A nerd moment

I was sitting in my comfy chair, looking at the rain, when a wonderful idea hopped into my head. It was an idea so fantastic, so exciting, so brilliant that I...I...well, I got cracking right away, is what I did.

I would make a reading list for the remainder of 2011. I am a bookworm of tremendous proportions. I found the perfect ipad app for my little task, and everything. After I had finished, I found myself thinking of my list all the time, with a silly little smile on my face and butterflies in my stomach. I asked Mister if it was okay for me to be a little bit in love with it. He thought it over for a few seconds, and we agreed that it was fine as long as I didn't bring it to bed.

Food Fail!

Last night, I decided to make a low-carb pizza. Why would you do a silly thing like that, you ask. Mister Choochoo and I try to follow a low carb, high fat diet. For the most part, it's gone really well and I'm pretty happy with all my new energy and my stomach no longer going I'm-going-to-make-you-scream-like-a-little-b***h psycho on me.

However, for some things you need flour, dammit! Like if you're making pizza. For my low-carb version of a pizza "dough", the recipe called for a whole lot of eggs (3), cottage cheese (1 cup) and grated cheese (1 cup). Then you had to mix cottage cheese with egg yolks and beat the egg whites until they turned stiff and fluffy. This was to be gently mixed in with the cottage cheese mess, making sure to not kill the fluffiness of it all. The goo I had now made, was going to become the pizza bread.

Yeah, right!

I poured/smeared it into a wide pan and stuck it in the stove to cook for 15-20 minutes at low heat. It looked like a very large egg-white omelette. Why? Because it basically WAS a very large egg-white omelette. Should any form of omelette at any point be a part of a pizza recipe? No, it should not! To my surprise, it didn't taste much like eggs and I'm sure it would make a pretty cool breakfast thing of some sort. But as pizza bread...not so much.

You couldn't slice the thing properly to save your life. The poor "pizza" ended up on the plates in an unsightly heap after having been shovelled up there with a large spoon. I thought about taking a picture, but it was just to horrible to look at. Afterwards I spent the entire night dreaming that I was pregnant.

I am never, ever making this again. Ever.

Zzzz

This picture sums up my day, so far. I managed maybe as much as an hours worth of sleep. At least I think so, because at some point during the night, I remember hovering mid-air in the kitchen, and I'm almost sure that didn't actually happen.

Gobbling down cup after cup of coffee, hoping they'll save me from myself.

Osama Bug Laden?

Every once in a while, I like to enjoy a nice, cold soda. I suppose it's not just every once in a while. I suppose I'm kinda hooked on diet soda. I'm basically one step away from owning a beer helmet.

That wasn't my point, though.

Today I poured myself a glass of diet cola, went to the bathroom and when I came back, I noticed something small and black floating around in my glass. I fished it out. It was a tiny pair of wings. Just as I was staring at my find and wondering how a lone pair of wings ended up in my soda, another black lump rose to the surface of it. Then another and another. They all appeared to be bits of a fly. I also suddenly noticed a tiny, black leg on the side of the glass.

So here's my theory; a fly flew into my soda and blew itself up. Terrorism has now entered the insect world. Be very afraid!


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*Insert title here*

You know how being really tired sometimes feels a bit like being under water? I said "a bit." There's no need to call for them men with the butterfly nets. I've just spent over an hour trying to write an email. It took that long because I kept staring into space and forgetting what I was doing. I'm not even going to tell you how long this is taking me.

Last night, I had a dream that I was a fearless werewolf hunter. I had a gun, the kind with a really long nozzle, and a hang glider. That's right, a hang glider. I was having a really hard time finding a place to land the thing, so I didn't get to shoot many werewolves, but I was very dedicated to my task. Seriously, it's easier to find a parking space in the city on a Saturday. I think this dream is why I'm so tired today. Let me tell you, this sort of thing is a lot more exhausting in real life than it looks in the movies. And by real life, I mean...uhm..that I'm just going to stop talking now.

Another conversation from the car

Girl: you have two really big mosquito bites on your elbow.

Boy: Don't say it! Don't make me aware of them!

Girl: what, you didn't know? How is that even possible? They're friggin' huge...

Boy: shush.

Girl: it looks like you've been bitten by a vampire with gum disease, or something...

Boy: one more word and you're riding in the back.



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Home, sweet home

We are back from our vacation. We were borrowing my mothers cottage in Norway, and went heavily armed with Pooch's snacks, bones and soft blankets. See, if Pooch doesn't have a nice, soft Pooch-approved place to lie down, she doesn't lie down. Ever. She just follows you around, looking pathetic, emanating a high pitched squeal that you could probably record and sell to producers of smoke alarms and such. She will do this until she's worn out, at which point she'll sorta fall over and have a short nap before she's ready to go again. Pooch is a very persistent dog. Possibly because her brain is too tiny to follow her "master plan" and consider optional courses of action at the same time.

Basically, she needs soft things to lie on and stuff in her mouth. With these things in place, she's a delightful doggie.

And then she goes to sleep like this...




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The art of going bugshit crazy

I have a new-found nemesis. Rather, lots of nemesises. Is that a word? Nemesises? Never mind, you know what I mean. What I would love to do, is kill off the entire insect population in this house. Just in our home, mind you. I fully understand the concept of an ecosystem and that if a butterfly farts in my garden, there will be a tsunami in China, or however that saying goes.

I think that snuffing out so many littles lives is justified in the face of what might happen if I don't; yours truly having a psychotic melt-down and doing something potentially dangerous. Like running naked down the street while screaming "they're crawling all over me!"

The flies are by far the most crazy-making. You have the big, fat ones. They're kinda swarthy, with bristles. If they were people, they would be the kind with shoulders and backs so hairy, they could compete with your dog when it comes to shedding on the furniture. They would proudly show off said body hair by wearing washed-out tank tops. They would also sweat a lot. These kinds of flies are loud. Like tiny chainsaws with wings. They're impossible to kill, because they never bloody land. In stead, they constantly fly around and around at ridiculous speeds, making as much noise as they can. You sort of have to give them a good knock while they're in the air and kill them while they're still dazed from the blow. Then you have the smaller ones. These aren't very loud, but ours like to travel in two's or three's and they keep trying to crawl into your coffee mug. The little bastards always know when you have your fly swatter ready, at which point they will vanish without a trace, until you've put it down.

Pooch thinks flies are terrific fun, though. To her, they're basically special toys that were invented so that she can bounce around like a maniac, trying to catch them. Although she's far more likely to injure herself or knock over furniture.

Tonight we tried to save our sanity by using bugspray. Mister walked around from room to room with a huuuge (seriously pink) can of spray. There's something very odd about a hot pink surface with insects painted all over it. Pooch followed him. She' easily entertained.

I was in the dining room when I heard him shout: "Godammit, dog! Stop trying to eat the bugs that I've just sprayed!"

Not the smartest tool in the shed, her.

My brainfart on terrorism and such

By now I guess that most people have heard about the terrorist attack in Norway. I heard, myself, about an hour after it first happened. Naturally, I was as shocked as anyone else and I spent most of that evening with my eyeballs glued to the online newspapers.

I couldn't shake the feeling that I should say something semi-intelligent on the subject, being norwegian and whatnot.

The act itself - a madman butchering close to 100 innocent people - was disgusting, but in a way I've been as disgusted with things that have been said around this tragedy.

As soon as the story blew, long before anyone knew who was behind this, people started blaming the Muslims. Suddenly my Facebook newsfeed was dotted with exclamations like "throw all those bastards out of the country!" and "death to Islam!" posted by people that I had always credited with normal levels of intelligence. I'm not saying that I can't understand why many would think of religious extremists when faced with an act of terror like this, but since when is an act of hatred an acceptable excuse to spew more hatred? How do you solve a problem like terrorism by acting like a rabid little s***brat in a kindergarden fight?

Then the attacker turns out to be a blonde, blue-eyed, right-wing extremist. He looks like 1/4 of the people I went to school with. After 9/11 we sort of forgot about the "regular" nutjobs and focused all our attention on fanatical muslims. There's a lesson in this to teach us that skin colour and religion isn't a symptom of fanaticism. We can't classify it that way.

The threat of violence is always present, no matter where we go in the world. It's just something we're going to have to live with. There are potential mass-murderers, but there are also serial-killers, muggers, rapists and other creepy crawlies out there. Then there are natural disasters, poisonous snakes and people who drive like bloody lunatics. Does that mean we should spend our lives looking over our shoulder and worrying about those that come from a culture we might not understand? Does that make us any more safe? Why the hell are we so petrified of the Muslims? I'm sure I have a much better chance of falling down the stairs and breaking my neck than I do of being blown up by a jihadist.

I know a lot of people in Oslo, they're alright. One friend had just walked into a building downtown when the attack happened. The windows had all exploded, their car had been totally destroyed. They were incredibly lucky. Another friend was safe at home, outside of the city, but the force of the explosion still made their whole house shake. I can't eve imagine how much worse this could have been. But you know what? I'm not going to spend my life being afraid of what might happen. You can't function that way. We'll be heading back to Norway in a few days and we will have a lovely vacation, free of fear and worry.




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I totally needed one, I tell you!

The other day, I was sitting in my comfortable chair - the one that makes my butt happy - feeling very comfortable, when suddenly a little voice inside my head shouted "I want an iPad!"

Now, I recognize Tootie when I hear it. Tootie is that silly, irresponsible (slightly psychotic) part of my brain that keeps trying to talk me into buying a hat. Luckily I also have Bergerac. That's the rational bit of my brain that keeps Tootie somewhat in check.

I sat there in my chair for a few minutes, while the inside of my head went "iPad, iPad, iPad, iPad!" I figured Bergerac would pop up any time, smacking Tootie in the mouth and putting a stop to this nonsense. That didn't happen. Because, as it turned out, Bergerac wanted an iPad too.

The next day, Mister and I drove into the city, we hit one store after another and they were all sold out. Bergerac had had some time to think things over by then, and was somewhat relieved. Tootie, on the other hand, hasn't thought anything over in it's life, and was plummeting into a deep hole of depression. It was a very strange state of mind.

I was so obsessed with my new quest, I almost forgot to pick up the book I ordered at the library, and that is not like me at all. I mean, I google "books" regularly, just so I can sit around and stare at pictures of books. They don't even have to be actual pictures. A drawing can be quite satisfactory.

In the end we found a pretty, white ipad2 that was just sitting there, waiting for me to come fetch it. You'd think the day would be saved at this point, wouldn't you? But no. After years of being a student, I am still not accustomed to having or spending money. Spending a lot of money all at once, makes me dizzy. After this purchase, my entire world was spinning around and I had to sit down for a little while. I eventually managed to give myself a migraine.

Then I used my new baby to google "books" and that made me feel much better.


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Miami minus the palm trees

We did and up going out of town, to luvely Blokhus. It's a bit like Miami without the palm trees. We'd ordered a transport cage for Pooch, but it didn't arrive in time. See, Pooch just loves cars. As soon as you open the car door, she'll hop right inside and sit there, trembling with excitement as she waits for the car to start moving. This will happen even if Pooch isn't your dog. You may never have met Pooch before in your life, but if you leave your car door open where she can get to it, you WILL find a wide-eyed dog happily shivering in your backseat. This is one of the reasons why I'm careful with where I let said Pooch off her leash. She usually listens to her mama, but why tempt fate? Especially with the way she sheds...

To keep her from bouncing around in the car in fits of unsurpassable joy, we have to use a leash on her. We also have a fancy doggy seatbelt harness thingy, but we can never find that when we need it. She still manages to get around a wee bit, though. We can't exactly tape her to the car seat.






Conversations from the car:


Mister: the way she's hanging off the back of my seat, is a bit like I used to climb all over the drivers seat when I was a kid.

Choochoo: so now you now how your mother felt.

Mister: except that I never slobbered all over my mother...





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May or may not

We may or may not be leaving town today, in which case I may or may not need to pack a suitcase and some food for the road trip. I may or may not need to figure out where all my various chargers and gizmos are and I may or may not need to decide on a holy-crap-I've-left-my-house reading list for my kindle. With all this indecision, I'm very grateful that I'm not being chased out of town by an angry mob, like the Frankenstein monster was when he had to leave town.

One thing is certain, though: Pooch is DEFINITELY going to the vet today to get her rabies shot updated. She'll be crazy pleased.

oh noes!

I've been doing it all wrong. NOW they tell me :/ Oh dear...

Obsession: then & now

When I was a kid, I would develop huge crushes on cartoon characters or a character in a book. I remember many sleepless nights in my room, pecking the pillow and pretending it was Spiderman. I don't even want to tell you about that time I read 'Gone with the wind.' I was Scarlett for six solid months. My big stuffed octopus was Rhett Butler. Spiderman Pillow watched sourly from a corner.

Then I outgrew cartoons and moved on to actors and pop-stars. At one point, I had a crush on every single member of new kids on the block. That was tricky, because I only had the one pillow and I was far too cool for stuffed animals. At the same time. I would dream up the most dramatic, exuberant scenarios about how I'd bump into them on the street, they would become completely obsessed with my ca 10-11 year old self and from that moment on, my life would be a whirlwind of happiness, bling & me being worshipped like a goddess. At no point during my fantasies did the hero go to prison for statutory rape, or anything like that.

These days, I no longer obsess over fictional characters or A-listers, but I do have that kind of a relationship with food. Like sushi, for instance. Long before I met any sushi, I knew it would be true love. And as soon as that first maki roll made it's way down my gullet, my suspicions all came true.

If I was told that I would be able to eat nothing but sushi every day, for the rest of my life, I would kiss that person right on their nosey-wosey.

But until that day comes, I have roped Mr Choochoo into taking me to a sushi restaurant this Saturday. Happy, happy, joy, joy.

It's a pie craze

I have this almost abnormally strong urge to bake. My brain insists on transferring it's cake-obsession onto everything. Suddenly Mister's CD collection looks like cookies, the chairs are all cupcake shaped and the TV is basically a big brownie. If Martha Stewart and the movie "the exorcist" had a lovechild, said lovechild would be my day today.

And yes, I know that makes sense. See what this is doing to me?

Must. make. pie.

Would you like to hear something else that's scary? This was my favorite song in 92. My parents used to say that I had no taste in music. They might have been right. Who'd have thunk it? Not my 12/13 year old self, that's for sure.

Good grief

You reading, mum? Hmm? Are you? Good book? Mum? Good book, mum? Pet my head? Pet my head! Mum! My head!

Hey, that smells like poopy-pants!

It's summer. And when it's summer, people tend to leave their windows open so that they won't boil alive inside their houses like lobsters. In that regard, I'm no different than most people. Last week, however, it was completely impossible for us to do that.

I was sitting in the dining room when I discovered it. I was busy contemplating the attack-angle for my breakfast, when I suddenly noticed a strange sort of a smell. Actually, it wasn't anything as simple as a smell. It was more of an... odour. It was coming through the little opening in the window. So I opened the veranda door and poked my head around the corner. That's when I saw this outside one of the basement windows:

I didn't just see it, I coul smell it too. It was a sewage leak. Oh happy, happy, joy, joy. And from the stink of it, it was sewage from a small platoon of babies and elderly people afflicted by something truly horrible. It certainly wasn't OUR sewage. Our sewage would smell normal. This can't possibly have been normal sewage smell. If it was, nobody would ever want to work with the stuff.

Luckily, some people DO choose those jobs. Although their slogan proves that those fumes do damage your brain. Roughly translated, it went like this: "you sh** it out, we suck it up!"

I'm very glad I went to college.

Ain't nothing common about it!

You know that thing we did where we decided to sleep in the living room to see if I was allergic to the carpet in the bedroom and if that could be what was causing my mysterious cough? That hasn't quite gone according to plan.

This was the plan: We would sleep in the living room on the fold-out couch and already on the first night my throat would feel clearer, I would be more rested and wake up happy. Kinda like this:

This is what actually happened: I woke up, noticing a strange soreness in my throat. I didn't give it any more thought, since it disappeared sometime between the time that I slipped into my robe and when I crammed a sandwich into my face. Then the coughing went rampant. The next day I woke up kind of like this:

It's the common cold. Again. Although I'm pretty sure I've caught an uncommon cold. Surely nobody has ever suffered the way I'm suffering. I'm the most miserable, most unhappy little sicko in all the world, ever.

Since I live here, Mister Chooch has no choice but to take care of me. That was my plan all along, of course. He brings me food and and he stands outside the bathroom door with a glass of water and says "poor honey" while I talk on the big porcelain phone. But he doesn't particularly want to hang out with me, because my cough is giving him a nervous breakdown. It's funny, really. I cough until I retch, and HE'S the one who looks like he's going to drop dead.

Have a video:

Pokesnores!

Although this whole living-together-shizzle is going very well, I do have one complaint. Mister claims that I snore and I most certainly do not. Only rarely and it's all very dainty and ladylike, of course.

Mister, however, likes to argue with me on that point. Now he's started recording me with his iphone when he's awake and I'm snoring. He says he has four recordings. I've only heard one. I'm assuming they were taken on the four occasions that I may have snored since I moved in here. He calls them pokesnores and says he's going to catch them all.

He's lucky he's cute, really.

I thought this song fits into this post. Except for the bride-bit. That would be weird.

It’s June!

June is the most popular month for weddings. It’s been that way since the 1500s. This was because people would have their annual baths in May, and still considered themselves relatively clean in June. However, they were starting to give off a certain scent, and that’s why brides would carry a bouquet of flowers to hide the smell. And that’s where the bridal bouquets come from.

Baths were just a big tub filled with hot water. The man of the house got the first crack at it, then the sons and the other men. Then the women were allowed to bathe and the babies went last. By the time it was the babies turn, the water would be so filthy that it was quite possible to lose a person in there. Hence the saying: “don’t throw the baby out with the bath water.”