To deep fry or not to deep fry.

My head is empty. I don’t know where my brain went, but I think I might have packed it in one of my boxes. I’m sure I can do without it for a few weeks.

Yesterday I tried my hand at deep frying bananas in batter. They didn’t turn out quite like I’d imagined, I have to say. The inside was completely mushy and on the outside they looked like poops. Still, they were good, though. Especially with vanilla ice cream and chocolate sauce. And all the while The Pooch regarded me with her I-can’t-believe-you’re-eating-that-look. I had no idea she had one of those. And then came the overwhelming desire to throw up like that kid on the Exorcist.

Today I have a bag of frozen French fries in the freezer, and I am ready to deep fry once again. Sometimes my memory is more selective than that of Pooch.

Reasons to hate moving

I hate moving. I don’t know if I ever mentioned that, but I truly, honestly do. It makes me tired and cranky and generally induces a state of blah. More importantly, I barely have time to blog.

I’ve spent the past few days ransacking every nook and cranny of my house, stuffing crap into boxes. All of it in preparation for tomorrow and that critical moment, judgement day, the arrival of….the realtor. I’ve discovered a bunch of junk that I didn’t even know that I had, stuff that I can’t believe that I have and stuff that I sincerely hope I never paid money for.

Memory is a strange thing. Take Pooch, for example. Once, when she was a tiny pup, many years ago, my mum squirted her while watering the flowers. Now she keeps at arms-length whenever I water them. That she remembers, but every summer she eats a bee.

Other than stirring up philosophies on memory, moving makes my brain stop working at crucial times. Last night I tried calling a friend of mine several times, only to get a busy-signal every time. Eventually I discovered that I’d been calling my own cell phone number. Seriously, if you actually use your cell phone to call your own cell phone, you shouldn’t just get a busy signal. There should be some sort of machine to make fun of you for that.

Treadmills and fried bears

Yesterday was the fifth day of rain in a row. Six days ago there was almost sun. Almost. And before that there was more rain. With other words, there wasn’t much to do other than shopping for stuff I don’t need online.

I considered buying a treadmill. Then I remembered that I don’t really like running. I’d run if I was being chased by something. Like a bear or Tony Blair. Luckily that hasn’t happened yet. So I ordered one of those machines that deep-fry things. ‘Cause that’s almost the same thing, right? Yay.

I’m wondering what sort of things I can deep-fry. You have the standard choices like pork, chickens or a nice banana, but I enjoy trying out new things. Maybe chocolates. Or my stuffed bear. The little, ugly one that I won at a carnival, not the one that actually like. Or maybe the guy in the booth where I won the little ugly bear. Hey, if I fry an actuall bear, that’ll piss it off and it’ll chase me. Then it’ll be as if I did buy a treadmill.

See? I’m brilliant.

Bigger hellholes

Wohoo, I’ve found a new flat in town. This means that next month I’m moving to a much bigger hellhole. Yay and hurrah and yippee all rolled into one.

So now I’m puttering around, thinking about moving. I’ll pack all my stuff into boxes, which I will forget to label, even though I bought a special marker for the occasion. This will lead to chaos. My kitchen stuff will be confused with bathroom stuff, what I think will be livingroom stuff will, in fact, turn out to be bedroom stuff and the knickknacks will be MIA. Still, it’s kinda fun figuring out where all your crap should go.
Also, since it will probably be raining, everyone’ll drag mud into my apartment and then I’ll need to hose it down, or something. But what the hell.

And you know what? I just made a smoothie. It turned out really weird and I made lots of it, for some reason. Now I feel obligated to drink it. Or eat it. It’s pretty thick.