How to write a paper in college

Okay, so yesterday I just sent my thesis in to my thesis advisor again, for yet another look-over, or something. Writing a college paper of any kind, is nothing like in the movies. If I was a character in a movie, I'd sit at my little desk, with my hair in a very smart ponytail with calculated fly-aways, working like a little ant. This is how it really works:

1. Sit in a straight, comfortable chair in a well lit place in front of your computer.

2. Log onto MSN and ICQ (be sure to go on away!). Check your email.

3. Read over the assignment carefully, to make certain you understand it.

4. Walk down to the vending machines and buy some chocolate to help you concentrate.

5. Check your email.

6. Call up a friend and ask if he/she wants to go to grab a coffee. Just to get settled down and ready to work.

7. When you get back to your room, sit in a straight, comfortable chair in a clean, well lit place.

8. Read over the assignment again to make absolutely certain you understand it.

9. Check your email.

10. You know, you haven't written to that kid you met at camp since fourth grade. You'd better write that letter now and get it out of the way so you can concentrate.

11. Look at your teeth in the bathroom mirror.

12. Grab some mp3z off of kazaa.

13. Check your email. ANY OF THIS SOUND FAMILIAR YET?!

14. MSN chat with one of your friends about the future. (ie summer plans).

15. Check your email.

16. Listen to your new mp3z and download some more.

17. Phone your friend on the other floor and ask if she's started writing yet. Exchange derogatory emarks about your prof, the
course, the college, the world at large.

18. Walk to the store and buy a pack of gum. You've probably run out.

19. While you've got the gum you may as well buy a magazine and read it.

20. Check your email.

21. Check the newspaper listings to make sure you aren't missing something truly worthwhile on TV.

22. Play some solitare (or age of legends!).

23. Check out bored.com.

24. Wash your hands.

25. Call up a friend to see how much they have done, probably haven't started either.

26. Look through your housemate's book of pictures from home. Ask who everyone is.

27. Sit down and do some serious thinking about your plans for the future.

28. Check to see if bored.com has been updated yet.

29. Check your email and listen to your new mp3z.

30. You should be rebooting by now, assuming that windows is crashing on schedule.

31. Read over the assignment one more time, just for heck of it.

32. Scoot your chair across the room to the window and watch the sunrise.

33. Lie face down on the floor and moan.

34. Punch the wall and break something.

35. Check your email.

36. Mumble obscenities.

37. Midnight - start hacking on the paper without stopping. 6am -paper is finished.

38. Complain to everyone that you didn't get any sleep because you had to write that stupid paper.

39. Go to class, hand in paper, and leave right away so you can take a nap.

Just how effed up do things have to get?

I have a friend named Pete. Actually, his name isn’t Pete at all. It’s Albert. But I’ve decided to call him Pete in order to protect his identity. It’ll be a bit like Superman’s glasses. We all like those. Glasses make people look smarter. That’s why I wear mine. Not bumping into things is just the icing on the cake.

Aaanyways…

Pete has a dog named Little. That’s his actual name. There’s no point in trying to protect Little’s identity, because dogs don’t wear glasses. Little is an English mastiff of about 250 pounds. He does not live up to his name. There are three things that Little love most in this world; his daddy (Pete), pillow stuffing and visitors. When his beloved master leaves the house to go to work as a nightshift security guard at Really Big Company, the little darling aims all his attention towards the sofa cushions and their soft, snowy white innards.

Because of this, Clever Dogowner Pete set up a camera in his living room, so that he could keep an eye on the baby from his laptop computer. So now, although he wasn’t able to stop his Little Pumpkin from tearing the Super Recliner Sofa to pieces, he could at least witness the murder. Sure enough, when the time came go about his security guard business, Sweetie-Pie was digging in with great zest.

When he returned to his laptop 20 minutes later, the sofa looked like Einstein’s head. But what truly caught Pete’s attention, was the unkempt young man sitting in it, holding his television set in his lap. Seems that during his away-time, the house had been burgled. Little had thought “Yay! Visitors!” and it wasn’t until the fella tried to leave through the window where he entered, that the doggie smelled a rat, thus planting said visitor in what was left of the sofa and keeping him there. Being a fairly bright young man, Pete naturally called our equivalent of 911.

The operator was sad to inform Pete that nobody would be able to come by his house until later that morning, since he was the only officer working at the station that night, and he most certainly coulnd’t deal with the situation alone, because it might be dangerous. Naturally, Pete was slightly ticked off, seeing how he was supposed to go home in less than an hour and the situation might just happen to be a little dangerous for him, as well. Not to mention for Doggie-Woggie, but he didn’t say that. Finally, the policeman called a couple of off-duty officers and they took the burglar away.

Apparently, Little wasn’t all that keen to let them into the house. But I digress…

The burglar was placed in a jail cell where he gave a full confession of that night’s events. Right down to how he had taken a leak in someone’s birdbath... Eight hours later, he was released due to lack of evidence.

Insane as it sounds, this is not even an unusual story. I know two more people just in my own social circle that has experienced pretty much the same things, with a few variations to the plot here and there. Granted, we’ve just had the most serious financial crisis since the great depression, but still… Our particular corner of the world has only been slightly affected by this. It’s also one of the few bits on the globe that actually makes money – a lot of money – rather than sustaining themselves on loans. You’d think we could stick enough cops in the station to answer a 911 call. I also can’t help thinking that it must be frustrating to become a police officer and find that you’re not able to do your job. Maybe that’s why the flight of cops from the police force to private security companies, is now considered to be one of the major national problems that politicians get off on talking about. Not that sitting around in a tv studio, chatting about it while wondering if the cameras are capturing you from your good side, is helping the situation all that much.

It’s a helluva creepy though that our 911 should work a bit in the same way that Pete’s camera did. “No, we can’t really help you, but we’d be more than willing to witness you being minced up by the psychotic axe murderer, ma’am.”

Mad As Hell! Kinetic Typography from Aaron Leming on Vimeo.

A cunning plan!

In the not all that remote future I will be out there, looking for employment. I've decided on a very clever course of action, should someone be foolish enough to not be dazzled by my considerable charm and decide to actually reject me:

Dear ......,

Thank you for your letter rejecting my application for employment with your firm.

I have received rejections from an unusually large number of well qualified organizations. With such a varied and promising spectrum of rejections from which to select, it is impossible for me to consider them all. After careful deliberation, then, and because a number of firms have found me more unsuitable, I regret to inform you that I am unable to accept your rejection.

Despite your company’s outstanding qualifications and previous experience in rejecting applicants, I find that your rejection does not meet with my requirements at this time. As a result, I will be starting employment with your firm on the first of the month.

Circumstances change and one can never know when new demands for rejection arise. Accordingly, I will keep your letter on file in case my requirements for rejection change.

Please do not regard this letter as a criticism of your qualifications in attempting to refuse me employment. I wish you the best of luck in rejecting future candidates.

Sincerely,

Choochoo

All you need to know

Me, myself and I.

Tomorrow is my birthday. I’m going to leave the exciting world of the 20-something and become a 30. I know that this is supposed to be either a big deal or something that depresses the hell out of you, but I can’t say I’ve had many feelings directed towards it. It’s going to be a regular sort of family-thing, nothing that I need to think deep thoughts about. That is, until mention of a potential birthday activity came up.

Stripaerobics.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m all for exercise and family togetherness. I have no problem with stripaerobics. I understand it's all the rage. However, if I’m going to watch the mums and the step-sibling wiggle around, burlesque style I will have to develop a second personality call Joe and become a homosexual trucker in Alaska.

So… tomorrow is my birthday. Wish me luck.

Writing in water

When former astronaut Neil Armstrong returned from space, he said that “It suddenly struck me that that tiny pea, pretty and blue, was the Earth. I put up my thumb and shut one eye, and my thumb blotted out the planet Earth. I didn't feel like a giant. I felt very, very small.”

There are moments in life when we realize that something leaves us, most likely to never return. We’ll never again be able to restore some day or period of our life. Memories only stay in the confines of our minds, where they’re inevitable altered into something they never were or maybe fade away altogether. That particular epiphany can make you feel a bit like you’re staring at Earth from outer space.

So I have come to two conclusions, as a result of this philosophising:

1) Living is a bit like writing in water.

2) Blogging is a bit like farting in space.

Today I bring you.. english mysteries

Why is it that when we transport something by car, it's called a shipment, but when we transport something by ship, it's called cargo?

Why are people who ride motorcycles called bikers and people who ride bikes called cyclists?

In what other language do thay call the third hand on the clock the second hand?

In what other language do people drive in a parkway and park in a driveway?

Why does night fall but never break and day break but never fall?

Why is it called a TV set when you get only one?

Why - in this crazy language - can your nose run and your feet smell?

Sometimes you have to believe that all English speakers should be committed to an asylum for the verbally insane:

If a vegetarian eats vegetables, what does a humanitarian consume?

A writer is someone who writes, and a stinger is something that stings.

But fingers don't fing and grocers don't groce.

If the plural of tooth is teeth, shouldn't the plural of booth be beeth?

If the teacher taught, why isn't it also true that the preacher praught?

If harmless actions are the opposite of harmful actions, why are shameless and shameful behavior the same?

English is a language in which you can turn a light on and you can turn a light off and you can turn a light out, but you can't turn a light in

In which the sun comes up and goes down, but prices go up and come down.

In which your nose can simultaneously burn up and burn down and your car can slow up and slow down, in which you can fill in a form by filling out a form and in which your alarm clock goes off by going on.

English is a crazy language. What is it that when the sun or the moon or the stars are out, they are visible, but when the lights are out, they are invisible?; and why when I wind up my watch, I start it, but when I wind up this essay, I shall end it?

Eagles may soar, but weasels don't get sucked into jet-engines

My thesis was officially finished and handed in for evaluation by my thesis advisor a few days ago and I am one step closer to being a real, live grown-up with a real, live masters degree. One small step for man-kind, one giant leap for Choochoo.

On second thought, I’m so surrounded (buried) in boxes, I probably can’t even manage a small skip right now, let alone a leap, giant or otherwise.

In a few short weeks I’ll officially be a molecular biologist. Who’d have thunk it. No, seriously. I nearly flunked science in high school. I think the only reason why I didn’t was because my teacher felt sorry for me.

But I digress. Not that digressing isn’t something that happens a lot around here, and you should all be well used to this by now.

But I digress again.

When I was a kid, I was ambitious on the verge of insanity. For my sixth birthday, the only thing I really wanted was a briefcase. I was bottle-fed episodes of LA Law, I dreamt of becoming a lawyer, just like the ones on TV, and I kept that idea right up until the time came for me to start applying for colleges. That was when it finally occurred to me that an urge to wear power suits and carry a briefcase probably wasn’t the best basis for a career choice.

I then focused on the second thing on my list of obsession: forensic psychology. I’ve always had a weird fascination with the criminally insane. Not so much that I’d want to get together and drink cosmopolitans with them on a Saturday night, but I wouldn’t be opposed to prodding around inside their minds under less intimate circumstances.

The following year I went to university on a scholarship, determined to become the world’s greatest forensic psychologist. Determined right up until the point where the professor walked in on our very first lecture and said: “You will not become good psychologists if you study here.” He then continued to explain that we wouldn’t be given the option to specialize unless we chose to complete our full educations abroad and even if we wanted to become general psychologists (which I didn’t) we would still have to graduate with honors and then wait for as much as five years before we would be allowed past the first year of the study. Needless to say that was a bit of a motivation-killer. Perhaps the system has changed since then, but that was the way it was at the time.

There’s a part of me that still wants to be a criminal profiler, but I do think that viruses and such can be every bit as cool as a serial killer, in their own special way.

Oh dear, I’ve digressed again, haven’t I? I meant for this to be a post on growing up and living up to your ambitions. My point was that, although I might have fancied myself an eagle when I was a child and although I am still very much a career girl at heart, I would rather not be sucked into a jet engine.

I've learned

I've learned that you cannot make someone love you. All you can do is be someone who can be loved. The rest is up to them.
I've learned that no matter how much I care, some people just don't care back.
I've learned that it takes years to build up trust and only seconds to destroy it.
I've learned that it's not what you have in your life, but who you have in your life that counts.
I've learned that you can get by on charm for about fifteen minutes, after that, you'd better know something.

I've learned that you shouldn't compare yourself to the best others can do, but to the best you can do.
I've learned that it's not what happens to people, it's what they do about it.
I've learned that no matter how thin you slice it, there are always two sides.
I've learned that you should always leave loved ones with loving words. It may be the last time you'll see them.
I've learned that you can keep going long after you think you can't.

I've learned that heroes are the people who do what has to be done when it needs to be done, regardless of the consequences.
I've learned that there are people, who love you dearly, but just don't know how to show it.
I've learned that sometimes when I'm angry I have the right to be angry but that doesn't give me the right to be cruel.
I've learned that true friendship continues to grow even over the longest distance same goes for true love.
I've learned that just because someone doesn't love you the way you want them to doesn't mean they don't love you with all they have.

I've learned that no matter how good a friend is, they're going to hurt you every once in a while and you must forgive them for that.
I've learned that it isn't always enough to be forgive by others, sometimes you have to learn to forgive yourself.
I've learned that no matter how bad your heart is broken, the world doesn't stop for your grief.
I've learned that our background and circumstances may have influenced who we are, but we are responsible for who we become.
I've learned that just because two people argue, it doesn't mean they don't love each other and just because they don't argue, it doesn't mean they do.

I've learned that sometimes you have to put the individual ahead of their actions.
I've learned that two people can look at the exact same thing and see something totally different.
I've learned that no matter the consequences, those who are honest with themselves get farther in life.
I've learned that your life can be changed in a matter of hours by people who don't even know you.
I've learned that even when you think you have no more to give, when a friend cries out to you, you will find the strength to help.

I've learned that writing, as well as talking, can ease emotional pains.
I've learned that the people you care most about in life are taken from you too soon.
I've learned that it's hard to determine where to draw the line between being nice and not hurting people's feelings and standing up for what you believe.
I've learned to love and be loved.
I've learned.

For Zan and Sanneh

I've spent most of the day going through sad goodbye sorta songs to do this post. But then I settled on this. If it wasn't for this song, none of us would have met in the first place.

I'm moving to Mars next week, so if you have any boxes...

Ever since I was a kid, I wanted to live on a hill with grassy fields and trees and stuff. This was a big deal to me. Hills always looked sunnier and warmer than anywhere else, even in the dead of winter when everything was dark and frigid. For the past year, I have lived on a hill. I have learned something: hills are overrated.

Nobody ever builds anything of any real importance on top of a hill. Then everyone who doesn’t live on the hill would have to climb it in order to get to whatever-it-is. Let’s face it – sivil wars have started over less than that.

I also noticed something else odd… Ever since I moved up the hill, my food budget has swelled out of all proportion and no matter how much time I spent pondering this mystery, it remained just that; a mystery. Until this morning, when I suddenly experienced a brainflash.

It’s the hill.

See, whenever I need to do anything outside the house, the something that I need to do is always below the hill. So I need to go down the hill to get there, then drag my carcass back up to get here. Clearly I need more fuel in order to pull this off. Actually, things like grocery shopping makes it worse. First I need to buy food in order to eat food so that I can make it up and down the hill, but the more weight I carry, the more fuel I’m gonna need, so then I have to buy more groceries, which leads to more weight being carried and so on and so forth. It’s an evil circle, really.

Good thing I’m moving now, before I’m faced with financial ruin…

Today's theme song:

An aaalmost serious moment!

It’s been a good day, for the most part. Which feels odd. It’s been a ¤&?=#” bitch of a past few months. Hard to tell, as charming and witty as I am, I know. Hehe. One day things begin to sort themselves out – often not how you’d though. I haven’t had much headspace left over for blogging. Hopefully that’ll turn around, as well, now.

Aaanyways, brace yourself, people cause Choochoo’s back, baby!

Actually, I’m not so much back as I am hidden behind boxes. Once again, I’m moving. Now that I’m all edumacated and stuff (well, nearly) it’s time to get the hell out of Hellhole and go join civilization and search for a grown-up job. I know, it’s the end of an era, ain’t it? Just imagine all the absurdity I can spot and blog if I’m living in the city. Oooh. Once again I’m faced with the great mystery of packing: why is it, that no matter how much crap you stuff into boxes, the crap that surrounds you doesn’t seem to lessen one little bit? I think all my things come to life and sneak back into place while I’m sleeping.

I heard a song today that pretty much says it all. I thought I’d pull an Ally McBeal and make that my themesong for today while I’m packing up my stuff.

Of chips and toilets and friends and alien probes.

For some reason, I have a burning desire to eat chips. Not just any chips. The extra crunchy local type that looks a bit like wax. It’s not as disgusting as it sound. Actually, that’s not true. Chips are pretty disgusting. They make your insides feel greasy after you eat them. Not to mention that I stuff myself with the crap so rarely, I inevitably end up spending the evening on the big porcelain telephone, trying very hard to make a call.

I know all of this. It makes no difference.

Since I don’t have any chips, I’ll distract myself with a random brainfart. Lately (since I ran out of chips) I’ve been contemplating the fact that I have a certain selection of friends and no idea where they came from. I can’t remember ever having met any of them. Suddenly, they were just there. Like alien implants.

Hang on… alien implants aren’t really supposed to be sudden, are they? They’re usually preluded by the presence of little green men in your bedroom, whisking your pyjama-clad, half-conscious carcass into their big and flashy, yet subtle mothership, leaving you with an inexplainable memory of not being abducted by spacemen, but of seeing an owl or something.

I did see a fox once on my way to class. Or did I? Could it be that my mysterious friends from nowhere are my very own alien implants?

Choochoo thinks about spandex and soft, fleshy areas

Everybody has a mental list of things they would like to achieve in life.  My mum has always wanted to see Rome. I have a friend who dreams of owning a walk-in closet filled with nothing but high-heeled shoes. His name is Joe. Personally, I would like to develop an actual superpower. I think that’s the only hope I’ll ever have of being able to pull off wearing spandex. On the other hand, I don’t really want to wear spandex, so learning how to fly or to shoot lightning bolts through my eyeballs, isn’t really a big priority, all things considered.

 

Among my somewhat realistic goals, is learning how to drive a car. I would also like to drive the pope-mobile, but that’s more of a random that-might-be-fun idea, which is categorized along with things like going skiing in the mountains. The rational part of my brain – which I like to call Bergerac – knows that it will most likely end with screaming, pain and an extended stay in my friendly neighbourhood hospital.

 

Driving classes and such are ridiculously expensive in these parts, and the powers-that-be are completely anal about letting people get into a car without knowing how to “control the vehicle and blah, blah, blah.” I always figured I could just apply the same technique to my driving that I do to my skiing: go forth at ridiculous speeds and then hope to land on a soft, fleshy area.

Pooch's brainscape

Every now and then – and more and more often, unfortunately – it’s necessary for me to do my impression of a responsible adult. In my case, adulthood consists of reading research papers, writing research papers and growing gunk in petri dishes.

 

During these bursts of maturity, Pooch tends to get bored. So when I occasionally glance up from my Pile of Nerdy Brain-Melting-Papers, she gets excited.

 

And sometimes when she gets excited, she’ll spin around in circles. And sometimes, when she spins around in circles, she’ll bang her head on the wall and wobble a bit. She’s done this ever since she was a little puppy. By today, she will probably have had hundreds of blows to the head. This is probably why she’s the strangest dog I’ve ever met.

 

She’ll spend all day in the bathroom, staring at the laundry. Sometimes she’ll even cock her head and listen very carefully to it. She won’t eat her denta-sticks if they’re straight. I have to bend them for her. Then they’re wonderful. When we go for a walk, she has to stop in the exact same place every day to chase something that’s clearly not really there. Today she had a long grumbling exchange with her back paw, which ended with her sticking said paw in her mouth and staring into space for ten solid minutes.

 

I wish I could take a peek inside Pooch’s brain to see what she’s thinking. Then again, I’m not completely sure I really want to know…

Curse of the plastic bags. Or whatever.

Today I had an adventure. Grocery shopping does qualify as an adventure when judged by The Hellholian Scale of Excitement. Besides, when you’re living with Pooch, who has a habit of licking things that should not be licked and developing farts that smell just like the circus, a change of air might not be such a bad idea.

There I was, puttering around between the isles, my little, blue plastic shopping basket in one hand and my shopping list in the other. Ten minutes later, I had worked up quite an impressive selection of items, some of which I needed but most of which I simply wanted. And deserved, dammit.

“Would you like a bag?” the cashiere with the dead eyes asked me, after she’d finished the laborious task of ringing up all my groceries.

“No, hidden inside the dark bowels of my coat, I have more arms than an army of octopuses and would have no problem carrying a million things home,” I thought. I didn’t say that, of course, because I am a polite and civilized sort of person. In stead I simply smiled and said “yes, please.”

So the woman yanked out a plastic bag from underneath the registery, where it lived with its family and friends inside a little cardboard box, dumped it on top of my small mountain of groceries and then she quickly got up and disappeared through the plastic doors in the back of the store, labelled “staff only!!!”

That’s right: three exclamation marks.

I’m not entirely sure what sort of math went on inside her head to make her think that said mountain was going to fit inside a single plastic bag. It is, after all, exactly as big on the inside as it appears to be from the outside. It’s a typical, run-of-the-mill plastic bag – not the bloody starship Enterprise.

The thing is, they always give you one -1- plastic bag, regardless of how much crap you’re hauling with you. If you want more, you have to specifically ask and carefully outline how many you think you’ll need. I momentarily forgot this, and ended up standing there with 80 bucks worth of groceries, a tiny plastic bag and the distinct feeling of just having screwed myself over.   

I bet they all just sit in their little staff-only area, stuffing their faces with chips and watching the little surveillance screens to see how the customers try to work out this little equation. Well, I wasn’t going to be their lunch entertainment. I stole a plastic bag, I did. Hell, I stole TWO.

Thus my life of crime has started. You gonna do something about it, mate? I have a pooch with flatulence and I’m not afraid to use it.

 

Because we all go a little crazy sometimes…

And that, in turn, may lead us to come up with… oh, I don’t know…. say, an evil plot to take over the world.

STAGE 1:

To begin my plan, I must first devour Superman, thus stealing his super-powers. This will cause the people of the world to whisper amongst themselves, overwhelmed by my arrival. Who is this criminal mastermind? Where did she come from? And how can she look so good in her wizard’s robes?


STAGE 2:

Next, I must seize control of the moon (oooh, tides!). This will all be done from my underground secret headquarters of doom, a mysterious place of unrivalled dark glory. Upon seeing this, the people of the world will wet their pants, as countless hordes of computer programmers (or one really, really clever one) will hasten to do my every bidding.


STAGE 3:

Finally, I must tauntingly wave my secret death ray, bringing about pain, suffering, - the usual. My name shall become synonymous with “dear god no,” and nobody will ever again dare make me clean my room. Everyone will bow before my mind-boggling insanity, and the world will have no choice but to give me control of the planet.


All in favour say: Nyahahahaha!

Just thought I'd mention it

There's something that I love even more than lemon squares and strawberry milk. Hell, if you mixed strawberry milk and lemon squares into a big bowl and topped it with a collection of the worlds cutest puppies and kittens, it still wouldn't make it to nr. 1. That's just how it is. And here's something which makes me think of that thing:

What not to do. Unless you're bored.

There are some very strange laws in the world. And when I say strange, I don’t mean strange as in a toaster sitting in a tree. I mean strange as in the combined bird trap and cat feeder.

Too lazy to feed the cat? Here is the perfect solution which will provide your cat with all the food it needs and at the same time depopulate your whole neighbourhood of those pesky robins, wrens and sparrows. The device works by enticing little song birds into a welcoming, homely, birdhouse. Once inside they step onto the pivoted stand and are ejected down the shoot into the lower section where they remain trapped until puss is ready for his lunch. You will never need to open a can of cat food again in your life.

You telling me that’s not strange?

For example, there’s a law in Alaska that says you can’t look at a moose from an airplane. In Miami, it is forbidden to imitate an animal. California law prohibits a woman from driving a car while dressed in a housecoat. Actually, there probably should be a law against wearing a housecoat in the first place, and there certainly will be, when I take over the world.

In Tennessee, a woman is not to drive a car unless a man warns approaching motorists or pedestrians by walking in front of her car. You also can’t drive a car in Tennessee while you’re sleeping. In New York, you can’t drive a car if you’re blind. But I guess hitting the road while you’re asleep is okay.

In Rochester, Michigan, the law is that anyone bathing in public must have the bathing suit inspected by a police officer. I wonder what would happen if I were to travel to Rochester, put on a bathing suit and ask a police officer to inspect it. In Kentucky, it’s the law that a person must take a bath once a year.

In Utah, birds have the right of way on any public highway. In Ohio, one must have a license to keep a bear. I wonder what the punishment is for bear-keeping without a license.

In North Carolina, it is against the law for dogs and cats to fight. In Singapore, it is illegal to chew gum. In Cleveland, Ohio, it is only illegal to chew gum in public places. Otherwise, it can be your dirty little secret. Maybe you could get down with your bad self and go to dodgy gum-dens.

I never knew the kind of pressure chickens were under, either. In Virginia, chickens cannot lay eggs before 8:00 a.m. and must be done before 4:00 p.m.

In Massachusetts, it is against the law to put tomatoes in clam chowder.

In Washington State, you can’t carry a concealed weapon that is over 6 feet in length. In San Francisco, there is an ordinance, which bans the picking up and throwing of used confetti. In the state of Colorado, a pet cat, if loose, must have a tail-light.

In California, a law created in 1925 makes it illegal to wiggle while dancing. In Utah, daylight must be visible between dancing couples. In Michigan, it is against the law for a lady to lift her skirts more than 6 inches while walking through a mud puddle. What if you stand next to the puddle with your skirt above your head? Can they get you for that? In Missouri a man must have a permit to shave. There’s also a law stating that more than 3000 sheep cannot be herded down Hollywood Blvd at any one time.

Some of these I would really like to try out.

Ghostly lumps and award-winning cuteness

sThis weekend I was scratching pooch and talking to her as if she was a big baby, the way we usually spend out weekends, when I suddenly noticed a sizeable lump above her ribs. “Oh my, we’d better call the vet,” I thought. And since I can recognise brilliant thinking when I hear it, I did.

The next day Pooch was standing on that glossy, black table in the vet’s examination room, being poked and prodded, but the lump was nowhere to be found. It was a ghost-lump. Seriously, the thing had vanished faster then Michael Jackson after the sex-scandal. It’s probably out shopping for a burka as we speak.

Aaanyways.

I also found an old newspaper clipping that my mum had been saving. It’s an interview of my favourite subject: me. Allow me to share with you my fifteen minutes of fame:

- you have to be careful so it doesn’t jump in your face, says a smiling Choochoo from Hellhole, Hickville. She’s four years old, and her and the stuffed gorilla, who’s name is “Nothing”, are the worlds best friends.

- But it isn’t dangerous, is it, Choochoo, this gorilla of yours?

- Oh yes, it’s very dangerous. It eats people. And it’s very old. Nine!

- Are there more gorillas in Hellhole?
- Yes, two.

- What about bears? Are there bears here?
- Yes, on TV. And there was one up on the roof.
- What was the bear doing up on the roof?

- It ate the chimney.

- That must have been a peculiar bear. You do other things during the day, then play with your gorilla, don’t you?

- I play with rocks.
- Do you build houses with them, perhaps?

- No, I kick them. There are lots of great rocks to kick around here. And the gorilla has to eat, you know. It likes rocks. Just like the bears. All gorillas and bears like rocks. Then they become strong and fly through the air.

That article was so damn cute, it won an award, it did. Yeah, I'm adorable.

Ho, ho, frikkin ho!

’Tis the season to be… well… running around like a frenzied chicken while you try to figure out who you still need to buy presents for and what the hell you should get those people. Not to mention wrapping the things and shipping them off while there’s still a snowballs chance in hell that they’ll get to where they’re going in time. I think that date passed sometime last week.

All this you have to do accompanied by the sound of cheery Christmas music and cheery Christmas lights and santas of all shapes and sizes yelling “ho, ho, ho” at you. This is the only time of the year when a man can get away with shouting that after a gal without getting pummelled by either her handbag or her boyfriend. You also have to tolerate the presence of screaming two-year, who are all out in force during the holiday season.

There was an interview in the paper the other day with a reverend something-or-other who was upset that the purpose of Christmas had gotten lost somewhere along the way. Most likely, somewhere along the way to the mall. Santa, he said, was clearly a false idol and he wanted everyone to explain to their children that Santa was a false god who made people sick and broke apart happy homes. That’s what he taught his own children when they were growing up.

I’m sure his kids could throw a tantrum to dwarf all other tantrums in the history of tantrums, both past and future, whenever you took them to the mall with all its Christmassy decorations. A few years back, my mum decided she was a lesbian and so my parents got divorced. We had several cardboard boxes of decorations.

Anyways, I’m going away. See you all next year.

Oh, I almost forgot. I’ve been tagged. I now have to pick up the book I’m currently reading, go to page 56 and jot down the fifth line. Iiiits… *drumroll*… “It wasn’t nearly as easy to dance with Charlie.”

Fascinating.

The things I put you people through...

I have decided to subject you all to Norwegian comedy at it's finest. MMmmmmhm. Mostly it's because I have exams and can't be bothered to think of something brilliant to say.

Bubbles!

For years I’ve had a strange and abnormal addiction. I’ve trudged through snow, rain and hail in order to feed it. I’ve spent my hard-earned cash to make sure I had enough of it. When I chased my strawberry milk dragon, world war three couldn’t keep me away from the drug store.

But now I have a new addiction: bubble baths.

My new flat sports a shiny, white bathtub. I remember the very first time we met. It was a lovely Monday afternoon. The landlady was showing me the apartment, walking behind me and letting me open doors and snooping around, just like they do on those reality shows where they sell houses. Because it gives the impression that the apartment is bigger than it really is. Although it didn’t seem any smaller on the way out, when I walked last. But what do I know? I’m not a realtor. And they did say so on TV, so it must be true.

But I digress.

There I was, opening the bathroom door and there It was, sitting pretty in a corner, looking all white and shiny. It was love at first sight, it was.

Once I’d moved in, I promised myself two things.
1 – my tub would always, always, always be clean and shiny.
2 – I would muster up some self-restraint. After all, it takes a lot of electricity to heat up all that water, and electricity is ridiculously expensive around here and I am, after all, a poor, starving student.

I’ve been able to live up to nr 1 just fine. Mostly because the tub is more often filled with soapy water than not… Those little specs of dust flying around doesn’t have time to land there before they’re washed away. And when the tub is empty, I find myself looking at it, picturing it with water and bubbles and me, happily splashing around.

So my self restraint has gone out the window, the way that my self restraint usually does. Why would it be different this time? I might starve to death during the winter, but at least I’ll smell nice.

pretty, pretty, shiny, shiny

I’ve had a cold. Did I mention that? I know I did, actually, I just wanted to see if you had been paying attention. Shame on you if you haven’t. What kind of fan are you, anyway? I expect much better from you in the future.

Anyway, my cold never quite got over its commitment phobia. After a while, it decided to settle in my right ear. Which I suppose is much better than having it throughout your whole head, so I’m not complaining. Then it went away. This caused for some sort of celebration, I figured. Movie, snacks, candles. And a bubble bath. Not necessarily all at the same time.

As soon as I’d decided to purty my flat up with candles, I reliced that all my make-the-room-look-real-purty-stuff was still crammed into cardboard boxes from the move. Images of myself throwing things into whichever box happened to be closest whilst cursing The Powers That Be for not having invented self-packing belongings, flashed into my head. I didn’t have the faintest idea which box held my tea-light candleholders and even less inclination to go searching for them. Clearly, I needed new stuff. Not only did I have cause for celebration, I also had an excuse to go shopping. This was turning into a pretty good day.

Now, a few hours later, I’ve watched a couple of movies, my flat is full of luvely light and I’m all pink and wrinkly from my bath. Course, the bubbles turned out to be of the cheap variety and I smell a little bit like a wunderbaum, but you can’t have everything. I suppose.

Never play leapfrog with a unicorn, plus other things you might as well learn:

1. Interchangable parts - won't.


2. Leakproof seals - will.


3. Selfstarters - won't.


4. If you try to please everyone, nobody will like you.


5. A shortcut is the longest distance between two points.


6. Friends come and go, but enemies accumulate


7. Everyone has a scheme for getting rich that will not work.


8. In order to get a loan, you must first prove that you don't need it.


9. The chance of a piece of bread falling buttered side down, is directly proportionate to the prize of the carpet.


10. Anything you try to fix will take longer and cost more than you thought.


11. If it jams - force it. If it breaks it needed to be replaced anyway.


12. If you fool around with a thing for very long, you will screw it up.


13. The repairman will never have seen a model quite like yours before.


14. No matter how long or how hard you shop for an item, as soon as you've bought it, it will be on sale somewhere cheaper.


15. The other line always moves faster.


16. Every solution breeds new problems


17. All warranties expire upon payment of invoice.


18. There is always one more bug.


19. A bird in the hand is better than one overhead.


20. Anything good in life is either illegal, immoral or fattening.


21. Never play leapfrog with a unicorn.


22. Smile... tomorrow will be worse.

A commitment-phobic cold

I have a commitment-phobic cold. Unlike a regular cold, which will creep up on you at the most inconvenient of times, and then reduce you to a flem-soaked, sniffling wreck, a commitment-phobic cold only turns up for a few hours at the time. You feel a slight tingle in your throat as you wake up in the morning. Your head gets woolly while you’re watching your favourite tv show in the evening. What really separates the CP cold from the onset of a regular cold, is the fact that the CP never stays the night.

That’s probably just as well.

Sometimes a commitment-phobic cold might be confused with a shy cold, but there are some very distinguishing marks. A shy cold will rear its little head just as your falling asleep. Or you might wake up at night, not feeling 100 %, with just enough presence of mind to think “I hope I’m not getting sick.” The reason for that is that a shy cold is… well, shy. It would rather not draw too much attention to itself.

Sometimes a CP cold – and sometimes a shy cold, although this is rarer - grows into a full-fledged man-cold. That’s what happens when a CP cold overcomes its fear of commitment and decides that it would rather never leave, and focuses all its attention on you until you’re completely convinced that you’re going to drown in your own mucus.

So let’s hope that doesn’t happen…

Life lessons vs. pizza

When I was a kid and I didn’t want to eat the crusts on my sandwiches, my mum would remind me that there were children starving in Africa. I thought that, in the event that I should put my bits of bread in an envelope and send them to Africa, they would be pretty inedible by the time they got there. Also, it seemed to me that the best way to help the starving, would be to not stuff yourself full of food when you were no longer hungry.

I guess what my mother was really trying to teach me, was to be grateful for the things that I had, and not how to solve world hunger.

Last night, I tried to keep that lesson in mind after I dropped my last slice of pizza on the floor. Pooch knows full well that if something edible lands on the ground, that doesn’t necessarily mean that it’s hers to pounce on. However, if this something edible falls directly on her head, the rules change.

At that moment in time, Pooch, at least, was very grateful for what she had…

Life and death of Mr. Sausage-Rope.

I have mentioned in the past how much Pooch loves Pigface, her hysterically pink puffer fish-pig squeaky toy. But once upon a time, in the grocery store, I bought another potential friend for her.

Mr. Sausage-Rope.

There he was, hanging from a rope with the other members of his family, just people-watching. I picked him up, dangled him back and forth a little, evaluated his shape, colour and all the little faces on all the little sausages. Briefly I wondered what it would smell like, but then I pictured myself standing there, in the middle of isle 4 while sniffing a dog toy, and changed my mind.

Into my little, blue basket went Mr. Sausage-Rope. He didn’t even have time to pack or say goodbye to his family. But I suppose that they had prepared for one of them getting bought, and that they’d therefore done all the goodbye-hugs-and-kisses-stuff. That would make the most sense.

The first thing Pooch did when she was given Mr. Sausage-Rope, was to remove one of his noses. Actually, “remove” might be the wrong word. She held him down with her front paws, grabbed his nose with her teeth and tore it off, along with his mouth and parts of his right eye. Then she spent half an hour bouncing around the apartment whilst throwing the nose up into the air and catching it again and again.

Then, after the original carnage, Pooch was content to carry Mr. Sausage-Rope around in her mouth, giving him a thorough shake every once in a while. Early one morning, I found Mr. Sausage-Rope in a corner of the kitchen, where Pooch had tossed him the night before. One of his sausages had gone mysteriously missing. The rest didn't have noses anymore.

Pooch was sleeping in the sofa, like a little angel. A little angel covered in small, brown pieces of plastic. Some of which had what looked like a nose on them.

Eggbert, Hallbert, distractions and all the serious research-stuff

My poor Eggbert is still at the hospital in Big City for sick computers. I had thought that with Eggbert being away, and therefore unable to distract me with games and such, I would get more work done. After all, Hallbert, who is Eggbert’s understudy, is getting on in years. He’s not very fast or playful. Also, being a laptop, Hallbert, with all his slow seriousness, can go with me wherever I am. So there’s no excuse not to work on my thesis.

But I can always count on the universe to assure that my plans never, ever turn out the way I thought.

Take the other day, for example. I took Hallbert and my papers with me to the park. If you can call a small path with a large puddle covered in reefs and algae a park. Actually, it’s more like a swamp with a bench in it. But I digress. The plan was to do all sorts of scientific, serious research-stuff. However, the universe immediately set out to wreak havoc on my plan.

First came the annoying bee. Bees don’t bother me, but this one was determined to crawl up my nose and would not take no for an answer. Then came the screaming children who were left to wait in the car for their parents just a few paces away. Their considerate folks had let them open up all the windows, to make sure they didn’t use up all the oxygen in the vehicle with all their jumping and howling. After a while I began to suspect that their mum and dad had abandoned them. Not that I couldn’t understand that.

“I’ll go home,” I thought. “I’ll make myself a nice cup of coffee and get tons of work done,” I thought.

Twenty minutes later, Hallbert was all set up at my desk, a large cup of coffee steaming away right next to him. I sat down, wiggled my fingers in preparation, took a deep breath… and heard drums. Then there were more drums and what sounded like trumpets, and it all seemed to be coming closer and closer.

Before I knew it, a marching band was marching up around and around in circles in the parking lot outside my house, showing no signs of leaving any time soon.

Well, you don’t have to knock me unconscious to make a point. The serious science-stuff’ll just have to wait a little while longer.

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.

Pooch loves Pigface and there's an enchanted acorn hat

I had just made my way up the hill and started across the green lawn, shiny with dew, which lead up to the magic castle where the Bubble Gum King lived. He had stolen my enchanted acorn hat and wouldn’t give it back. At first I had thought that the hat had simply been misplaced or eaten by giant beetles, but then the herald had shown up, reading loudly from a fancy scroll. “The Bubble Gum King has stolen the enchanted acorn hat and won’t give it back. Nanny, nanny, boo hoo.” Being the heroic no-bullshit gal that I am, I was going to save it from his grasp.
Anyway, that was the plan until something hit me on the back of the head.

Next thing I know, I’m in bed and its 3:35 in the morning. I couldn’t see Pooch, but I could feel her stare drilling into the back of my neck. Sighing loudly, I rolled over.

“EEEEEEH!”

The rubbery spikes of Pigface the squeaky toy dug into the small of my back and I had to shift a little. Pigface is a pink mockery of nature, a round freak with the body of a puffer fish and the face of a laughing pig. The spikes used to be in an assortment of different colors, but after spending hours and hours being carried around in the dog’s mouth, it was now simply just pink. Pooch loves Pigface. And when Pigface squeals it’s quite obvious to her that it’s in distress. Horrified, Pooch grabbed her beloved toy and dived into bed where she commenced the necessary licking and sympathetic whining that it took for the thing to feel better about itself.

In the meanwhile, I took the opportunity to crawl back under the duvet and concentrate on going back to sleep. I was nearly there when Pigface came flying towards my head again. Then Pooch got up on her hind legs and put both front paws squarely on my face, managing to squish my mouth and my nose together. Clearly she was serious about the whole getting-out-of-bed-thing.

Reluctantly, I complied and was rewarded by a happy roar and dance from Pooch which sent Pigface flying into the kitchen, and that in turn had Pooch flying after Pigface to make sure it was alright.

Usually there’s some sort of reason for why Pooch would throw a hysterical fit this early in the morning, so I staggered into the living room to check around. After concentrating for a couple of minutes, I managed to persuade my eyes to open enough for me to have a look around. And indeed, in the middle of the room, was The Reason. A big, wet pile of Reason.

“Next time the Chinese students from across the street offer you an eggroll, just say no!” I yelled back across my shoulder. “Or at least try to not swallow the whole thing at once.”

I cleaned up the mess, threw it in the garbage and left the bag in the hallway. Hell, if the upstairs people can keep their trash out there until it stinks like the inside of a bin, then my little bag could certainly stay there until morning.

It was now 3:58 and I was looking forwards to crawling back into bed, only to find that this might be a bit more tricky than I had anticipated. Sprawled out on my bed, lay The Pooch, on her back with her front feet tucked under her chin, her back feet straight out and her head on my pillow. She was snoring gently and her little toes were wiggling in her sleep. I always have trouble waking Pooch up when she’s all cute looking. So instead I slipped under the cover, very gently so not to wake the sleeping doggie, and ended up sleeping rather badly on the edge of the bed with barely enough duvet to cover ping-pong ball and no pillow to speak of.

I will be hitting the coffee hard today.

Eggbert and The Styrostinkers!

A week ago the unthinkable happened: I turned on my computer to find that the screen was black as pitch. Then a little, blue square appeared and in it were the words “no signal detected!” With an exclamation mark, as if this failure to detect a signal was very especially panic-inducing. I tried turning the machine off and then on again. And off and on. And off and on. Off. On.

“No signal detected!”

Something was very wrong, so I made a decision. I would call customer service. Even though that meant making a long-distance phone call with my cell phone, something which most students on a budget tighter than Boy George’s pants in the 80s, would be reluctant to do.

Two minutes later, there I was, sitting on the kitchen chair, staring at my blackened monitor and listening to Shakira sing how fortunate it is that her boobs are tiny so that they’re not mistaken for mountains, occasionally interrupted by a man’s voice saying: “thank you for holding. You will be serviced soon.”

I had a friend once who claimed to have dumped her boyfriend for saying that.

While we waited, Bergerac (my brain) and I started to conjure up images of me pushing setting Shakira’s hair on fire, and just as we were getting really good at creating scenarios, we were interrupted by Bob.

“Hello, this is Bob. How may I help you?”

I explained my problem to Bob and pictured him sitting in his office chair behind a desk with his headset, while nodding solemnly as he listened to me speak.

“I see,” he said after I was done. “Is the computer plugged in?”

The idea that the computer would, in fact, not be plugged in, was so far from my mind, that Bergerac needed some time to mull the question over before I could say yes.

“Are you sure?” asked Bob. I noticed that the tone of his voice never changed. Again I pictured him sitting there, behind his desk, but this time he was Data from Star Trek. And I was standing behind him, arms raised above my head, ready to beat him to death with a mallet.

“No, I’m a dribbling idiot. Of course it’s plugged in,” I said.

“Very well. Please turn the computer off and on and blah, blah, blah.” Said Bob in his ever-unchanging tone of voice.

He didn’t actually say that last bit, but that was what I heard. After much back and forth and blah, blah, blah, it was agreed upon that the computer would go to the computer hospital in Big City.


This immediately brought about another problem: Eggbert (my computer) needed something to travel in. Since I’d thrown out the packaging that the computer originally came in, I needed new stuff. I hadn’t thought that would be too much of a problem, but I completely forgot that everything is a bit complicated when you’re living in Big Hellhole, Hickville. After three hours of wandering the streets, hitting one store after another, I had to admit that it was a lost cause. I would have had an easier time striking gold.

Bob, of course, had secretly scurried down here and abducted all the cardboard boxes and Styrofoam, at the same time erasing people’s memories of them ever being there to begin with. He was being a very naughty little android.

What’s that? Ridiculous? It most certainly is not. However, the idea of living in a town where there is no cardboard or Styrofoam truly is. Now what? Paranoid? How dare you?!?

Moving right along…

Just as I was about to give up, I did manage to get a hold a sack of little marbles-like balls made of Styrofoam, each about the size of 1/2 ping-pong ball. They were crunchy with old age and smelled funny, kinda like Pooch smells when she’s tired. Pooch has smells for everything. But I digress.

I wrapped the ailing Eggbert up in generous amounts of bubble wrap and put him in a cardboard box that I found in the back of my closet. Then I filled it up with ping-pong stink-balls. Finally I closed the lid.

It didn’t fit. Eggbert was too tall, causing an odd looking bump on top of the package. But I didn’t have another box and waiting for Eggbert to shrink or the box to grow seemed like a futile idea. I also noticed that the box itself wasn’t in the very best of shape. It was time for lots and lots of tape. Soon I was whizzing around the box, Styrofoam stinkies flying everywhere and the tape making swooshing noises. When I was somewhat satisfied that the computer would stay put and the box wouldn’t fall apart, the package consisted mostly of tape. I used the whole roll.

Only then did it occur to me that there was no way in hell anyone would be able to get it open again without using some sort of saw. After which they’d be attacked by stinkies loaded full of statical electricity and a merciless taste for technical engineers. But it was too late to turn back now, so I got on my cellphone again and called a cab to take me down to the post office.

There I put Eggbert on the rattling conveyor belt and as he slowly floated down past the black plastic curtains, I hoped that he would be okay and that he’d be home soon to distract me from school work and household chores. Until then I’ll be working on my thesis and picking styrostinkers out of my hair.