against her warm skin and breathed in the scent of her hair. She smelled so womanly. I pulled back and gave her a wink and a broad smile. She squinted at me and pouted her lips. "You're trying to cause trouble, aren't ya?" she asked quietly, more with her dark green eyes than with her lilted Irish brogue.

Her hair was black like Guinness, and she had a slight dusting of freckles across her nose and her pale shoulders. "Yes. Yes I am." I smiled back. Well, I was trying to cause trouble… She shook her head and pursed her lips even tighter but broke into a cute, knowing smile.

"How does the world stay safe with you around?" she smirked. I reached for her hand and held it gently. I held her palm open and tickled my fingers lightly across it. She gave me a suspicious look. "It's not working," she said, her resolve starting to quaver. I looked into her eyes and brought her hand up to my lips. I kissed her palm. Lingering. Slowly planting kisses. Watching her. I followed her life line to the inside of her wrist. She bit her lower lip. I smiled and pressed my lips lightly to her. I flicked my tongue. She gave a startled gasp. I could feel her pulse quicken. She drew her hand back with a heavy breath and crossed her arms. I laughed, "All right... All right... but let me just say this doesn't mean I give up."

She looked at me full on, like a mother bear, gauging and calculating. She shook her head again and laughed, tilting her head back. Her beautiful white teeth flashing. Her laughter rolling like a brook, languidly splashing the flowers on its green banks.

She was wearing a light pink, sleeveless, fitting t-shirt. A white, flowing skirt hugged her hips, heightening her feminine curves. "Be my wife," I told her.

"But Charley! I hardly even know ya!" she said doubting herself, but her eyebrows knitted with stubborn Irish resolution.

"All right, but promise me to spend the rest of your time here with me." I pleaded. She looked sadly, deep into my eyes.

"I promise".

And then I woke up.

I don't think I'm in Kansas anymore...

All my items were in the plastic tubs passing through the x-ray machine. I stood there holding my boarding pass and I.D. with one hand whilst trying to keep my pants up at a decent level with the other. The T.S.A. officer... agent?... The member of the T.S.A. lackadaisically motioned me through the metal detector. I hopped through it and presented my I.D. and boarding pass with a friendly, relaxed, and open smile.

"Mr..." (How he knew I was a mister I wasn't sure but my paranoid mind was awhirl with all the secret information compiled on me from open source resources). He checked himself before attempting to butcher my last name.

"Mr. Vale..." he made his attempt.

"Valenzuela, like the old pitcher for the Padres," I cut him off.

"Or like the singer Ritchie Valens, except he Americanized his name..." he looked at me dryly.

"Funny, Valens doesn't sound Native; I wonder which tribe he was affiliated with..." I smiled politely, innocently.

"Yeah, I liked his music." He was opening up to me; this caught me off guard. Usually you don't see the human side of the security checker people.

"He died in a plane crash!" I blurted out. I think it was the topic and the fact that salient thoughts of me getting on an airplane bubbled up from the guarded 'Don't make a joke about this' part of my brain that caused me to state something so obviously unspeakable at the time and place that I was.

He squinted his eyes and waited to see what I would do next.

"HAHA!" A strangled, nervous laugh escaped me. It is one of my worst habits: laughing at the most inopportune moments.

"He died with Buddy Holly and the Big Bopper and the pilot! They crashed into frozen Iowa farm country!" A torrent of information, that normally would have been useless conversation fodder or an interesting historical tidbit in the right social circles, was quite detrimental to my being on a plane.

"Yeah, if only the pilot had pulled that little knob to allow more heat into the engine..." He was impressed by my knowledge of the event, but wasn't sure if I was more infatuated with my family name-sake's history or of crashing planes.

His hesitation was my cue: I smiled a sad little smile and slowly shook my head. I raised my eyebrows, "The brilliant ones always fade out the quickest..."

"You got that right, partner." He handed me my ticket and I.D. and waved me on.

I put on my shoes and belt and gathered my things and thanked the mean looking T.S.A. lady that was eyeballing me and made my way to the lounge.

I'm just glad he didn't try to pronounce my Iranian first name...

Camden, New Jersey here I come!

A lucrative business venture

I was a young, naive, and bright-eyed idealist out to change the world for the better.

After an 18-hour 4-airplane flight I arrived in my new country, and at my new hometown after an 8-hour long, bumpy, bus trip. And not one of those luxury buses with a bathroom and shock absorbers. This had 4 wheels and that was enough.

I was met at the bus station (a bush with a signpost) by my host and translator Abu. He knew enough English to smooth over the embarrassing social situations and I knew enough Wolof to communicate with the babies and other foreigners.

We hiked back towards the cluster of mud huts. I was surprised to see a satellite dish near one of them. I asked Abu about it and he stated "Chaub Wegee". This word wasn't in the Wolof vocabulary builder courses I had taken so I shrugged it off.

A group of kids had formed as a tail to our procession, yelping with glee at the new "Toubab" that had arrived. All of them were decked out in the latest from the Shady Limited line, and they all wore Air Jordans. I found it interesting that they all chose to wear the same name brands, but I didn't make a big issue of it. I was still new to the village after all.

Abu brought me to his home. Out front of it sat a Peugeot 205 riding on some serious dubs. We entered his hut and he introduced me to his wife Aissata and his children Ali and Mahmud. His wife was a charming woman with her hair coiled into tight little buns and his children were little balls of mischief grinning impishly. His wife was wearing a Louis Vuitton print dress that suited her perfectly. His hut was stocked with the latest in kitchen ware and home gadgetry. He had a stainless steel stove that looked like it could prepare dinners for a whole army. His fridge, microwave, and dishwasher were all stainless steel too. I was struck dumb. I asked him how they were able to afford such luxuries. He told me about the program that the previous Peace Corps Volunteer had started. It consisted of a local workshop that employed the artisans of the village in creating traditional crafts and then selling those crafts online.

I was amazed by it all. Abu offered to show me the whole operation and the "Chaub Wegee"(which I assumed was what they called the crafts they were making) after lunch. But I was too impatient and asked him to show them to me immediately. He smiled and agreed, understanding that I was still on Toubab time.

And so we meet again...

He showed me the hut where the artisans were creating traditional silver jewelry. They were very intricate and beautiful and fetched a high enough price online that the villagers did not want for anything. I was still curious about this Chaub Wegee though, I asked Abu if he was the head chief or the local protective Animist Spirit that the village prayed to. Abu laughed heartily and slapped me on the back. He grabbed my hand and ran over to the hut with the satellite dish. He ushered me in and pointed to the middle of the room. In the middle of the empty hut was a plastic table, a chair, and a computer. On the computer screen was Chaub Wegee.

A slippery slope.

It is postulated that at an early age, serial killers often begin by harming animals and as they grow, they work their way up to humans. Now, as a parent, there are several different ways you can use this vital bit of information to your advantage. Say you run a neighborhood play group and you'd like to keep your eye on that shady-looking infant that you're just convinced is up to no good when your back is turned.

Easy as pie!

Wait until the sucker starts eating solids, then leave him a tray of some scrumptious Valentine's Day Candy Apples and and some Black Cat Belgian Chocolate Caramel Apples. If he goes for the Valentine's apples, breathe a heavy sigh of relief: this baby poses little threat. However, if he crunches into the cute 'n' cuddly kitten, you might as well sell your house and move to Papua New Guinea, because chances are if you stay on the same continent, the future Sunset Slasher is gonna find you.

However, what if you're an aspiring Stage Parent, but your child just does not have any talent? Just keep in mind that any publicity is good publicity, and tendencies toward serial murders are not merely congenital! Try playing up your insecure middle child's already-existing anxieties and encourage the consumption of such delectably lifelike treats as the cat candied apples and gummi bears. Then, graduate onto something a bit more personified for twice the fun!

You'll know when your child is ready.