What is that thing you crocheted?

The above question features quite prominently in the comments I've received. And as much as I would like to answer it, I can't. Because I don't really know myself what I crocheted. To call it a blanket would be stretching the truth, and to call it anything else finished would just be outright lying. I might call it 'art', but that is just a euphemism for a project that took an unfortunate, less than creative turn at some point, or a project that I was working on while I was also enjoying my wine and consequently spilled something (possibly wine) on it, or a project that the maid cleaned with a wet cloth and some pledge leaving to it a sticky surface and making it smell of 'poutpourri' (the last one mainly goes for my pathetic attempts at oil painting, not so much the knitting or the crocheting).

Who knows?

I think this whole crocheting thing might be more about the process than the actual finished product. Be it 'art' or not. And I will not say it is about that other thing I linked it to, because I have been getting visits from some people who found my blog through some rather extreme Google searches and I'm not sure that is the kind of audience I can cater to. Or want to cater to, for that matter.

This 'choosing the process' over one day actually finishing something is not a new idea for me. Although, the fact that I just called it 'choosing the process' gives it a slant that I don't really think should be there. In truth, and I might have mentioned this before, I just don't seem to finish many things I start.

But I'm really good at starting things.

She says as she packs away the half-finished crochet 'art'.

Here are some of my other ways of 'choosing the process':

:: I recently deleted the voice of the protagonist in my novel, thus effectually cutting about one fourth of what I had written. I like how it reads now much better, but know even less where it's headed. (Let's be nice and not say "nowhere" under our breaths now. Thanks.)

:: When I started my blog, I immediately afterwards found a volunteer gig that I couldn't say no to and that took up all of my time. I had a near-empty blog for 2 years. And no, unlike what julochka's husband still believes no blog ever updates itself, or if they do they drunk-spell or go all not funny (that's what happens when something subpar gets posted on here, just so we're clear on that). The useless bastards.

:: I finally got around to writing on my blog when I decided this was the time to concentrate on my novel. Now I'm lucky if I open the novel-file once a month. And sometimes I open it just to, you know, so that I don't have to fish it out of that 'last year' folder. I'm also great at procrastinatory mind games.

:: Right as I was writing the previous sentence I picked up a photography mag and now it's 30 minutes later. And I'm getting a new camera. And starting photography.

Actually, I rock starting things.

I already know about how C.E. feels about this, but what are your ways of 'choosing the process' or do y'all just think I should just pull that thumb out (I must be cutting off circulation by now anyhow), wash it, and use it for some typing (I type the blog using my index fingers, but for the book I might be willing to go all out)?

Bewitched, bothered, and bewildered, not to mention bitchy

Dude! What happened to you?

What? What do you mean?

You look like shit. Your hair looks like someone tried to glue it back on but then you went to sleep before the glue was dry, and the pillow stuck too. And then you tried to pull it off, but didn't quite succeed, and that's what that weird bald spot is about.

I just... It's just wax. And some gel. And some hair spray. What's wrong with that?

Just being honest. Nothing wrong with being honest, is there? And what's with the deathly pallor?

Oh. I... Too much sun is bad for you, right? Also, I'm pretty tanned now.

Going goth, looks like to me. Well, you're gonna want to dye that bald spot black and find some lipstick somewhere. You do have make up, don't you? I mean that pallor can not be natural. Or maybe it's the  shirt that just drains the color right out of your face. Haven't seen a lime green like that since those creepy DIY aerobics videos from the early nineties.

But... I thought this color was back in fashion now? Kinda?

Yeah. Like the scrunchie, slalom-skiing, wearing your high-cut swimsuit on top of a pair of leggings, and NKOTB are back in fashion, which by the way would match that shirt and the bald spot to a T. All you need now is to open your mouth, display those teeth and you're set.

And it'll be like the year 2000 never, ever happened.

And so it's out of my system. 

Good riddance.

Dear golfing deities,

I'm writing to you this letter of appeal on account of my misplaced backswing. I realize that such a thing can easily go missing, because sometimes it is hard to remember in the morning where one's things are, but enough is enough. I must ask your omnipotent help in locating said backswing before my already crumbling love for the sport vanishes completely.

When I began golfing I was under the impression that everyone was given a certain amount of time to become good and then one would stay at that position. Sadly, for me time spent on practice seems to bring no improvement. Unfortunately, my golfing career is void of even such chapters as 'lowering one's handicap', 'getting it to the fairway' or 'hitting it over the water', and only includes such achievements as "not killing anyone', 'yelling fore so that people can run for cover', 'hitting the ball into the water' and 'hitting kilos and kilos of sand out of the bunker'.

Now, without my backswing, my situation seems utterly hopeless.

I strongly believe that my backswing wishes to return to me and I'm very worried that it feels lost and scared where ever it is, as it always does when it wanders off. Also, its partner, my follow through misses it sorely, and has developed a nasty habit of lurching forwards or falling backwards without its partner. My swing has become a pale shadow of its former self.

Lastly, without my backswing the sweet taste of that manna in the birdie-bottle will forever be a mystery to me, and that is a real golfing tragedy. One which could be so easily avoided.

I sincerely hope you can find it in your hearts to help me, since given my personality I will not give this up until I'm good at this. Please. I beg you.

Respectfully,
A madwoman with a golf club and no backswing to speak of

This guy just frowns all day long without the backswing.

The one with all the answers

So I seem to have skipped this whole answering comments thing all together. I keep putting it off because it overwhelms me, and then, well... this thing happens, where all of a sudden two weeks later the first 10 pages of my mail inbox are all comments.

I freak out a little, feel bad for not answering (because I really do appreciate them), and resist the urge to flee all and every responsibility (my natural response to when life happens too fast), on top of which I engage in some deadly serious and rather elaborate procrastination. I rock procrastination. In case you didn't get that from the title of the blog.

And then, well, it's dinner time, and we all know what happens at dinner time.

And at that point I definitely shouldn't be on the computer.

But sometimes I am anyways, and instead of answering the comments I leave some on other bleeps' blogs about aerobics, heavy metal, and fingernail clippings and tweet about changing diapers on a motorcycle.

So I'll just answer some choice questions here. And that'll be it. I seem to have procrastinated and fled my way straight into partial avoidance.

Not news.

The first question comes from Barbara: Scary, isn't it?

Well Barbara, you hit the nail on the head with that one. What is it, if it isn't scary, eh? I'm not a scared individual per se, but I have been told that I am scary. When I worked for the Girl Scouts, all of them little ones used to be terrified of me. I think some of it might be because of my voice, but mostly it is due to the fact that children just don't get sarcasm. No matter how well executed it is. They think you will sprout horns if they don't quiet down, just because you said so (and then afterwards the parents tell you to shut up about go easy on the biblical references, and Santa's death).

No. Put the phone down (social services are busy). I don't actually have children of my own.

The second question is from Manxrunner : You live in South Africa, what's it like there?

Yes I do Manxrunner. It's nice a lot of the time, and sometimes it's not so nice. But mostly it's pretty nice.  There is this blog about a girl in South Africa you could maybe check out. It's called 'What will I ever do with my life?' I'm told there's quite a lot of stuff on South Africa there.

An Open Heart also has a question: In the middle of your performance angst, you didn't REALLY run out of wine?

Not to worry dear Open Heart. I have this alcoholism thing down to a fine science. I haven't run out of wine in years. Thanks to that small nagging voice in the back of my head that really should be telling me to buy milk, coffee, eggs, and toilet paper, but just keeps going: "Remember the wine. Don't be forgetting the wine. Did you already get the wine. Ooh, there's wine, you need wine."

 Zakk had this to ask: An unpublished author?

Yes. I believe that in order to be published one has to have submitted something. Yes? And in order to submit something one has to have finished writing something. Is it not so? I'm still missing the first phase as well as the second one. And even after that, I'm told it's quite difficult, so I have no qualms about my blog URL, except for maybe the last part, since I seem to have gone from author to blogger, unless the internet goes down, and I'm not frantically crocheting.

And last, but not least the Not So Glamorous Housewife wanted my opinion on something: Why in the world was I excited?

I can't remember. I think it had something to do with your dog.

Expat Existence and then some

I have been in the expat way for 9 years now.

Wow. Surprised myself there a little bit.

Let's take a moment to reflect.

I really do like that episode of South Park with Oprah's minge, and Gary, her A-hole. Hahahahaha. I wonder if Oprah laughed when she saw it? I wonder if Oprah can sing? Didn't she sing with Tina Turner? Lala lala lala tonight. Wait a minute, that's NKOTB... Oh dammit, got distracted again. Play it cool now. I don't think anyone noticed. I didn't laugh out loud did I, or sing? Play serious now....

Thanks.

As much as I feel like living in Africa (by which I mean 3 of the 53 countries - a fair generalization, don't you think?) is exactly like living anywhere else in the world there have been some things I wasn't expecting to be as tough or as difficult as they've been, and then again there have been some things I was expecting to rattle me, but which have turned out to be a walk in the park category things after all.

Oprah's minge. Hahahahahahahaha. That is some funny shit, that is. Hahahahahaha. I should really buy some NKOTB on iTunes. I'll be lovin' you fah eva... Oh. Yeah. Focus... 

Upon leaving Mexico (A departure that still makes me cry. For reals.) I was looking forward to landing in a country where I wouldn't have to spend the first couple of months on brushing up the language. (Spanish verb conjugation can be used as a form of torture, especially if combined with electric shocks.) Because in SA everyone would be speaking English, right? Not quite.

Voy, vas, va, vamos, van. Yup still got it. Maybe I should read more in Spanish though? What is taking so long with downloading that NKOTB CD? I wanna hear Tonight. NOW! Lala lala lala tonight. Yeah, that hits the spot. I wonder if the small one of them speaks any Spanish? Nah, his eyes are too pale blue...

What?!?

Oh.

I don't have the faintest idea why or how or in what universe, but for some reason South Africa seems to feel I look like I should be either addressed in Afrikaans, or failing that in Tsotsitaal, the township slang. English would just be lost on me. Uhhuh. Now, I know most days I am the spitting image of a township shebeen-queen (especially when I do my hair), but Afrikaans? Come on folks. Don't be making me into a Boer. Please.

Boer - bore. No, shouldn't make that joke. Someone might get hurt, and it's a little on the boring side too. Hahahaha. Oprah's minge. That is just too funny. Nothing beats that. Nothing beats Oprah's minge.... Hahahahahaha. Ow, that shit hurts my stomach.

Snort.

I know. That's it. I promise.

I do like the African sky. And luckily there is a lot of it to like, and often.

Post-Mexico I was also looking forward to not immediately being pegged as the outsider, or Zeus forbid, a gringa. Still, I wasn't prepared for what inclusion in the general population, particularly in South Africa could or would mean.

Getting just a tad serious... Lighten up. 

Lala lala lala tonight. I still have my awesome dance moves. maybe I should get N'SYNC's 'God must have spent a little more time on you'. I could do that choreography all day long...

Okay. Not that much of lightening up, please. Stay on task.

And for Zeus's sakes, stop dancing woman. You look ridiculous.    

Regardless of how good it feels to live in a place, where you don't get the feeling that someone is watching you from the corner of their eye to see whether the güerita will do something stupid or better yet, say something stupid, like call the reception guard cochina, a dirty little pig, when she meant to say that she is expecting a dishwasher repair guy for that 'machine in the cocina, the kitchen, there are certain sides to being included that will definitely throw you for a loop. That you wish would not ever come up. Things that are assumed you condone just because of the way you look.

Like the outright racism.

Which makes you sick to your stomach.

Why is the N'SYNC stuff not downloading? What? Why? 

Oh, click on 'Buy'. I'll just do that then. 

Bye Bye Bye is good too. What is this? "you already own Bye Bye Bye." Since when? Who keeps buying me music? Drunk Extranjera, I'll get you for this...

However, there have been some positive surprises as well. If you know the real world me (which most of you don't, but rest assured she's not much different from the blog me. Perhaps a little nicer [I've been told] and a little more dangerous, since she can actually get to you other than with words and with something on wheels), you know that I'm not much of a driver. Or, actually I'm too much of a driver for my own good. And if you thought that my thoughts (oooh, look at all the pretty birds up there... see that kid picking his nose in that car) get in the way of my blogging, just imagine what happens when I'm less than comfortably behind the wheel of metal box. I know. Quite horrifying. 

Still, driving in South Africa, after having gotten used to driving in Mexico City is, like I said, a total walk in the park, a barefoot walk in the park, with a blindfold on, and balloons and butterflies making the park all happy, and absolutely no screaming kids or actually anyone else in the park. 

And I thought I would never be able to drive stick with the gearshift on my left side while driving on the left side of the road. 

No problem. Apparently the left hand might be good for something else than picking the left side of one's nose after all.

What? 

Has the internet died on me. AGAIN. For foks sake, yes it has. Big FOK and a little follow FOK. FOK FOK FOK and fok.

And I'm halfway through downloading Metallica's Enter Sandman. 

Aww.

I know I jinxed it with my happy. Should have just kept my happy to myself. That's what you get.

Argh! 

Universe?

Please.

If it wasn't for this here internet...

I would be like an accomplished academic, or a brainsurgeon, or a high-flying executive, or, well...clean and showered every single day.

Or alternatively I would be that crazy crocheting, slightly alcoholic lady, who never combs her hair and tries to give the neighborhood kids suspicious 10-year-old hard candy, that she might or might not be lacing with her own urine.

I just thought I would lead with the respectable options.

As it turns out, there actually is a world out there. No, I am not kidding. You can even enter it pretty hassle free. Just open the one door in you house that normally always stays locked and vupti-doo, you're out in the sunshine putting away that necessary vitamin D. You can also exit through the garage should you feel so inclined. And that you can do with one press of a button. No handle-turning or nothing.

In this world that I speak about, there are people who do things that have absolutely nothing to do with the interweb. And some of them have never even heard about blogging. Hard to imagine, but there are more of them than you would expect. They play golf, go to the grocery store and to the gym and look each other in the eye.

Interesting experience.

Here are some more findings from my days without the all powerful Google, in the real world. You know, the one with the non-photoshopped sunsets.

:: No matter how hopped up on caffeine and internetless boredom you are it is not posssible to single-handedly move a 3-seater leather couch upstairs. Not even if you summon every single Elle Decoration deity there is and call on the spirit of O - at home. And you might end up pulling something if you desperately keep on trying anyways. Just find an internet cafe and relax already.

:: If your physiotherapist begins your session by saying "I just finished a course on aggressive stretching," it is best to hightail it out of there some quick-quick, even if your in-need-of-replacement hip feels like it catches more and more on fire every step you take. On fire will turn out to be a mild discomfort compared to what can be done to a hip by stretching it aggressively. Internet would never do that to you.

:: There is a good chance that a 'mot' can be used as a weapon if the evil-eye looks are anything to go by. What, I ask you, is so wrong with following your maid around and/or sneaking up on her to finally get to the bottom of the mystery of the disappearing wineglasses?

:: No one in the real world appreciates a good joke about corn.

:: For many South African women a workout at the gym entails showing up in full battle gear: the hair, the make up, and the nails, not sweating at all but patting the top of the boobs which are attempting to escape the confines of clothing with a pink towel anyway, and finally bending over in front of the weight lifters. It's easy to feel out of place, unless bending over is your thing. Hmm...bending over or blogging? Tough choice.

:: All food is better if it does not have to be defrosted after an obscenely long unspecified length of time in the freezer. But grocery stores are not fun.

:: A Mac without the internet is just an empty shell of itself.

:: Crocheting can be therapeutical. And you can end up making a blanket that can be used to camouflage a small farm. (from Big Brother satellite)

like so. (You can't see the farm, can you?)

:: Having 'alone' time is fun until you realize that you don't actually want to have alone time all alone, but miss your bleeps horribly.

And yes, today on the 16th July 2009 at 9:16PM, like a miracle my internet returned to me.

I couldn't be happier.

Towards a better internet-tomorrow

There are no updates on when my internet will be returned to me. The situation is fast approaching complete chaos and mayhem. These are in no way mutually exclusive and can easily be instigated by one single person. Me.

I'm going all viking here folks.

But before that I'll wax all poetic.

It is now day two since the darkness of unconnectedness descended on me like an angry swarm of...

Hey honey. What are them things that swarm?

Uhm? Bees? Mosquitoes? Squirrels? Oh hey how about having some Mexican food tonight? Fancy some tacos, mamacita?

No, honey! Focus! Swarmy things?

Huh?

Okay. Whatevs. FINE. Think about dinner. What do I care.

It is now day two since the darkness of unconnectedness descended on me like an angry swarm of them things that swarm. There is no light at the end of the tunnel. I'm here by myself as alone as...

Hey, honey. What is like the most lonesomest animal in like the whole bunch?

Sorry? A bunch of what?

Of animals, dumbass. Of animals.

Oh, so now I'm a dumbass, because I'm thinking of dinner and not paying attention to you, while you sit with your nose in my computer, using my work connection, while I could be working.

Playing Mafia Wars on fokken Facebook. That's what you would be doing. ....grumble...fokken...doesn't pay attention...grumble...

It is now day two since the darkness of unconnectedness descended on me like and angry swarm of them things that swarm. There is no light at the end of the tunnel. I'm here by myself as alone as a deer in the headlights.

Hey, honey. What's the 'deer in the headlights' thing again? Alone, right?

The what in the whatlights now?

A DEER in the headLIGHTS. That's what.

Uhm. Pumpkin. I think that actually means that you're like frozen or like paralyzed or something. I think.

Aw. Fok you man. What do you know about writing, anyways. If I wanted to know about sitting on my ass in an office and writing all sorts crap on the computer all day long I'd come to you, but now I'm talking about writing my blog.

Pumpkin, you make it too easy. I won't even make that joke. I won't.

Fok you man.

It is now day two since the darkness of unconnectedness descended on me like an angry swarm of them things that swarm. There is no light at the end of the tunnel. I'm here by myself as alone as a deer in the headlights. The only thing that I can do is to live in hope of a better tomorrow. Of an internet connection that will not be spotty nor die on me constantly. The internet connection of tomorrow.And dinner.

It's tacos.

Still no sign of internet.

What to do folks? What to do?

Don't go gently into that good night

Here I am, on Hubby's computer stealing company internet to do my blogging, while I really should be finding porn sites to surf to create that little bit of excitement that would make the day of any bespeckled IT professional monitoring the current traffic. 

And speaking of porn, guess what I've been doing with all this analog time in my hands?

Indeed.

Crocheting. What else?

How exactly is crocheting linked to porn? you might be asking yourself right now (I still am, and will just come up with some potentially offensive nonsense now). Well, the connection is not instantly transparent, but this is how I see it:

You wade through leather boots, whips, giant diapers, ropes and such and find yourself just south of the fringe. Then, you proceed at a high speed, for about a couple hundred miles away from the center, you take a left at animal costumes, after which you continue down the road towards a little corner referred to as sheep, you skirt around pee and poo, and then take a leap, and voila, you're at crochet. And there's no way back.

Exactly. Potentially offensive nonsense.

Lucky for you my dear readers, links like this come up when you are left alone with your thoughts for a whole day, and the only discussion you have in the span of nine hours goes like this:

Maid: Whar is the mot?

Me: Do I have what?

Maid: Noh, the mot?

Me: More?

Maid: Noh, the mot?

Me: More? What?

Maid: MOT!

Me: WHAT?!?!

Maid: I want to eyen.

Me: What?!?!

Maid: EYEN!

Me: Please clean the patio furniture. Thanks!

And this is only day one without internet. Yup.

A musical lull

Regardless of some threats I received in the comments to my last post (Hullo Judearoo) to do with pitchforks and lanterns (I don't know which one is scarier, a pitchfork or the weapon of mass destruction, also known as a lantern?) in case there ever was a lull in my blogging, I'm here to tell you of just such a potential, veritable lull.

What?

What?

What?

But surely she'll cease to exist if she does not chronicle every shower that she doesn't take with meticulous attention. She'll become a shadow of herself, a person whose only activities are golf, reading and the occasional pee, before she withers away completely and croaks, bites the dust, hangs up her clogs for good, and goes ahead and dies.

What?

So what actually is going on, is that, since we know Mandela personally (please don't take this literally, since I'm probably already under surveillance for tweeting, blogging and commenting about stalking him) and can send him after anyone we choose like a pack of polar bears with the polar-bear munchies, the internet provider has finally agreed to improve our flailing webby connection.

Or they got tired of my incessant wailing.

Either way. There is some 'down time' scheduled for this week, which, if this is actually African time, could mean this month, but hopefully not this year. Although there have been promises of complimentary internet connection in some office building somewhere on this here estate, my experience is that upon arrival to said building with my laptop all ready to blog my little heart out, I'll only encounter locked doors and lots of raised eyebrows and shrugs from the guards, who will then, as soon as I turn my back, start making fun of the 'gullible European'.

They won't laugh in my face though, because, sadly, I'm much bigger than any of them and could possibly take most of them in a number of forms of close range combat. Now that I think of it, I'm conflicted. I don't know whether I should be proud that I'm double the size of a Zulu man, fearful because our estate only seems to employ Zulus that are on the small side (where do the big ones go?), or sad that I'm even contemplating whether I could take someone in close combat, be they Zulu or not. Usually, I'm not at all physically aggressive.

Still, they won't let me in the building, because "Madam, we have no internet."

And sure enough they don't.

I really wish I was more organized and could write a bunch of posts to be published every morning for this week on some dazzlingly excellent topics, such as 'Now the car is fixed, why is she still not leaving the house to go anywhere?', 'Does it count as a shower if you wash your hands all the way to the elbows?', or 'The finer points in clothing your pug so that it simply cannot be sexed.', while I finally finish either Foucault's Pendulum by Umberto Eco or Den Afrikanske Farm by Karen Blixen, instead of hitting 'refresh' like a mad woman. But alas, my organizational skills are pretty much limited to remembering where I left the computer the night before (recently, due to some undisclosed moments of panic and distress, I make a point of remembering where I park it ever night), and the science of making a good cup of organic filter-coffee.

So just in case I, tonight (or last night, depending on when I set this post to publish), end up curling up into a lifeless (read: off-the-grid) ball and dying in the blogosphere sense of the word (which translates to 'will be back by Friday'), I'll leave you with a list of musical issues to ponder, as these issues have been consuming me lately.

Not really, but I'm thinking of them now.

:: Is it okay for me to like Eminem? I know I'm supposed to abhor gangsta rap, but he's not that, is he? I really do, so badly, want to be a proper feminist and would hate for my love for Eminem to stand in the way of embracing my chosen -ism. Please.

:: Where exactly is Butcher Holler? And does it even exist? It sounds awfully gimmick-y.

:: When did I manage to learn the lyrics to Sir Mix A Lot's Baby got Back and how much of my brain are they currently taking up? I don't feel this is a good use of my limited capacity.

:: What does Madonna really sing in La Isla Bonita? And do I even want to know? Or do I just want to hold onto the way I would sing the song in fluent Finglish like I did when I was 10 years old?

:: Same question goes for George Michael's Careless Whisper. How does this chorus strike your fancy: An I neva gonna dance again/ guilty feeling got no rhythm/ oh it's easy to pretend I know yam not a fool/ should've known better than to chain a friend/ wasted chance that I'd been given/ so I'm neva gonna dance again the way I danced withoo-oo? Once again, but with feeling please. 

:: Can I still love Madonna regardless of her muscles desperately trying to escape her skin, and despite her questionable methods of becoming an adoptive parent? Not in that order.

:: Is Hubby off his rocker for loving me after my impromptu performance of Luis Miguel's Si tu te Atreves on Friday night shortly before dinner. I know all of Luis's moves, and can do his awesome finger pointing action to a T.

In this fashion.

Oh and I'm only now finishing the broccoli salad I made on Friday, so some lull in the blogging could also be caused by food poisoning.

I laugh in the face of danger.

There are quite a few things wrong with me

Indeed.

I think, unfortunately, that I'm starting to feel the symptoms of a kind of stage fright, related to having gotten quite a few new readers of late. Welcome to all of you! Don't mind the scared, sweaty woman hiding in the corner. She's just the writer.

Seeing as I started this here blog to a completely empty room, and then sort of got used to writing for Dawn at From Congo, my first follower ever until I made made my friend Lady Kicks, and the Hubby follow me, because I thought that three was better than one, I'm feeling just a tad overwhelmed. Glad, happy and grateful, but also overwhelmed and stressed. I'm just a complex tangle of feelings, I am.

Okay. Actually I'm terrified and drawn to the bottle as a potential drowning place for said stress (never said I was healthy, actually might have declared the opposite), on top of feeling the weight of responsibility for what I write.

None of you are like 12, right?

I don't want to corrupt any young minds, but I also don't want to stop swearing. That would be like checking a part of my personality at the door. And no one wants that, because once you only take on the 'wholesome' part of me there really isn't that much to work with. Sort of like my hair: Once you remove all of the product, there really isn't any hair there, and what little there is just lays flat and doesn't want to stand up, no matter how much you stroke it.

Thought I couldn't include a dirty joke, but there she bobs.

I must say though that I was, and still am, quite proud of the fact that my first ever follower (and also possibly my first ever reader, excluding myself, since I do like to read my own posts, the pathetic mess that I am) was from such a cool/scary/awesome/horrendous/brilliant/frightening place as Goma, in the Democratic Republic of Congo. Dawn does some awesome work. Go check her out.

A completely unexplained, doctored photo. because I felt like it and it reminds me of warmth. And now it's also explained.

But how did she achieve the Blog of Note glory (Thank you again Blogger! and yes I'll stop raving about it after this), if no one ever read her?

Well, the story doesn't end with Hubby.

(Insert yet another dirty joke. This time one of your choice.)

It continues with my fairyblogmother™ julochka from moments of perfect clarity.

After julochka received her BoN glory (The mention doesn't count, as it isn't my glory, yes?) last April, I happened to click on her blog. I read a few posts. I liked them. And I liked the fact that she was a foreigner in Denmark married to a Dane. Something I had been before. (Still married to the same Dane, just no longer in Denmark. Don't get excited.)

I commented.

She ignored me.

I commented again.

And then, at the hight of her BoN glory ( I promise I'll stop saying it now), she made me her 'Blog Crush'.

Awww.

And that made my follower count climb to 141, and was the start of an awesome friendship (and we haven't pissed each other off yet, which is kind of a record for me, so I'm pretty pleased and proud about it all).

Those 141 bleeps (i.e. blogging peeps), julochka most of all, will always be dear to me. As will you my new readers. I will cherish you.

As long as I figure out something to write about. Something that

a) Has nothing whatsoever to do with fingernail clippings. (Oddly, I have commented on several blogs lately and somehow come to mention this detail every single time.)
b) Doesn't contain some weird list. (Impossible, I tell you! Impossible!), or
c) Contains some action other than

1) Me drinking.
2) Me not showering, or
3) Me blogging.

Good luck with that, lady.

What has the 'Big Bad Abroad' done to Hubby

I know. I know. Sheesh.

I know you know that a header such as the one above pretty much means that I haven't left the confines of this here portable 'puter for some time now. And I'm possibly starting to reek.

As usual. You know me too well.

I admit to not showering since Friday, listening to outrageous, yet sing-along-friendly country, and indulging in the finer things in this existence: coffee, wine, and blogging (and the occasional pizza as those come delivered to the door). I have indeed been busy writing for Project ARWP, Balderdash, and Siamese twins joined by the ocean. However, as fun as sitting in one of three places: at the kitchen counter, on the upstairs couch, or in the downstairs green armchair, with my laptop on my actual lap and a coffee cup/ glass of wine (allow for variation of the time of day) within easy reach, not much worth writing about happens.

Enter: Hubby with grease on his hands.

"What in the hell and its seven chambers of purgatory (or some such thing that sounds very grand, but extremely distressed at the same time)," I think, but what comes out of my mouth is something more like "Wha... nah... walls 'n fok... fingerprints.. ngh?"

"I have taken out the battery," the good man tells me.

"Who.. Huh?" I wittily respond.

It seems that my loving Hubby had after all decided to actually do something about my broken down Daihatsu. By himself. As he apparently wasn't really feeling my well-thought-out and meaningful experiment to see whether the silvery piece of painted cardboard would catch on and fix itself.

I though he would have called someone.

But Hubs is versatile. Turns out.

"I'm going to run it over to the Battery-store and get it tested," he continues all expert-like.

I must admit I wasn't aware of the fact that he even knew how to pop the hood, let alone extricate a battery. I wouldn't have any idea. I had to spend 5 excruciating minutes with a very nice gas station attendant looking for a lever that would open the gas tank the first and only time I decided to put gas in the car. He was very nice about it. I on the other hand yelled at the Hubby later for not telling me about said lever.

And got the 'WTF woman, read the instructions, or better yet, Google it' face. He would never be so rude out loud.

But instructions and me. That's just never, ever going to happen. Proof: Photoshop, me and annoying tutorials I will never, ever watch. Never. Ever. Got that? Never, ever.

So there.

"They'll test the battery cells, but I think I might end up getting you a new battery," he finishes off with bravado.

And I'm left in awe of who I married.

Although this is the same man who a couple of months ago did not know how to change a tire. Is the universe playing with me or has Hubby discovered Google as well?

We are left to wonder.

What not to do

when heading out to the O.R. Tambo International Airport in Johannesburg, South Africa.

NOT the car I was driving to the airport. Just the only picture of a car I had, which was a little surprising. She is a beaut, though.

It is morning and you are arriving by car. Perhaps you are headed to the airport to pick someone up, perhaps that special someone, your chosen partner in life. Naturally, you are simply super-mega-excited. He was, after all, gone for three whole days. You are just giddy with excitement. That is easy to see.

That's why you stayed up until 2AM, drinking a bottle of Pinot Noir and watching extremely bad television. That's why you hit the snooze button three times in the morning, before finally getting up. And that's why the first thing you do, instead of taking a quick shower, is turning on the computer and sitting on the upstairs couch in a towel to surf the internets. And, most of all, that's why you need to wait for the coffee and even eat a couple of eggs before running (and I use this term extremely loosely) into the garage.

Giddy, giddy with excitement.

But first things first:

:: Don't leave your keys on the dining room table and then try to back out of the garage without opening the garage door with the remote that is attached to the keys waiting patiently on the dining room table. You'll also need those keys for the first gate. They are your house keys, keep them with you.

:: Don't act like a moron who has never driven a car before. You can do it. You're a smart woman and you might not be able to park the monstrosity, but going straight is your forte.

:: Don't stop in the middle of the road, even though you're still within the estate, to clean off that glob of goo (very likely to be snot) from the sunglasses. Just take them off. Later on it'll be easier to clean that goo off of the sunglasses than the black cashmere sweater. Believe me.

:: Don't speed even if your foot falls asleep on the pedal if you're 'only' going 80 (of them kilometers, not miles) on the highway. This will only force you to break like a maniac every time you think you see a police car, because you still haven't gotten around to getting that international driver's license and technically you are not allowed to drive in South Africa. Well, it has only been a year.

:: Don't accidentally change lanes because you're too busy picking your nose to watch the road. You'll just freak yourself out and wonder how you managed to stay on the road. And then you'll just think of accidents and the moronic behavior worsens.

And don't forget the most important thing:

Once you actually get to the airport, once you've followed the signs and gotten off at the right exit, and you can see the entrance and all of the planes even, remember this one thing. This is quite essential. In fact this is the thing, the key, to what not to do when you're picking up that special someone up at the airport.

:: Don't drive through the entire airport and pass several parkades with signs flashing 'OPEN' looking for that elusive parkade 4, that possibly doesn't even exist, only to end up accidentally exiting the airport, and on the road heading to downtown Johannesburg. That will just lead to panic, illegal U-turns at shady industrial areas, and complete blanking out regarding the final parking spot of the vehicle, unless "somewhere at the airport" counts.

This is quite essential. And can make or break an airport run.

I'm an embarrassment to myself. And proud of it.

I had a post all thought out and ready to be spilled onto the internets when I got back from picking up the hubs at the airport this morning.

And then the internet died.

Yes, the already spotty and slow connection that unfortunately shadows the brilliance that otherwise is my hermit existence (Ja and ag man, leaving the house is just such a hassle most times, what with needing to lace up the Converse and everything. Ja), just up and died. Completely. No heartbeat. No fog in the mirror.

I came apart at the seams and pulled at my hair, and threatened the hubby with divorce unless he wiggled his nose, banged with his hammer, clicked his heels, smote with his magical viking axe (Ha ha. Insert a very, very dirty joke here.), or whatever it is he does whenever I have one of my meltdowns, otherwise known as airing out my inner 6 year old, and made the internet come back to life. Right at that instant.

And then I made lunch. Because all of a sudden compulsively pressing the 'refresh' button got me nowhere else than staring at a screen which bluntly told me "you are not connected to the internet." No madam or nothing. The nerve. And I found myself with actual time. To do something.

While I was making an exquisite gourmet creation known as 'Broccoli salad' requiring all of 6 different ingredients and containing less broccoli than bacon, I started to think how completely and utterly helpless I am with a lot of things and how I really should be embarrassed and perhaps learn a few skills.

But then I thought: "Nah, I'll just share my embarrassment with the peeps reading my blog. Ag ja, that sounds like a fokken good idea. See. If I really wanted to I could learn all this shit. I'm just choosing not to. Ja, smart woman, I am. Oh, I's so capable and clever..." And that's pretty much how it continued until the internet magically reappeared (after the hubby had yelled at the managing director, and lied through his teeth about our place in the South African society [Madiba says hello], and the amount of influence we wield on a daily basis), and I had a list in my head of all of the things a grown person like myself, and a self-proclaimed feminist to boot (although I might have to read the current rules again, I'm not sure I quite qualify) should really be able to do. All by herself.

Here is a small selection of things I should probably be on top of, but I keep ignoring because I'm having way too much fun in the blogosphere:

:: My taxes. A grown-up with practically no income should be able to file her papers all on her own. Especially since they come 'pre-filled' and accompanied by an envelope with postage already paid. However, I resorted to Skyping my dad, exchanging at least 10 emails with him, some throwing around of said 'pre-filled' papers in anger, and a few frustrated tears while kicking at a non-functional printer, before writing down any semblance of numbers. In the end I couldn't even find a mailbox to mail the letter. Instead, I left it in the care of a smiling guy at one of the PostNet companies here in my hood. I'm pretty sure he was employed there, and he promised to post it for me. The company's name does have the word 'post' (not to mention the always comforting 'net') in it. I should be good, right?    

:: My Mac. It would only seem logical that since I chose to get a Mac instead of a PC, I would also learn to use it. Yes, it would seem the logical thing to do. But that's not how things have worked out in real life. Don't get me wrong, I love my Mac and now hate it if I have to use a PC, and can never go back again. Never. And this is perhaps wherein lies the problem. I don't like technical-y things to change. It rattles me. I want all icons in their assigned places (Hear that Hotmail, Facebook, Google, Blogger, Gmail, Twitter, etc!). I'll move continents at the drop of a hat, but you change the place of the 'inbox' button and I'm a stressed (heavily-drinking) mess for days. And then I yell at Hubby. 'Cos he's there.   

:: My car. It's still broken. And it'll stay broken until the Hubby decides to deal with it. The most that I'll do is perhaps every now and then sit behind the wheel, try and start it and constitute that no, the car still hasn't fokken fixed itself. Damn useless piece of metal, and weird 80s inspired seat-covers.

:: My internet. Yes, up to Hubby. Apparently crying by yourself and drinking does nothing to get it working. Not. A. Thing.

:: My finances. I have no idea what's going on there. Before Hubby came along, I barely had a bank account (started by my dad I suspect), I didn't have insurance, I didn't have credit cards, I didn't have 'investments'. And now I suspect I do. I know I have credit cards. because they reside in my wallet, and there must be an account somewhere because the credit cards (for the most part) work. And I do believe I'm even putting money away for my pension (I know, I know, we've been through this before, make your jokes already and be done with it... Yup. Retiring from what?!?! It's getting kinda old). So I might be able to afford an airplane, but I could also be at the brink of financial doom. I'll never know. Since the credit cards don't talk. Yet.

If they one day find me in this state in my house, then you know I had life insurance as well. Which island will the Hubs be buying, I wonder?

Aren't you just a little ashamed to hang out with me now? I probably should be.

I'm just a travelin' Finn.

Judging by your lovely comments. Which are lovely. Oh so lovely. By the way. And I love them. Did I mention I think they're lovely. (Now you pretend like there is no period after the the word comments, because I shouldn't leave a clause hanging like that, unless it's the Finnish Santa, and there is just no stopping his drunken antics, so I'll just [Can you believe just is the word I have used most on this here blog?] continue as if there were a comma instead.) many of you have realized there is no point to this blog.

([I do love a good ole syntactical mess. I do.])

And you're right.

As you can see from the sidebar and from the rather large giraffe photo in the banner, there is a pretense of me writing as an expatriate living in South Africa. In theory, that is true. I am an expatriate, and right now I am in fact living in South Africa.

However, I seem to be writing far more about myself, as a person. Just as a person (an eccentric, borderline alcoholic person, but a person nonetheless). Not as a Finn or a European in South Africa, or  Africa. Because, I have just as many ups and downs in Scandinavia, as I do in Zambia. Everywhere, there are people and cultures that either throw you for a loop or make you feel like that is where you belong. For ever. There are excellent things, good things, bad things and very bad things everywhere, and I feel fine.

Will she break into song now? Who the hell knows? She doesn't, that's for sure.

No I won't (or at least you won't be able to hear my heart-rending gut-wrenching rendition of God save the Queen by Sex Pistols, which I sometimes like to sing. Loudly. By myself. In the car. While I'm riding a bike [don't own one at the moment though]. Or if I need to convince people of my decreased mental capacity).

But, sometimes there are differences that will crack you up like nothing else. So in the vein of the pretense of me being one of them expats, here are some expat observations.

There are places in this world where:

• Sanitary napkins come with instructions and no one is familiar with the word or the concept of a tampon.
  
• The correct answer to an uninvited "God will provide you children" is not "Which one?" That just freaks people out. Even if your intention is to be funny.
• Saying that you only see your parents once a year can make someone erupt in the traditional mourning sounds that sound a tad like bad yodeling.
• When you are asked whether you want coffee or tea, the tea-part is silent. And the only answer you are allowed to give is a "Only if you are making something for yourself, yes." If you neglect to answer, all of the above is implied.
• A cashier refusing to make eye contact or acknowledge you in any way is considered a sign of normalcy.
• A 'Foreplay Lounge' is not intended for actual foreplay.
• You can be smacked on the feet with a cane by an angry old guy, because your skirt is too short, and no one but you bats an eye.
• You are encouraged to walk on sharp, pointy stones barefoot to 'improve your constitution'.
• Unmanicured nails are frowned upon. And don't even mention that you've never ever shaved your legs. 
• Kissing on the mouth is the way to congratulate someone. 
• You can be called 'Little Fatty' by a sweet old lady who is 1/3 of your size. 
• A waiter can look you up and down, and say "choose something else, you won't like that."
• A "train" can actually mean just one cart.
• A pothole can easily be the size of a medium size swimming pool. 
• Loudly shouting "Obama!" will get you cheaper prices.
• You might get kicked or at least yelled at if you don't understand or perform the hand signs related to riding your bike on the bike lane.
• You being surprised or freaked out at someone having a little scull made out of sugar with your name on its forehead on a little homemade altar is considered bad form. 

An expat-shot of downtown Lusaka, Zambia.

Can you guess where these observations took place? I'm not even sure anymore. 

A wake-up call.

Picture this:

You are asleep. It is freezing in the bedroom (because the house still maintains it's a freezer [not an igloo, 'cos they tend to be fairly warm on the inside, says my Greenlandic pal anyways] and has in fact started to make ice in the downstairs toilet, and is actively fighting any and all attempts of heating), but you are comfortably snuggled under the best duvet ever. One of them down ones. And you are nice and warm under there.

You have set the alarm for 7AM though, because there was something you had to do in the morning...

The Hubby even called you at the indecent hour of 6AM to remind you about it, but you were in a state where your brain automatically gave a few template answers, such as "I love you too," and "I miss you too," before going back to dreaming about...

Well, that thing you were dreaming about.

There was no way in hell, or any other imaginary realm for that matter, that you were actually going to get up at 7AM, hop in the shower, and cheerfully start your day. No way in hell. Not after the weird IM conversation you had with your crazy siamese sister on Twitter until 1AM. Which left your dreams confusing, until...

Well, that thing you were dreaming about.

And why would you get up anyways? Who says you have to?

So you repeatedly hit snooze on the cell phone that is trying to rouse you. You wonder why anyone anywhere ever gets up on a morning like this. If they don't absolutely have to, that is.

And then you hear it.

What is that noise? And is that ...whistling?

You turn around underneath the duvet to face the balcony doors and windows. because that is obviously where the sounds are coming from. You focus your eyes to the crack in the curtains, but instead of your usual view of the blue sky and the neighbors' roof, your eyes find something unexpected.

A bald head.

And it's smiling at you. A big, friendly smile.

The head begins to bob and talk to you in what you think is Afrikaans, but at this hour it could just as well be Zulu. You're still not going to get a word.

You try refocusing your eyes. Maybe the talking head is some sort of a hallucination? You quickly think of swearing off wine, but decide to investigate first. No reason to jump to conclusions, is there? Not with wine anyways.

As your thoughts circle around wine you realize you're naked underneath the covers. That should not come as a big surprise, because that is the way you wake up every single morning, in your own house.

But it does.

You look at the bobbing head again. It is not going away, and the words Johannesburg Crime Statistic flash in your mind.

But there's that sound that reminds you of something that happened not so long ago.

What was it?

Something happened in Zambia?

And then it hits you.

Suddenly you are reminded of that morning in Zambia in the hotel room when you woke up to someone sanding down the room door. That is what that weird sound is. The bobbing head is sanding down the frames of your balcony doors and windows.

That's why you left the garden gate open yesterday night. So that the painters could get in.

You smile at the bobbing head in understanding and yell "Morning!"

However, you are still naked underneath the covers.

Now, where did you put that bathrobe? Your faithful bathrobe that you wear every. single. day. Except for when it's far too cold to hang out in a bathrobe and regular clothes are needed.

That's when the bathrobe hangs on the door in the closet. On the other side of the bedroom.

And. Oh wait. Now you really have to pee. Urgently.

You smile again at the bobbing head as you squeeze your thighs together and glance around for something within easy reach that you could use to cover your pasty flab Rubenesque features.

You unearth a swimming suit, that will certainly not do and you storing one on the floor just borders on weird, Hubby's leftover dirty polo-shirt, a pillowcase, and a shirt. "This should work," you think to boost your confidence.

You inch towards the end of the bed away from the windows and towards the shortest route for the safety of the walk-in closet and the safe haven of the bathroom. You soon realize you were correct in assuming that there was no way you could have ever wrapped yourself in the duvet and made it to the bathroom without flashing the bobbing head.

Who is either really dumb and doesn't realize you are naked, or really smart and waiting for you to flash some boob by accident.

You don't feel in the position to yell at him for either option.

You try to inconspicuously slip on the shirt and cover your behind with the polo-shirt, while also setting up the duvet as a kind of a barrier between the windows and your dash behind the corner. You don't quite succeed. But you maintain no sensitive areas have received exposure.

The bobbing head smiles. And was that a fokken wink you saw?

But you can't be sure.

"Dirty old man," you think as you dash thanking hubby for being the size of a proper viking and wearing things that come in XXL, and will thus cover even your behind.

"Having the chance to pee in the privacy of your own bathroom first thing in the morning is an unappreciated joy," you muse.

You put some clothes on, close the crack in the curtains, and go downstairs for some coffee, to find the bobbing head and three of his buddies waiting on the downstairs patio for you to make them some tea.

"It's cold, madam," they all say.

Tutorial anyone?

There have been some of you who have written to me asking me how to write a blog. While the only answer I have is "how should I know" I thought I would show you how my brain works while I'm writing. 


Don't worry, this is the edited, child-friendly version of the bowel movements of my dear brain and only contains the occasional misspelled expletive. 

1. I start with a weird thought. Today it is laundry.

I am staring at a huge mountain of laundry and thus I'm turning to the lovely world of blogging.

2. From the first thought I move onto the next. Today my brain goes from laundry to my maid, who I have a love/hate relationship with.

I should do the laundry though, because I don't want it to be all pink if it is supposed to be white, or be put in the closets while it is still wet but in an ironed state, or all of it come out in the size fit for the neighbor's new pug, who the crazy people next door clothe like a baby leaving me planning an intervention on behalf of the poor dog who does not look or behave like he's pleased.

3. I decide I like another thought better than thoughts 1 & 2 combined and decide not to rant about the maid after all, lest you should all think that I am completely spoiled, which I am, but I won't be the one to bring it up.

I know it's cold, but the dog doesn't want to wear a pink cape on top of a Blue Bulls 'sweater'. I wouldn't either. They don't match. And I'm all about being fashionable at all times, wherever I go. Indeed.

4. I go a fourth way after all, and decide not to mock people who dress their dogs too much, because I remember I have a friend who sells clothing for dogs. I cringe a little bit, but decide that sometimes cool people do weird things. I am a case in point myself. I decide to mock a subsection (pretty much half if I'm being honest) of Finns instead.

I admit it, I don't do the 'Rural Finn', which involves I and my partner in life purchasing matching windproof jogging outfits (Wikipedia wants me to call them shell suits, but it's the Finnish Wikipedia so I refuse immediate trust), called tuulipuku and then rocking up at the grocery store wearing those selfsame outfits while discussing the pros and cons of sausage, but I do rock up at various places wearing inappropriate clothing, which either gets me the label of the 'rebel', or of the 'slob' (you guessed it, overdressing has never really been an issue). Having people know that I am Finnish usually relaxes the expectations quite a bit and the fact that my Birkenstocks are not lined with socks is all of a sudden considered a fashion moment.

5. All of a sudden It occurs to me that my mother reads this and she is always saddened if I mock Finns or Finland, and she doesn't quite think I do it warmheartedly. I also realize that despite of referring to my Birkenstocks on multiple occasions I haven't actually ever written about them. I wander into the back garden and take some photos too.

My beloved pair.

The old ones and the new ones beating each other to a shoe-pulp. 
Edit: This just occurred to me. Perhaps instead they are making me some new tiny Birkenstocks?

I have been wearing one pair of Birkenstocks now for three years. I just bought a new pair, and honestly feel like I'm neglecting the old pair. They have hiked with me in Panama (yes, it's possible, there's more there than the canal. Yup, for there to be a canal there needs to be some land as well.), climbed a volcano in Guatemala (although my Ecco's had to take some of the heat by orders of our guide), lounged on the beach in Mexico, walked up and down the (surprisingly boring) strip of Ipanema in Rio de Janeiro, been marveled at by whores in Havana, Cuba (they all wanted them instead of the toothpaste), watched corn with me in Lusaka, Zambia, taken an accidental dip in a pool of pee in Stone Town, Zanzibar, and many more places.

6. After thinking for a good couple of minutes where all I have been, I realize that I'm just bragging with my travels (this is where the some people can't stand me comes in...) and coming off as horribly spoiled, which again I am, but you guys are not supposed to know that. So I decide to balance the travels with something nicer. Cue charity.

The Birkenstocks have been there with me and for me, and only lost two rhinestones while at it, one of which I had to dig out from the mouth of a toddler in an orphanage in Mexico (a HUGE lesson in childcare). I love them and tell myself I only bought the new (shiny and black) pair to take some heat off the 'actual' pair. I'm sure Hubby wishes I'd feel as sentimental and as attached to certain other things (like the jewelry he gave me as a wedding present - now where did I put it?) or places (Hubby in a typical fit of nostalgia: Look, there it is. The first apartment we ever owned together. Me: Good riddens you leaky bastard! ...Why the fokken long face Hubs?)

7. I think about this orphanage story for a while and assess whether it could count as bragging as well, as I believe that good deeds are even better if one is able to keep quiet about them. I look at the pile of laundry again and consequently veer off to Hubby. because most of it is his and I always come back to him anyways.

Hubby really is much more sentimental than me, and I know that while I sometimes think that there isn't a thing in this world that isn't replaceable in one way or another, he sometimes holds on to things that are either superbly fugly (we own two of the fugliest paintings on earth because he inherited them and they are not even nudes or something cool like that but fokken landscapes), or just weird. Like the brace he had on his knee after his surgery back in the late 90s. Meanwhile, if it was up to me, we would be living like hobos out of two suitcases containing only necessary items like my Birkenstocks, and no paintings nor leg braces. I don't think even my books would be there. GASP.  

8. Here I stall. I realize I have completely missed any sort of point in this post and there is no way "I digress" will work, because I didn't really establish any kind of point to begin with, unless it was laundry, which I don't think I would like to write about. I go make some more coffee, and make a firm decision to actually do something tomorrow worth writing about, or at least write about that nice elderly gentleman I almost killed on my way back from the airport. He was African, so I think I can spin the story to involve South Africa somehow. I think.


9. I think and think, but come to the conclusion that I've got nothing more on Hubby that can be publicly divulged as I seem to have gone from accidentally killing someone while driving to conjugal visits in prison, and decide to just wrap the post up and press publish. I've been at this too long already. 


Well, I'm off to chuck some more suspicious crap out, while the hubby is working his little viking ass off in Tanzania. He won't even realize when he comes home.

Have a good one y'all!

Universe poking at me. And not on Facebook either.

I would like very much to stay positive and all pleasant as not to scare anyone more than usual, but unfortunately the universe just keeps poking at me with one mother of a stick huge honkin' POLE (and not the kind that Polly is, 'cos that might even be nice or at least funny, but the kind that is 100% made of them things in the forest, and hurts like hell when it hits you in the gut, or in the back of your knees). So, in order to let off some steam and other fumes I will just have to talk about a few issues. Just a little bit. Because, boo hoo, my life is so hard.

And as if on cue the sun comes out. WTF universe?!?! Enough with the mind games already.  

So what now?

Well, for starters this house firmly believes that it is in fact a freezer. We have talked about it at length, revealed said belief as a delusion, but the house stands firm, and just won't heat up. The house maintains it was never meant to be a Tuscan piece of mockitecture and it has decided to come out of the closet and embrace its true identity as a common household appliance. To each its own. I can not but put on a third cardigan, and get some more coffee.

I mean, how long can this winter really be?

Two more months?!?!

You gotta be fokken kidding me?

Finns get cold too. They do.

Secondly, the golf coach today was quite appalled at what I have done to my technique whilst in Finland. Personally I was happy about not having injured, maimed, or killed anyone with the club or the ball and felt that I should be rewarded, not told that instead of rotating, I lift and straighten. Oh, woe, golf and sucking at it be thy name.

Believe me, coming from the mouth of a golf coach those are some harsh words and can bring tears to a grown man's eyes. Not being a grown man, I didn't cry though. I swore, and as usual will turn to drink later on today. Yup, any excuse will do, or sometimes even no excuse.

So much for being the next wünderkind of golf. And I almost had it in the bag hole. (Okay, nuff with the stupid puns. I agree.)

Thirdly, as I was leaving for golf this morning and got into my snazzy piece of that stuff you sometimes have to fish out from your drain that used to be a part of you Daihatsu it would not start. The light that I found out (after a search in the manual which I only resorted to because my computer was already turned off and Google had gone to bed in it) signifies 'engine failure' was burning bright yellow and nothing happened. Not even a sound. I think the light looks more like Texas and less like engine failure (no more stupid puns, please), but that might just be me. Still, I'm in it deep. Since I don't know how to change a tire, I for sure don't know how to fiddle with an engine block, unless 'engine block' is a euphemism and my mind is in the gutter. Then I'm game.  

Hubby is off to Tanzania tomorrow and I'm stuck driving the four wheel drive monstrosity I pretend does not reside in the garage (and I think has done something bad to my little Daihatsu while no one was looking) and hate owning.

Oh, and I just bit my tongue.

Damn you universe. Go bother someone else.

What war and famine? I have real problems.

Me, me, me, and oh yeah: ME.

And I will not even rant about my internet being gone for 10 hours today and the provider (who the Hubby showers with rands every single month) not wanting to really do anything about it, on account of it being Sunday. Grumble.

I'm just going to mention it.

All cool and grown-up like.

'Cos that's the new me.

Okay, so I'm just kidding about the new me, but I am putting the rant aside for something that I promised to do for you my new readers, and have thought about doing ever since I heard about BoN (which is still squarely placing me on cloud nine, and I'm afraid I'll have to keep on mentioning for years to come, and also to RWP [Let VEG, my sis explain] who don't even know what a blog is, because it might just be all I'll ever get in the neighborhood of those talked-about 15 minutes).

If you're lookin' at me, you're lookin' at country. - Loretta Lynn

I promised to clue you all in on me and this here blog and by gosh that's what I'll do.

I'll just have some wine first to loosen up and to, ya know, open the verbal gates (or as Hubby sometimes refers to them: the gates of mediocre hell). Yup. Feeling it.

Since I (and possibly everyone in bloggyland that I hang out with) love lists, I'll proceed in list form. And yes, the light blue words are links. Click on them Mom (otherwise she won't click on them and then the thing will just be boring for her).

:: I am Finnish, and grew up mostly in Finland.

:: I am married to a Dane, whom I like to call the Hubby, but who would prefer to be called El Grande Vikingo. So if you ever have to comment on his existence, please for Zeus's sake refer to him as the latter. He is the way to my heart. Him and offers of free, quality wine.

:: I live in Johannesburg, South Africa. For now. And generally, I love it. Most times I really love it, but right now it's cold. Freezing my fingers to the keyboard COLD.

:: I love Mexico City, where we lived before SA. At heart, I am a chilanga - a native of Ciudad de Mexico.

:: I get ants in my pants. I like to move around. Not just furniture or house, but countries and continents. Often. Once a routine emerges, I need to fly away.

:: I do nothing. I dabble. I'm a trophy wife with a slant. I golf badly. I sit in my green bathrobe for days on end. I pretend to write a novel. I drink coffee and wine and live on eggs for indecent number of days in a row. Sometimes I'll also drink water.

:: I love coffee. and I'm a huge snob about it. But not in the espresso, french press kinda way, but in a weird rather Finnish way. Well, I know how I like my coffee, and yes, I am quite addicted.

:: I love wine. Here I should link (I just wrote 'drink'. Freud dude, you were right all along) the entire blog. I am not kidding.

:: I went to blog camp in Denmark at julochka's (and continue to contribute to the awesome Blog Camp blog. I especially like this one, which I mostly wrote), which will remain one of the coolest experiences ever, and met with julochka, B, Polly, Seaside Girl, and Kristina. You should go read them all. They are awesome. Also in real life.

:: I have a siamese sister in Vancouver, Canada. We share a brain, and she has promised to give me some of her liver when mine is done for (shouldn't be that much longer). She is an environmental superhero and goes by the name of Vancouver's Enviro Girl. We all call her VEG (and I once called her VAG by accident, but that was just after my visit to the local gynecologist) and love her to bits. Go read her blog and the blog I and her write together. She is a sarcastic riot. You'll love her. I promise.

:: I pick my nose. Proudly.

:: I swear. And have very little respect for organized religion. Feel free to skip those parts. Or pretend like I didn't write them. Sometimes 'ignore' is the way.

:: I have no talents. None at all.

:: I love books, reading, and a good yab about literature. All academic and shit. I was about to keel over on account of mental drought, but then Iasa set this up: Hermit Book Club. Go ahead and join now. And discuss. My mental health hangs in the balance.

:: I like to take pictures. But the real pull of this here blog - the picture in the banner - is Hubby's handiwork. El Grande Vikingo rocks. And he is all snap-happy. Also, the giraffes are not afraid of him, they just ignore him.

:: I love words. And making them up. That's why I love Balderdash - the blog. I contribute. When I'm moved to do so (i.e. have had too much to drink and think I'm the funniest person out there). It is such a great idea. The blog, not me being the end-all funny.

:: There are several of me. The Drunk Extranjera is the real problem child in all of this. Corn also enters the equation.

:: I love Africa. Especially Tanzania and Zambia. I could stay, and just tour the African countries until I drop dead.

:: People either hate me or love me. I have been working towards a 'meh' for quite a while now, but don't really seem to be succeeding. Oh well.

Okay. Before the interweb quits on me again, I'll just post this part here and continue another time. Maybe. There's a lot there already to explain the shit that is me, right?

Right.  

Sleep well.

It is not the journey that counts. Right?

First of all, welcome to all of the new readers and thank you for all of your lovely comments my old and new bleeps, which I will most certainly get around to answering. Maybe. In the comments. I'll try, I promise. I really do appreciate them.

But enough with sweet and thankful and onto the task at hand: I have been wronged. Again. (Yes again.  What do you mean by forgive and forget? Turn the other what? Where did you get that stuff from?)

This all might be a tad sketchy, since during the past 36 hours I have managed to catch about 4 hours of fitful sleep. And most definitely not consecutively, not more than 20 minutes on one go, nor laden with any kind of quality whatsoever, unless you count dreaming about the huge amount of dandruff the guy next to me on the longest flight had (and was shedding on me). But it shouldn't probably count, or even be mentioned. But to be fair, there was a lot of it, and it might have been multiplying before my eyes. Quite an experience.

But I digress and to dandruff of all possible things. Not good.

Look at me. Way to woo the new readers. Yes, why don't I just go ahead and write about dandruff. An excellent idea. Who is not interested in the wonder that is dandruff?

Anyhoods. Nuff with dandruff. Ha!

Some of you might remember mine and hubby's flight to Europe back in May and how Swissair completely and utterly blew and sucked - simultaneously. Yesterday as I arrived to Copenhagen ready to continue via Zurich home to South Africa they unfortunately decided to continue on that path, if not outdo themselves. Although, I might have already been in bit of a state, what with the two plane malfunctions and a thunderstorm in Stockholm resulting in a mere four hour delay of a flight that normally takes an hour. Uhhuh, two (count them TWO) planes we had been herded onto had to turn back from the runway because of problems, only to leave the third one, with all of us passengers packed in, waiting by the runway for the thunderstorm to pass.

Yup, yup. This will surely win them over. A rant. You got it girl!


But the best was yet to come. As I was trying to maniacally claim my tickets on from Copenhagen so that I could still catch up with my bud, Ph.D Mommy (why would she not wait for me for four hours in a downtown cafe?) I was soon told that there were no tickets for me. I was not in their 'system'. Not even under any sort of weird mutation of my name I had the lady try. Normally, having escaped the all seeing eye of Big Brother would have brought enormous joy to me (writes the woman who lives behind a gate you need to have your fingerprint read to enter), but instead I started to cry. What else would a normal grown up do? Of course I cried.

Turns out, sometimes it's good to cry. Even if you feel that as you are in your thirties you could have perhaps come up with something better than breaking out that inner 6 year old. Turns out crying will make people call Zurich for you until someone, somewhere in the world finds out that your tickets have been canceled, and that regardless of this there just might be a way to get you on a plane at least headed South of Copenhagen and perhaps even eventually for Johannesburg. So go ahead, have a good cry. At the airport. In public. Just don't stomp your foot, that will just stink of overboard.

Sometimes a few tears do the trick.

Good, because most of my credit cards had expired at the end of June and the new ones were waiting for me in SA.

Good, because my cell phone didn't work in Denmark and was almost out of battery anyways.

Good, because I was getting ready to cry some serious.

I really should get my Siamese Sister, the always wonderful and riotously cool Vancouver's Enviro Girl to come do my organizing for me. She has offered... Just to, you know, to be able to go easy on the tears and have some phone numbers elsewhere than on a phone that cannot be turned on. You know, in order to be, like, a normal, grown-up person.

In the end I missed meeting up with my bud, but at least I had a couple of Zeus-honest boarding passes in my sweaty little hands, and some internet time. And there's always that Starbucks at the airport - the only one in Scandinavia. And we all know how much I love a good latte. (Don't worry my new bleeps, you'll soon find out.)

And acrabadabra, thanks to the wonder of the internets, twitter and gmail, I got to meet with my fairyblogmother™ julochka from moments of perfect clarity, who picked up her daughter, Sabin, and rode the train and the metro for a whole hour just to turn my day around. Awesome!

Lucky she did. Because the rest of my journey involved yet another hour and a half delay followed by the oh-so-feared "they're holding the plane, but you have to run, ma'am." And run I did to find out that the seat waiting for me could only accommodate one of my cheeks. My posterior. My behind. My poor, unappreciated derriere.

Then 11 hours of flying.

And an imprint (possibly a permanent one, in which case I'm so suing Swissair) on the side of my right thigh of the remote conveniently located on the inside of the side of the seat. Such a great design.

Now.

There is one mother of a complaint letter brewing, just waiting to spew out on paper.

But first, I need sleep. and possibly wine.

And I promise to be back, as soon as I come out of this haze to clue you in on me, and this here blog. So there's that to look forward to. Yes.

Oh wow. And I mean oh wow.

And I really mean oh fokken wow.

Wow.

Thank you so much Blogger!

There are no words.

For now.

Since it's 5AM and I'm gearing up to go to the airport in Funland in order to embark on a yet another epic journey into the heart of the outskirts of Africa that will take me through Stockholm (who wouldn't want to), Copenhagen (12 hours - Thanks for that hubby), and Zurich (they better have a Starbucks). If they let me on board that is. In Finland you should not smile like a loon at 5AM. Or at all. Because it's Finland.

Here I came Jo'burg. And I am feeling good.