The art of going bugshit crazy

I have a new-found nemesis. Rather, lots of nemesises. Is that a word? Nemesises? Never mind, you know what I mean. What I would love to do, is kill off the entire insect population in this house. Just in our home, mind you. I fully understand the concept of an ecosystem and that if a butterfly farts in my garden, there will be a tsunami in China, or however that saying goes.

I think that snuffing out so many littles lives is justified in the face of what might happen if I don't; yours truly having a psychotic melt-down and doing something potentially dangerous. Like running naked down the street while screaming "they're crawling all over me!"

The flies are by far the most crazy-making. You have the big, fat ones. They're kinda swarthy, with bristles. If they were people, they would be the kind with shoulders and backs so hairy, they could compete with your dog when it comes to shedding on the furniture. They would proudly show off said body hair by wearing washed-out tank tops. They would also sweat a lot. These kinds of flies are loud. Like tiny chainsaws with wings. They're impossible to kill, because they never bloody land. In stead, they constantly fly around and around at ridiculous speeds, making as much noise as they can. You sort of have to give them a good knock while they're in the air and kill them while they're still dazed from the blow. Then you have the smaller ones. These aren't very loud, but ours like to travel in two's or three's and they keep trying to crawl into your coffee mug. The little bastards always know when you have your fly swatter ready, at which point they will vanish without a trace, until you've put it down.

Pooch thinks flies are terrific fun, though. To her, they're basically special toys that were invented so that she can bounce around like a maniac, trying to catch them. Although she's far more likely to injure herself or knock over furniture.

Tonight we tried to save our sanity by using bugspray. Mister walked around from room to room with a huuuge (seriously pink) can of spray. There's something very odd about a hot pink surface with insects painted all over it. Pooch followed him. She' easily entertained.

I was in the dining room when I heard him shout: "Godammit, dog! Stop trying to eat the bugs that I've just sprayed!"

Not the smartest tool in the shed, her.

My brainfart on terrorism and such

By now I guess that most people have heard about the terrorist attack in Norway. I heard, myself, about an hour after it first happened. Naturally, I was as shocked as anyone else and I spent most of that evening with my eyeballs glued to the online newspapers.

I couldn't shake the feeling that I should say something semi-intelligent on the subject, being norwegian and whatnot.

The act itself - a madman butchering close to 100 innocent people - was disgusting, but in a way I've been as disgusted with things that have been said around this tragedy.

As soon as the story blew, long before anyone knew who was behind this, people started blaming the Muslims. Suddenly my Facebook newsfeed was dotted with exclamations like "throw all those bastards out of the country!" and "death to Islam!" posted by people that I had always credited with normal levels of intelligence. I'm not saying that I can't understand why many would think of religious extremists when faced with an act of terror like this, but since when is an act of hatred an acceptable excuse to spew more hatred? How do you solve a problem like terrorism by acting like a rabid little s***brat in a kindergarden fight?

Then the attacker turns out to be a blonde, blue-eyed, right-wing extremist. He looks like 1/4 of the people I went to school with. After 9/11 we sort of forgot about the "regular" nutjobs and focused all our attention on fanatical muslims. There's a lesson in this to teach us that skin colour and religion isn't a symptom of fanaticism. We can't classify it that way.

The threat of violence is always present, no matter where we go in the world. It's just something we're going to have to live with. There are potential mass-murderers, but there are also serial-killers, muggers, rapists and other creepy crawlies out there. Then there are natural disasters, poisonous snakes and people who drive like bloody lunatics. Does that mean we should spend our lives looking over our shoulder and worrying about those that come from a culture we might not understand? Does that make us any more safe? Why the hell are we so petrified of the Muslims? I'm sure I have a much better chance of falling down the stairs and breaking my neck than I do of being blown up by a jihadist.

I know a lot of people in Oslo, they're alright. One friend had just walked into a building downtown when the attack happened. The windows had all exploded, their car had been totally destroyed. They were incredibly lucky. Another friend was safe at home, outside of the city, but the force of the explosion still made their whole house shake. I can't eve imagine how much worse this could have been. But you know what? I'm not going to spend my life being afraid of what might happen. You can't function that way. We'll be heading back to Norway in a few days and we will have a lovely vacation, free of fear and worry.




- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

I totally needed one, I tell you!

The other day, I was sitting in my comfortable chair - the one that makes my butt happy - feeling very comfortable, when suddenly a little voice inside my head shouted "I want an iPad!"

Now, I recognize Tootie when I hear it. Tootie is that silly, irresponsible (slightly psychotic) part of my brain that keeps trying to talk me into buying a hat. Luckily I also have Bergerac. That's the rational bit of my brain that keeps Tootie somewhat in check.

I sat there in my chair for a few minutes, while the inside of my head went "iPad, iPad, iPad, iPad!" I figured Bergerac would pop up any time, smacking Tootie in the mouth and putting a stop to this nonsense. That didn't happen. Because, as it turned out, Bergerac wanted an iPad too.

The next day, Mister and I drove into the city, we hit one store after another and they were all sold out. Bergerac had had some time to think things over by then, and was somewhat relieved. Tootie, on the other hand, hasn't thought anything over in it's life, and was plummeting into a deep hole of depression. It was a very strange state of mind.

I was so obsessed with my new quest, I almost forgot to pick up the book I ordered at the library, and that is not like me at all. I mean, I google "books" regularly, just so I can sit around and stare at pictures of books. They don't even have to be actual pictures. A drawing can be quite satisfactory.

In the end we found a pretty, white ipad2 that was just sitting there, waiting for me to come fetch it. You'd think the day would be saved at this point, wouldn't you? But no. After years of being a student, I am still not accustomed to having or spending money. Spending a lot of money all at once, makes me dizzy. After this purchase, my entire world was spinning around and I had to sit down for a little while. I eventually managed to give myself a migraine.

Then I used my new baby to google "books" and that made me feel much better.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Miami minus the palm trees

We did and up going out of town, to luvely Blokhus. It's a bit like Miami without the palm trees. We'd ordered a transport cage for Pooch, but it didn't arrive in time. See, Pooch just loves cars. As soon as you open the car door, she'll hop right inside and sit there, trembling with excitement as she waits for the car to start moving. This will happen even if Pooch isn't your dog. You may never have met Pooch before in your life, but if you leave your car door open where she can get to it, you WILL find a wide-eyed dog happily shivering in your backseat. This is one of the reasons why I'm careful with where I let said Pooch off her leash. She usually listens to her mama, but why tempt fate? Especially with the way she sheds...

To keep her from bouncing around in the car in fits of unsurpassable joy, we have to use a leash on her. We also have a fancy doggy seatbelt harness thingy, but we can never find that when we need it. She still manages to get around a wee bit, though. We can't exactly tape her to the car seat.






Conversations from the car:


Mister: the way she's hanging off the back of my seat, is a bit like I used to climb all over the drivers seat when I was a kid.

Choochoo: so now you now how your mother felt.

Mister: except that I never slobbered all over my mother...





- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

May or may not

We may or may not be leaving town today, in which case I may or may not need to pack a suitcase and some food for the road trip. I may or may not need to figure out where all my various chargers and gizmos are and I may or may not need to decide on a holy-crap-I've-left-my-house reading list for my kindle. With all this indecision, I'm very grateful that I'm not being chased out of town by an angry mob, like the Frankenstein monster was when he had to leave town.

One thing is certain, though: Pooch is DEFINITELY going to the vet today to get her rabies shot updated. She'll be crazy pleased.

oh noes!

I've been doing it all wrong. NOW they tell me :/ Oh dear...

Obsession: then & now

When I was a kid, I would develop huge crushes on cartoon characters or a character in a book. I remember many sleepless nights in my room, pecking the pillow and pretending it was Spiderman. I don't even want to tell you about that time I read 'Gone with the wind.' I was Scarlett for six solid months. My big stuffed octopus was Rhett Butler. Spiderman Pillow watched sourly from a corner.

Then I outgrew cartoons and moved on to actors and pop-stars. At one point, I had a crush on every single member of new kids on the block. That was tricky, because I only had the one pillow and I was far too cool for stuffed animals. At the same time. I would dream up the most dramatic, exuberant scenarios about how I'd bump into them on the street, they would become completely obsessed with my ca 10-11 year old self and from that moment on, my life would be a whirlwind of happiness, bling & me being worshipped like a goddess. At no point during my fantasies did the hero go to prison for statutory rape, or anything like that.

These days, I no longer obsess over fictional characters or A-listers, but I do have that kind of a relationship with food. Like sushi, for instance. Long before I met any sushi, I knew it would be true love. And as soon as that first maki roll made it's way down my gullet, my suspicions all came true.

If I was told that I would be able to eat nothing but sushi every day, for the rest of my life, I would kiss that person right on their nosey-wosey.

But until that day comes, I have roped Mr Choochoo into taking me to a sushi restaurant this Saturday. Happy, happy, joy, joy.

It's a pie craze

I have this almost abnormally strong urge to bake. My brain insists on transferring it's cake-obsession onto everything. Suddenly Mister's CD collection looks like cookies, the chairs are all cupcake shaped and the TV is basically a big brownie. If Martha Stewart and the movie "the exorcist" had a lovechild, said lovechild would be my day today.

And yes, I know that makes sense. See what this is doing to me?

Must. make. pie.

Would you like to hear something else that's scary? This was my favorite song in 92. My parents used to say that I had no taste in music. They might have been right. Who'd have thunk it? Not my 12/13 year old self, that's for sure.

Good grief

You reading, mum? Hmm? Are you? Good book? Mum? Good book, mum? Pet my head? Pet my head! Mum! My head!

Hey, that smells like poopy-pants!

It's summer. And when it's summer, people tend to leave their windows open so that they won't boil alive inside their houses like lobsters. In that regard, I'm no different than most people. Last week, however, it was completely impossible for us to do that.

I was sitting in the dining room when I discovered it. I was busy contemplating the attack-angle for my breakfast, when I suddenly noticed a strange sort of a smell. Actually, it wasn't anything as simple as a smell. It was more of an... odour. It was coming through the little opening in the window. So I opened the veranda door and poked my head around the corner. That's when I saw this outside one of the basement windows:

I didn't just see it, I coul smell it too. It was a sewage leak. Oh happy, happy, joy, joy. And from the stink of it, it was sewage from a small platoon of babies and elderly people afflicted by something truly horrible. It certainly wasn't OUR sewage. Our sewage would smell normal. This can't possibly have been normal sewage smell. If it was, nobody would ever want to work with the stuff.

Luckily, some people DO choose those jobs. Although their slogan proves that those fumes do damage your brain. Roughly translated, it went like this: "you sh** it out, we suck it up!"

I'm very glad I went to college.

Ain't nothing common about it!

You know that thing we did where we decided to sleep in the living room to see if I was allergic to the carpet in the bedroom and if that could be what was causing my mysterious cough? That hasn't quite gone according to plan.

This was the plan: We would sleep in the living room on the fold-out couch and already on the first night my throat would feel clearer, I would be more rested and wake up happy. Kinda like this:

This is what actually happened: I woke up, noticing a strange soreness in my throat. I didn't give it any more thought, since it disappeared sometime between the time that I slipped into my robe and when I crammed a sandwich into my face. Then the coughing went rampant. The next day I woke up kind of like this:

It's the common cold. Again. Although I'm pretty sure I've caught an uncommon cold. Surely nobody has ever suffered the way I'm suffering. I'm the most miserable, most unhappy little sicko in all the world, ever.

Since I live here, Mister Chooch has no choice but to take care of me. That was my plan all along, of course. He brings me food and and he stands outside the bathroom door with a glass of water and says "poor honey" while I talk on the big porcelain phone. But he doesn't particularly want to hang out with me, because my cough is giving him a nervous breakdown. It's funny, really. I cough until I retch, and HE'S the one who looks like he's going to drop dead.

Have a video:

Pokesnores!

Although this whole living-together-shizzle is going very well, I do have one complaint. Mister claims that I snore and I most certainly do not. Only rarely and it's all very dainty and ladylike, of course.

Mister, however, likes to argue with me on that point. Now he's started recording me with his iphone when he's awake and I'm snoring. He says he has four recordings. I've only heard one. I'm assuming they were taken on the four occasions that I may have snored since I moved in here. He calls them pokesnores and says he's going to catch them all.

He's lucky he's cute, really.

I thought this song fits into this post. Except for the bride-bit. That would be weird.

It’s June!

June is the most popular month for weddings. It’s been that way since the 1500s. This was because people would have their annual baths in May, and still considered themselves relatively clean in June. However, they were starting to give off a certain scent, and that’s why brides would carry a bouquet of flowers to hide the smell. And that’s where the bridal bouquets come from.

Baths were just a big tub filled with hot water. The man of the house got the first crack at it, then the sons and the other men. Then the women were allowed to bathe and the babies went last. By the time it was the babies turn, the water would be so filthy that it was quite possible to lose a person in there. Hence the saying: “don’t throw the baby out with the bath water.”

*cough, cough*

last year, on September 8th, I came down with a really bad cold. I remember the date, because it was the day before we went to see Salt that my throat started to feel prickly, and I went around that whole day telling myself that I wasn't getting sick because we were going out tomorrow, so there was no way this could be a bug.

It was a bug.

Big bug.

Huuuge bug.

Possibly an extraterrestrial bug.

It's now late May, and guess what! I'm still coughing. It's not a dainty little lady-cough, either. It's the kind of cough that people develop after a lifetime of smoking 120 cigarettes a day. The kind of cough that you expect to end by seeing a pair of lungs flying through the room and splattering against the wall with a wet thud. That kind of cough.

I've spent months running back and forth between our house and the doctor's office, where I've been bled and poked and prodded. The closest I've gotten to an answer, is that although my allergy tests were all negative, it might be an allergy, after all.

Thus started the process of figuring out what the frick I may or may not be allergic to. The upstairs is carpeted, so in order to test whether I'm allergic to the carpet, we've camped out in the living room for the past couple of nights. It started off being simple enough. We only brought the most necessary things down from the bedroom. My earplugs, some battery-chargers, my book.

On day two, we dragged the great, big widescreen TV in here and plumped it down in front of the sofabed. It usually lives quite happily in the dining room. And so on and so forth. For the past few days it's been raining cats and dogs outside, but there's a rumor going around that the sun might peek back out in the next few days. I'm starting to worry that by the time that happens, we will have built ourselves the ultimate cave and will not even notice.

Did you know that back in the middle ages they built their roofs out of straw and such? You did? My, you are clever. But did you know that bugs and things would live in the straw and when it rained, they would fall down you would basically be sprinkled with creepy crawlies? And that's where the phrase "it's raining cats and dogs" comes from. It's also where canopy beds come from. See, now you've learned something today.

Mah gamer edumacation

Before I met Mister, I didn't really play a lot of video-games. I'd basically been playing the sims since the first version of it came out in 2000. That's a long time ago. I remember before the sims 1 came out, I read a review of it in a magazine. I kept that magazine hidden under my mattress, the way juvenile boys might hide porn. Although I would like to point out that I didn't use it THAT way.

Nowadays I'm undergoing serious gamer-edumacation. Typical conversation in our household involve things like: "hunni, would you mind throwing a hand grenade over there?" and "nice headshot!"

I also have idiot moments. Like when I was playing Mafia II. You're supposed to be a scary mobster, and you drive around in a car and commit crime and whatnot. Mister sat next to me while I played, explaining how the cops might take notice of me if I ran a red light, and stuff like that. I was driving around like a good girl. Then at some point I had to steal a car. Next thing I knew, I was in a high-speed car chase with roadblocks being put up and people screaming and flailing as I drove past, with a tail of flashing police vehicles behind me. For some reason it didn't occur to me that this was not the time to stop at red lights. Needless to say, that didn't end very well for me.

A couple of nights ago, I had a really weird dream. Not that there's anything new about that, as you probably know. In this dream, Mister was having an argument with a gang of thugs. I was "helping" by running around behind them, cutting the thugs' Achilles heels with a pair of kitchen scissors while going "snip, snip! Snip, snip!" I'm never playing 'grand theft auto' before bed again, ever.

I dream weird

Whenever I tell people about my dreams, they tend to look at me as if I've suddenly turned orange and sprouted tentacles. Apparently my dreams are weirder than other people's dreams. The one I had the other day, was a particularly strange one, even though it was very short.

In my dream, Mister Chooch and I were having dinner at some friends' house. I had a bracelet that was made of bacon. It wasn't real bacon, but it had both the look and smell going for it. Mister Chooch kept wanting to show it to our friends' daughter, because he thought she might like it. This was the most unrealistic part of the dream, by the way. This little 5 year old (?) is what you might refer to as a...uhm... well, I would hate to use the word "brat" about our friends' little angel. Let's just go with "screaming psycho hell-spawn." I doubt the mister would be eager to show the kid much of anything in real life.

But anyway, Mr Chooch wanted to show Hell-spawn my bacon bracelet. I was very worried that the greedy little snot was going to gobble it up, so I kept telling her that it wasn't real. Then she looked at me and said "that's not the important thing. What matters is whether I can sit in the back of the Cadillac and if people would call me Coltrain."

The next morning I told Mister all about my dream, and he did that eye-bulging-thing that he does when I surprise him by saying something so odd he couldn't have predicted it beforehand. I

Remember when I mentioned the itchy-worm crawling through my brain while I was sleeping? I think that might have been when it happened.

The Day My Ear Pooped

Yesterday I had the dubious pleasure of having my earprofessionally rinsed. I mentioned before that my ear was itchy and driving me batsheit crazy, yes? Yes. That is why I found myself sitting in the doctors office once again, while the good doctor apparently tried to burrow into my brain with her lookey-inside-the-ear-thingy. All the while she said "hmmm" and "mhmm" a lot. I think there's a special course in med school for getting the hmm's just right.

Five minutes after that, I had a green towel draped across my shoulder, a small basin nestled under my chin and a huge metal water-filled syringe in my ear. I must admit that I found the situation to be a bit daunting. I'd only been through this once in my life before and I couldn't remember what it felt like, only that I screamed a lot and had to be held down. I think I was about four years old at that time. This time around, I wanted

to be a bit more composed.

Then there was a swooshy sound and then...well...then my ear pooped. Sometimes things are so gross that they're fascinating. I would have taken a picture if I hadn't thought that might be weird.

Afterwards I felt as if someone had smacked me upside the head with a 2x4. My balance center had not been prepared to have large amounts of wate

r shot at it from a syringe. You'd think evolution would have thought of that, but no. I still have zero hand/eye coordination, which makes life interesting. You should have seen me at the grocery store before, trying to put things into my little blue, plastic basket and missing the basket again and again. Things kept falling on the floor. It was embarrassing. I've probably earned myself a reputation as the town drunk. And I didn't even get to go to the party.

Until this dizziness has buggered off, all responsible grown-up activities are shelved. Until then, I will do this:

it's a rant!

According to Yahoo, searches for "Osama bin Laden" went up by nearly 100% after U.S president Obama announced that he had been found and killed. Those numbers weren't really surprising. It was sort of 'duuh' information, really. More disturbing, the fifth most popular search was "who is Osama bin Laden?"

66% of the latter searchers were young teens. 34% didn't even have that feeble excuse. I suppose it's possible that this was a logical way to find out more about the guy, beyond 9/11. At least I hope so.

If you happen to be one of those people who conducted that last search, and what I just mentioned was not the reason for it, then I regret to inform you that you are stupid. Actually, stupid might be too mild a word. You are the poster child for birth control. No, that's also too mild... You are the nr1 reason why someone should invent a time machine. That way they could travel to the past and neuter both your parents before you were born. If I was going to say this to anyone else, I would probably have some minuscule concern of hurting their feeling. I'm relieved by the thought that you're most likely to dumb to get the insult.

Seriously, just when you think you've seen the absolute bottom of human stupidity, there's a whole stupid underground garage.

to Van Gogh or not to Van Gogh

On 23 December 1888, Vincent van Gogh cut off his left ear while he was visiting a local brothel. He wrapped the severed ear in newspaper and handed it to a prostitute named Rachel, asking her to "keep this object carefully." Had Rachel been a modern-day hooker, she could have made a killing on ebay and the horisontal tango could have become just a hobby.

But anyways...

When I first heard that story, as a kid, I couldn't figure out why anyone would do such a thing. Now I think I have a pretty good idea. Itchy ears. A couple of weeks ago, I went to see the doctor because my right ear was itching so much, it was as if a small worm was trying to dig its way into my brain. The doctor gave me medicine to be dripped into my ear three times a day for one week and every once in a while, I was also supposed to rinse my ear with a small, red rubber balloon.

Don't even get me started on the bloody balloon.

Mister Chooch graciously agreed to help me with the dripping, since I kept getting medicine everywhere BUT in my ear. It's harder than it looks, you know. It's not as if you can actually see that little hole. It would have been easier if I'd been a seal or something. After a few days of that, the itch decided to creep through my brain while I was sleeping (that's my theory) and settle in my OTHER ear. Isn't that just wonderful? Now both my ears are full of meds and cotton, and I'm as deaf as a post.

Another week of this, and I'll just go ahead and van Gogh myself.

A Genuine Pooch Adventure: bounce, skip & hop

You'd think that a dog who's 11th birthday is fast approaching, would want to snooze in the sun or partake in other activities that require a minimum of moving around. Not Pooch, though. Pooch likes to bounce. And skip and hop. She's more jack-rabbit than dog. The old gal makes Dorothy skipping down the yellow brick road look like a fat, lazy cow.

The other day, Wonderpooch was jumping around, when she slipped on the parquet floor and pulled whatever-dogs-have-in-stead-of-an-ankle on her front leg. Much whimpering (mostly from the dog) and limping ensued, as well as a chat with the friendly neighbourhood vet. Now her leg is all wrapped up in bandages that aren't anywhere near as cool as Dorothy's red shoes.

Mister Chooch and I decided it was best to keep her still as much as possible. This became a bigger challenge than we had thought, since ten minutes of lying still completely erased the memory of having been injured and replaced it with the urge to dance. A couple of times, Pooch would give us little heart attacks by trying to run upstairs to see if there were any good sunbeams on the landing. Eventually it became clear that the only way we could make sure that she would stay in her bed, like a good little patient, was if we sat next to it. Which we did. For several hours, until Dog decided to pack it in for the night.

Now she's feeling much better, and suddenly her main interest is napping. Stupid dog.

Attack of the Bumblebees

That whole weeding impulse that I mentioned before, has gone down quite a bit. Now it's more of a guilty murmur sort of thing. I am officially procrastinating on the whole gardening thing.

And I ROCK at procrastination!

I can doze in bed until noon and still not have begun to procrastinate. I'm also really good at digressing. You could ask me a question and I can talk for an hour without actually answering it. I would be great in politics, if not for the fact that I hate to wear pantihose.

Who invented those things, anyway? The pantihose, I mean. They're horrible. No matter how much you wear them, you never get used to having them on. At least I don't. I always walk away with slight claustrophobia and a new-found sympathy for sausages.

That was first class digression, right there.

This post is really about bumblebees. You didn't see that coming, did you? It really is too bad I don't like wearing pantihose. These days we have truckloads of bumblebees buzzing around in our garden. I use them as an excuse not to do too much gardening all at once. Cause dammit, these guys are HUGE! They're not guys at all, actually. They're queens. Hence the hugeness. They're flying around, looking for little holes in walls where they can set up shop. Apparently they like to live in holes in brick houses. They hibernate in the ground during the winter, and as soon as they're all warm and toast in springtime, they start looking for a place to live.

Earlier today, I was standing in the open veranda door, looking out at the garden while doing my usual procrastination routine, when a bumblebee the size of a bloody ping-pong ball came flying towards me. It was big enough for me to give it a good kick without having to do much aiming. It went "pfbzzzzzzz!" and decided to take it's royal business elsewhere. Which is a good thing, because I'm pretty sure it could have taken me in a fight...

The story of Stalker Kitty

Pooch is a sucker for a good walk. Mostly I just walk her while Mr Chooch is still at work, but sometimes we take her for a spin together. This is the story of when we took Pooch for a spin and met Stalker Kitty.

It was late one evening last fall. Mr Chooch brought an umbrella with him, in case of rain. Little did he know that on our way home, it would rain kittens. At least one kitten. A stalker kitten.

We didn’t see it at first. There aren’t a lot of lights on our street and there are plenty of trees, hedges and shrubs where small furballs can hide. I just happened to turn around as it darted out of hiding, heading straight for Pooch. It intended to introduce itself. I don’t know what kind of experiences it had previously had with canines, but they were clearly deliriously happy ones.

Every now and then Pooch meets a cat in the garden, but HER way of introducing herself involves chasing the cat into the nearest tree. A few of those cats will just turn around and look at her as she’s running towards them and she’s very unsure of how to deal with those. I had no idea how she would react to this one.

We didn’t really think that the dog would nibble the kitten, but we decided it would be best to move on before it caught up. Every now and then we would look and see Stalker Kitty running after us, staring at Pooch as if she was the worlds most shiny toy. Mr Chooch made several attempts at chasing it away. Each time it would hide in some shrubbery, but as soon as his back was turned, its little head would pop back out and it would be in hot pursuit once more. The only effect the scare tactics seemed to have, was that it no longer wanted to say hi to Mr Chooch. It was, however, dead set on saying hello to Pooch.

Pooch still hadn’t noticed that anything unusual was happening. Sometimes Pooch is kinda thick and not terribly observant. She mostly gets by on her looks.

As we walked up our driveway, the kitten was still following us. Because of it's short, little kitten legs, it never did manage to catch up to Pooch before she shot through the front door, heading for her water bowl at 100 miles pr hour. Mr Chooch then sprinted down into the basement to close the windows that we’d left open. Meanwhile I stayed outside to distract Stalker Kitty so it wouldn’t notice that there were ways into the house. It was a very friendly kitten. It smelled kinda like baby powder. I thought about stealing it, thinking it could perhaps live in the hobby room, or something, but reluctantly decided against it.

After I’d gone back inside, I watched Stalker Kitty through the window. Stalker Kitty was staring fixedly at the front door. After a few minutes a bug or something caught its attention. At that moment it completely forgot that we ever existed, as it chased whatever-it-was off into the night.

And that was the story of the very intense, yet very flaky Stalker Kitty.

Photo from BG Plus for iphone.

The year of funny urges

Sometime after I moved here, aliens abducted me and implanted a personality-altering probe into my brain. Ever since I've been having these insane urges, and that's the only logical explanation I can think of.

I used to have a very high tolerance for dust bunnies and clutter. Not that I was a dirty slob, or anything. I just enjoyed the lived-in look. These days... not such a big fan. Boy actually made me promise that I would tidy up LESS, because it was messing up his system of things he was supposed to remember and such. That's the first time anyone has ever said that to me. Ever.

Afterwards I went into the bathroom, stood in front of the mirror, put my nose up against the glass and stared into my own eyes. Then I said: "mother?"

Today I woke up with the urge to weed. My brain (which consists of the logical part, bergerac, and the irrational bit, tootie) was just coming to life and Tootie was already wide awake and screaming "weeeeeeeeeeding-time!" at the top of it's lungs. That part of my brain has wonderful lung capacity.

But fate intervened:

See that dark bit in the upper left corner? That's a UFO. Okay, so it's my finger. Never claimed to be a photographer, did I?

Have a song:

Mr Immaculate Driveway

One of the things that I like about living here, is the lack of neighbours. There are only four houses on our street. That and a really big field. I pretty much went off neighbours the past year before I moved here. There were very spesific reasons for this.

For example, there was the Big Orange. For those of you who are new around here, the Big Orange was my landlord who had some… issues. To put it gently. After I pretty much escaped from my apartment (due to Big Orange being crazy and all), I ended up living across the street from Mr Immaculate Driveway.

Just like Big Orange needed his lawn mowed at the exact same time every Wednesday, Mr Immaculate Driveway needed his driveway CLEAN. Every single morning, afternoon and evening he would hose it down thoroughly. This would take from 20 minutes up to an hour and gawd only knows how much water. The black concrete would glisten. He also wanted to have walls of pretty masonry lining it. This is why he decided to hire a small army of pollacks to make his dream come true. That’s what people do in the ol’ country when they want carpeting or such done cheaply; they hire pollacks. Summer is high season for these things. Usually they get what they pay for.

The Pollack army arrived at the same time as summer vacation. I don’t think there’s anything quite as grinding as the sound of masonry. After a while, those buzz-saws start to feel as if they’re physically cutting into your brain. It certainly took all the fun out of sitting out in the sun. The enormous cloud of dust that they generated also did it’s part to spoil the mood. For the first couple of weeks, they would start working at 8am and keep going until 9pm, Monday through Saturday.

At some point during the hiring process, Mr Immaculate Driveway should have asked his new staff a question along the lines of: “would any of you happen to be masons?”

The answer would have been: “Not so much.”

Mistakes were made. Lots of them. That lead to the workers to keep working until past ten in the evening. This lasted for five weeks. I’m amazed that nobody tried to kill the guy. He would have come second to Hitler in a popularity contest.

Mr Immaculate Driveway had bigger concerns. His property was covered in stone dust. His beloved driveway rapidly turned a dirty sort of grey, despite a vigorous hosing routine. At first he tried to hose it down regularly, while the pollacks were working. That didn’t work, so as soon as the lads knocked off for the evening, he resorted to giving it a cleaning unlike anything it had ever seen before. He would put the hose away once it started to get dark.

The only time during those five weeks that we had a quiet day (other than Sunday), was that Saturday when it rained. I stood in the window, hugging my cup of coffee, watching Mr I.D. He was out in the rain with an enormous red and yellow umbrella, hosing down the driveway.

Can’t say I miss him.

Picture: "hosing down" by Ellabll for deviantart.

Rubbing my spring in your wintery face!

I took this picture out in the garden a couple of weeks ago. There are flowery things doing their flowery business all over the place, while trees are turning green and birds are chirping. I’m sure if I could work out what that thing is that makes those birdies want to get up at 5am and sing, I could stick it in a pill and own most of the money in the universe.

Spring arrived here for real around the end of last month. If I’d known that Denmark was a near-tropical country, I would have moved here ages ago.

This has opened my eyes to the fact that I may quite possibly be evil. When I speak to family and friends back in the ol’ country, and they talk about it being cold and snowy still, I just can’t help rubbing it in their faces. I’m sure they all hate me by now. If they don’t, then I’m sure they want to.

The battle with the Z's

For as long as I can remember, I've been total sheit when it comes to sleeping like a normal person. How the hell do they do it, all those people who are off to dreamland ten minutes after their sleepy, little heads hit the pillow?

The exception to the rule is when I'm reading. I'll have my little reading light so that I won't disturb the mister, who gets along swimmingly with the sandman. It's completely impossible to keep any form of consciousness these days, once I stick my nose in a book. And the little reading light just keeps right on glowing its little brains out. After about a week it's no longer brainy enough for me to see anything. My nightstand drawer is stuffed full of dead reading lights. My side of the bed is where reading lights go to die.

When I was a kid, I though that all inanimate objects would come alive at night. Even something like a plastic screwcork had deep, complicated feelings in my world. My mother always wondered why it was so bloody hard to get me to throw anything away. I just didn't want to plummet things into depression.

If my childhood theory is correct, then I'm sure I'm an urban legend by now. Mother readinglights will tell their children to behave, or they'llend up in my nightstand drawer.

Of course, if my theory was correct, I would totally just puppy-mill the little buggers.

Maybe some day I'll get around to changing their batteries. But knowing me, probably not.

Also not helpful: I tried blogging this from my ipod while still in the comfort of my bed. Stupid ipod app posted on the wrong blog, of course. And then I had to get up and on my computer to fix the mess. Definitly awake now.

Boy/Girl moment

Boy comes into bedroom at night. Girl is already in bed, reading a book.

Don’t get too excited, you pervert!

Boy: I wanted to let the dog out again, but I couldn’t find her collar.

Girl: Where’d you look for it?

Boy: The hallway, by the porch door. You know, all the places where it usually is. Couldn’t find it.

Girl: That’s cause it’s on the dog.

Boy: Oh…

Sausageboobies!

When you’re hungry and you don’t have the brainjuice to magic up complicated dishes in the kitchen, then hot dogs is a simple and tasty alternative. At least that’s what Mr Chooch and I decided on the other day. We picked up a bunch of sausages and those funny French hot dog breads. But… well…. We opened the hot dog bag (they come in a bag here, they do) and saw that they weren’t sausages. They were SAUSAGEBOOBIES!

Not sure what else to say, really.

We still ate them. There are people starving in this world, after all. But we did remove the nipple ends and feed them to Pooch. She didn’t think they were creepy at all.

In the autumn…

One of the things that I really appreciate about autumn – other than the pretty colors and all those usual things that people like to point out about the season – is that people start putting their damn shoes back on. Don’t get me wrong; I love sexy, strappy slingbacks as much as the next girl, but that doesn’t mean that I will necessarily enjoy the sight of your toes in them.

Some people’s feet are just WRONG. Unnatural. An affront to nature. Toes like diseased branches on dying trees. It’s not that I judge people. I wouldn’t do that (out loud). I mean, it’s not like people have effed up their feet on purpose. Not in most cases. God did that to them, or something. It’s not THEIR fault. But people do seem to have less SHAME these days then they used to. Which is really weird, considering the unrealistic modern-day body focus in the media. Maybe we all got so obsessed with out waist lines that we forgot all about our feet? Or maybe we’ve become too convinced that fresh air and sunshine is the cure for all that ails you.

Whatever the cause, the warm months of summer is full of people running around with open toe shoes and sandals, sporting feet that you would normally only see attached to elderly elephants on animal planet. And then they put on toe rings and ankle bracelets to draw attention to it. And what the h*** is up with the long, maniqured toe nails some people have going on? Claws on your feet…that ain’t pretty.

I’m not saying that my feet are perfect. But guess what I got on’em! SHOES!

Sheesh.

Here's a video that I loved when I was a kid:

Is it moving? Poke it with a stick!

I woke up on Tuesday morning, throat feeling really scratchy. ”Wow,” I thought. ”I must have been snoring my head off for most of the night.” I felt sorry for Mr Chooch who has to sleep next to my impersonation of a sawmill and who still has to act as if I’m adorable in the morning. Not that I’m NOT adorable in the morning, but still… However, as the day passed, the scratchiness didn’t go away. Instead it crawled up my throat and into my nose, from where it proceeded to fill my head with cotton.

I was sickly.

Coming down with a bug is like going through the five stages of grief. Have you ever noticed that?

First there’s denial. I spent day 1 telling myself that I was NOT sick. I felt wonderful. I was the picture of health. A shining example of wellbeing. The very definition of vigor. I just had some dust in my throat or something. Probably a little speck had gotten stuck in there when I dusted the window sill the day before. I always knew dusting wasn’t good for you and I swore to never do it again.

Later that night there was anger. That's the second stage, you know. Anger. I started feeling worse. There was no denying that the little speck of dust wasn’t dust at all, but some sort of angry, evil devil-germ that had attacked me for no good reason. It wasn’t bloody fair. I didn’t deserve to be sick. I don’t go around kicking puppies or saying (horribly) bad things about people (who don’t deserve it). If I could just get my hands on whoever had stuck me with their bug… And so on and so forth.

Then there was stage three; bargaining. If only this stupid germ would go away quickly, I would exercise loads and eat healthy foods. Like oranges propped full of vitamin C. I’d even take vitamins! And I would procrastinate less. I’d use my normal, healthy energy to get stuff done rather than playing computer games or reading magazines or staring into space. I would never again throw my clothes in a pile on the floor, I’d stop spending money on things that are silly, I’d wear sensible shoes. I’d take Pooch for longer walks every single day, even when it’s raining and said Pooch doesn’t want to go outside because she hates getting wet…

The next stage is depression. Let’s just say that Mr Chooch is lucky that he spent that particular day at work, even if the copy machine did break just as he was short on lecture material. Poor Pooch wasn’t so lucky. Being stuck in a house with a whiny, blubbering snot-machine is…yes. It really is. Let’s just leave it at that.

Now I’ve accepted the fact that I’m sickly. I’ve built myself a disease-cave. As soon as Mr Chooch gets out of bed, I empty out my handbag on his side of the bed. Ipod, kindle, cellphone, tissues, nasal spray, cough medicine etc spilling everywhere. Then he fixes me breakfast (soft squishy food) and a big thermocup of tea before he goes to work. Then I just spend my day under the covers with Pooch, all my crap and my laptop computer.

Maybe I’ll try this health tip, though:

Hello!

Remember me? The owner of this here blog? Need a moment to dig around in your memory cells? Is there such a thing as memory cells? Maybe not unless you’re a computer… Need a moment to dig around in your computers memory cells?

So I have moved. It’s not the first time. But it is the first time that I got to hawl my crap across an ocean. I decided to do the whole moving-thing in stages, so not to totally traumatize poor Mr Chooch with my girlyness. Men can be fragile, you know.

Stage 1, Potted plants:

Nearly completed, actually. Cause us girls, we know that windows are supposed to be pretty. And not be used as storage units. It’s the same reason why we put on mascara. Slowly but surely, over the past few weeks, I have been sticking potted plants into the windows and onto any flat (or just flatish) surface, until the clutter simply had to move because there was no room for it anymore. Clever, eh? I have also been awarded the nickname ”plant-monster”. I may make myself a badge.

Stage 2, Picture-frenzy:

Why don’t men hang pictures on the walls? Of all my male friends who have never been hitched (or had an overly domineering mother), there’s only two who have pictures on the walls. And they’re all of cars… Nudie calendars don’t count. Mr Chooch owned paintings. They were lined up along the walls. Loads of wallspace left, though.

And that’s as far as I’ve gotten. I’ve been slowed down by a bug. I am a sicky. My nose is all clogged up and my throat is trying to kill me off. Did you know that vomit can come out of your nose? I had no idea until just the other day. The things you learn… Overshare? Well, maybe.

Have another song:

Leaving on a jet plane!

That’s not true. I’m leaving on a ship. A great, big floating mall type thing. I will have to buy myself something purdy while I’m there. Provided that I don’t take another motion sickness pill and spend yet another trip enveloped in unconsciousness, that is. That option is more wallet friendly but somewhat less entertaining. Note to self: buy large waterdispenser for Pooch's travel cage so that she can make believe she's a huge hamster.

So the next time you see me, I will be living in the land of danishes, lego and the little mermaid statue. And with a boy, at that. Oh my. If my kindergarden self could see me now, she’d hit me over the head with a plastic showel. Then my kindergarden self and my microbiologist self could have an argument about cooties.

I'm digressing again, aren't I? Now if you'll all excuse me, I have my I'm-going-to-be-an-immigrant-party to get set up for.

Here, have a song:

Rockstar Walkies and itchy toes

Throughout her life, Pooch has fine-tuned a theory. Actually, Pooch has a wide variety of theories. Such as that if she places her head on your left knee, treats pop out of you. Or that if she throws her toys at your head, treats pop out of you. Or that if she sits and stares at you for hours without blinking, treats pop out of you.

The theory I’m refering to at the moment, is a different kind of theory. It claims that walks are more pleasurable if they involve autoasphyxiation. She’s like a small, furry David Carradine. Most doggies can be tought leash manners fairly easily, since they’re pulling to get you from A to B faster. Pooch is different, though. She pulls for the joy of pulling. Them arctic breed types can be funny that way.

I have a confession to make. I was definitly going somewhere with this, but I completely forget where. I got distracted by an itch on my big toe. No matter how much I scratch it, it won’t go away or lessen at all. This leads me to believe that it’s not really located on my toe at all, but somewhere completely different. Ever had that happen to you? You know, when you have an itch on your foot, say, and you scratch your calf and it goes away. Your calf as in your leg, not livestock. That would be taking neurology way to far.

Maybe that’s why people do the autoasphyxiation thingy and die in embarrasing situations. The pressure around their necks affects other areas of the b…. uhm…. Yeah, I decided not to wrap this up after all. I’ll just leave it hanging there.

Pun intended.

The shrimp that went into the light

I was listening to one of my podcasts today. A fresh episode of The Naked Scientists. I don't know whether or not they're actually naked, but most scientists probably wouldn't look all that good naked, so that might be just as well. Anyway, I learned something new. It would seem that when we (and when I say we, I don't mean me) gobble down a prozac or something like that, it’s not all absorbed into the body. Rather, it comes out with the nr1's and the nr2's and makes it's cheerful way down the sewage system and out to sea.

Where it's eaten by crustaceans which then decide to swim out of their murky ocean depths, towards the sunlight. These are undoubtedly more interesting surroundings to an upbeat, high-on-life shrimp, but it also makes the poor bastard more likely to end it's days in the belly of a hungry fish or seabird. Scientists now fear that this sort of thing can have a profound effect on aquatic ecosystems.

I guess the upside to the story is that the crustaceans die happy.

Hello conscience, my old friend!

I’m sitting here, in a very comfortable chair, watching the movie ’Julie & Julia'. It’s basically a movie about blogging. So far, anyway. And so I thought ”Hey, I have a blog.” And here I am.

How are you all? I’m fine, thank you very much for asking. Especially now that the people down the street have hawled their screaming offspring inside for the night. Back in the old days they said that a child should be seen and not heard. This one I have never seen, but I hear it each and every day. Because it screams at the top of it’s lungs. I’m not talking about the playful squeals of a frolicking toddler, I’m refering to bloodcurdling horror movie screams. Repeatedly. For several hours every day. If Pooch did that, the screamers parents would probably call the cops on me. I have played with the idea of calling the police to tell them that I believe a small child is being tortured up the street.

So one sunny Saturday morning, not too long ago, I awoke to the sound of a cheerleader being peeled alive. Or so I thought. Once my brain (Bergerac) kicked in, I realized that it was just Screamo, as usual. Then Bergerac went: ”saaay, isn’t your…uhm…chest area sore?”

For those of you who are new around here, I divide my mind into two parts. Bergerac is the sane, logical bit. Tootie is the one that’s…well, certifiably insane. Tootie pops up whenever Bergerac isn’t paying attention.

At this point in my internal conversation with myself, Tootie popped in and went: ”Chestickles!” and then had a good giggle at it’s own comedic genius. Then Bergerac sort of sighed and continued to point out that I had been a bit dizzy lately, hadn’t I? And there were other things too. Could there possibly be a chance that we were baking a Screamo of our very own, wondered Bergerac.

I was definitly awake then. I have never been a fan of children. They’re short and not terribly bright, they’re noisy, not all that clean and they make messes. A surprising amount of them have snot on their upper lips. What is up with that? Smaller people produce more goo, or what? Sure, YOUR child is excluded from that comparison, of course. YOUR child is delightful and you are a wonderful parent who would never let YOUR child run around the yard while screaming it’s head off. This post has absolutely nothing to do with you.

For the next couple of weeks, I was sure that if only my period would arrive, I would be the happiest goil in the world. And then finally, on another sunny Saturday morning, it arrived. And now I’m bloated and crabby. I’m bleeding like that peeled cheerleader I mentioned before and I have cramps. Through it all, I’m reminding myself that I’m HAPPY to have my period. Happy!

I’m the happiest goil in the world, I’m the happiest goil in the world, I’m the happiest goil in the world, I’m the…I’m….oh, eff it!

Sex with robots!

koala_man: after some future breakthroughs in robotics, but before the price has gone down, there is likely to be robotic brothels

mawlipe: robot sex? that's scary.

koala_man: I know, that's what I thought. But according to my calculations, a condom of normal thickness has a dielectric strength of at least 780V. Meaning if the robot runs on mains and shorts out, you're still protected with a margin of nearly 500V

Mawlipe: .....not what I meant.

Popping the ol’ cherry

Greetings, Munchkins! I have just returned from the Great Abroad where I visited Mr. Choochoo (and secretly contemplated what sort of curtains would look best when I move in there in a couple of months, nyahaha). I went by ship. I quite like ships. Especially the big ones with the nice restaurants and all the funny shops. They’re like floating malls. That way I’m usually broke –before- I get to where I’m going on vacation. Funny that, eh?

As I sat down in my seat for the return trip, I have to say I was a bit worried, though. It was a lovely, sunny day. All clear skies and happy seagulls. But then the stewardess handed me a pile of 15 (!) seasickness bags. “Just in case,” she said.

She then tried to hand another pile to the guy sitting behind me, but he waved her away, saying: “no, no, nonono! No case! No case!” in a thick, German accent.

I stared from the seasickness bags to the frolicking seagulls outside and back to the seasickness bags and wondered. The ship started moving. It did that honking thing that it does when it leaves or enters a port. I like that part. It reminds me of Miss Marple and Poirot murder mysteries. I’m not sure why. All was quiet at first. Then the ship suddenly took a giant leap forwards. Then another and another and another. Pretty soon it was rhythmically leaping forwards and rolling sideways at the same time. For a moment I made believe that I was very small and that I lived inside a mechanical bull. Like when I was a kid and I pretended to be a fairy living in a shoe, only completely different.

As luck would have it, I had taken a little pill before we left Mr Choochoo’s house that morning. The kind of little pill that wards off not only travel sickness but also your ability to remain conscious for very long at a time. I’d fallen asleep as soon as we got into the car for the two hour drive to the sea. With my mouth wide open, I might add, and most likely snoring like a wilderbeast. I woke up on a couple of occasions because my tongue was dry, but other than that I was dead to the world.

So when the ship started rocking, it wasn’t very long before I was off to dreamland again. For the entire trip I woke up a grand total of three times. The first time I noticed that that the motionsickness bags had been piling up around people’s seat. Some were running towards the exit, out on deck, looking pale as ghosts. Mr. No-Case was heaving behind me and the air was thick with the smell of affordable cleaning products. I scratched the tip of my nose and went back to sleep.

The second time I was awake long enough for the stewardess to hand me a bisquit, saying it was good for the tummy. I don’t remember much after swallowing the last bite. I must have either passed out again or had some sort of black-out, like they do in the movies. The last option probably would have required more energy than I was capable of at that time.

When I finally came to, we were back in the old country and the weather had turned friendly again. So that was my first ever actual storm at sea.

Pic: "Cherry" by gusztil32 for deviantart.

The Big Orange

As you may or may not know, I recently moved into a maniacs garage. I should maybe point out that it's a garage apartment. I'm not about to bunk down on top of a pile of powertools.

The maniac is a big orange fellow. His hair and enormous beard are orange, his skin is orange, his house is orange, the garage is orange and down the road he has a great, big orange mailbox. He also drives an orange truck. If his shrill, shaky voice was a color, that would be orange too.

Since moving in two months ago, I have been out of town twice. Both times Big Orange locked himself into my flat and had a good snoop around. Seeing how this bloke was clearly...uhm...unbalanced - not to mention annoying like a hemorrhoid - from the start, I never intended to live there for very long. Therefore I have been living out of boxes.

I should also mention that Big Orange is more than a little bit of a neat freak. He will spend all day chopping firewood in the field below the house because every log has to be the exact same size. He mows the lawn every Wednesday at the exact same time. Last Wednesday he did it in the rain.

Needless to say, he found my boxes absolutely shocking. I mean, if you're using a large cardboard box as a dresser, then clearly the world is headed towards a state of dangerous anarchy and you will be sent to the burning pits of hell when you go 'join the choir invisible' as it were.

I'm sure there are choirs in hell. Or Simon Cowell will start one up when he passes on.

But I digress. My point was that Big Orange locked himself into my flat and confrontation followed.

Nobody is going to tell me whether or not I'm allowed to own cardboard boxes, so I kept up business as usual. This weekend I went out of town again and yet again curiosity got the better of Big Orange.

I read somewhere that it takes a certain bodysize in order for any creature to develop intelligence. If the body is too small, your nervous system is also too small and too simple to enable learning. No ability to learn, no intelligence. Big Red is proof that there is always an exception to every rule: sometimes really huge creatures don't have the ability to learn, either.

Not only did I still have all my boxes, plus a couple of new ones (I went amok at a flee market) but I had also cleaned some towels and then just draped them over the rack in stead of hanging them properly. He immediately tracked down my mothers adress and went over there to inform her that I was now evicted from the apartment. Which I had no objections to at all. I mean, there is only so much relaxing you can do with a crazy psycho buzzing around in your yard.

I should be settled into my new place by this weekend, and then Big Orange can explain to the police how the tenants act doesn't apply in his magical kingdom.