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..

Nuff said

The Post-Poop Euphoria

A754YR3NRKMG

What exactly is the road to happiness? If you were to ask Pooch,she would tell you that it was all about doing a number two right on top of a large pile of snow.

There’s been an obscene amount of snow piling down over the past few weeks. We completely ran out of room for the stuff around Christmas time. Now it’s all about stacking it in our gardens to the best of our abilities and every garden in every neighbourhood features enormous towers of snow.

Pooch considers it the epitome of happiness to climb to the top of our tower and poop on it. The problem is, that I can’t really scale the thing myself to bag her creations. See, there’s a certain weight difference between myself and Pooch. Just a teeny tiny one. Big enough so that she can crawl around on the tower but I would most likely be swallowed like a BigMac in front of Kirstie Alley.

So there’s poop on top of snow on top of poop on top of snow. Like natures very own perverted sandwich. Won’t that be terrific when it melts? Oh, the fun we’ll have.

Also, once Pooch has…uhm…finished her little mountain expedition, she goes into what I like to call the Post-Poop Euphoria. What happens is that once she’s done her business, Pooch will experience a fit of joy that is impossible for the poor thing to contain. There’s a lot of bouncing and spinning and running at max speed involved. Ever seen a dog bounce and spin while running as fast as it can? You have? Ever seen one try to do it up a flight of stairs? It’s not pretty.

The other day I came home with a big bag of pork chops. Pooch saw them and got so excited she immediately had to go outside right there and then to poop herself. Then she was certifiably insane for about ten minutes.

Strange dog, that.

And for those of you who were wondering about the kindle last time, we did a post on e-readers over at unbound a little while ago. Here it is: http://hagelrat.blogspot.com/2010/01/e-reader-triple-threat-smackdown.html

Aaand then I had an Ally McBeal moment and felt I needed a theme song for today (plus I was bored):

P-p-philosophy

Every now and then a girl needs a new toy. Something shiny and, above all, pretty. So last month I decided to buy myself the Amazon Kindle2. It only took me about 2 ½ minutes to justify why I clearly needed one. I'd become more well-read, for one. And then there's the benefit of not having to haul a massive weight of books around everytime I move. Not to mention all the trees I'd be saving. Saving trees is very politically correct, you know. I figure I'm racking up good karma to make up for all the other not-so-politically-correct stunts I may or may not have pulled already.

Not that anyone can prove anything.

I impatiently watched as the shipment bounced from America to Germany to Sweden to Coastal Bible Belt, where I am currently living. And then it arrived. But owning an ereader isn't enough in and by itself. You need to fill it with books, of course. I mean, what would you do with it otherwise? Use it as a coaster? Don't be silly!

So I started downloading a selection of my favorite books into it. Some of these books might be considered unusual reading. Like Plato's Republic. But I find it interesting. The old dude was completely off his rocker politically. I also quite like 'On crime and punishment' by Cesare Beccaria. He lived in the 1700s and had all sorts of thoughts about how punisments should fit the crime they're meant to punish, which were highly unusual in those days. They still are in some places. Like, say, Texas.

I also got myself the collected works of Edgar Allan Poe and Khalil Gibran, just for the hell of it. In addition to that, I purchased more conventional things like Stephen King, Neil Gaiman ect, ect.

Well, at any rate, Amazon chose to completely ignore my more conventional choices when it created my recommendation. It insists that I would have great joy reading the works of various long-dead greeks with names that sound like terminal illnesses. At least I should pick up a copy of The Bible, they think.

Then again, if I take them up on that and carry The Bible around in my kindle, maybe that'll make up for all the not-so-politically-correct stunts that I may or may not pull in the future.

Not that anyone'll be able to prove anything, of course.

Napoleon or whatever

Added: And then, once I woke up properly, I realized that I've written Haiti half of the time and then Tahiti the other half. See, this is why I don't get up early. Sometimes I kinda feel like I should. It's a bit like having breakfast - I don't want to, really, but I feel obligated to from time to time because that's what society seems to expect. But I don't like it and it makes me do strange things. But hey, if Tahiti ever has an earthquake or makes a deal with the devil (whatever happens first), I'll just change it back to Tahiti and re-post. And I promise to never again wake up at 5am, think to myself: "Oh my, I can't sleep. What shall I do? I know! I'll blog some!" Anyways, do read. It should be perfectly safe now.

I was determined NOT to write anything about Haiti, because that’s what everyone’s been doing lately, and I want to be unique, dammit.

But I can’t seem to restrain myself any longer. By now we all know how reverend Pat Robertson has been buzzing around in the media, talking about how Haiti brought this earthquake upon themselves because back in the day they had all gotten together and made a deal with the devil. See, they wanted to get out from under the heel of the French (“Napoleon the third, or whatever.”) They all all got together and asked Satan to get the French off their backs and Satan said “Yeah, okay.” Then the Haitians revolted and kicked the French out, all because Satan believed in them.

I’m curious, though… How did they all “get together,” exactly? I mean, it’s hard enough to set up a lunch appointment with the girls. Our boss has been trying to arrange a staff meeting for weeks, with no luck what so ever. And we’re only five people working there. There’s around 200000 people in Haiti. Not sure how many they were under French occupation, but I’m pretty sure there were more then five. Did they have unusually large football stadiums back then? How did they plan this extraordinary meeting? It’s not like they could fire off a txt message to everyone saying: “Meeting with that Satan dude at the freakishly big football stadium at 8:00pm, Tuesday. Be there or be a Frenchman's pony!”

I believe in keeping an open mind when it comes to philosophy and religion and mathematics and stuff, but not to the point where your brain falls out of your head and goes rolling down the street. Just sayin’

Tuna & Thesis

.I have never been a breakfast person. My stomach wakes up around noon, completely independent of when the rest of me wrangles itself out of bed. Every once in a while I do make an exception. This is mostly because I feel like I should. I've had my head piped full of “breakfast is the most important meal of the day” and stuff like that, ever since I was a kid.

The other day was a forced exception. My step-sister came over for breakfast. Technically, I suppose it was more of an early lunch, but my stomach wasn’t awake yet at any rate. I sat down at the kitchen table and started making a tuna sandwich.

“mayo…adding tuna…one, two, three slices of pickle…” I said, carefully documenting everything, not because I didn’t know how to build a tuna sandwich, but because I’m not all that accustomed to preparing breakfast and so it took a bit of concentration. I realized that I didn't have to narrate the entire birth of my sandwich, but I was on a funny sort of an auto pilot.

At some point The Step-Sister asked about The Thesis (of doom) and I gave out my standard reply, all the while intensely focused on the collection of bread, salads and whatnots on my plate. Then she and The Step-Mum chattered on for a bit, before she turned back to me and asked “are you nearing the end of it soon?”

I carefully examined my sandwich and responded: “yeah, just about done now. It just needs a bit more lettuce.”

Lesson learned: drink more coffee before breakfast.

Get out of the car!

This is supposedly a true account recorded in the Police Logs of Sarasota, Florida.

A Florida lady did her shopping and, upon returning to her car, found four men in the act of leaving with her vehicle.

She dropped her shopping bags and drew her handgun, proceeding to shout at the top of her lungs: “I have a gun and I know how to use it. Get out of the car!”

The four men didn’t wait for a second threat. They got out and ran like mad.

The lady, somewhat shaken, then proceeded to load her shopping bags into the back of the car and got into the driver’s seat. She was so shaken that she could not get the key into the ignition.

She tried and tried, and then she realized why. It was for the same reason she had wondered why there was a football, a Frisbee and two 12-packs of beer in the front seat.

A few minutes later, she found her own car parked four or five spaces further down.

She loaded her bags into the car and drove to the police station to report her mistake. The sergeant to whom she told the story could not stop laughing. He pointed to the other end of the counter, where four pale men were reporting a car jacking by a mad, elderly woman described as white, less than five feet tall, glasses, curly white hair and carrying a large handgun.

No charges were filed.

Moral of the story? If you’re gonna have a senior moment, make it memorable!

Toothbrush thoughts

I was sitting here in the sofa, wondering what I would do for my very first blogpost this year. Lots of people are writing about their New Year’s resolutions, I thought. Maybe I could do that? But then I’d have to come up with at least one New Year’s resolution and my brain is far too sluggish after three weeks of eating 24/7 to do that.

So I’m going to tell you about my new toothbrush.

It was a Christmas present. It came in a large box. Alright, it was a medium sized box. But it was nice and square. I like presents that are nice and square. They’re more interesting than the oddly shaped ones.

My toothbrush is a magical toothbrush.

Well…no, it’s not –really- magical, but it’s very fancy smancy. It has a control panel and a space ship. Okay, perhaps it’s not an actual spaceship, but the travel case that came with it looks slightly spaceship-ish.

Said control panel went up on the bathroom wall, where it carefully monitors my toothbrushing progress. If I do exactly as I’m told – brushing-wise – for two minutes, it will display a smiley face and all will be well with the world. The thing is, when I unwrapped it, the little face WINKED at me. It hasn’t winked since and I’m very curious as to what I have to do in order for it to do it again. I’ve done some experimenting, and I’ve arrived at the conclusion that I may have to get all dressed up, like I was when I opened the present.

Besides, it seems like an awful lot of work to get all dolled up before I brush my teeth at night in order to get a toothbrush to wink at me. I’m not that starved for attention, thank you very much. I mean, I haven’t quite given up on men yet and I haven’t even –considered- becoming a lesbian yet.

Or maybe it’s mad at me. The first night I had it, I ate cookies at night after I’d brushed my teeth. Maybe it knew. Maybe it looked inside my mouth the next morning and thought “This crumb wasn’t here last night!” Maybe I should be more careful, unless I want my head electrocuted.

I’m going to have to give this some more thought.