Am I really a charter tourist at heart?

Oh horror of horrors. In the shower, I had the following epiphany:

What if I am not the adventurous traveler I have imagined myself to be, but someone who is happiest to be presented with a ready-made package in the form of a detailed itinerary, complete with vaccination instructions, and a guide in a uncomfortable-looking uniform, reminiscent of the golden era of polyester, waiting in the arrivals hall of the airport?

Horror, I tell you.

Hyperventilation, I tell you.

Red hot terror. Red hot!

Before hooking up with my El Grande Vikingo I was in the habit of buying a ticket, getting my stuff together, and buying the Lonely Planet guide book to wherever I was going, and that was it. At the airport, I would laugh and sneer at the hordes of people queuing up for the chartered planes taking off to such exotic locations as the Canary Islands (I've been twice, but don't ever fokken tell anyone) where upon landing everyone would... applaud.

Do you hear me? They would clap their overly-excited hands and sometimes even cheer. Most times they would also take pictures inside the plane and keep their seatbelt fastened at all times.

Red hot, I'm saying.

I, on the other hand, acting all worldly and nonchalant would board my standard-route plane, without an itinerary in hand, without my luggage having the same tag as everyone else on the plane, and well knowing that I was being independent, adventurous, and different.

I was setting myself apart from the masses of tourists. Unique like.

I would land at JFK or Schipol, find out where I could hop on a bus that would take me to some cool (or sometimes less cool and more mundane [Hello Omaha] as I would come to learn) new place, filled with unexperienced wonders and hospitable people.

I was so much more than your average tourist - I was a modern day adventurer.

Then I met the Hubby. My viking. And apparently all of that raping and pillaging and seafaring vikings did was only accomplished because they all had detailed itineraries, they always showed up everywhere in good time, had confirmed reservations, and always, always had the correct currency in their pocket. Or that is at least how my viking likes to travel.

He still likes to venture to places not overrun by tourists, but boy, can my baby plan!

And here's the kicker: I like it that way.

I like it that I no longer have to sleep on a bus next to some guy with a bedazzled grill, who keeps calling me sugar, and wakes up with the most frightening morning wood pointed at my direction, I have ever seen in my life. I like it that instead of accidentally walking into the bad neighborhood at 5AM in a city at the time known as the murder capital of the US, I can lay my head down on a soft pillow in a comfortable hotel room. I like it that there are little points on the map meticulously drawn on by El Grande Vikingo himself that easily direct us to the nearest Starbucks. I like it that I no longer have to pack a little bit of this and a little bit of that, but that I am informed of the actual weather conditions at the destination prior to the pilot telling me of the monsoon rain five minutes to landing. I like it that I get to try the local wines and the local cuisine without getting worms.

I do.

With my viking I get to see more places like this:

This is where a scene from The Return of the Jedi was filmed. This or some other ruin. Honestly, can't remember. Am trying, but can't. So there.

And for some reason suffer less of this:

The Hubby's travel karma is the rich stepmother of mine.

But does all this really make me a charter tourist at heart, or just a really organized viking/ potential world ruler by proxy? Bear in mind, there is a wrong and a right answer...

Although I am currently cruising the blue skies of the world, I would still love to hear your point of view on this, my latest shower-epiphany.

Lazy things.

There are some unforeseen completely expected packing issues.

My stuff's fokken pulling a lazy.

It seems that none of the various items that I am attempting to take with me all the way to America, and will desperately need while I'm there, have made it into the suitcase or the backpack. They just sit around and do nothing, as if the open suitcase isn't even on the bedroom floor.

I have, however, been quite unexpectedly productive. I managed to find some time in my busy schedule of sitting to hit the mall and buy some jeans. I even tried on seven different pairs. I also bought three different kinds of hand wipes (they're light yellow and smell nice, and thus reminded me of Hubby), some all-important chutney, meat, and several bottles of Limited Release Catherine Marshall Pinot Noir 2007 that had been 'reduced to clear'.

You never pass up quality wine on sale.

Never.

Still, when the plane takes off tomorrow the jeans will be in the closet, the hand wipes on the kitchen counter (for the Hubby to wonder over when he returns home), and the wine in the cupboard. But the meat, and the chutney - they will surely make it into the luggage. The chutney is Mrs. Ball's chutney after all. And there's no having whatever one normally has with chutney (I don't think I've ever tasted chutney) with any other chutney. No way.

Mrs. Ball's. The name alone will keep me entertained for countless hours tomorrow, while I slip into a coma on the plane because my circulation is being cut off by the 17 inch seat.

Will he be sorry to see me go?

My talent for procrastination knows no limits.

Brainspasm - Can it kill you?

Can't deal.

with.

writing.

I just spent the last 12 hours, without any break longer than the time it takes me to get to the coffee machine, set it to brewing coffee, and get back to the kitchen counter to the computer, proofreading a dissertation. Well, nearly 100 pages of it.

It was pretty awesome and seriously smart-like, but it also seems to have depleted my brain of everything worth writing. Also, my right eye droops. So of course I think I'm having a stroke. Because, naturally, it couldn't be that I'm just tired. Nope. No sirree. I'm having a stroke, induced by modernity and globalization.

Because that would be the normal sequence of things. Yes.

(Wednesday morning)

I know it's the morning and everything, but my right eye still droops, the Hubby is suddenly on his way to Kenya, I dreamt about globalization and a guy wearing a silk robe (related to the dissertation), and the internet was down for two hours. This must mean that I am in fact having a stroke.

Right?

Or maybe I'm just being Extranjera?

Bear with me.  Tomorrow I'll dazzle you with my pathetic attempt to find a biltong-shop that will vacuum pack meat for me, a boutique with cool African crap in order to come up with the rest of the much needed presents for my peeps in Albuquerque (because I need a deadline to get stuff done), and a frantic packing attempt that is already pretty much doomed, since packing really is more the Hubby's forte, and I'll probably just leave the country again with a bikini top, a banana, and some toothpaste.

And it won't be pretty.

They said they'd be right back to take me to my own planet, but that was 30 years ago. 

.

There she goes, being all effin' positive again.

What do you do when the universe is being good to you and giving you the Hubby, some sunshine, friends, Little Bo Peep's unlucky companion in several juicy pieces, and a magnum bottle of The Chocolate Block 2006?

On a Monday.

You grab all that you can (lamb and Hubby have priority, in that order), you run zig zagging so that the universe gets confused and decides to nail that couple instead who are big news in Finland right now because they decided to engage in some sweaty lovin' (as only drunken Finns can) at the side of a popular jogging track. Oh yeah, Finland's got the summer bad, and you thank your lucky stars for this specific distraction for the universe. The big U really has to deal with those people first, and let the innocent less guilty enjoy their day.

Right Ho, Jeeves!

The couple is front page news, and any minute now, someone will bust them. The whole nation is waiting in suspense. Or at least the tabloids are. Nothing says news like an exposed, pale rump.

On a day like today, you don't dare rant and break your breather (which has nothing to do with you Kristine. I heart all of you bleeps ;o), or be mean. Other than about that Finnish couple. And really, they brought it on themselves once they dropped trou in public.

Today you will fire up the braai and empty the fridge onto it. You'll giggle away any need for the pretense salad lurking behind all of the meat, the glasses for water there just for show, and the utensils - the useless things. You'll eat lamb chops with your fingers out on the back porch in the afternoon sun and get some use out of the gazillion pairs of sunglasses that seem to normally only surface whenever there is no actual sun.

Mrs O'Leary's cow could not kick this one over. Also, Toto, I've feeling we're not in Chicago any more.

Today you will laugh with friends, and get grease in places it should not get unless you actually decide to comb your hair with the lamb chop (Not advisable. Flattens a mohawk like nothing else.), and decide that the 16 hour flight that will wreak havoc on your sizable behind is nothing compared to the delight that comes from just one more glass of that delicious Chocolate Block.

Possibly the best red blend. EVER. 

And yes, the tablecloth is the one practically glued onto our dining room table. It deters dirt and scares other pirates. The two flies with one stone thing. Ya know.

Perhaps tomorrow you'll be back to your original sarcastic self, since there is that brilliant, but difficult dissertation to proofread and that suitcase to be packed, but today you just want to say thank you to the women of South Africa for all of their efforts, and the fact that those efforts granted you this glorious free day!

My staggering smarts sometimes boggle even my brain

Wow.

I go ahead and make a note to myself and then I go ahead and publish that note (which I've now of course deleted, but nothing ever escapes the reader...). That is just astonishingly smart and so unlike me.

Sorry folks.

And for those of you who are looking at your Google readers and wondering what the hell is going on with that weird Finnish lady, I actually do like tests. Especially if I'm good at them. or they say I'm special.

Even the tests at the optometrists.

Unless they involve someone poking my eye with a stick. then they're not fun.

A breather

Sometimes when you feel like writing something that you know would upset people, you should take a breather and think about it. Just save what you've written and reassess whether you think the post is really all that necessary in the end, and what, if anything positive, you would accomplish with it.

I present to you my breather.

This post is not the one that I've been writing for the past couple of hours.

Instead, I, for fokken first time ever in the history of me on this here globe, will take a grown-up approach to things and think about it before I do anything rash.

Wow. Bet you didn't see that one coming. I'm just as gobsmacked as you are. Believe me.

So instead I'll leave you with a cool little picture and a discussion I and the Hubby had today (and these things are completely unrelated and both extremely random):

Mandela's boots.

Me: When you go downstairs please turn on the dishwasher. It's already loaded. Thanks.

Hubby: So, what, I just set the program and press play?

Me: Play? What the hell do you mean by play?

Hubby: I just thought that it sounded less like a chore if instead of pressing 'power' or 'on', I would get to press play.

The man does have his moments and completely sweeps me off my feet with sweet. And that's an excellent quality on a day like today.

I did start out normal

As many of you out there, the teens of the 80s, today I am reminded of my teen years. That awkward time when I thought that by rocking a shorts-overall combo and a men's stripy shirt tied loosely in the front, topped off with that awesome light blue scrunchie, I would epitomize all that was holy with fashion and complete divaliciousness. Although the word diva wasn't quite in vogue yet, that's totally what I was going for. I was trying to be fierce, when it was still known as having attitude.

In hindsight, I think I failed miserably, and the only thing that shorts-overall piece of clothing did for me was give me a camel toe that will haunt me for the rest of my life.

But I wanted so bad to be someone else.

John Hughes is gone, and I'm not ashamed to admit that what he created shaped a large chunk of my psyche (not to mention fashion sense) and was a crucial part of making me the 'off-the-hook' (your words, thank you very much whoever it was), eccentric, part-time hermit I am today.

Kudos? Or, it wasn't all your fault mother, after all?

I am joking mom, no need for an email. 

I'm especially reminded of what it was like for a teenager to move to Savannah, Georgia with only such movies as Sixteen Candles, Pretty in Pink, Ferris Bueller's day off and The Breakfast Club to inform her on how to act, how to be, and how to walk and talk American.

Not to mention the classic television series Roseanne. But those stories are perhaps better left unpoked at.

That teenager was quite lost in the big United States of America. Especially since she was there in the early 90s, while the films reflected the society of the early 80s, and although she was in one of the states of all of the united states in North America, she might as well have been in Algeria, for all of the correspondences between the 80s delightfully neighborly and suburban Illinois, and the 90s afraid of 'racial violence' gated community of Georgia she was able to draw on.

She was quite lost in the big United States of America.

She longed for a friend like the adoring, and quirky Duckie Dale, and for a boyfriend who would be one part Ferris Bueller, one part John Bender and the rest Jake Ryan (mostly his looks, other than that he seemed a tad empty), and to be either Sam Baker or Andie Walsh, both of whom she so identified with.

Little did she know that for the teens out there, amongst whom she looked for those types, she represented a wholly different stereotype from a teen comedy: The Foreigner.

The one who is always the butt of jokes, the one who doesn't understand a word that is being said, the one who sports impressive amounts of facial hair for a woman or a completely weird milk-maid or nerdy hair-do, or the one who will have sex with anyone, anywhere, anytime.

Like Long Duk Dong of Sixteen Candles.  

Although not Japanese like the Donger, she was quite lost in the big United States of America.

And she didn't look pretty in pink. She looked like a little piggy. But perhaps she was the better for it, and more quirky.

In hindsight.

I wanted to be her and hang out with them. (I actually photographed my DVD cover for this)

I'm off to watch Sixteen Candles now and cry just a little for Hughes and for that teenager who luckily remained herself in the end. Yes, wine will be involved.

Have a good weekend! See you back here on Monday.

Does this appointment come with a toilet break?

I'm sorry if I'm crossing a line with this one.

Wait. No I'm not.

Read on. It's about pee. Sorta like this one, but more.

Unless you are completely new to this here blog you already know that a) I have very little shame, especially when it comes to what I scribble onto here, and b) I pretty much constantly have to pee, especially if there are no toilets around. It's very la-di-da psychological.

Paradoxically, there is nothing that I hate more than having to pee and not being able to do so other than in my pants, which I prefer not to do for various (I would hope very obvious - no one likes a pee stain) reasons, so I try very hard to avoid relieving myself anywhere else than in an actual toilet. To curb the pressing need I often do a little (I really want to say discreet here, but I'm afraid that would be lying) dance that consists of intricate little wiggles and squirms combined with slight rocking punctuated by subtle jerking movements, and for some very odd reason clenching of the fists. I guess there is no calling it the 'potty dance' once you are over 30 and referring to yourself, but that's what it pretty much is.

"Why ON EARTH would she feel like it would be okay to tell me anyone who ever lived this?" you might be thinking, "Does she not understand that urine is NOT good blogging material?"

Believe me, these thoughts have in fact (have too!) crossed my mind as well, but I always return to this thought, and I do believe I already mentioned it once: a) I have very little shame, especially when it comes to this here blog.

Anyhoodles, onwards from urine and onto my point as to how it exactly is relevant.

Today I went to get my hair cut and highlighted at my local salon. I don't like hair appointments, and for me on the trepidation-meter they rank right up there with going to see a doctor or a dentist. Well, a dentist appointment ranks a little below going to the doctor, but that's only once the 'will I have to undress' variable is factored in.

I said for me. 

I simply hate having strangers touch me. This I often explain with my nationality, and while being a Finn  does clarify quite a bit of how much the term 'my space' meant for me prior to it lending a name to a networking tool (is it a networking tool? I have a feeling it is something much worse), in the end I'm just not one of them tactile people, Finnish or otherwise. However, this salon that I go to is starting to grow on me, and I might even venture to say that I don't completely hate going (Really?). They do have washbasin-chairs that give you a massage. No human touch needed.

The salon's really very fancy and important-like. All of the hairdressers wear black and white (as does the salon), have geometrical haircuts, and wear bright red lipstick. The guy who cuts my hair and is the owner of the place often says things like: "So you're pretty eccentric, hey?" to me.

But he doesn't seem to want to hug me. And that's what counts.

So I would hate for something to happen that would force me to boycott this establishment due to their unethical and/or environmentally questionable practices, which is code for I did something extremely embarrassing and can never go back.

Like doing the potty dance, while I'm getting my hair washed.

Like doing the potty dance, while I'm lying down on the washbasin-chair, getting that mechanical back massage and having my scalp massaged by actual hands.

Have you ever tried dancing lying on your back, while someone is yanking at your hair at the same time as your kidneys (where some of the pee is anxiously awaiting for access into the practically bursting-full bladder) are being poked by metal fingers through your back? And attempting to do so, without giving the poor girl washing your hair, or anyone else looking into your general direction the impression that you are suffering a seizure of some sort, or at least facing some sort of freak problem that requires medical attention?

I didn't think so.

If you would like to refrain from ever having to, commit these points to memory. Now:

• Do not have 4 cups of coffee before leaving the house and then chase them with 3 more at the hairdressers.
  
• Learn to say no to free coffee.
• Do ask for the bathroom, before the doors to your bladder close, because of it having exceeded maximum capacity.
• Don't ever think: How long can a scalp massage really be?' Chances are it will be much longer than you think.
• Learn to block out the sound of running water.

And if all else fails, learn to actually fake a seizure. I hear that if you're having one, it's actually allowed, if not common, to wet yourself.

Right?

A crap kind of consumer

As much as I'd like to preach to all of you my lovely readers about how important it is to be a conscious consumer and how good I am in this respect, I can't do it. Because the ugly truth is that it is not one of my stronger points. Not by far.

In fact, I suck at it. Not the preaching, but the being a conscious anything. I don't ever weigh the pros and cons, instead I jump, I don't think things through, I jump, I don't consider all of the angles, I just jump (Are you getting this: I'm a jumper, and not the woolly kind either). Sometimes, I land somewhat beautifully, or at least with minor scrapes and bruises, and other times I need an ambulance and a heavy sedative. Wine often comes in handy.

However as far as doing any kind of consuming consciously, I reach an even further low, a veritable low to blast all of the other lows to unknown heights.

I realize that many of you might have already deduced this from my desperate need to own an iPhone, getting it, and then spending the following days complaining about it. Especially on Twitter. But what none of you know is what else I managed to procure on that fateful outing.

As it happens, I was seduced by a pair of these:

Why yes, I just propped a pair of wonky shoes on my kitchen counter and posed them for a photo. Doesn't everyone do that?

What are they exactly, other than a pair of rather girlishly (I toned down the colors on the pic, the pink actually is quite garishly pink) colored cross trainers, you might be wondering.

Oh silly, they are Shape-Ups of course. 

You haven't heard of them? Well, neither had I until I spotted them in the shoe store window. They are cross trainers with a curved sole and something else fancy and highly technical going for them. Apparently they promote weight loss, strengthen the back, firm calf and back muscles, reduce cellulite and tone your thighs, increase cardiovascular health, improve posture, reduce stress on knee and ankle joints, vote for you, make world peace happen, and make your farts smell like roses.

Yeah, right, you sigh, and I have to say you might just have a pretty good point there. 

And I can only account for my purchase with the exact same argument I made about the iPhone: "Ooh, shiny."

That is the unconscious part, see.

In the past I have bought things because I loved the color, it sounded cool to own one, it felt good against my cheek, the commercial was really funny, everyone told me I should get one, everyone else had one, and because it came with a free gift. That's it. I really, really suck at being a conscious consumer. 

But I'm trying to be better. I have decided that I'll actually wear these Shape-Ups. I've already worn them to go to golf last Sunday, which involved the walking into the garage while wearing them, sitting in the car while wearing them, and then as the coup de grace: walking around the car in them to get my golf shoes. I was too lazy to change back into them after golf though. I hope that doesn't cancel out my good start. Hmm. 

Now, I have no illusions about these shoes having any effect on weight loss, and I realize that if losing weight ever was a goal of mine I should probably drop the wine and the burgers instead of buying a pair of weirdly colored shoes (and just so that you know: I'm fat. I don't mind it unless I'm on an airplane. I don't think I should lose weight. I'm in 'excellent' health [post pink eye]. And I like myself.), but I figure that I now own these shoes and it can't hurt my posture, or my calf muscles to wear them. And there is that world peace to take into consideration as well...

So what do you think? Should I be in consumer prison for even entertaining 'shiny' as a valid reason for a purchase, or be celebrated for my child-like ability to bypass any common sense and just get things I like?

Let me know. Meanwhile, I'll be in the back yard walking in circles being constantly distracted by the shiny, dangling-carrot-like pink on my shoes. 

I might be gone for days.

Fun Quiz - Find out whether it's time for you to leave the house

Here are 5 easy questions to help you determine whether it is time, for the sake of your own mental health, as well as for sake of the overcrowded prisons, to turn the handle on that front door and step out into the real world.

Unless this is going on, in which case you'll need to locate the keys first.

1. How much time out of your day do you spend talking to your house?

a) What house? I'm outside all the time, or at work, or at the kids' hobbies, or in traffic, or getting coffee, or...  At the moment I'm only on this coffee shop's free wi fi to check the government's most wanted list, because I'm worried about my friend who is internet-dating, i.e. on her way to meet some axe-murderer or at the least a guy who will be wearing a bra and a thong underneath his suit. Yeah. There must be something wrong with anyone trying to find love on the internet. What ever happened to meeting real people? Can I get a triple espresso, please? And make it snappy! I do NOT have all day.

b) That's a silly question! I don't talk to the house. My busy social life on the internet is far too compelling for me to be talking to such inferior beings as houses. Puleeze. Oh, while you're here, please pass me that bottle: I need to pee. LOL. Kidding, but really I can't be AFK right now, so just get a bottle of white from the fridge? Thanks.

c) But the house is much nicer than the fridge who is only interested in getting its last will and testament notarized (I'm getting the gypsy ham), or the washing machine who tried to assassinate me while I was blogging on ARWP. The house is actually quite smart, you know. Only it doesn't like the birds on it, so I've ordered some homemade rat poison for it as a birthday surprise from this cool site I found at 4AM this morning.

2. When did you last cry?

a) I cry every morning. When I get up to go to work. Right in between my morning run and getting the kids off to school. Now, help me look for my keys, please, I'm already late, and I still need to feed the dog and the cat, and I want to stop to get a coffee, pick up the dry cleaning, and get a few things for tonight's adult dinner party/ kiddy sleepover. We don't need babysitters when we've got two working feet, right?

b) I only cry at airports, when the stupid airline insists I don't have tickets for my flight, although if they would just let me go on the internet I could show them my flight details. I mean of course I don't have it on paper, it's all on my fokken 'puter. And what's with not accepting the 'flight mode' as equal to 'switched off', I would like to know?

c) Well, I cried at the funeral of my first avatar, at my first laptop's wake, and while I was tweeting my last respects to MJ. #RIPMJ

3. When was the last time you yelled at someone?

a) Does doing it quietly in your mind at work at everyone, at home at everyone, at Starbucks at everyone, at my children's school at everyone, at the grocery store at everyone, and at the gym at everyone count? I force a smile?

b) Let see... I yelled at my computer today because it kept giving me some stupid error message and then I yelled at the Hubby to come and do something about it. And then I just yelled some to get out the frustrations to do with a missing backswing, and you know, yelled. After that I laughed though, and doesn't that completely cancel out the yelling? Now it does.

c) I never yell, I write in all CAPS.

4. Do you know where your handbag and/or your wallet and keys are?

a) Can you see this thing here on my shoulder? This thing is why I run every morning, and visit the chiropractor on a regular basis. This thing here not only contains my wallet and my keys, but it also contains my phone, my make-up, a first aid kit, a change of clothing, my knitting, a few choice games and toys, tissues, some juice boxes and healthy snacks, my three calendars, some files from work, and some gum. Oh, and these caffeine tablets. They are a godsend, I tell you. A godsend!

b) Let me see... Err.... I know I had my bag last weekend. It was right there on the chair. Let me think.... I know it was right here because I was looking at it while I was browsing Etsy for a cool new one to order. Let me see... Where could I have put it this time? And I'm pretty sure my keys and wallet are in it. I mean, why would I have taken them out? Paypal has all my info.

c) Are they new apps? Ooooh, I must go check right now. They sound like fun! And I must download them before anyone else. To be the first. Yes.

5. Do you remember your address and telephone number?

a) Oh, Come on! What are these questions? Of course I do. I also remember my work address and telephone and fax numbers, the whole family's social security numbers, their telephone numbers, our insurance information, the school's telephone numbers, everyone's birthdays and anniversaries, the numbers of everyone on the PTA, and the homeowner's association. Would you like a caffeine tablet?

b) Paypal does, and whoever wants to call me does (the husband). I have both printed on some cute MOO cards, so I can always look there, and technically I am able to hand out the cards should I meet someone I would like to have my contact information. In theory.

c) My email addresses? Of course. I also remember my blog URLs. Let's see you remember all of yours. Ha, you must be kidding! Who ever heard of having just one blog and just one email? Ha!

Answers:

Mostly As: Put the axe down. You don't really want to hurt anyone. You're just stressed....
You're a good worker, a good mother, a good wife, a good runner, a good pet-owner, a good driver, a good cook, and a good person. You are just stressed! Please put the axe down, open the door and go IN your house and just sit. Just relax. You don't have to do everything.

Mostly Bs: Maybe, just maybe, you are being a tad too good to yourself. It wouldn't hurt to occasionally press the handle and get some rays, get a coffee that someone else has made, make eye contact with an actual person with real eyes, and feed real fish and not just ones on someone's blog. But, you know, as long as you don't get osteoporosis, or make the neighbors think you've been murdered, you're good. Sorta.

Mostly Cs: Did you know there is a door to this place? It's that rectangular thing right over there covered with cobwebs? Just checking. I think the pasty white of your cheeks matches the black circles around your eyes just fine.

Hot as HAADES

Are my appliances perhaps trying to kill me?

I think so. Or at least they are making very grandiose scenes of their demise. Perhaps to get my attention? Have I not been spending enough time with them? Have I not been the attentive owner, they so sorely need? Are they guilt-tripping me?

There has got to be something.

Yesterday, as I sat around minding my own blog business, luckily 4 meters from it, my washing machine caught on fire.

No, I am not kidding.

Flames and smoke people. Real, actual flames and smoke.

Good that both I and the Hubs are so great in any crisis that we were able to scream like maniacs and attempt to repeatedly open the sucker while it was still on and completely ignore the fact that the first thing you are supposed to do is yank out the fokken power chord, until the flames died down on their own calmly turn off the power, put out the fire, and see what was the matter.

Now I must admit, and as all of you who follow me on Twitter know, the washing machine has been screaming every once in a while. I even suspected it of having made a suicide pact with the fridge who has been on its deathbed for months now, but I did not expect this. As the fridge sighs on, the washing machine is a charred shadow of itself. To be honest, the fridge quietly slipping off to the great beyond of household appliances I can fathom. After all, the house keeps upstaging it at every turn. But the washing machine is the one machine that I give attention to. I push it's buttons and I open and close its lid. I put in detergent, and I empty its filter. I use it correctly, and to its full potential.

Then why?

Is it me? Am I the angel of death? Appliance fires are, after all, nothing new to me.

Extranjera - HAADES or Household Appliance Angel of Death Extraordinaire and Swift.

Yeah. I like it for the letterhead.

 Is this where I go for my paycheck then?

What's an OFF day?

I woke up this morning feeling angry. I guess. That's what the Hubs says anyways. Apparently I'm not being nice (He only thinks this now? How lucky am I, and how oblivious is Hubs?).

So I decided to look at what could have caused this.

Warning: Please do not attempt to take the following content in any other way than as a look at how great I have it and how I should be counting my blessings instead of ripping people's (Hub's) heads off. Thank you.

So yesterday, Saturday, we went out to one of them fancy malls that have heating and restaurants instead of punishing the poor person at the driving range whose life I threaten every weekend by daring to attempt to find my backswing again, because it rained and our house suddenly remembered its closet desire to be a fridge and not a house. It was doing so well in therapy, but I guess it was really born a fridge in a house's outer shell, and there isn't much anyone can or even should do about that. Incidentally, the same goes for transsexual people, the house has informed me, and I have to say the house is onto something there.  

What was I saying? Human rights? Err...

Ah, yes. We were at the mall and browsing around the Apple store (because everything is so shiny and glittery and I'm attracted to both) and regardless of having been denied a cell phone contract by every single operator in this country (I'll just leave the explanation at T.I.A.) I decided I was going to go ahead and get myself an iPhone anyway. Dang it, I wanted one.

"Everyone else has one, and I want one too," I told the Hubs and made a face that he refers to as the 'my wife is not above making a very public scene like the 6-year-old that she is' face.

The Hubs asked for the 8GB version, at which point the opportunist sales person fixed me with a meaningful stare and quickly said: "We just got the new one, the 32GB one," which lead to me making a face even the name of which should never be revealed, because the face is just that powerful.

And made the Hubs get me an iPhone 3G S 32GB.

Without having a contract.

But because I really, really, really wanted one.

I also used the latter 'face' to get a pair of boots, and some other necessary (read: nice to look at and/or touch) things.

Like a nice Crumpler cover.

Then, as we finally made it back to the freezer substantially poorer than when we set out in the morning, per our long established routine in technical matters, I proceeded to have a meltdown after meltdown trying to get the phone unlocked, registered and charged (these being the details the devil might well reside in). And I won't even get into the humongous outburst of complete bewilderment that erupted in my fragile psyche when I was trying to figure out where in the name of Maryjane I was supposed to stick the prepaid SIM card.

"What in the HELL AND ITS PENGUINS is wrong with this piece of PENGUIN DROPPINGS phone," I screamed at the Hubs, who was using a technique referred to as 'the duck's back' and making as if I didn't exist. Since, after all, we'd had a little talk in the car on the way back about how setting up the phone was my responsibility, because Hubs has a hard time setting up stuff he is not allowed to touch, i.e. all things Apple that belong to me.

"WHO, and I ask you WHO in the name of hockey sticks and jello, designs these infernal machines?" I continued as Hubs surfed the world wide web quietly looking for some much needed guidance, which he eventually found and then gently guided me through what for a moment there could have perhaps reminded quite a few people of at home childbirth. There was a fair amount of "Now, breathe calmly. That's it, breathe in and out, in and out.... And now... PUSH."

In the end, thanks to the techno-viking ways of my very own Hubs, I finally made it onto the network, downloaded a few applications, and tweeted with my iPhone, and all seemed well.

Nearly.

Then the battery died. And after plugging the phone in it unceremoniously threw "This application does not allow for simultaneous charging" at my face accompanied by a big yellow triangle, and died again.

This is when it finally dawned on me. Again, the universe was giving it to me straight, and the only thing left to do was to ignore the stupid machine, get some more wine out of the fridge, lie back on the couch, and watch Lost.

Nothing more, nothing less.

In which universe tells me not to bother

So immediately after getting all holier-than-thou on my last post, and wildly galloping around on my high horse, I decide it is time to delve into some very important research:

Aircraft seat width and pitch.

Yes, in a little over a week I'll be off to sunny and warm (I think and hope, since I haven't actually looked into the situation and am going purely on stereotype here) Albuquerque, New Mexico, United States of America. To visit my best friend from Mexico, Gringa, and her husband.

I'll also be lunching/having coffee with the lovely Kim of Helitrollop, unless she decides to back out. She still might, and well, I can be scary. Especially if one focuses on that weird jumping video on the Blog Camp blog in which I may or may not be threatening to kill someone. I have no recollection of making said threat, but there it is on tape. Scared Kim?

Anyhoo, in order to get to Albuquerque from Johannesburg I need to sit on a plane for 16 hours, on the first leg of the journey.

Let's take a moment to hyperventilate. And utter in a tone of incredulity: "for fokken six fokken teen fokken hours?"

As you all well know, my traveling karma bites, and sucks, and blows, and likes to kick me especially when I'm already delirious from lack of sleep and have not eaten in days, or at least for hours, and when I haven't packed any painkillers or my toothbrush in the hand luggage. Traveling karma also sneaks up on me when my credit cards have expired, I have no money on me, and no working and/or charged phone.

But the one thing that it all boils down to, the one thing that makes traveling on an airplane hell for me is the seat. I have come to realize that in the end I can take a multitude of crying babies, dead-goat smelling people, being ignored by the wine-dispensing flight attendant, and all other kinds of evils related to air travel as long as I can sit comfortably and read my book a little bit, before sleeping for the best part of the journey.

So I decide, this time around, at least I can be prepared and know where I'll be sitting, and in what kind of an aircraft.

Hence the search for aircraft seat width and pitch.

This is where my day and my desire to be prepared take an ugly, ugly turn.

After reading a few pages, I start to panic. I count the days left before my journey. Then I enter a different Google search:

buttocks thighs smaller in 10 days

I get in my workout gear and put on my sneakers, while almost simultaneously hopping on the elliptical machine that has stood completely immobile since it was unpacked from the container upon the arrival of our stuff to South Africa.

I begin to push with my feet.

Nothing happens.

I push a little more, and finally a screeching sound emanates from somewhere in the machine. I push still a little more and slowly get the pedals to move amidst a concerto of metallic sounds coming from the belly and the joints of the machine. The display, however, remains completely dead.

I push a few buttons. Nothing happens.

I knock on the display. Nothing happens.

I get off the machine and kick its side. Nothing happens.

I circle around the machine in search of a more efficient spot to kick, and then I see it. The display takes batteries.

I run downstairs to find batteries. "This is sorta like exercise, right?" I think whilst I rummage through drawers and drawers filled with items I did not realize we own, until finally I unearth some batteries in the kitchen.

I attempt to remove the plastic back of the display to get to the batteries. The plastic doesn't move, but I break a nail.

I attempt to remove the plastic covering the batteries again, this time with a key. The back opens and I manage to hit myself in the cheek with the key. After the initial shock resulting in giggles, I realize that I missed my eye by half an inch. Suddenly I don't feel like laughing so much anymore.

I forcefully remove the batteries from the display and replace them with the new ones. I hop back on the machine without bothering to replace the cover, which turns out to be okay, because I have stuck one of the batteries in the wrong way round and need to hop off and turn it around.

Finally the display comes to life with various beeps.

I hop back on the machine and begin to push with my feet. The display flickers 0.00 and I push harder. Again, the machine creeks into motion.

I begin to set the intensity level when the loudest sound so far startles me. It is coming from the joint of the right pedal.

As the right pedal slips out of its supportive upright shaft I lose my grip and plummet alongside the right pedal. And as gravity does its job, landing painfully on my hands and knees, I hit the ground.

And this, my good folks, is when I finally come to understand that the universe is telling me loud and clear not to bother.

It's only for 16 hours, right?

But I only eat this stuff, dangit!

Have a lovely and injure free weekend! I'll see you on Monday again, if the elliptical machine doesn't put me in the hospital meanwhile.

Take a ride with me.

The train to 'aren't we lucky it's weekend' is leaving. It will be making stops at 'you have a car, why don't you try leaving the house with it', 'because I was sick this week', 'sick my ass, you hypochondriac', and 'I feel too gassy to leave the house'.

Get on board.

Here are a few things to mull over on the way:

In Finland, an hour-long power outage at a popular mall makes the news.

"The Danish youth are spoiled, childish and inflexible," says a sociologist in the Danish press.

Both in the Finnish and South African media the most prominent aspect about Obama smoothing over the arrest of Henry Louis Gates Jr. seems to be that he was doing it over a beer.

"It's impossible to predict the entire summer's weather," confesses a Finnish meteorologist on the front page of a newspaper.

Oh, and lest we forget there's a couple of them wars, famines and one huge honkin' climate change going on.

But we already know about them.

Oh my Zeus. I forgot. Again.

Like a gazillion bazillion or maybe 4 weeks ago my 'neighbor' (in the grander scheme of things - it's only a 12 hour drive to her house) Molly made up a really cool meme, and tagged me (I know. Bad Extranjera for taking four whole weeks. Sadly, not surprising).

"Ag, man, really?," I said to myself, and then I continued, "No way, hozay," which conveniently lead me to wondering, via an extremely interesting discussion my hearing had with my understanding of language and phonetics concerning the name Jose, what exactly is a meme. But then I realized Molly, the smart woman that she is, explained it right here.

"Yah. How stoopid can you be," I told myself off, and started reading. This is what Molly wrote:

So the idea here is that you list 5 items in each category, a favourite 5 - but not necessarily in order of favouriteness - to show the diversity/similarity/hilarity/polarity/ or extreme same-ness of your personal likes.

And then tag 5 peeps to do the same. And feel free to add or subtract categories as you like.
Down with meme imperialism!

And then I understood. This was no indecent proposal. This was something much, much better. Perhaps even better than chocolate: This was a chance to make you read more about ME, ME, ME, and ME.

I'm game for that. Always.

My 5 favorite words:

1. crepuscular This word's beautiful meaning is completely shadowed by the ugliness of the parts forming it. Thus it's sticking it to the notion of beauty. Go crepuscular!
   
2. Hazara I know this refers to a minority group in Afghanistan, but I like to imagine it's an ancient spell. Also, it's fun to repeat.
3. Huixquilucan This is a place just outside of Mexico City, and it's pronounced whisky-loo-can. The pronunciation should explain its place on this list. (Hahahahahahahaha)
   
4. escapade This brings to mind the sweetness of lollipops, the exciting tipsiness after a couple of glasses of wine, and having enough money to leave town.
5. Charlemagne This word always takes me back to my favorite novel ever, Toni Morrison's Song of Solomon and to thoughts of naming, and the meaning and significance of names. To thoughts, that are never far from my core.

My 5 favorite articles of clothing:

1. My Birkenstocks. 
2. Any pair of jeans that'll fit me.
3. My multicolored, handmade handbag from Oaxaca, which always covers my back whenever I'm out and can thus be considered clothing. Stop arguing. My blog.
4. Anything with horizontal stripes. I'm forever done with feeble attempts at 'hiding the fat'.
5. My scull and bones scarf that I got from my Siamese Sister.

My 5 favorite 'catchphrases':

1. Right Ho, Jeeves. (P.G. Wodehouse)
   
2. Holy ____, Batman! (sorta self-explanatory, right?)
   
3. and. that. is. what. we. are. about. to. find. out. (Horatio on CSI Miami. Possibly the worst written and played character on television. ever. Kinda like seeing a car crash - you just can't look away, no matter how much you want to.)
4. D'oh (Homer on Simpsons. I didn't need to explain this either, did I?)
5. Oh my God. They killed Kenny (South Park. Possibly the funniest shit out there).
6. Bonus round with a photo: Beam me up Scotty (Star Trek). 

A subpar steakhouse's pathetic attempt to play on my affinity for Star Trek. As if!

My 5 favorite celebrity crushes:

1. Patrick Neate. is. a. god. Love his books, especially Twelve bar Blues, and would agree to marry him completely based on his novels, if he asked and the Hubs didn't want to keep me on. This is a real school girl-ish thing I have for this guy.
2. Robert Redford before I saw him in High Definition. 
3. Reese Witherspoon. She had me at reading Faulkner's The Sound and the Fury.
4. Gabriel García Márquez. I would just live in his brain. And it would all be in Spanish, so that would be an awesome double whammy considering the whole 'I should keep up my Spanish' deelio.
5. Oprah Winfrey and Nelson Mandela. Wouldn't they make a cute couple? And then I wouldn't have to stalk them separately.  

My 5 favorite (random) things:

1. Eggs. I can't stress this enough. I could survive on eggs alone for years and never get bored. Well, eggs and wine. Can't forget wine.
2. The Hubs. He's right up there with eggs and wine. 
3. Jewelry. I like shiny things, and things that sparkle. The Hubs sometimes sparkles, like that vampire on Twilight, although Hubs is not a vampire, he just sleeps a lot and doesn't get out into the sun.
4. The way words can be strung together.
5. Laughing my ass off.  

I made up the three first categories and carried over the last two, so I think there's a nice balance of 'something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue, and something that looks like glue, but is not and instead rhymes with term'.

Oh, right. Forgot there was no indecent proposal after all.

Oh well.

I'll be tagging these peeps:

1. Caroldiane at Context for Connectivity. Caroldiane has been there with me almost from the beginning of my bloggy existence. She is insightful and funny (although I get the feeling that she doesn't think she is), and she just became a grandma. Sometimes she makes me yodel stupid Lion King songs, but mostly she just writes beautifully.
2. Robin at Diary of a Not So Glamorous Housewife. No matter what the fok she says, she's pretty glamorous, unless she is writing about meal planning on a budget, but that is just personally not my favorite subject (I don't do budget and I don't prepare meals). She can be serious, but she also crochets for her dog and that says something about a person's sense of humor. She is an awesome mommy-blogger.
3. Monica at Ruminations. What is it with these Indian chicks and writing beautifully (check out Anandi for proof)? Monica says she doesn't want to reveal too much of herself, but I'm tagging her anyway, because whatever she reveals she does with grace. Oh, and she has never heard of the movie Grease, which leads me to think that she might be living in a barrel, in which case her talent for writing is even more incredible, not to mention managing to get internet into the barrel.
4. Sandy K at Through the Lens. She is a Canon-girl like myself in this Nikon infested world of blogging and takes awesome pics with her baby, and then helps me take better pictures by teaching me some nifty things. Sandy, you can do this meme with pictures.
5. Histreasure at A fabulous Mother's World. She is a new blogger, but well on her way. And don't let the name of her blog fool you: although she is a mommy-blogger, she has a way of presenting Nigeria, which is where she hails from, in a light other than your 8 o'clock news. She is cool, and I love that she found me.
6. And as a bonus but no photo: Josefine at A Day in the Life. This woman is fokken hilarious. And she has only just begun. If you're into my little blurbs of pure nothing (aka this blog here) you will certainly fall in love with Josefine's reality television watching behind as well as the rest of her  (neither of which ski, even though she is a Swede), which may or may not at times leave her domicile. 

How to comfortably talk to someone about grease? (not the movie)

This question may not feature in your everyday life in a prominent manner, but it is one that I have been mulling over for days now, and today I have actually talked about grease. Pleasantly, I hope. And calmly, I think.

Because all of you are without a doubt abreast of everything I have ever written on this blog, you will not need to read this post about an issue that I battle with. Because, deep down, way deep down, I'm quite a good person and even have some of them morals.

Do too.

But then there's the Hubby, who seems to have developed an affinity for pork rashers (not necessarily a bad thing, since it seems I love them too), leading to us having some pork rashers for dinner approximately once a week, leading further to there being grease on everything, its mother, and its handbag too. And let's not forget everything else downstairs: the laundry to be ironed, the cookbooks, the plants on the kitchen window, the toilet seat, the paintings on the walls. You understand what I'm getting at.

Think a thick layer of lard on your coffee cup.

Example 1. Butter: a type of grease.

Enter the maid. The sweet, innocent, new maid as opposed to the maid who I think harbored some weird grudge against all humanity and since there is a lot of me she directed most of it towards me kept giving me the evil eye every time the Hubby dared to cook (and who also, I am pretty sure, was the main unsub in the scenario referred to as the mystery of the disappearing wineglasses).

Unfortunately, as much as I love this sweet, innocent, new maid and am happy not to have been murdered whilst I had my back turned by the previous one, she has a special talent: She can move grease around better than I have seen anyone ever do before. Here or anywhere else in the world. The woman is phenomenal. While I really, really hope her talent was REmoving grease, I have to hand it to her, she moves the fat like no one else.

Hers could be one of them Wikipedia-worthy talents. Or at least Merriam-Webster. Sadly, I think Google already has a corps of fat-movers and is not accepting applications at the current moment. Or was that world-domination takeover-specialists? I forget.

But today was a 'take the maid by the horns' kind of a day (Although I think I'm a much stronger candidate for having horns than she will ever be, just for the sake of the imagery, go with me on this one), and I decided to have a word with her. About grease.

This is what transpired:

Me, wiping the kitchen countertop with my hand: Uhm. You know.... hmm....uh? So...Uh... You know?

The sweet, innocent, new maid: Yes?

Me, showing her my palm: ...uh... grease?

The sweet, innocent, new maid: Ja, the cloth is very bad. And I use the strong spray. I think it does nothing. The cloth is very bad.

Me: Which cloth are you using? And what spray?

The sweet, innocent, new maid, showing me a dishtowel and a can of some spray I'm pretty sure did not come to be in this house via my hands: I use these ones.

Me: Oh, okay. ....Well... uh... Could you maybe, please, use the rags from underneath the sink, some dishwashing stuff and lots of water? Please?

Me, going into that scary place where I think I'm becoming a colonizer and consequently freak out (thus becoming a colonizer): You're great! Good job! Yes? Is that Okay? Would you like some tea?

The sweet, innocent, new maid: I can use water?

Me, getting quite baffled, and still fearing I'm coming off as a big bad white woman: Yes? ...Yes. Please.

The sweet, innocent, new maid: Good. It's easier to clean with water.

Now, who did this poor woman work for before? I would hate to find out. But whoever it was, they're probably buried in grease. Or they never did any cooking.

Sometimes South Africa just surprises me in the weirdest ways.

Oh, and as for the movie Grease - Both the first and the second one top my list of my all time favorite movies, alongside Sixteen Candles with the queen of the 80s, one Molly Ringwald, and all of the National lampoon's vacation flicks, starring Chevy Chase.

I have such high brow taste in movies that it just makes your head hurt, dinnit?

Edit: Just to set it straight. I employ a maid, because I am lazy, impractical, unorganized, rather useless, the Hubs likes his shirts ironed, and we both prefer a greaseless environment and clean sheets, but also because we live in a country where having a maid is the appropriate thing to do if you have the money to hire one (legally) in order to provide someone with a job, and a living wage.  

Things that I keep doing...

Remember when I said that living in South Africa was like living anywhere else in the world, and that I wasn't one of them big expats?

Yeah, I thought you would.

Well, turns out that once I actually exit this here house and go out into the real world - its streets and grocery stores - there might just be a few things that I do that make South Africans think that I am either a) mentally unbalanced,  b) stupid, c) mentally unbalanced and stupid, d) not to be fokked with, or e) an American tourist on her way to a safari.

Us whizzing past the richy-downtown of Joburg called Sandton.

Befitting the above categories, I give you these glimpses into useless expat existence:

• I often accidentally use the windshield wipers to signal that I am changing lanes or turning instead of employing the actual turning signal. Levers confuse me, and I think they keep changing functions for kicks.
• I refuse to wear fleece. This one cannot be explained any further. I just don't accept of fleece. I don't.
• I insist that there are other kinds of coffee than instant. One maid actually laughed when I told her I didn't have instant, because who would ever do a crazy thing like that. Who?
• I giggle every single time I see the sign by our gate that reads "DON'T HOOT USE MIRCELL". It makes me laugh. Also, because driving onto the estate there's an 'owl crossing' sign. Honest.
• Sometimes I wear my Birkenstocks with socks. Since mine are of the thong-persuasion I purchased special socks all the way from Taiwan with a separate 'compartment' for the big toe just to wear with my Birks. Don't judge.
• I sometimes accidentally sit on the passenger seat of the car when I'm out by myself. This always leads to complicated maneuvers that include 'I am looking for that important paper here by the door and/or the glove compartment', or 'I am waiting for the driver of this here car and if he doesn't show up in the next five minutes (signaled by looking at watch and shaking head) I'll have to get on the driver's seat and drive away', that I doubt really fool anyone watching, but make me feel better.
• I huff and puff every time someone doesn't arrive on time. Or on the correct date. 
• I hesitate every time I'm supposed to make a right hand turn with the car and occasionally resort to what I call the 'You thought I was going to drive into oncoming traffic, you totally did, but HA! I didn't' -move that involves sudden braking followed by a U-turn like action and some visible shrugging behind the wheel. The move seems very popular with truck drivers. Or at least they smile at the stupid woman.
• My jaw still drops and I find myself unable to speak every time I complain about service some place and whoever I'm complaining to poses the question: "Was the person black or white?"
• I chat up the guys at traffic lights who sell things or hand out fliers, and one blind guy called Mike, who knows I'm coming by the sound of my Daihatsu (Although I think he just knows it's me, because I might be the only person on the estate who doesn't drive a huge honking monstervehicle 4x4, or a snazzy Audi/Merc). Me and Mike often shoot the breeze about God and the weather (he doesn't think Google controls it, and is rather baffled by the concept).
• I have the following discussion, which I can keep looping as long as I say good instead of fine. I don't know what the magic is, but I've done it more than once:

A South African person: Hello. How are you? 

Me: Good. How are you?

A South African person: Fine. How are you?

Me: Good. How are you?

A South African Person: Fine, How are you? 

• I wear khaki that isn't at all worn. Like, at all. 
• I pack my own groceries. Or interfere in the packing of groceries, by using such foul language as: "Put more in that bag. I don't need no ten thousand bags," while I can see the poor packer-woman think: "What is wrong with this lady? Does she understand she can carry her groceries home in the bags? Americans are funny. I'm so glad Obama won. He'll make them see the light." 
• I wrinkle my nose when someone talks of hunting. No, please don't explain to me about killing the meat that I eat. I know there's a connection, but I still prefer to pretend like there isn't. Thank you. Also, all fish are born without heads, because otherwise they could look at you.
• I go weeks without opening the door to the back yard, which is crazy because that is part of my 'entertainment area'.
• I think townships have a certain rugged beauty to them.
• When I say taxi, I'm not talking about a lethal van packed with people, that whizzes by me at the side of the road, going the wrong way, and then cuts me off, I mean a normal car that you can call to come and get you or flag down by just raising your hand, not one that can only be flagged down at certain spots and by using complicated hand signals telling the driver where you are going. I only know how to signal that I want to go downtown, and well, what am I going to do there?

And there are many more examples. I guess I am an expat alright, or maybe I need more South Africans like Molly in my hood. She is one of them cool ones, and hilarious too. You should check out her native's perspective. She is much smarter than I am.

Go read her. 

My wonderful weekend and consequent downfall

No Lucille Ball like mishaps this time around, unless you count accidentally driving into Joburg central (one of them bigger no nos in company provided safety regulations) and touring it like it was an exciting touristy site, while we were really trying to make it to Newtown, a nice revamped, much safer area near the downtown.

But I tell you, people were really nice, welcoming, they smiled (apart from the drug dealers, who were probably just wondering whether we were looking to score some [we weren't], or whether we were really stupid 'undercover' cops), helped us with finding a parking spot, and apart from waving at us or shaking our hands, did everything in their power to make us feel welcome.

So take that downtown Joburg, you will no longer qualify as the big scary monster in my nightmares. Didn't even see nothing of the protests going on at the moment. people just smiled at us (note: NOT laughed at us).

However, as something was bound to happen, I seem to have gotten sick. And when I get sick I don't just get a fever and sleep for a few days. No sirree. Even in illness I have to feel special and different.

And you can forget about me going to the doctor. I just might be the worst hypochondriac in existence: I constantly think I'm dying of some horrible disease, but I refuse to go to a doctor, because that might mean... well... that they might just touch me. I'm a Finn, we don't take kindly to that sort of behavior. And based on a year of me walking around with a grape size stone in my gallbladder and a fair week with an infection before emergency surgery at 2AM I'm pretty good at ignoring a pain if it also means avoiding going to the doctor.

You know, the doctor might have wanted to stick one of them popsicle sticks in my mouth and look at my tongue. Shudder. I'll take severe pain any day now over such a horrendous experience.

But this time around I think I need Dr. House to diagnose me, because Google is not doing it's usual part.

My symptoms include but are not limited to:

• One bright pink eye.
• Stiffness of second joint of left pinky
• Pain and stiffness in left middle finger
• Stiffness of right pinky around the joint that attaches the finger-dealio to the palm.
• One numb toe on right foot. 
• Pink spots on my tongue.

I'm seriously weirded out by the fact that my illness seems to be mainly related to 'pink' (Pink and pinky. A coincidence? I think not!), and it does not escape my Sherlock-esque powers of deduction that this is the singer I was once compared to by the Blog Camp folks and that these are the cupcakes I tasted this past weekend:

I also might have tried the other ones, but that is beside the point and doesn't fit in my conjectures right now.

I see a connection forming here. Don't try and reason with me - I'm already off.

Right now, I'm somewhere between P!nk, gout, scurvy and something called a Besniec-Boeck-Schaumann disease.

What do you mean by 'blowing out of proportion'?

Things I learned while living without electricity.

All grueling 8 hours of it.

Please, learn from my mistakes. Since I obviously can't.

• Always have hot coffee in a thermos, because even a scheduled electrical interruption in South Africa means that you will be notified approximately 2 minutes before the power is cut off, or possibly slightly after. Via email. And even if you should receive notice a whopping 10 minutes prior to the outage you probably cannot cope with the stress of both making the coffee and finding the thermos. So keep one handy, i.e. not in the guest room linen closet behind the camping equipment.
• Not being able to access the interwebs might make you twitch in a really scary way. Don't worry. These involuntary movements are completely normal withdrawal symptoms. You don't need to call a doctor right then and there. You might, however, benefit from meeting some sort of an addiction specialist later on.
  
• Keep the key to the electrical gate somewhere where you can easily locate it should you wish to leave your domicile whilst the power is out. While the light on the remote still works since the remote is powered by a tiny battery, the gate won't respond to any amount of frantic pushing of the remote-button no matter how hard you keep pounding it.
• Buy some canned food that does not require heating up. When grocery shopping get some cans of  tuna. What kind of a person does not stock at least a can of tuna in her house? Puleeze.
• Teach yourself to enjoy cold minestrone. Or just remember the tuna. 
• When electricity goes, so does all heating. Go ahead and put on that coat right away, and don't embarrass yourself by calling the Hubs at work to tell him there's something wrong with the radiator.
• Hot tea is also out of the question. Unless you feel like starting a fire to boil the water. Which you shouldn't, since you really look better with eyebrows. Stay away from fire.
• Teach yourself to open the garage door manually. That way 'driving to the mall to get a latte' does not have to become an expedition taking several hours. If you can find the key to the electrical gate, that is.

But most of all

• use the time wisely and really get into that awesome Umberto Eco book and take those photos in the back yard and in the house you have been planning for weeks now. The light is awesome. Use it!

Even if the photos turn out like this.

It can still be an awesome day, regardless of all of your  neighbors now thinking of you as the crazy lady who likes to drive up and down her driveway. No, that is not a euphemism.

Okay. Yah. Lately, these are getting a little lame, so I'm taking tomorrow off and going analog. Yup.
Have a good weekend everyone and I'll see you on Monday!

Meet da meat.

Back when I first started this blog, when it was still very strongly about how much I love living in South Africa, as opposed to how delightfully quirky I am (stop making that face), or how little I accomplish in the span of 24 hours (I know. We are all so over that), or what the hell is that stain now and how did I get it (I really don't know), I wrote a post about meat. Well, the braai actually, but meat is what it all came down to.

Meat.

And this past Saturday (or was it Sunday? Let's just say the weekend. To be on the safe side. It could not have been a weekday?) weekend, I revisited that feeling of love for this country I felt at the point in my life, seven months ago, when I wrote that first post. And again, what it all came down to was meat.

Meat.

Specifically, lamb

Meet the lamb. In all it's glory (I think there's some pork rashers on there too, but lamb is what counts. Remember the lamb. Don't ever overlook the lamb. Lamb. Lamb.). And by sweet-juice-that-trickles-down-from-a-rack-of-lamb it was good. I may never feel the same way about one of them sweet little furry creatures that go... whatever a lamb says in English.

I'll just be thinking about how good they taste.

Would you believe I was a vegetarian for years?

Me neither. Maybe I should get into the habit of Meatless Mondays before my much more environmentally aware siamese sister Vancouver's Enviro Girl manages to zip herself into picture form, mails herself to South Africa, and makes me think about Meatless Mondays. (Go make her bloggy life exciting, so I can enjoy mah meat. Thank you kindly.)

But until then, this is what it's all about

and maybe some of this

This is the Hubby's idea of a bouquet of flowers for me, I just received tonight, since I've been feeling a little blue lately. He knows me so well, the horrible enabler that he's turned out to be.

I'm happy y'all. Have an awesome day!

I write trash

Someone left a comment quite late last night (South African time) asking me whether I knew that I wrote trash. Actually the person left two comments.

This person seemed quite happy about my writing trash, and didn't seem at all to imply that I should take this term applied to my writing as an insult.

So I didn't.

I took it as a compliment.

I cannot help but take it to mean that without anything substantial happening in my life I can still put words on paper the screen. And dang it, I can tell you that this is one thought that just fills me with hope for actually finishing something that I wrote. Some day.

But I was also left wondering about this whole blog-writing-thing and all that it really entails, as well as what it means to comment. And the wondering went sort of like this:

Me: Oh this one here that she wrote is a really good post. I should comment something witty and different.

Me too: You already did. Only it's not witty, nor is it different. Actually, if I'm completely honest, it doesn't make that much sense. How much did we drink last night?

Me: What are you saying? We didn't drink at all. Remember? We went to bed early, read some Umberto Eco without really paying much attention to the words or their meanings, and finally just kind of nodded off. The light was still on in the morning, and Umberto was comfortably tucked under the covers against our breast.

Me too: We didn't drink any wine? Really? What are we trying to do? Sober up?

Me: Hmph. You know what. We were really discussing some more pressing issues than our wine consumption.

Me too: ???

Me: We were talking about commenting on that there post and how we'd already done it without having any recollection of it, and how that might mean that we actually could have dementia or amnesia or some such thing, in which case it is really awesome that we have this here blog we ourselves write so that we can always go back and read about that suspicious goo in our hair or how much we love Mexico City.

Me too: No we weren't. Were we?

Me: Yes. See? You've already forgotten. Next thing I know I'm gonna find your car keys in your shoe and then you're not going to be able to recognize me when you look in the mirror in the morning.

Me too: So what you're saying is that we already have dementia or amnesia or some such thing?

Me: No. I'm saying you do.

And that, my good people, is how a brain is not supposed to function. This is what is supposed to come out:

I'm left wondering whether people really realize what they are projecting out into the world when they click on that orange publish button, or whether I myself understand how someone might interpret a post I've written or a comment I've made. Is it just a little too easy to 'put it out there' without realizing what  your words might do once you release them into the blogosphere?

Why am I getting a weird voice over feeling here, reminiscent of the ending of an episode of Sex and the City? Disconcerting. I'm not at all that type. It might be that I'm developing some such new and until- now-kept-at-bay-by-Toni-Morrison personality as 'Chick-lit Extranjera', or 'Treat-me-like-shit-Mr-Big Extranjera'. Very disconcerting.

Never mind that.

I would like to think I wear my values on my sleeve, even on this blog, and that people who have actually taken the time to get to know me and read some of my posts know what I stand for. But is it really that apparent, and am I reading much too much into other people's posts regarding their values and personality. Or are they really as funny, as intelligent, as open, as tolerant, as compassionate, and as delightfully off the hook as they seem? As for the people I met at Blog Camp, I think they turned out to be even more so in person, but as for the rest of you...

I'll just have to keep on wondering, unless anyone is interested in Blog Camp - South Africa? Yes, you are allowed to be weird, but only good weird. I'm not putting up anyone who wants to bring a) parts of anyone else or b) their mother.

Here is some actual trash, from my trash can, to spice things up a little bit. You're welcome!