Manifestations of mental health.

I'm trying to get back to my normal life and my remaining vacation in Finland (I know. Vacation from what? Ha ha.) after the uniquely awesome experience that was blog camp. It's not easy, I tell you. But I'm trying. We are still continuing the fun on the blog camp blog though so be sure to check in. Once you're done with mine of course.

Me first.

Anyhoodles and all that, what am I up to then now that I have burnt all possible bridges between myself and many of my blogging pals just by meeting them in person? (I'm just kidding. They all loved me. What's not to love? Swearing is the new black apparently.)

Well, I'm pretty much up to nothing. Much.

Today's highlights have included:

Watching an Italian tourist getting on the wrong train at Helsinki main station and panicking when he couldn't make the door open again. Instead of pressing the big green button with the word 'OPEN' directly above it, he kept going for the 'call for assistance' button or some such thing. I think plenty of people would not have minded opening the door for him from the outside right away (instead of pretending like they didn't notice and watching him for anti-Finnish slurs) had he not looked quite so much like Berlusconi - one of Finland's pet peeves. I can report though that he should by now safely be in Oulu, his intended destination. We did not send him to Joensuu after all. We didn't even make him eat Finnish pizza. He only looks like Berlusconi, we understood. We're smart like that, we are.

Listening to an old lady with more luggage in several small bags than you think would be possible to hold onto all at once arguing very persistently but extremely politely over a seat on the train with a young wannabe fashionista who had been "working all night at ...(insert profession that comes to your mind here. I immediately went the call girl route) and just wanted to sleep", only to discover that the senior citizen's ticket wasn't for today, but for next Monday. The arguing involved a hilarious, yet subtly threatening call to "son", who, based on the abrupt way the call ended, possibly had better things to do with his time, but was conspicuously void of any apologies to the fashionista, unless you count "stupid ticket seller made a mistake" as an apology. I bet "son" wishes mother had not figured out speed dial.

Making a lunch of somewhat suspicious looking leftover Karelian pies, that I don't remember buying (never a guarantee that I didn't, but there is always also the possibility of a food-providing leprechaun, and/or fairy living in the vegetable box [since something/someone is definitely living in there]), only to succumb to a horrid case of heartburn. No, no, no, no, no. The coffee, wine and tequila consumed at blog camp and at my stop over at chez K in Helsinki on my way back from blog camp have nothing to do with the acid eroding away at my esophagus. It must be the iffy pies. Coffee would never do that to me, right?

Going to the theatre with my folks to hear awesome music and see completely incompetent attempts at acting (we think, could have been that some of the 'actors' were under the impression that they were in fact on board the starship Enterprise and Spock would all of a sudden feel like applying the Vulcan stun touch on them, or the original Kirk would jump out and try to make out with them - the chubby Kirk that is). I sang along regardless.

Also, I ate some chocolate and herring, with not enough time separating their entries from each other.

Now I'm regurgitating up herringy nougat.

In other words: all's well in the land of Santa.