Since I'm currently under yet another alien invasion (i.e. my poor ear is impersonating the offspring of Darth Vader sans mask and the Incredible Mrs. Hulk angry and on man-steroids) there really isn't room for much in my mind besides worries about whether this time the infection will mean that they'll be cutting into my ear and getting rid of some of it, so I'll be doing a light, easy breezy post with random stuff and then some more random stuff. And trying to steer clear of the ear. Since no one wants a repeat of the infinite-seeming ear-saga.
The piercing that I got done in the States got infected. Again. Rather badly. And one emergency-room visit later, I thought I was on the mend, but then gross stuff that should never be blogged about happened (right into the mirror and all over), and I'll be seeing a ENT surgeon as soon as possible.
I know there is a lesson in here somewhere, but I'm still in complete denial, and will instead go with 'what doesn't kill you (or your ear) will make you stronger (but possibly not your ear)'.
**Begin easy breezy and light(er) part of the post**
Snippets of a weekend:
:: Could there exist a nook of South Africa that is in fact more Spanish than all of Spain and any of its former colonies welded together? So Spanish that it seems like it takes all of its cues on Spanishness from every single postcard ever sent from any tourist trap in Spain? And be so utterly Spanish that it spills over to surreality and produces this. Above the dance floor/ flamenco stage.
Why yes. That is a hat the size of a small vehicle, and that is, indeed, a disco ball inside it. Why would you even ask?
But where the waiters still pronounce paella with two Ls instead of saying pa-a-ya. And where you can chase your sangria with the picture of all things Spanish - a dry martini.
Yes. On Friday night we went, tried very hard not to point and/or stare, enjoyed sangria and paella, and escaped to the bar when the dance floor opened up, following the rather furious stomping of the very fierce-looking flamenco dancers in purple and neon-green polyester.
It was awesome.
:: Would I go to jail if I spirited away, and prepared for dinner (or made the Hubby prepare), the extremely mean and confrontational spotted guinea fowl I came against at the bird gardens on Saturday?
I tell you, that bird was saved solely by my poor choice of footwear. And I like (live) animals normally.
But there's always next time and hiking boots. Not involving any sort of embarrassing panic, squeals, or a too loud: "The fokken bird's following me. Help!")
SEE! The evil bird is angling for my big toe. God's creature my behind.
:: Am I allowed to feel smug about this guy (below, not above) trying to hit on me while the Hubs was in the bathroom? He liked the new honey-colored hair.
Ain't he purty?
Alright, so I'm already feeling way smug. And I don't see a change in the horizon. I need a big head to match the size of my right ear. Turns out, there's a reason for everything. Even strange men hitting on you when you're trying your hardest to nail that shot of the different-colored pay phones outside the toilets.