I entered the cave on a Saturday afternoon the Wombi -. My eyes had adjusted to the darkness. With a round back to the Wombi like an Armadillo knelt on a stool in front of her with make-up stuff cluttered Desk and looked at himself in a magnifying shaving mirror that had originally belonged to Olaf. Your Desk lamp she had placed in a way that you shone the light bulb, like a spotlight in the face.
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 … 😉
“What’s that?” she asked, averting grumpy without her mirror image. “Uh, nothing,” I answered, “I just wanted to see if You’re still alive, after I haven’t seen you since Breakfast.”
“Ok, you’re done now,” said the Wombi. Instead of the kicking sequence, the closer I stepped boldly take a step.
“What happened to your eyebrows?”, I asked and came closer. Wombis eyebrows looked like two fat shiny slugs that had sucked above their eyes.
“I like it like that,” she said, and the density of brow hair combed with a Mini-brush in the Form. “This looks stupid,” I said. “Thank you,” said Wombi, “and now you can go back.” I didn’t go. “Why don’t you believe me?” I asked. The Wombi moved now with a kind of light pen, from which a brown tincture flowed, the naked snails. Then she turned her head, and with him the mighty Brew, which you can use to shut off of the streets would, in my direction. “Like in a horror movie,” I said. The Wombi burst now, the collar. “Has your mother told you how to do your makeup? Or what should you wear? Or what you eat and what you should not eat?”
I was able to answer all three questions with “Yes”. My mother, a teacher, was already a professional, the Best always ‘ speaks’in, and I had little room for manoeuvre. “Have you dressed up as your mother liked?”, the Wombi asked. “Exactly”, I replied, “officially.”
C. Tauzher: The Pubertäterin math work, or sales? A simple calculation Secret clothes depots in the backyard
“How did you keep it?”, the Wombi asked theatrically. I admitted that it was hell. Once a week, if I left in a flowery ankle-length skirt with a woven braid for the dance school, I threw – barely, that the apartment door had fallen behind me in the lock – the old-fashioned camouflage. Already hours before, I had, under the pretext of the garbage down, a bag with mini skirt, high heels, mascara, hair spray and perfume in the backyard, deposited with the tons. There I turned me then like Cinderella in Cyndi Lauper and Laura left Ashley. In the phone booth around the corner, I moved myself with the help of a pocket mirror, a thick, blue eyeliner, tuschte me the lashes, until they clumped and sprayed me with Aftershave of my father. My mother had only one perfume – it would be noticed, I would have taken it. The make-up things are not went your. You set up only for Christmas and birthdays. I self-possessed at the time, no embellishment products. Too expensive and reserved for adults. As a 14-Year-old entered as a perfumery just like a Bar.
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
Once, it was in November, met me on the way to the dance school, aunt Anni in the U-Bahn station. It was raining and my heels hung over the yellow plateau of Slippers to my mother, and they were three sizes too small. My hair I wore auftoupiert, the short skirt covered a quarter of my legs, above the knee, I had added the tights is a hole. Between me and aunt Anni three older folks were. Aunt Anni stepped out of the row and looked at me. She could not believe what they saw, spoke to me. Has not betrayed me. The next occasion you gave me Pumps with a small heel in my size, and the card read: “Let the hideous Slippers to your mother in a box.”
The Wombi listened to me with his mouth open. “And at home, have to move You again in the tons?” I nodded. “Your grandmother never noticed anything. As soon as I was in our apartment, stormed in I under a pretext into the bathroom, to eliminate the last traces of Cyndi.”
“This is going to be so bad,” said Wombi, and gave me a hug full of compassion. We moved together in that Moment a piece.
she sighed, pulled the slugs, and said: “Now is me, of course, clear, why you have absolutely no idea about the Makeup. You’ve never learned.”