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.

Welcome to the Twilight Zone

It's been a hectic few weeks. Loads of new, exciting developments. Blah-blah-blah. The biggest one is probably my decision to move in with Mr Choochoo.

In all fairness, he did ask me to. It's not as if I just announced one day that he was about to be the proud co-owner of a sheitload of lamps and throwpillows. Moving in with Mr Choochoo also means moving out of the country. To Denmark, to be spesific. I'm going to tell everyone that Pooch is a great Dane. And we'll eat pastries. Or I'll eat pastries and Pooch'll watch. Or...well, the way it usually goes is that Pooch stares me down until I throw food. I'm like a food dispencer operated by telekinesis. It's magical. If you're Pooch, at least.

This momentous occasion is taking place in the middle of August. The moving. Not the pastries and the staring. Although that too. I'm digressing.

Hey, you wanna know what else will happen in the middle of August should I not be able to find a job over there before I move? I become a bonafide housewife. At least for a while. Those of you who know me, and/or have been hanging around here for a while, will appreciate just how hysterically funny that really is.

I'll have to make pies.

We'll see.

Ashes to...uhm... Britain, apparently.

Who hasn't yet heard about the infamous ash cloud? No, I'm not going to tell you yet another story about a weird friend. I'm refering to the great, big cloud of ash that was created by the vulcanic eruption in Iceland.

All the experts agreed that the thing was headed our way. There were news bulletins on the latest developments several times a day. It would be here on Monday, they said. It was huge, they said. It might hover for months, they said. It was filled with glass particles, they said.

Or as my mother once put it: glass articles. I was all set to stand outside on the lawn with my arms out, hoping for new coffee cups.

Monday came and went, and there was no sign of the ash cloud. I sat in the window all day, waiting, staring at the different clouds to see if any of them looked like it might have ash in it. I did see one that looked exactly like Kermit the Frog and one that almost resembled a cow, but no enormous, hovering vulcanic cloud. Turns out the thing decided to go bother someone else.

I feel a bit cheated, to be honest. I've never seen an ash cloud. And it had been a really slow week. Oh well, maybe next time..