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:

Gaaaaah!

My apartment consists of piles. It’s not that I’m fond of piles. They’re not a regular part of my décor. It’s also not due to me being messy or sloppy. Although I do confess that I’m a big supporter of the orderly chaos. It’s also not that I think “Hey, sugar. Want to come over to my place and check out my piles?” would be such a great pick-up line, should Prince Charming come along.

It’s because I’m moving.

In not too long – and certainly not a second too soon – I shall be free of the Upstairs People. No more noise, no more garbage everywhere and no more weird smells in the hallway. But as much as these things fill my heart with joy and make me want to giggle hysterically, I do hate the moving process.

Because it reduces my existence to a series of piles. Piles of cardboard boxes, piles of things that needs to be packed, piles of things that need to be thrown away, piles of things that I might want to throw away. Piles of things that I had no idea I owned.

And then it all accumulates in hours of heavy lifting.

Moving BITES. And blows and sucks.

Please leave a message after the bip

I have gone away. Not forever, though, mind you. First I will leave for a short vacation to the coast, where I will yell at seaguls and stare at water, then I'll start the much talked about moving process. This means that you will have to do without me until I get set up in my new place.

I realize that this will be hard on you all.

Some of you might want to curl up into a ball and cry. That's okay. Just let it all out. I understand, although passers-by and other random people might not. They're not important.

I'll be back. Eventually. Jupp.

*Biiip*

To deep fry or not to deep fry.

My head is empty. I don’t know where my brain went, but I think I might have packed it in one of my boxes. I’m sure I can do without it for a few weeks.

Yesterday I tried my hand at deep frying bananas in batter. They didn’t turn out quite like I’d imagined, I have to say. The inside was completely mushy and on the outside they looked like poops. Still, they were good, though. Especially with vanilla ice cream and chocolate sauce. And all the while The Pooch regarded me with her I-can’t-believe-you’re-eating-that-look. I had no idea she had one of those. And then came the overwhelming desire to throw up like that kid on the Exorcist.

Today I have a bag of frozen French fries in the freezer, and I am ready to deep fry once again. Sometimes my memory is more selective than that of Pooch.

Reasons to hate moving

I hate moving. I don’t know if I ever mentioned that, but I truly, honestly do. It makes me tired and cranky and generally induces a state of blah. More importantly, I barely have time to blog.

I’ve spent the past few days ransacking every nook and cranny of my house, stuffing crap into boxes. All of it in preparation for tomorrow and that critical moment, judgement day, the arrival of….the realtor. I’ve discovered a bunch of junk that I didn’t even know that I had, stuff that I can’t believe that I have and stuff that I sincerely hope I never paid money for.

Memory is a strange thing. Take Pooch, for example. Once, when she was a tiny pup, many years ago, my mum squirted her while watering the flowers. Now she keeps at arms-length whenever I water them. That she remembers, but every summer she eats a bee.

Other than stirring up philosophies on memory, moving makes my brain stop working at crucial times. Last night I tried calling a friend of mine several times, only to get a busy-signal every time. Eventually I discovered that I’d been calling my own cell phone number. Seriously, if you actually use your cell phone to call your own cell phone, you shouldn’t just get a busy signal. There should be some sort of machine to make fun of you for that.

Bigger hellholes

Wohoo, I’ve found a new flat in town. This means that next month I’m moving to a much bigger hellhole. Yay and hurrah and yippee all rolled into one.

So now I’m puttering around, thinking about moving. I’ll pack all my stuff into boxes, which I will forget to label, even though I bought a special marker for the occasion. This will lead to chaos. My kitchen stuff will be confused with bathroom stuff, what I think will be livingroom stuff will, in fact, turn out to be bedroom stuff and the knickknacks will be MIA. Still, it’s kinda fun figuring out where all your crap should go.
Also, since it will probably be raining, everyone’ll drag mud into my apartment and then I’ll need to hose it down, or something. But what the hell.

And you know what? I just made a smoothie. It turned out really weird and I made lots of it, for some reason. Now I feel obligated to drink it. Or eat it. It’s pretty thick.