YAY! I don’t have to go to work until the weekend again. I hope… Everyone’s ill, so you never know. The last thing I did before going home this morning, was to call around in order to find someone who could work the morning shift. Someone who didn’t have sick coming out of both ends… I dragged numerous people out of their warm, cozy beds in order to say something along the lines of “Good morning, how would you feel about coming to work in… oh… say half an hour?” Strangely, nobody jumped at the idea. Go figure.
So where was I? Oh, yeah – the mosquitoes.
Well, as you may or may not have gathered, I was fairly desperate to have a pet when I was a child. It didn’t have to be soft, friendly or particularly lovable. As long as it had some sort of a pulse, that was enough for me. Although, one of our neighbours did have a stuffed beaver that I liked a lot.
Anyway, me and my friends would roam the countryside, armed to the teeth with boxes, jars, bags and whatever else we might possibly catch living creatures in.
At about this time, some people had gotten it into their heads that moving to town would be a clever idea (it wasn’t a lasting idea, but still…). There were quite a few construction sites here and there, and we played in all of them, of course. In one of these sites, we found a large concrete tub-like thing, filled with water. And in the water floated tiny little larva. Perfect pets!
I brought two large jars home with me, stashed them behind the curtains in my room, and immediately started them on the breadcrumb diet that killed so many tadpoles before them.
That summer the house was full of mosquitoes. I remember mum and dad both wondering about where the hell they were coming from (yes, they were so worked up about the mosquitoes, they actually used that word in front of us children. Shock and horror. Hehe). They put nets in all the windows and doors, but the invasion just kept on.
Then, one day, mum was heading past my bedroom door on her way to the kitchen, when she heard a loud buzzing sound. Upon further inspection, she discovered that it was coming from inside my room. Curious, she opened the door – and saw what she later described as a large, brown cloud. She wasn’t to happy about having to fight her way through an angry army of bloodsucking insects in order to open the window. Then, of course, the door to my room had to be completely sealed, so that the buggers couldn’t come through. I had to sleep in my parents room, all of us full of itchy, red bites. It was interesting.
Monday, July 31, 2006
Monday, July 24, 2006
Mouth wide open
Last night, when I was out driving with a friend, we almost hit a frog. Or maybe we did hit the frog. They have no traffic sense in their heads, whatsoever. They’re like demented two-year-olds.
But moving right along… It got me thinking of when I was a kid. Mum would take me and my little sister up into the mountains every year, where we’d park near a large pond. There would always be tadpoles there, and we’d always catch some of them in jars and bring them home. Of course, they would all die relatively quickly. Tadpoles weren’t meant to grow up in jars and live off of bread crumbs, now were they?
Except one year… There was this one little creature, which probably had super-strong genes, or something, that made it all the way into frogginess. I called it Frog (because I was a very inventive child) and it lived in the windowsill, in its little jar.
One day, Frog’s legs had finally become strong enough for it to leap all the way out of its jar. Oh joy. As luck would have it, my grandparents were visiting us at the time, and grandpa was sleeping on the sofa underneath that very window, mouth wide open and snoring like a rabid wildebeest.
Frog braced itself, leaped out of the jar onto the windowsill, and from there it jumped on into freedom – and into my grandfathers open mouth. Easy come, easy go, I guess. Grandpa, who mastered the art of sleeping like no other human being alive, made an odd sort of a snore-gobble-snore sound without even stirring and eyelid. Frog was never seen or heard from again.
What was heard, however, was my grandmother screaming. She’d been awake and had caught the whole show. The screeches she produced upon seeing poor little Frog vanish into grandpa’s open mouth, was enough to wake the dead. It was certainly enough to wake grandpa.
That was the last year that mum took us to catch tadpoles. Of course, if she had just let us have some tadpoles every now and then, she would have avoided that whole mess with the mosquitoes. But that’s a story for next time:)
But moving right along… It got me thinking of when I was a kid. Mum would take me and my little sister up into the mountains every year, where we’d park near a large pond. There would always be tadpoles there, and we’d always catch some of them in jars and bring them home. Of course, they would all die relatively quickly. Tadpoles weren’t meant to grow up in jars and live off of bread crumbs, now were they?
Except one year… There was this one little creature, which probably had super-strong genes, or something, that made it all the way into frogginess. I called it Frog (because I was a very inventive child) and it lived in the windowsill, in its little jar.
One day, Frog’s legs had finally become strong enough for it to leap all the way out of its jar. Oh joy. As luck would have it, my grandparents were visiting us at the time, and grandpa was sleeping on the sofa underneath that very window, mouth wide open and snoring like a rabid wildebeest.
Frog braced itself, leaped out of the jar onto the windowsill, and from there it jumped on into freedom – and into my grandfathers open mouth. Easy come, easy go, I guess. Grandpa, who mastered the art of sleeping like no other human being alive, made an odd sort of a snore-gobble-snore sound without even stirring and eyelid. Frog was never seen or heard from again.
What was heard, however, was my grandmother screaming. She’d been awake and had caught the whole show. The screeches she produced upon seeing poor little Frog vanish into grandpa’s open mouth, was enough to wake the dead. It was certainly enough to wake grandpa.
That was the last year that mum took us to catch tadpoles. Of course, if she had just let us have some tadpoles every now and then, she would have avoided that whole mess with the mosquitoes. But that’s a story for next time:)
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
What is that smell?
Old people make strange smells. They don’t really seem to come from anywhere in particular, but manage fill the air around you completely. The strange thing is that sometimes I can smell it, even after I’ve gone home and had a shower. It’s like my very own, private version of The Sixth Sense:
I smell old people.
Speaking of smells – There’s another odd smell in my bathroom. Kinda like something died. I’m guessing that there might be algae growing in a pipe somewhere, but I can’t tell where it’s coming from. Shouldn’t there be a rule, or something, that smells (especially the stinky ones) should have to come from somewhere. Ideally, they should have some sort of colour, as well. I’d imagine that the bathroom-smell would be a kinda putrid greenish orange. And it would probably look sort of wet and sticky.
Of course, the bathroom-smell is nothing compared to the bedroom-smell from two years ago. It was winter, and a bunch of mice made their way inside. I guess that’s one of the joys of living in a really old house. Anywho, I took someone’s clever advice to use poison. “They’ll eat the poison,” they said. “They’ll crawl outside to die,” they said. Well, they ate the poison, alright. Then they went to meet their maker inside the walls and underneath the floorboard. The smell defied description.
Long story short: I now live in a very old house, with very new floors and walls.
Okay, I’m spending way to much time thinking with my nose here. Time to find something else to do:)
I smell old people.
Speaking of smells – There’s another odd smell in my bathroom. Kinda like something died. I’m guessing that there might be algae growing in a pipe somewhere, but I can’t tell where it’s coming from. Shouldn’t there be a rule, or something, that smells (especially the stinky ones) should have to come from somewhere. Ideally, they should have some sort of colour, as well. I’d imagine that the bathroom-smell would be a kinda putrid greenish orange. And it would probably look sort of wet and sticky.
Of course, the bathroom-smell is nothing compared to the bedroom-smell from two years ago. It was winter, and a bunch of mice made their way inside. I guess that’s one of the joys of living in a really old house. Anywho, I took someone’s clever advice to use poison. “They’ll eat the poison,” they said. “They’ll crawl outside to die,” they said. Well, they ate the poison, alright. Then they went to meet their maker inside the walls and underneath the floorboard. The smell defied description.
Long story short: I now live in a very old house, with very new floors and walls.
Okay, I’m spending way to much time thinking with my nose here. Time to find something else to do:)
Friday, June 23, 2006
This is choochoo, reporting from inside the waterfall
When I started working nights at the retirement home, one of the first things I was told, was that we were there to ”provide a service for the patients”. Well, I wish someone would inform the patients of that. Quite a few of them seem completely convinced that it’s some sort of hostage situation. FYI – my job would be so much easier if people would just bloody stop escaping already. I’m not saying that it’s not terribly amusing searching all over town for more or less nekked old people (although it really isn’t), or that I’m not relatively well paid for doing so (everything’s relative, right?), it just seems a bit unnecessary.
And damn, they’re hard to find, as well. Who knew that someone approaching a hundred years old, clinging on to their walkers for dear life, could move that fast? It almost fills you with awe.
But now I’m on vacation, thank god. And wouldn’t you know it – as soon as I got off work on the very last day before my vacation, it started to rain. And by that, I mean that these massive, grey monsterclouds have completely taken over the sky and is bombarding everything with those fat monster raindrops that usually follow monsterclouds. It’s been raining ever since. The gutters gave out ages ago, and water is now pouring down the walls and windows. It’s like sitting inside a waterfall. Kinda pretty, but I haven’t decided on wether or not I like it yet. I think that maybe I don’t. I’ll have to think about it some more, and get back to you later.
And damn, they’re hard to find, as well. Who knew that someone approaching a hundred years old, clinging on to their walkers for dear life, could move that fast? It almost fills you with awe.
But now I’m on vacation, thank god. And wouldn’t you know it – as soon as I got off work on the very last day before my vacation, it started to rain. And by that, I mean that these massive, grey monsterclouds have completely taken over the sky and is bombarding everything with those fat monster raindrops that usually follow monsterclouds. It’s been raining ever since. The gutters gave out ages ago, and water is now pouring down the walls and windows. It’s like sitting inside a waterfall. Kinda pretty, but I haven’t decided on wether or not I like it yet. I think that maybe I don’t. I’ll have to think about it some more, and get back to you later.
Friday, June 16, 2006
I have commited POETRY
What's that? Wierd and unexpected? Yes, well, it scared the shit out of me, as well, but there you go...
Behold, my poem:
Big, dumb and stupid Freddy O’Moule,
Discovered, in the woods, a large, funny hole.
Into the dark hole he stumbled and fell,
And tumbled and rolled all the way into hell.
He landed, quite painfully, on a large, pointy rock,
And as he looked around, he had a terrible shock.
There, in the corner, was his late wife, Pat.
“My god,” thought Freddy “Was she always that fat?”
He looked at her fearfully as he struggled to sit.
She said: “I knew you’d end up here, you worthless sack of shit.”
“I’m sorry,” said Freddy “I really can’t stay
Just thought I’d stop by. Now I’ll be on my way.”
“Once you’re here,” she said “You can never go back.
After you fell in, they closed up that crack.
You’re trapped here now, baby. In hell, here with me.
You’ll be stuck here forever, and you can never flee.”
Now Freddy is living some horrible dream,
And sometimes, when it’s quiet, you can still hear him scream.
Hehe:)
Behold, my poem:
Big, dumb and stupid Freddy O’Moule,
Discovered, in the woods, a large, funny hole.
Into the dark hole he stumbled and fell,
And tumbled and rolled all the way into hell.
He landed, quite painfully, on a large, pointy rock,
And as he looked around, he had a terrible shock.
There, in the corner, was his late wife, Pat.
“My god,” thought Freddy “Was she always that fat?”
He looked at her fearfully as he struggled to sit.
She said: “I knew you’d end up here, you worthless sack of shit.”
“I’m sorry,” said Freddy “I really can’t stay
Just thought I’d stop by. Now I’ll be on my way.”
“Once you’re here,” she said “You can never go back.
After you fell in, they closed up that crack.
You’re trapped here now, baby. In hell, here with me.
You’ll be stuck here forever, and you can never flee.”
Now Freddy is living some horrible dream,
And sometimes, when it’s quiet, you can still hear him scream.
Hehe:)
Thursday, June 15, 2006
life lessons and moving furniture
Last night I worked a 12 hour graveyard shift, and it taught me something very important: it is indeed possible to fall asleep while riding a bicycle. I woke up when it slammed into the railing on the railroad bridge, not far from my house. This lesson occurred while I was riding home from work early, early in the morning. Also, because I had absolutely no strength left in my legs, I rode ridiculously slowly with all the steadiness of a drugged bat. This being a very small town where everybody knows everyone’s business, I’m sure that the word of me being drunk at eight am has spread everywhere by now.
Finally I got home, where I could collapse in bed and sleep until five pm. Once upon a time, my bed was the best place on earth. Unfortunately, it has started to turn against me. The springs have begun to poke up through the mattress, biting me in the back and waking me up. Then I have to get out of bed to pull on the fabric, so that the little monsters are covered again for a while. I dare not even imagine what would happen if I was to attempt having sex on it. The springs would probably all come popping out, like murderous versions of a jack-in-a-box, and kill the both of us. Not that I’d have the energy to do something like that these days, anyway, with all the overtime I’ve been putting in.
There’s another bed in one of my guestrooms that I love. I don’t want to sleep in there, though, and moving bed nr.1 to my bedroom and bed nr.2 into the guestroom, seems like a very strenuous job. If I couldn’t muster up the energy to have sex, I definitely don’t have the strength to move furniture around. Anyone wanna volunteer to do it for me? Move the beds, I mean…
Finally I got home, where I could collapse in bed and sleep until five pm. Once upon a time, my bed was the best place on earth. Unfortunately, it has started to turn against me. The springs have begun to poke up through the mattress, biting me in the back and waking me up. Then I have to get out of bed to pull on the fabric, so that the little monsters are covered again for a while. I dare not even imagine what would happen if I was to attempt having sex on it. The springs would probably all come popping out, like murderous versions of a jack-in-a-box, and kill the both of us. Not that I’d have the energy to do something like that these days, anyway, with all the overtime I’ve been putting in.
There’s another bed in one of my guestrooms that I love. I don’t want to sleep in there, though, and moving bed nr.1 to my bedroom and bed nr.2 into the guestroom, seems like a very strenuous job. If I couldn’t muster up the energy to have sex, I definitely don’t have the strength to move furniture around. Anyone wanna volunteer to do it for me? Move the beds, I mean…
Sunday, June 11, 2006
On mud and such
I hate gardening SO friggin’ much. If they can grow a human ear on the back of a mouse, why can’t somebody invent a type of grass that only grows up to a certain length? And don’t even get me started on weeding… I think I hate weeding most of all. So today I’m ass-up in a flowerbed, pulling at the damn things, when I suddenly feel something crawling up my leg, and look down just in time to see a bunch of the thickest, longest, hairiest damn buglegs I’ve ever seen in my long, sinful life, disappearing up my skirt. Naturally, I freak out. And by that, I mean that I really freak out. If there’s one thing I can’t hack, its creepy crawlies with long legs.
Anywho, I fly straight up in the air and proceed to jumping around the garden, all the while making short, sharp squeaky noises. Pathetic, I know. Unfortunately, it doesn’t end there… Earlier that day, I’d been using the garden hose to play with the dog. As a result, a very muddy puddle of water had formed there. I’m now squeak-jumping straight towards it. You can probably see where this is headed, huh?
At just the right moment, I slip and land face first in the mud. The dog, convinced that this is some brilliant, new game that I just made up, jumps right in after me. After about two and a half seconds, I’m completely covered in mud and there may or may not be a crushed monster of a spider somewhere on my person.
Obviously, I head straight for the shower, where I stay until I am absolutely sure that there's not so much as a spider-fiber left on me anywhere. Coming out of the shower, I notice that there's water all over the floor. The cabinet is leaking... It's obviously going to take a lot of time and towels to get the situation under control, and before I'm even close to managing that task, the door flies open. In comes the doggie to see what sort of exciting adventures I'm up to now. It doesn't take much to excite the doggie, really. Since she's been mucking about in the garden all day, she brings with her quite a bit of dirt which, of course, blends very nicely with the water on the floor, creating... well... filth.
Seeing the newly created muck on the floor, her whole expression changes. It goes from a completely mindless yay-I'm-all-worked-up-because-something-fun-might-be-happening, to a look of fascination and slight determination. I can practically see the thought forming in her head. She's not terribly complicated, you see. Before I can stop her, she dives straight into the puddles and starts rolling and wriggling until her white fur turns a nice shade of brownish grey. So now the time had come to bathe the dog. And let me tell you - as dumb as she can be at times, she can spot a bath coming up a mile away. I've only to reach for the dog shampoo, before she bolts and dissapears under the sofa. Ever tried to get a full-grown husky out from underneath the couch? It's no small job. Not when it doesn't want to come out, anyway. But I manage. Outside I go, heading for the garden hose again (since the shower cabinet is still leaking and I don't want to cause another flood), dragging the poor dog on a leash. During the whole bathing-process she looks as if she's being tortured, and as soon as we're done, she starts running around the garden like a lunatic. Probably looking for something else to roll around in. That seems to be what dogs do best, after all.
By the time I'm done with the gardening, the shower and the dog, it's already getting late, and the only thing I have enough energy for, is vegetating in front of my computer.
But hey, at least the blog's updated now:)
Anywho, I fly straight up in the air and proceed to jumping around the garden, all the while making short, sharp squeaky noises. Pathetic, I know. Unfortunately, it doesn’t end there… Earlier that day, I’d been using the garden hose to play with the dog. As a result, a very muddy puddle of water had formed there. I’m now squeak-jumping straight towards it. You can probably see where this is headed, huh?
At just the right moment, I slip and land face first in the mud. The dog, convinced that this is some brilliant, new game that I just made up, jumps right in after me. After about two and a half seconds, I’m completely covered in mud and there may or may not be a crushed monster of a spider somewhere on my person.
Obviously, I head straight for the shower, where I stay until I am absolutely sure that there's not so much as a spider-fiber left on me anywhere. Coming out of the shower, I notice that there's water all over the floor. The cabinet is leaking... It's obviously going to take a lot of time and towels to get the situation under control, and before I'm even close to managing that task, the door flies open. In comes the doggie to see what sort of exciting adventures I'm up to now. It doesn't take much to excite the doggie, really. Since she's been mucking about in the garden all day, she brings with her quite a bit of dirt which, of course, blends very nicely with the water on the floor, creating... well... filth.
Seeing the newly created muck on the floor, her whole expression changes. It goes from a completely mindless yay-I'm-all-worked-up-because-something-fun-might-be-happening, to a look of fascination and slight determination. I can practically see the thought forming in her head. She's not terribly complicated, you see. Before I can stop her, she dives straight into the puddles and starts rolling and wriggling until her white fur turns a nice shade of brownish grey. So now the time had come to bathe the dog. And let me tell you - as dumb as she can be at times, she can spot a bath coming up a mile away. I've only to reach for the dog shampoo, before she bolts and dissapears under the sofa. Ever tried to get a full-grown husky out from underneath the couch? It's no small job. Not when it doesn't want to come out, anyway. But I manage. Outside I go, heading for the garden hose again (since the shower cabinet is still leaking and I don't want to cause another flood), dragging the poor dog on a leash. During the whole bathing-process she looks as if she's being tortured, and as soon as we're done, she starts running around the garden like a lunatic. Probably looking for something else to roll around in. That seems to be what dogs do best, after all.
By the time I'm done with the gardening, the shower and the dog, it's already getting late, and the only thing I have enough energy for, is vegetating in front of my computer.
But hey, at least the blog's updated now:)
Friday, January 06, 2006
stop looking at me!
My dog is driving me insane. It’s in heat, and all it does all day long, is run around the house and whimper. I can take it hiking for hours, and it still acts like that as soon as we get back in. There’s no point getting angry with it either. You can’t reason with hormones. Luckily, it’ll pass soon, and she’ll be back to normal. I find some perverted comfort in knowing that my neighbour is probably suffering because of this as well. Their dog – a blonde fella named Ted - is probably getting on their nerves, also.
On top of everything, I got my period today. My stomach is cramping and the rest of me is retaining so much water, you’d think I was a friggin’ camel. Some times I think it would be nice if I could just do like my dog, and have my period twice a year for a couple of weeks each time. Then again, if I was going to actually go into heat every six months and completely lose my mind, the way the dog does, I’d be screwed. No pun intended.
And… my house is a mess, and mum is threatening to visit. So I have to do domestic crap… I’m just not good housewife-material. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a pig, or anything. Just messy. And deadly allergic to dirty dishes. I keep hoping they’ll clean themselves someday, but that doesn’t look as if it’s gonna happen anytime soon. So now it looks as if I actually have to touch them. Yuck.
On top of everything, I got my period today. My stomach is cramping and the rest of me is retaining so much water, you’d think I was a friggin’ camel. Some times I think it would be nice if I could just do like my dog, and have my period twice a year for a couple of weeks each time. Then again, if I was going to actually go into heat every six months and completely lose my mind, the way the dog does, I’d be screwed. No pun intended.
And… my house is a mess, and mum is threatening to visit. So I have to do domestic crap… I’m just not good housewife-material. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a pig, or anything. Just messy. And deadly allergic to dirty dishes. I keep hoping they’ll clean themselves someday, but that doesn’t look as if it’s gonna happen anytime soon. So now it looks as if I actually have to touch them. Yuck.
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