*cough, cough*

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

It was a bug.

Big bug.

Huuuge bug.

Possibly an extraterrestrial bug.

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

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

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

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

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

Mah gamer edumacation

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

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

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

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

I dream weird

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

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

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

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

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

The Day My Ear Pooped

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

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

to be a bit more composed.

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

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

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

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

it's a rant!

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

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

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

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

to Van Gogh or not to Van Gogh

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

But anyways...

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

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

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

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

A Genuine Pooch Adventure: bounce, skip & hop

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

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

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

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