On arriving to Denmark

Yesterday, upon arriving at the Johannesburg airport we were told that our already paid flight on Swiss Air to Zurich had been canceled and we had been put on a flight leaving tonight, Friday night, and set to arrive in Copenhagen an our after the beginning of the wedding ceremony we are supposed to attend. No one had thought to tell us.

Luckily, hubby is a total sweetheart (and now possibly has an Indian girlfriend/concubine in Jozi) and managed to get us on a Lufthansa flight leaving yesterday night. The only problem was that the flight was already almost full, so we would have to sit in the middle, in the last possible row. The hubby said okay.

On the plane we found out that what really sucks about sitting in the middle of the last row is surprisingly not the close contact with the toilets (even though that is definitely not a bonus either), or the fact that there is just a little less leg room, or that the stewardess never looks at you when she is offering folks more wine (and that really truly blows so much that the poor woman probably now thinks that her name is "ma'am, can I have some more wine, please, MA'AM!"), but the sorry, sorry fact that regardless of the people on the row in front of you being able to lean back their seats so far that you can comfortably rest your front teeth on them should the need arise, you are in fact unable to lean the seats back in the last row, even an inch.

11 hours of flying.

In this time I managed a whole 3 hours of punctuated, neck wrecking sleep, 1 bottle of white wine, and 1 whopping squabble with a group of people hanging about by the bathrooms loudly yapping when I was trying to sleep - about fokken friendship of all things.

I won the fight resolved the issue with an I'll-wring-your-neck eye roll and my tried and tested "I'm this close to snapping. If I were you I would quit while I'm ahead," followed by a menacing display of crazy/evil eye, which left the hubby's mouth gaping, since I don't normally threaten people who I'm in a confined space with for hours.

But then we finally arrived in Copenhagen and this happened:

Life is good again, I'm happy that my hair stands up after wearing a hoodie for 15 hours, which must mean I'm thoroughly defying my Finnish genes, and I've spent a day taking pictures of bicycles and drinking all kinds of coffee.

Freezing weddingpalooza to follow.

I was looking for a neon sign.

As I and the hubby are going to his brother's wedding this Saturday I started thinking that I should perhaps get out of my my jeans and whatever top is nearest to me when I reach for one, in celebration of the occasion (stripper joke, ha ha). The event is after all taking place at one of the most scenic places on earth - Møns Klint in Denmark. So today, and as is only fitting to my never-be-afraid-to-procrastinate personality (this personality is closely related to when-in-doubt-open-wine gal we all know and love tolerate) and a whole one day prior to our exiting South Africa, I and the hubby headed out in search of something to wear. Apparently, I have been told, Zambian traditional costume would just create unwanted attention, especially if worn by the hubby. Oh well, we still have the fertility idol to drum up some excitement. Wouldn't want the bride and groom to hog the occasion... 

After completely digressing and having an amazing lunch of sushi and spending an indecent amount of time in a book shop buying books and magazines we finally made our way into Woolworths, South Africa's answer to a department store (quite a measly one as a department store, but otherwise awesome), and I started picking out things I could see myself trying on and actually sweating in at the wedding. I'm not a fan of fitting rooms or static electricity and the two things combined for me equal a small, and exceedingly hot version of hell.

However, against all odds, lo and behold, in the immortal words of the phenomenon known as Madonna, and sort of befitting a wedding: 

I made it through the wilderness 

somehow I made it through

didn't know how lost I was

until I found you

I was beat incomplete

I'd been had I was sad and blue

but you made me feel

Yeah, you made me feel

all shiny and new

I just wish I hadn't paid for you and taken you all the way home, before I found out you were actually maternity wear.

I'm bewildered and the suitcase only contained some musty old chocolate, that can't even been eaten anymore. Hubby knows, he tried.

Denmark here we come.

Postman Pat visits

The Finnish government has managed to track me down again. This time upon my return to South Africa what was waiting for me in the communal mailbox (I will get to that rant at some point) was a letter inviting me to vote.

The letter tells me that I can vote either in Pretoria - though unfortunately that takes place while I'm in Denmark - or Finland. And oh joy. I'm in the vicinity of the swimming hall official voting place in my hometown at the time I (and everyone else) have been given to go cast my vote. Hurrah for democracy!

I have been looking forward to such a serendipitous moment for a while. When I last had the opportunity to vote was a while (quite a long one) back, in the parliament elections I believe. Unfortunately the candidate I voted for only amassed 150 votes which even in Finnish terms is quite a measly amount. That's what you get for favoring the communist workers party. I guess those days have passed. Other times I have either been unaware of an election going on until it was much too late (in Finland that is. I would kill for the opportunity to vote here, or in the States [well, more here since the result of the election that just took place is a little daunting with Jacob Zuma, once on trial for rape and not quite seeing what really is so bad with HIV, becoming the Prez]), and the papers never made it to our address, or the election has been a church one, in which case I don't think I should be allowed to have any effect on what goes on there. However, this time I lucked out. Yippee, Now I can go vote in the....

Hey, wait a minute. WTF...

I can vote in the European parliament elections?

Why would I want to do that? What do they do anyways?

google, google, google some more, google, google.

Oh, they might talk about legalizing marijuana. I'm back on board! If they do it, then America might just follow. Maybe. In the future. And finally stop the drug wars in Mexico.

Yes, I'm voting for a Finnish woman for the European parliament in order to stop drug wars in Mexico.

At least I'm voting.

There is nothing like home?

So I have been traveling again, hence the silence here. This time back to South Africa from Zambia. On returning to this country, where this morning the temperature was 3 degrees celsius (Thanks a lot drunk Ext [one of my personalities] for leaving the windows in the kitchen open), I was able to think up some random thoughts and questions. Also, my first 'my year of reading dangerously' book - Den Afrikanske Farm by Karen Blixen - is just a little bit tedious at times and and has so many archaic Danish words and expressions that I have given up on trying to understand every single one of them. Also, if the said archaisms are part of a nature description I find myself yawning. Always was a city girl, regardless of the small town (country) past.

While I was not reading on the plane these things came up:

1. If you have three fat people on the whole flight why do you make them squeeze into three adjacent seats? The Mma Ramotswe (or that is how I imagine her based on the books) next to me had to have one of those extensions for the seatbelt brought out.

2. Is there in fact a conspiracy against fat people flying? I think so. Someone out there is going "Now, on this plane lets give them enough leg room to stow an elephant under the seat, but lets make it impossible for them to lift up the arms so that there is no way in hell they can ever utilize the leg room for anything, but transporting that elephant. Fat people shouldn't be crossing their legs anyhow - too much prominent thigh. Oh, and Gary, make sure no one is actually allowed to take more than a tiny bag on the plane so that we'll have that elephant space free at all times. Thanks." (my imaginary minions are always called Gary, or Bill).

3. Where did Mma Ramotswe get her happenin' pedicure? And why is she taking her shoes off? Could she have visited the The Most Best Salon in Lusaka?

4. On an airplane when the stewardess asked me "Beef or vegetable?" why did my mouth say, before my brain had had time to process the question, "vegetable", when I very well know that airplane-speak for weird curried or pickled mush is vegetable? Also, why do I torture myself with airplane coffee? Probably because it is still coffee. Kind of.

5. Why did I in my inebriated state ignore the button that said 'next page' while booking my return from Zambia and trying to match hubby's return flight? This is what I learned though: Arrivals at four hours apart give you just enough time to make it back home from the airport (driven by a person who regales you with tales of gruesome traffic accidents, and what route he would take if he was driving a copper truck to South Africa from Zambia ['thru Zim, of course]), start a load of laundry and drink a liter of coffee, before driving to the airport in pitch black through Johannesburg, only to find out that the flight is delayed allowing you to have yet more coffee at 8PM plummeting you into a complete zombie state, and unable to sleep regardless of extreme exhaustion. And then, when you finally do fall asleep you have hectic dreams of drinking coffee.

While I was trying to unlock the front door in order to run to the bathroom these things came up:

1. What am I going to wear to the wedding this weekend? I bought a lovely embroidered traditional costume from Zambia, that has real freak-em-out potential, but I don't know if it is garden-party appropriate, or whether it'll fall apart if I sweat in it.

2. How come it is cold in South Africa when it wasn't cold in Zambia? I mean, we're still in Africa, and the distance between Lusaka and Johannesburg is only the same as from Finland to Germany, or from New York to Atlanta.

3. Why did I leave the freezer open? No sorry, it was just the windows.

4. If you could only take 5 kilos of stuff for a month in Europe, what would it be? The other 15 kilos, I am allowed is comprised of one well packed fertility idol, Zambian junk, Tanzanian junk and South African junk, by which I mean presents for our families and friends.

5. Is it possible to not drink wine or coffee for four days in order to avoid extremely swollen limbs and an inside of nose that feels like it is on fire when breathing through it? Nix on the coffee and wine pending. I hate long-haul flights. Or actually all flights. Why are there scientists still all consumed with trying to cure illnesses when teleportation still isn't a reality? Priorities, people.

Join me tomorrow for 'panicky packing mayhem' with the special edition of 'what is this moldy stuff in my suitcase and how long has it been in there'.

Silver linings and other cutesy shit

Since I have lately been on the whole letting go, choosing to be happy, and finding the silver lining in everything kick (and since having another blog to vent on) I'll now share with you some more of the happy things going on at the moment.

:: Once you want to take a picture of the crocodiles in the pond by the hotel bar - the ones you have been freaked out by for the past month - they are nowhere to be found and thus you don't have to hold your feet on the table legs because they're out there watching you (the crocks, not the table legs).

:: There are really nice people out there in the blogosphere who will listen to your worries even if they have never met you, and who will make you laugh by engaging in a very weird IM commenting on several different blogs. And they live 9 hours apart so that gives you the possibility of 24 hours of constant IM. No need for sleep. Unless one of them goes analog, which is the unthinkable.

:: I finally have a sister (no thanks to mom and dad, who only crowded the house with ice-hockey and basketball playing brothers, whom I love, but let's face it their girl talk is way below par).

:: The crocks are out, but appear to be asleep. Thank Zeus for a seriously warm day.

:: I seem to have fallen in love with photography, thanks to julochka and Erin (who is also helping me to reclaim rad as a usable word, just not in front of julochka - she is sensitive to it, and we want to be nice to the queen and the object of our worship. If you want to be in julochka's rock [warm stone] cult please sign up here and if you want to be in a more minor corn cult [with julochka as a prophet] sign up here).

:: The fact that I was unable to upload pictures yesterday resulted in the smile post , which in turn made some people's day. And I think that is just totally like rad, or possibly awesome (with parachute pants).

:: When I leave Zambia tomorrow the hubby will leave only 5 hours after me, and we won't have to be apart again for a couple of weeks.

:: I'm leaving for Europe on Thursday (I might have mentioned this before). And It will be summer in Europe, whereas in South Africa it is slowly getting to be winter.

:: A person I know in the blogosphere brought home a new baby and posted this picture which nearly made me cry. She writes in Finnish, but the photo says it all. Congratulations to her.

:: In a week I can get one of these dresses that I'll be wearing with pants though. I'm special.

:: My friends totally let me be a cat. What more can a person ask for?

:: There are fish in the pond by the hotel bar that could totally take the crocks if need be.

:: I love the word perpendicular. I don't know why. It's just so... perpendicular?

:: Even when suffering from a serious bout of blogger's block I can post incredible amounts of shit, and you all still read it. I love you people.

:: I just realized that I don't like any of the characters in my novel, and thus was able to rethink a lot of it. Who was it that said that if you don't like your characters, neither will your readers?

:: I love the fact that I'm not a perfectionist, because if I was I would be engaged in a potentially grueling googling process over the quote in the previous point. I'm glad I'm happily half-ass. Makes it easier to be lazy.

:: Someone just sat down and is now blocking the crocks. And he is wearing flop flops. Oh happy day.

:: I'm going to a wedding/garden party at Møns Klint next weekend. This place has got to be one of the most beautiful places on earth. julochka's blog has pics from there, but the whole happily half-ass makes me be too lazy to find them (perhaps she can toot her own horn in the comments?) and I also need to pee, so I'm just going to publish now. Sheesh, get off my back.

:: I'm still in love. With the hubby and the world.

:: The sun is shining, and it's warm.

Hope you have a really nice Sunday and get to eat lots of bonus cake and drink liters of coffee (this being my idea of a perfect Sunday). I'm off to hunt the crocks down with my camera. Now that they are out again and I have secured flip floppy bait.

A good smile

I once, in what now feels like a previous lifetime, did some research into some linguistic devices referred to as 'politeness strategies'. These devices have nothing to do with what is normally understood as politeness and thus I'll spare you the joy of hearing more about them (trust me, you would just skip the explanation).

I will however let you in on one of the things that makes me love Africa.

She looks you in the eyes and smiles a genuine smile. "Hello, how are you today ma'am?"

Who is she?

She is the hotel cleaning lady in the morning. She is the waitress in the bar. She is the cashier in the supermarket. She is the woman passing you in the hallway. She is the parking attendant at the market. She is is the beggar at the traffic lights. She is the woman sitting at the next table at breakfast.

He smiles with all of his teeth flashing and makes to help you with your bag.

Who is he?

He is the groom from the wedding party in the restaurant. He is the guy sweeping at the entrance way. He is the man walking towards his car at the parking lot. He is the man fixing the elevator. He is the man trying to sell you a carved table.

I do love a good smile and wish the rest of the world did too. And I have finally learnt to ask the all important question and actually listen to the answer too.

I have decided to be in a fabulous mood today.

Bear with me.

From depressed to corny in 15 easy steps

I have been just a little depressed since I wrote the post about friendship. Multiple times I have gone back on my thoughts while remembering everything that some South Africans have done for us, and then remembered everything some South Africans have done to us, and become even more depressed. However, what has come out of these vacillating thoughts has been the realization, that yes, I am thankful for what you have done for us and how you have helped us, but it still doesn't take away the hurt you caused by discussing something very private to us with probably whoever would listen and making me cry over a book club meeting. But, I am letting it go. I really am.

These are the things that have helped me pull out of my funk:
(I will be doing my bullet points like this :: in honor of the cheek-licking julochka)

:: Writing a new blog with the hilarious VEG , my siamese sister in brain.

:: Watching corn grow. I kid you not. Thanks julochka for making me aware of the Iowa Corn Cam.

:: Iasa of Blissfully Unaware Lounge Singer starting Hermit Book Club.

:: Bonus cookies going from vanilla to macadamia.

:: Leaving for Europe in a week.

:: Zambia.

:: Accidentally tipping the waitress 67%.

:: All of your lovely and supportive comments.

:: The little girl, in relation to whom I'll always think of myself as Auntie Green even though she has no idea who I am, turning three.

:: A garden, that I'll be visiting in August, coming along.

:: Having sworn on this blog without hearing my mother's voice yelling at me, or without having received a single email from her about said swearing. My dad did however email telling me that he goes to bed at 10:30PM, not 10PM

:: Having a nice round number of followers (Yup. I'm pretending like the two who jumped ship didn't cause me endless heartache. Should not have bashed the bible... Says who? God?)

:: The possibility of locating some parachute pants in my closet and actually wearing them to blog camp and thus freaking julochka out.

:: The possibility of someone recognizing me in Copenhagen while I tour it with the blog camp chicks who will all be wearing their identical blog camp T-shirts (which you should order too, all the cool kids have..., and this is in case they ever believe that my credit card is in fact mine and send me the fokken thing).

:: The hubby going out and having a ring designed and made just for me to cheer me up, and "to be written a praise post about, in which I [hubby] should be called the best husband on earth." I will have to write the post once I can attach a picture of the said ring (Zambia internets...grumble....). The man really knows his way around my corrupted soul.

Okay, I realize that for you to understand all of the above, you would have to read all of the blogs that I contribute to slavishly and including the comments as well as most of the blogs I follow and their comments, and maybe some twitter, and my private thoughts. But hey, that IS the fun part.

Now, run along and go read!

On coffee and getting up in the morning

I was woken up this morning at the ungodly hour of 8AM (I know, poor me.) by someone sanding down the door and door frame of our hotel room. They were getting ready to paint the doors. Doh. The hubby had already gone, and we had apparently decided to skip breakfast. I'll often say that I'll do this without remembering even waking up enough to be asked whether I wanted to (or this is what the hubby claims at least). So feel my terror, when I discovered that the coffee stash in the room only contained decaf, which is one of the four horsemen right alongside Photoshop. Many of you cannot probably even imagine the emotional roller coaster ride the decaf-discovery resulted in. I almost lost it for a moment and contemplated the potential downsides to dashing down to the hotel bar in my towel for a cuppa. On the plus side would have definitely been yet another Wikipedia worthy WTF-look from the wait staff. But no. I am, after all, a civilized grown up.

Could have fooled me.

I had to shower quickly, and not only because of the potential for scoring some coffee downstairs once I had clothes on and my hair didn't look like someone poured either drool or glue onto it (insert a dirty semen-related joke of your choice here) while I was snoring away, but also because the fumes from the doors already painted at the end of the hall were getting me just a little too high, just a little too early in the morning, and interfering with my need for coffee in a very weird way. Have you ever experienced a state where you aren't quite awake, and feel that you have been sipping on some gin or vodka when all you really wanted was some Zeuz-honest caffeine. Well, I guess we've all been close to that at 4AM on a Tuesday Sunday morning in some weird club that specializes in something called a Martini-Wartini, that you sneered at in the beginning of your night out, but at 4AM can no longer remember why, because you've downed six of them, and eaten the olives too. But enough about my blackouts fun nights in Copenhagen.

Finally, I got me some coffee, some bonus vanilla cookies, and some soda water too, and all was well with the world in the end. However, my coffee-emergency got me thinking about an ordeal I go through every single morning without a clear reason as to why - that thing called getting up and out of bed.

Damn you Lutheran work ethic! I thought I had done away with you so well, but this business of getting up in the morning (instead of the afternoon, 'cos eventually everyone needs to pee, and that's best done in the toilet), which is a sub-branch of the whole "by the sweat of your back must thou make thine own sustenance" (quoting from a very liberal - my own - translation of the bible, and am totally shooting from the hip, and too tired to search the online King James. Lightning bolts?) banished from paradise rule thing God threw at Adam (and Eve, his cow. Oh sorry, I didn't think she was human, because of the whole him having dominion over her. My feminist bad).

But, it's not so much God who has instilled any rules in me, it is a much more powerful force - my mother (also sometimes known by her Indian name: Looks sweet, but totally rolls with the big boys). She always was and continues to be the most powerful force (along with my father, who oftentimes finds it wise to agree with Ironfist though) in my life, and I love her dearly (because and despite of her). And even to this day, no matter of the amount of continents, oceans, and kilometers separating us, if I attempt to sleep later than 8AM I hear her call out my name, with the same volume she has always used in her brand of child rearing, as if I was still in my old bedroom, just off the hall, and I invariably get up. I have managed to resist her 'subtle' suggestions of me perhaps entering the workforce, but this getting up in the morning I just can't shake. But hey, if I was actually working I would probably find it a blessing.

Oh mom, I do love you, but stop shouting already. I. Am. Up.

Bad expat!

Yesterday at the hotel bar I had the opportunity to observe the drunken antics of a British expatriate. This particular person was female, in her fifties or possibly sixties (there was a lot of sun damage...), disconcertingly well dressed, and had downed three Savanna ciders by 2PM. I later surmised that this was the tail end of her drink binge that day, as she was trying to climb the four steps to go to the toilet while clinging onto the wall in order to stay upright. At first I felt pity, but that soon went away when she started to yell at the wait staff.

First, there was a problem with her table as she said it wouldn't stop moving (No shit, Sherlock. You're drunk.). Regardless of no one else being able to ascertain the unasked for motions of the table, the waitress dutifully stuck several pieces of paper underneath every single foot of the table, and placated the lady with some more ice, and several "yes ma'am, I'm sorry ma'am".

Soon there was another problem with the lady not receiving her food before the waitress had made it to the kitchen with her order. We all (me and two other drinkers internet users) got to be the audience for the "sahvice heah is just awfally sloah" followed by inadvertently comic eye rolls many times over. Once she finally received her sandwich and fries, that she had for some reason ordered to go, she considered it one more point on her list of complaints that the waitress had not thought to give her a salt container or a knife and fork with the meal. The waitress looked just a little baffled as she was trying to explain to the lady that the restaurant doesn't really do take-aways and that they don't have any disposable cutlery.

While the poor waitress was off somewhere rounding up something for the woman to eat her sandwich and fries with (since eating a sandwich and fries with your hands is like eating soup with a pencil), the lady decided she needed to tinkle. She got a dirty and crumpled tissue out of her purse to cover her bottle and glass (WTF?), and left the room. Upon her wobbly return she stopped at the first table, that looked similar to the table she had been occupying (we are in a generic hotel bar after all), and stared at a bowl of leftover salad in disbelief. You could almost see her brain painfully trying to figure out what had happened to her alcohol, and had she really ordered salad and no alcohol (How could this happen?), until she was escorted to her actual table by another waitress, whose service was also "dradhfally sloah".

Since the original waitress still wasn't back with anything for the lady to eat with, she proceeded to make a phone call with her cellular - a very LOUD call - which established the person on the other end as a deaf cousin, her as an expatriate, and that the restaurant where she was sitting had awful service. While still on the phone, she got up, went to the table she had previously been staring at, carried the leftover salad to her table and started eating it, with her fingers. At this point the waitress reappeared. The look on her face was one that so encompasses the sentiment of 'WTF' that it should be included in the Wikipedia entry for it. I'm working on this.

This got me to thinking of several (more or less alcohol-related) things, but a definite to do right away was the following list, since there is certainly something worth learning from this situation.      

Don't ever:

• 'tablescore' (Thanks Kelly - see previous comments)
  
• only know how to say give and do in several foreign languages
• insist that the table is moving if you're not sure your head is completely still
• use dirty tissues to cover food
• call deaf people if you want to stay incognito
• refer to native waitresses in a loud phone call or in general
• say stuff in French if you know the word in the language you are using
• not wash your hands, since you never know when you'll be eating with your hands
• drink at a bar where the toilet is only accessible by stairs
• abuse the help, because they'll just spit in your coffee/ cider 

But we all knew the last one already.

On a totally different note and while I bang my head on my lap top for taking away the last feasible use for all of the dirty tissues in my purse, go see what my and VEG's thieving ways have gotten us into, at Siamese twins joined by the ocean. Thanks julochka and Tangobaby!

What's all the hooplah about?

Every morning we are woken up by some poor soul sliding a newspaper under our hotel room door. I say poor soul, because since I got stuck in the elevator it hasn't really been working, and none of the staff are using it anymore. And I say slide because that's what actually happens because the newspaper has a staggering 12 pages, and that is counting generously from the cover to the back.

On the front page there is always an inspirational note. Today's is by Oprah. She really is universal, and wants you to turn your wounds into wisdom. Is it just me, or does it seem like it actually might have been someone before Oprah, who brought up a similar point? Not challenging Oprah, wouldn't dare, just taking on the written media of Zambia, and raising the point as to whether someone actually researched this. Oh wait, they couldn't have because the internet would have crashed under too many hits, had I not already made it crash repeatedly by trying to comment on blogs. Naughty me.

But the written media is not the only media I feel like taking on today. We subscribe to satellite television, Dstv, and also get that here at the hotel. Without this service the channels on offer, both here and in South Africa although SA boasts a wider selection of channels, are eerily like the ones I used to watch growing up, back when Finland had 2 channels, both of which were government owned. There are quite a few nifty things one can do with the Dstv, but there is something that is impossible to change, and that is 'family language' as the default setting. At home we try to change it, but it always reverts back to the default, and at the hotel we don't even get to try. I think I have almost cracked the criteria of what the Dstv overlords consider as family appropriate. There are gaps on sound where there used to be words like god, jesus, christ, and lord. There is also silence every time someone on television says fuck or shit, or uses any of their derivatives. I learned today, however, that asshole is okay. I fail to see the logic in this, but I'm relieved to know the overlords are not infallible. There is fucking hope yet.

What isn't okay though is attempting to watch Kill Zone with the dialogue cut down to the family appropriate words. There are whole sequences of minutes where the skill of lip reading would be awesome to have mastered. Which I haven't. They can't just be repeating fuck for minutes, can they? I think the overlords are just getting lazy, and starting to work on the principle that if every third word has been deemed a word that will definitely lead a child to either commit mass murder or get pregnant at 14 (this is what hearing fuck does, correct?), the whole sequence can be cut. It is for the common good, hey?

Well, since I'm not able to understand what the H, E, double hockey sticks is going on with the depiction  of a dusty war in Iraq, I can at least immerse myself in the newspaper and its inordinately large Classified section. In the quiet, I can contemplate buying mining equipment, an ice cream machine, a plot in Chilenje, or a popcorn machine with 500 000 kwacha/ week profits guaranteed. I might not understand the television show, but I can get my own excavator.

Exciting.  

What just brightened my day

I was just leafing through an old notebook that I have been carrying with me for years (lost contact with it for a while - it was drowning in dirty tissues in my purse), and on one page was this, in my own handwriting:

"Jesus is very much on his way to becoming an excellent engineer."

It took me a drawn out 30 seconds to realize that God was not speaking to me about his immortal son, but that this piece of information was an excerpt of a recommendation for a Mexican named 'hey-zeus'. How normal is it that the thought 'Jesus is changing careers, from a carpenter and motivational speaker to an engineer' crossed my mind?

Hermit Book Club

"Just because I live in this cave doesn't mean I don't read." Wise (and disturbingly familiar) words form Iasa of Blisfully Unaware Lounge Singer. She came through with a promise she made in the comments section (that now totally outranks the blog itself, thanks to all of you my lovely bleeps) of my previous post, and is starting a virtual book club - the Hermit Book Club.

If you would like to be a part of this cool endeavor, go join now ! I'll see you there.  

Being (passive) agressive

What exactly is friendship?

No, don't balk just yet, I promise some of this will be funny, as I find it hard to ever be serious while writing, unless I'm in a mood (and on a complaint-letter roll), talking books literature, or tequila.

I've unfortunately had to reconsider attributing the nomenclature 'friend' to some of the participants in my real life relationships lately. I've had to, for my own sanity's sake, begin thinking of some folks as awesome drinking buddies (one can never have enough on several different continents), hospitable natives, and cool occasional hang-out acquaintances (and perhaps even put some others away in the 'better off without them'-locker). I've had to realize that I don't exactly have friends in South Africa.

This is unfortunate I know, and something that hits an expatriate without any other network, hard, but at least I have all you lovely peeps to be friends with, 'cos I feel I really am. Friends. With you. And like B, I really can't be bothered any longer with trying to avoid the web. I drink too much, I eat too much, why not add to the list: hang out in the web too much. Zambia's already making it very hard to have the blogosphere as a full time occupation, and the country is actually enabling me to read a book while I surf (yup. takes that long to load anything), so why beat myself up about it.

I feel better now. About my addiction(s) that is, still brooding over the other issue.

So what exactly makes me so gloomy about real world people (as in peeps outside of this here laptop)?

Well (and this might come off as tad cryptic, but I'm trying to explain this stuff to myself as I write), first of all, I don't need pity company. I'd like to have real friends who want to hang out with me because of my 'glorious' (even I'm not conceited enough to leave the apostrophes out) personality, not people who feel they have to drag me along, because the hubby is away. I have always been extremely good at entertaining myself, and quite happy to do so. I am, after all, a very efficient part-time hermit. This aspect of my (bordering on multiplicitous) personality makes it possible for us to lead the country-hopping life we lead, makes it possible for us to not see our families more than once a year, and makes it possible for me to ignore my friends back in Finland, Denmark, USA, and Mexico for months (sometimes years) only to suddenly re-enter into their lives as if no time has passed (okay. I realize this might not work for them, but this is all about me, me, ME). However, the people who will let me do this will have my undying love and loyalty. You know who you are.

Secondly, I can't bring myself to completely embrace people whose views on life are totally opposite to mine, or perhaps even offensive to me. I welcome a good discussion and can agree to disagree (not really) with the best of them, but there are opinions and then there is hatred. And I tend to object to hatred. I know I have mentioned this before: sometimes opinions in South Africa wear me out. Really wear me out.

Thirdly, my barrenness is nobody's business but mine (and perhaps the hubby's). I don't need pity (clearly not big on pity) and I'm having a fairly easy time dealing with this specific issue. Children are not be all end all. If I hear one more person who is not supposed to know, since I for sure have not said anything to them, say "when if you have children" I will permanently relocate into the blogosphere and only come out for wine and coffee (hubby will be forced to come with me) and the occasional non-virtual blog camp. I don't need to discuss my barrenness. Also, I wish people would stop justifying them hurting their children by saying that we, the poor childless freaks that we are, will surely change our tune once we have our own. There are so many levels of wrong to this that I won't even respond. Corporal punishment is illegal where I come from, and rightly so.

Fourthly, regardless of the copious upon copious amounts of alcohol I am capable of consuming on a daily (not to mention weekly) basis I also like to engage in other activities. I don't mind the occasional drunken discussion about weird ways of trying to lose weight, or how someone's husband got caught cheating, but what I would really appreciate would be an elaborate, rather academic discussion on literature. I have been dying to yab over the significance of societal rules in Cunningham's The Hours, or the concept of happiness in Nemirovsky's Fire in the Blood. This is why I have been putting together a book club for months. But somehow, even though there have been numerous planned and unplanned occasions for drinking that everyone has been able to attend, none of the members have ever been able to make it to a book club meeting. 

Lastly, I don't need to be accepted. If people don't like me, they don't have to hang out with me.

I'm not sure I should post this, but I feel like being honest. Completely honest regardless of how misunderstood this all will get. But that's where I am right now - so beyond caring that I have effectually exiled myself.

Okay, maybe the funny really was missing today.

Snapshots of Zambia vol.2

Q: When do you know you've been in a developing country for too long?

A: When you can imitate a distorted TV show to perfection.
or

A: When you keep watching a program with interest even though you are unsure as to whether you are watching a gardening show or lesbian porn.

or

A: When you feel lucky that you have see-through toilet paper, and that you are able to flush the toilet regardless of the death sounds emerging from the plumbing upon this action.

or

A: When you see a woman on horseback wearing a white wedding dress and a tiara in the middle of a roundabout across the road from the supreme court and your only thought is "Awww, I wish I'd had a tiara at my wedding".

or

A: When you consider it only normal that while queuing at the grocery store the person in front of you will load their groceries on the conveyor belt and leave the shopping cart with the items they couldn't afford after all for you to deal with.

or

A: When you consider it the appropriate action for the person in the grocery store, whom you told that the milk placed on its side in their shopping basket is leaking on their shoes, to simply place it upright to avoid further leakage.

or

A: When you see nothing wrong with a nail salon being called "The Most Best Salon in Lusaka", or that the salon is a concrete block the size of a closet.

or

A: When you think that a waitress feeding her pet crocodile is not that interesting a sight.

or

A: When you instead of avoiding salad calmly take medication every 6 months to rid yourself of worms.

or

A: When you think you can never again be happy in Europe. 

Edit: And most importantly when you are okay with the fact that it takes you 4 hours to post what you've written. 

Flight log

I love to travel.

Like that's any news.

But nowadays, I'm having a tougher and tougher time enjoying the part which involves the actual journey. I am beginning to hate to fly.

Say what now? The 'airport atmosphere of goodbyes, greetings and possibility of adventure' used to be right up there in my top 5 atmospheres I love, right alongside 'sitting on a summer cottage porch somewhere in the Finnish archipelago on an early morning in july sipping on that first cup of coffee', 'walking on a Mexico City sidewalk on my way to book club when the restaurants and cafes are just opening with a Starbucks latte in my hand', 'sitting in a nice restaurant while enjoying that first glass of a nice dry Pinot Blanc and holding hubby's hand', and 'cracking the spine of a really good, yet elusive book once I've really gotten into it'. (Unnerving that 2 out of 5 involve coffee, and 1 out of five wine, and only 1 out of 5 people. Hermit? Me?)

Yesterday, as I was getting ready to leave Jozi behind and reacquaint myself with the best lattes since Starbucks, there was a medical emergency on the plane. This came about as we were getting ready to take off, and required for the door to be reopened and for the paramedics to drive up to the plane and take a look. Now, as I had been sandwiched seated between the window and a very pregnant woman (I'm sure she should not have been flying in her filled-to-the-brim condition, but hey, this is Africa, and sometimes rules are more of guidelines and exceptions can always be made, especially by paying cash) I couldn't really see what the emergency was all about (however, I'm pretty confident it was no stroke or some such thing as the preggo in the aisle seat went right back to her needlework [since when do they allow needles and scissors on planes anyway?], after peering towards the front of the plane through her prescription sunglasses following the captain's announcement concerning the delay).

What would a normal person's response be to such a situation?

Compassion?
Pity?
How can I help?
Oh my, I hope it's not serious?

What was my reaction?

"Fok, now I'm going to have to sit in this fokken narrow-ass seat, in this fokken tiny plane, even fokken longer. Fok. Major fok."

Later, when the guy sitting in front of me, who, based on his smell was on his last leg of the journey that had undoubtedly been very, very long (and involved either live chickens, or a dead goat), leaned his seat back I almost ripped his head off. Had they not moved the needle-working on-the-brink-of-multiplication  lady with massive amounts of hand luggage she had thought would fit under the seat into business class, I might really have hurt somebody.

But the joke is on me. In the next few months I'll spend a combined time of around 65 hours on different planes. And those are the trips I already know of.

Maybe I should just learn to relax. And count my blessings.

The bad daughter repents

An SMS exchange with my father (since I don't actually have my mom's phone number - I'm a horrible daughter. Old news. We're Finnish - deal) on Sunday 3rd May 2009 at 11:24PM Finnish time:

The Bad Daughter:  Hope you are well! In case it's Mothers' day today a bunch of hugs to mom, if it's not then when exactly is it?

Father who was woken up by the SMS because he normally goes to bed around 10PM and who has never thoroughly embraced the SMS functionality on his phone: In a week.

The Bad Daughter: Good Night

The Father who was once, years ago, woken up by a frantic overseas phone call from his daughter concerning a certain elusive PIN code to a Visa card and a motel bill that needed to be settled right a way, to which he accidentally answered with the wrong number and then spent the next half an hour pacing the hallway waiting for his daughter to call back from the pay phone somewhere in Downtown Denver: Good Night

And we haven't even touched upon the subject of the daughter's travels onboard a greyhound bus, thrice across the American continent when she was just of age.

Any mothers' or fathers' day gift ideas?

Random stuff on account of not doing anything besides drinking

What does it say about me that this morning I had to check on the computer which weekday it was, but I was fully aware of the date?

What does it say about me that I have a brain melt (not a sandwich, and also not to be confused with a delicious brain taco) whenever the internet goes down, drink a bottle of wine and cry myself to sleep? I mean, I miss the hubby being here at home with me, but without internet I feel like I cease to exist. This is probably why I relate so well to julochka (who, according to the SA connotation of the word is a total babe, and also perhaps according to the American connotation, but that's not what I'm into). I can't but relate to her fear of going up in Chenin fumes if there's no 24h internet access.

Why am I on the verge of firing the maid again? Is it me after all? But, in my defense, she still did not understand what the wheels on the vacuum cleaner were for (she was carrying [and dropping] the thing) now that she finally understood that not only carpets are to be vacuumed. And I do think she is the explanation for my beat up toothbrush (Now keep another one underneath the sink. Yup. Paranoia).

What is this obsession that I have developed with sugar free chocolate? And yes, because I know you were wondering, it is in fact true what it says on the packaging: "Excessive consumption may have laxative effect".

Is it really possible to love a book as much as I love Junot Diaz's (this is allowed grammar nowadays) The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao. I don't want it to end, which is an awesome excuse for not reading it and hanging out on the internet instead. Yesterday afternoon was bad - without the web I was forced to read 120 pages. I feel sad, since I know Oscar croaks.

Why does coffee taste better from a big cup? It does. It really does.

Why am I effectually avoiding my flesh and blood friends? Have I inadvertently gone completely hermit? Is it possible to count giving the guy mowing your lawn a glass of water as a friendly encounter?

I think today I'll have to venture out into the real world and go have coffee at a friend's house. Enough is enough.

Edit: I realize that combining large amounts of laxative chocolate and going out might not be the sanest thing to do, but I'm going to give it a go nonetheless. Bear with me.

Ode to Kenny of Hewlett Packard

Have you ever had to re-regionalize a printer? No? Count yourself lucky and go give yours a kiss.

I am currently involved in a long and winding e-mail correspondence with a Hewlett Packard customer support technician called Kenny (and possibly another guy who refuses to be named, or Kenny again screwing with my brain by claiming to be someone else).

Dear Extranjera,

"We regionalize in order to better meet specific local customer needs", but we would actually just like some more money out of you. Since you printed 20 pages using cartridges from Mexico you, without your knowledge, synched your printer to only accept cartridges purchased from Mexico. This is a nifty little invention that ensures us that you won't be able to shop around for the best deal, because we, sort of, would like you pay through the nose please. Come on, we know you can afford it. We won't tell you about this regionalization business though, because it would be nice if you bought those slightly cheaper cartridges you found in Taiwan anyway, and only found out upon your return home that they don't actually work. We make them look exactly the same on purpose.

"I would like to you perform the statement that is mentioned below", as my intention is to confuse you thoroughly as to what you should do and what exactly it is that I am referring to, because we're also kind of hoping that you'll buy a new printer, and that's why I'm using our best weapon, Google translate, to translate my emails from Hebrew into English. It's like a fun game and it lets me practice my Hebrew.

"I would utilize the best of available resources to answer your query", but I won't because then you would be able to change the regionalization, and we would much rather you just went out and bought a new printer.

"Before providing the steps to troubleshoot the issue let me educate you about the concept of regionalization" because I won't actually provide any steps in this mail, but perhaps my spiel about this regionalization thing we're implementing to piss you off and make your life more difficult will confuse you into thinking that you are just too stupid to follow exact steps on how to solve the problem. I wish you would just go out and get a new printer.

"Let me inform you that to resolve the issue, it may take a few more email exchanges. Your patience is appreciated. I seek your cooperation", because it will be me answering all of your subsequent emails all asking the same exact question, but I will pretend like I'm someone else and give you the exact same spiel as the last one until you go out and get that new printer.

"We appreciate you for giving us the opportunity to assist you with superior customer service", but we do hope you would just fuck off already. It's our coffee break and we have a game of dominoes going on.

Sincerely,
Kenny

So you're off to see the gynecologist - what to expect

So you have an appointment to see a gynecologist in South Africa. Nervous? Don't be! Here are the answers to those questions that keep popping into your mind at the most inopportune of moments.

Q: What route should I take to get there?

A: Well, remember that the journey will at best take you 30 minutes and then as a new patient there are all kinds of papers for you to fill out, so you should have at least an hour reserved for the drive, as well as determining the best route by thoroughly looking at the map. A good time to do this is not exactly 32 minutes before your appointment while you're still trying to leave your house and seem to be experiencing some unforeseen issues, like someone leaving the trash can outside the door allowing you to almost back into it. However, even by just leaving 31 minutes prior to your appointment you can still make it, but are probably in for a speeding fine, or at least a fine for those two illegal U-turns you executed in desperation. But at least you made it! Please also lock the car when you leave it in the hospital parking lot, even if you are in a hurry.

Q: What should I bring with me?

A: Good question! Whatever you do, do not forget to stick a pen in your pocket before leaving home. Before your examination, the nurse will show you into a toilet decorated with a poster of a baby who is the offspring of a human and a giant daffodil. The nurse will tell you to give a urine sample and leave it on the counter. She will then disappear and leave you to it. You unbuckle, sit down, appropriate one of the plastic containers from the dispenser nailed to the wall, and tinkle away. While you're washing your hands you notice a piece of paper taped to the wall that tells you to "please write your name on the sample". You look around. There are no pens anywhere. You are glad you brought your gigantic purse. There's bound to be at least 10 pens in there, you think happily. You dig, then you excavate, then you turn the bag inside out, and only end up spilling about 2 pounds of dirty tissues in various stages of decomposition onto the floor, none of which house any pens. Finally you dash back to the reception, with your sample in your hand to rather maniacally ask for a pen (because you've already taken at least 10 minutes in the toilet), and that's when you feel compelled to wave at everyone in the waiting room - with your pee.

Q: What happens when I'm called in?

A: When you're called in you first have a chat with the doctor who for some reason thinks you are American and keeps referring to the 'Overseas way of doing things', then gets even more confused by your answers and thinks you are Danish, and proceeds to tell you a funny-only-to-him anecdote about visiting some place you understand as 'Whorelew', but is in fact Herlev (but you don't put two and two together until you're on your way home), before leading you into the other room, decorated with more posters of mutated offspring of plants and people. None of the babies are black, you find yourself thinking, before you are lead into a tiny cubicle by the doctor with much too short pants on, to change into a white robe with black flowers on it. Fokken' weird, you muse again, as you slip out of your pants and into the dressing gown.

Q: What happens during the actual examination?

A: You must remember that South Africans are a very bashful people. Apparently they are not very comfortable with any kind of nudity, and you might thus feel as if the doctor is in fact performing a vaginal examination without once looking anywhere but about four inches above your head. He will also obstruct his vision further by placing a piece of fabric, with its flower print reminiscent of the fabric the robe is made of, on you. The only part of the examination you will have any understanding of is when the doctor shows you your cystic ovaries on the computer screen. Fokken awesome, you might think, without realizing that the doctor has already left the room and possibly told you how to proceed. You get dressed, based on previous experience.

Q: What happens with paying?

A: If you do not have medical-aid you must settle your account immediately, which always rattles the reception ladies (remember, they also witnessed you waving with your pee). They will most likely have no idea as to how to proceed since you want to give them cash. They will huddle in the back room allowing the people you waved at to get a better look at you and clearly wonder whether you're hormonally crazy, or just otherwise feeble of mind. They might stare. When the reception ladies finally talk to you, due to their accent and you still wondering about those cysts on your ovaries, you will most likely have very little idea of what they are saying, and eventually you can see they would much rather be repeating the words 'vaginal scan' in Afrikaans, so that everyone in the waiting room would be able to follow in with what is going on with the odd lady. However, in the end, it will turn out that you can pay cash, you just have to be patient and call them the next day to remind them to send you a receipt.

Q: What about the way home, anything I should be aware of?

A: Whatever you do, do not mistakenly drive into Pretoria because your mind is on your ovaries. Also, do not attempt to buy cartridges for the printer because that will just end in tears and a kicked-at printer. Otherwise you should be alright.

Just relax. You'll be fine :o)

I go with morning coffee

 

Cool.

I'm like a tasty omelette, a delicious danish with extra jam and butter, a crispy slice of bacon (No. That goes with the omelette not coffee. Hmm), a proper stack of pancakes drenched in syrup, or that first cigarette of the morning, all perfect in the moment but unhealthy enough to give you cancer.

I know. Too much.

Thank you to Kristin at Dietfoodie, who I believe actually created this award, after receiving the Kreativ Blogger Award (How Kreativ, Kristin), all by her lonesome. Yup. It has now dawned on me that I'm totally in a league of my own - too great for traditional glory and need actual coffee/ wine related awards created for my special brand of awesome. Yes, in a league of my own (with VEG). Totally.

And, before passing on this award, and in the spirit of creativity (Thought I couldn't do it. Well, ha! I'll show you.) I would like to add a rule (can't leave well enough alone), and ask you to show us what your favorite place to have your morning coffee (naturally while you're reading the blogs that go with your morning coffee) is like. All creative deelios welcome, but I think I'll just do a photo, since I finally figured out how to exactly insert them (without too much brain ache and suffering) and to show you that today I have actually gotten my 10 minutes of vitamin D.

I wonder where B and Cyndy like to have their coffee.

Happy Cinco de Mayo everyone! I'm having an awesome day, at least until my afternoon gynecologist appointment.