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: