An imaginary shower

What would you do?

It's quite early in the morning and you're just about to step into the shower and are hanging around half naked, when you hear the telephone ring.

"Hello," you answer.

No one says anything, but there's clearly someone on the line. This is not atypical so you answer again, just a little bit louder.

The line crackles and a man's voice says: "How are you ma'am?"

The greeting exchange that happens before introductions has long ago ceased to amaze you, so you just go along with it.

"Good. How are you?" you say.

It might just be you, but you think you detect a slight sound that could signify confusion and you remember that you should have of course replied with fine instead of good. You groan a little to yourself. This could take a while now.

"Fine, how are you?" the voice replies.

"Good, and you?" you decide to cut the loop short the next time around.

"Fine... How are you? The man answers once again.

You decide to stop beating around the bush. "Who is this?" you enquire, in what you hope is a pleasant tone, because you don't want the person to think that you weren't being polite back.

"Hullo, ma'am," the voice replies.

You wait for the rest of the sentence. It doesn't seem to be coming. There is audible breathing at the other end.

"Yes?" you prod.

"This is the security.... At the gate, ma'am," the man finally explains.

"Yes?" you prod again.

"The security ma'am," the man repeats, and you begin to think that either the man on the other end is being held at gunpoint and your number was the first on speed dial, or that you have really thrown off this poor man's mojo by daring to reply with good instead of fine.

"Yes? What is it?" you try with a more direct approach.

"Ma'am the municipality," you are explained. Yet you continue to be befuddled. In fact, you are standing naked in your bedroom and the municipality wants to stop by? You start looking around for something to throw on. Where in the hell is that second-skin-of-yours bathrobe anyways?

"Who?" You reply. Perhaps a tad too loudly.

"Ma'am the municipality. The water. You have no water," the voice lays it out.

You look into the bathroom where steam is starting to form because the water heater has kicked in and the water streaming freely from the shower head is hot. You are reminded of the time in Mexico when the doorman called you up one afternoon and asked whether you had a fuga and you misunderstood and thought he meant a fire when he was actually talking about the leak you'd had for several days and were waiting for a plumber to come and fix and the doorman sent the plumber packing because you denied having a fuga.

You decide to play your cards right this time.

"I don't have water?" you throw out.

"Ma'am. The municipality is here to fix." the voice says, and perhaps there is a little note of exasperation.

"Why are they here? What stand are you trying to call?" you decide to get to the bottom of this. It is the municipality after all, and those boys are hard, hard to get to come out when you need them.

"I let them through, ma'am?" the guard ignores your questions and enquires instead.

"No, wait! We have water. Who is there again?" you ask, since you remember the horror stories about someone letting in the wrong people. You are, after all, almost certain that you do have water.

"The mu-ni-ci-pa-li-ty," answers the man. Great. Now he thinks you're challenged. And the guards already feel that based on the times you've near-missed the fingerprinting station, or had to get out of the car to get in, because you were far too far from it. You know they laugh at you behind your back. Just a little.

"Please. I don't know anything about this. Who asked for them to come?" you stall, although you know the guard is clearly just waiting for a yes or no, and won't be asking any more questions from whoever's trying to get in.

"So I don't let them in?" the man replies.

"No," you finally say.

And then you get in the shower and begin to live in fear that you've greatly pissed off the water department of the municipality.

Maybe you really don't have water?

The Toll

So what came out of this past weekend?

There was a mini-meltdown. I'm calling it mini to feel better about myself, and will never admit to the hour long howling the Hubs claims was going on.

Pshaw. Neighbors' dogs.

The meltdown had to do with wardrobe, and lasted until five minutes after I and the Hubby were supposed to be in the car to make it to the restaurant on time to meet our blind date. My crisis then resulted in a tiny, little organizational spasm for the Hubs, who would have liked to have been at the restaurant at least 15 minutes before the agreed time (to "scope out the location"), and me doing so many panicky and badly planned top changes (yes, it is entirely possible, if not even likely, to get badly caught in a simple Marimekko-shirt when one least expects it), while trying to dye my eyebrows at the same time, that my ear swelled (again) to double its size, and throbbed nicely throughout dinner.

(I know I promised no more ear stories, but... I lied.)

Martinis help though. With all aches and sorrows. And quickly make you forget about the alien in the shape of an ear everyone's clearly looking at and thinking "Isn't that Stewie from Family Guy attached to that woman's head?"

There was an awesome dinner with cool new friends, and since there were quite a few Finnish and otherwise Scandinavian genes at play around the table, it disappeared fast, and thus room for more martinis and strawberry daiquiris was made.

To fuel the Saturday night.

Una Corona, anyone?

And, yes our dinner-dates spotted us immediately. Apparently my hair is a dead giveaway. To think I've been contemplating making it blue, because I'm not feeling the mundanity of it. 

Turns out I wasn't lying when I said we can't be missed.

There was avoidance of golf (by me) by claiming horrible, wasting illness, that might or might not be H1N1, but could surely be cured with some McDonalds, lots of coffee, or barring that, plenty of thin-crust vegetarian pizza.

Cough, cough.

But most of all, thanks to the drunken antics long-in-advance-planned, virtual encounter of two of my dear blogbuds Optimistic Pessimist and Fidgeting Gidget (who I now christen Opting Gist in the vein of the greats, such as Brangelina and Tomcat. Girls, may yours outlive both unions!), I was reminded of my sporadically resurfacing, and extremely one-sided love affair with Brad Paisley.

"Oh Brad when you look at me from that YouTube screen and sing about your stepdad or being on a video-chat to Japan, you complete me," she says while she gets ready to belt out the chorus in Whiskey Lullaby in her shower to drown out the neighbors' howling dogs, and that girl next door who keeps doing the worst possible version of Britney Spears' '...Baby One More Time' in her echoing bathroom (it sounds like she does some vigorous shadow-boxing as a choreography).

I feel Online struggling to the surface. Even now.

At least when Billy Idol's Sweet Sixteen isn't.

The tall chick with the clown nose

Because my friends love me dearly (do too!), and don't want to see me get sucked into/ permanently attached to my beloved MacBook Pro, which has in recent times become more of a family member and less of a machine, one of them, the ever awesome Missus Ambassador (who I have highly incriminating [to her grown children] pictures of 'falling asleep' at a Helsinki gay-club last summer, placing her squarely in my back pocket as far as potential blackmail-y relationships go. I'm just saying.) has orchestrated a play date for me and the Hubs.

With another foreign couple. Not with each other.

After having frightened this innocent pair of Americans with some emails earlier this week, we have agreed to meet for dinner tonight. Which brings us to the complicated part.

How will we know each other?

They don't know that I blog, so unlike with Kim of Heliotrollop, I can't guide them to the picture where I'm being licked, or caressing my Starbucks latte at Copenhagen airport, or picking my nose in an ambinostrous way, or holding my pants up at a wedding (?), or have my stoopid face on.

All I can do is describe myself and my viking. Especially since I don't feel that I can commit to an outfit already hours before the meeting, as I usually don't commit until I'm in the car and it's no longer possible to change. Unless I bring the other shirt option in the car with me, of course. However, I try to refrain from outfit changes during any event.

Usually, with the help of the potty dance, I also succeed.

To describe us, in an email yesterday, I came up with this:

I am very nordicly blond, with short hair that stands up somewhat alarmingly, and the hubby has a full, reddish viking beard and brown hair. We can't be missed.

Is it just me, or do we sound a tad too hairy to be entirely normal? Like an Aryan electrocution-victim and the Unabomber? And what kind of a message am I sending with we can't be missed anyways? Sounds either deluded, or like we're a couple of circus freaks.

Hmmm

We try so hard to appear normal.

I hope the couple decides to show up.

Have a good weekend everyone and see you on the other side (unless I'm brutally murdered by these people I've never met, which will mean that 'the other side' refers to something much more than Monday.)!

Book club and stupidity

Two things.

1. The discussion starter on Vernon God Little by DBC Pierre is up on the Hermit Book Club blog.

If you've read the book, please stop by and join the discussion in the comments. Please. I'm begging you on my knees (no I'm not, but you'll never know the truth, since you can't see that I'm actually drinking coffee in my bathrobe and teetering on the much too small barstool [ass NOT too big. Stool too small. Ha ha.] by the kitchen counter, although it's 2pm, which makes me think jet lag might be here to stay).

But muahahahahahaha and such other deceptive and deviant noice.

I loved this book and will now attempt to use my prolific-blogger-with-actual-readers powers that naturally involve hyperdrive navel-gazing, but more importantly delusions of power and influence, to sway you all to become hermits and discuss books with me all day long (never mind the fact that I didn't participate in the last couple of discussions, because I was...err... busy... doing hermit activities?), and especially this one, since it happens to be the best contemporary book I've read in a while.

Please. I'm begging you on my knees.

Do you feel anything? Is it working?

Oh. Right. Those powers really only work on me.

That's me on the phone.

2. I'm a moron on the telephone.

I don't like talking to people I don't know on the phone. Or really anyone. I don't even like writing emails. I'm just a mass communication kind of a gal, I guess. So whenever appointments or such are needed I get the hubby to take care of the required one-on-one communication for me. After all, it is reassuring for him to feel needed, is it not?

Right?

I'm asking you, because there are some scary developments afoot.

Cue theme from Halloween.

I have begun to think that El Grande Vikingo is no longer on board with me answering "Showered" to his "So what did you do today?" and it almost seems as if it makes him uncomfortable to call my hair salon. Or my gynecologist.

How can this be? Has my viking fallen out of love with me? Has he finally decided to do what his parents have been secretly until recently very openly wishing for the past 10 years - find a fierce vikinga and have many, many fierce and grandma/pa-loving vikingitos and never leave Denmark again, except for short-term family-friendly pillaging missions, or to discover North America and garner some of the fame the vikings missed the first time around.

Attention-hogging Columbus. But, in the end, he was more PC for the position. I mean, you could never have anyone, who ever had anything to do with rape (unfortunately this seems to have been a less-than-natural companion to sea-faring in viking times), in that kind of a position. Zumast be joking is the only thing I could say, were such a person ever to come to power.  

But my bearded beast of a man (who is further removed from any acts of violence or oppression than a sweet cuddly puppy) could never leave me to my own devices. Not even to go find a fierce vikinga. Because this would happen:

Wednesday, 9am:

I wait for the sound that tells me the telephone is ringing in the other end, but again all I hear are the two consecutive beeps that seem to indicate that the network is busy. I don't quite know what they mean, but something is keeping me from getting through. I try yet another number.

Suddenly,  without there having been two beeps or any, a female voice answers.

In what sounds like Afrikaans. I can't discern one word. I can feel my heart starting to beat faster.

I look down at my paper. Which number was it again that I had dialed? I realize I cannot keep quiet that much longer. The woman on the other end lets out a little cough.

"Err. Hullo. Uhm. I'm looking for a doctor," I begin less than confidently, "uhm, an ear, nose and uhm... an ear, nose doctor. Please?" I continue. I'm scanning my paper with 10 names and double the numbers.

"Ja?" the woman says.

"Is this Doctor Doh Plessis..sis office?" I enquire before I realize that it certainly cannot be. "I mean, Fan Dar Clerk's," I continue in a panic, only to deduce from the surprised sound on the other end of the line that it is not.    

"Oh no, wait. Doctor Fender? Isn't it?" I almost yell, before realizing that knowing who you called will never be considered an achievement. Only a funny anecdote for the receptionist lunch crowd.

"I can help you next week," The woman tells me.

"Great!" I reply and make an appointment for Monday. All is well in the universe. I smile a little to myself. "I can do this," I tell myself, and my no longer racing heart. I'm asked for my name.

I spell it out twice and confirm that it, indeed, is only my last name.

"Oh no, no, that's enough," I'm told by the woman when I ask whether they need my first name too, "but your contact number?" she continues.

My contact number?

I look at my notes. Nope. Didn't write it down. I look at my iPhone, and briefly wonder whether I can conjure up the screen with the number just by looking at it. In fear of accidentally hanging up I dare not touch the screen or anything else on the phone.

"Hellooo," I hear her sing-song voice.

"Uhm, my contact number. I don't... Uhm. I don't actually....uhhhh" I prattle. While I keep bringing the phone down before my eyes in hopes of some secret AI-technology that would allow for the iPhone to read my mind, and divulge my number.

Luckily I stop my course of explanations before I tell her I don't have a phone, because obviously she will be able to deduce that I am, in fact, using some kind of a phone to call her.

I  decide  to opt out by asking her whether it would be okay to call her back "Once I find my phone number."

"Okay," she tells me and I swear I can hear her burst out laughing just before the line goes dead.

I'm so very much looking forward to meeting this woman on Monday, and I bet there isn't any kind of awkwardness, or any notes beside my name in the calendar indicating that they might need to call security when I arrive. Or the men in white.

My Hubby can never die.

I Google, therefore I am

How do people find your blog, and are they perhaps disappointed, misled, grossed out, intrigued, or horrified when they do?

Because of the great alien-ear crisis and my somewhat hypochondriac and moderately paranoid disposition, I have spent quite a lot of time lately googling key words such as 'infected upper ear cartilage piercing', 'sea salt soak', 'cartilage damage', 'cauliflower ear', and the winning concoction 'piercing pus swelling shattered cartilage'. However, you can rest assured, I have one (hopefully) final appointment with an ear, nose and throat surgeon on Monday, so I'm not flying completely off the handle solo here, I'm just looking for additional information to scare the shit out of myself, and make it impossible for myself to have a peaceful night's sleep away from ear-related worries.

Nothing out of the ordinary then, eh?

However, as much as I know you are all just aching to hear still more about my poor ear, that is not exactly what I have in mind today. Well, I have it in mind constantly, being prone to paranoia and all, but not for you. Not again.

I promise. Girl scout's honor (Moi?).

What I have in mind for you today, my dear readers, is utter amazement over what the medical Google searches I conducted yielded as results.

How did they ever survive, before Google came along? 

Apart from some hits with decent medical information, there were quite a few hits that were surprising. To put it mildly. And then there were some, where the connection between upper ear cartilage and what was on the site was a whole neck and torso's length. And apart from that measure, there really wasn't anything connecting the query to the site that I could fathom. Those hits were just plain ole disturbing, which could, however, be an understatement. Or, the fact that I grew up in Finland a barrel, might have had a hand in the matter. Thank Zeus, we'll never have to find out. It will already take several bottles of wine just to erase certain images now mistakenly stored in some obscure part of my brain that seems to be under the influence that they need to be there. Maybe the part is confused, because we are technically still talking about piercings, albeit the more correct term is probably something quite different.

Shudder. And please don't anyone tell me what that term is. Even if you know.

Of course, I am not drinking until the antibiotics are done. No way. Never. Mother. Although, I must say the Google search concerning Ciprofloxaxin and alcohol came up with some interesting information concerning the ban on drinking while on antibiotics, dating back to WW II, some STD-ridden soldiers, and some drunken bastard forgetting to take his dosage. I'm just intrigued by this history of course, nothing else.

(Really? She just googles all day long?)   

I also have to say that I was rather thrown by the number of people out there walking around with pierced genitalia, let alone infected pierced genitalia. There aren't enough painkillers in the world.

And then, as I was pondering about genitalia and mentally placing the pain I had been in with my ear further down between my legs (a big, big mistake), I started to wonder about how people find my blog (naturally), and whether they are looking for something completely different. And I mean completely different.

Thanks to Site Meter I have been able to see exactly how many times I have unwittingly had the chance to attempt to provide the 'answer' for the question "What should I do with my life?" The count is surprisingly high, and I hope, if not to have inspired who ever was posing this question to Google (not the way I would go about finding the answer, I would of course start a pointless blog and then proceed to disregard the question...), to have made someone possibly in a total funk over their life and therefore asking a computer the most important question ever, laugh. Even just a little. Or at least to have kept them from slipping further into that funk. Or kept them from looking at that site with those ...piercings.

Still, while the above question being matched with my blog is perhaps a tad duh-worthy, why would Google feel that I could ever, ever answer questions like: "How much toothpaste will kill you?", "Why do I sweat randomly?" and "What food will shoot farthest out of a potato launcher?"

I mean, I know my blog can at times be somewhat random and even weird (although I prefer quirky and eccentric, and most times there is some sort of point. Really.), but I don't remember ever writing about a potato launcher. And I racked my brain over this one, since I thought it does sound awfully like me. And I do hope the person asking about toothpaste wasn't intending to actually kill anyone with toothpaste though. Is that even possible?

Must keep an eye out for toothpaste-related murder cases in the newspapers. Or perhaps I should just Google it?

Nah, too scary an endeavor so soon following the piercing and genitalia revelation. I don't want to know what all toothpaste is good for. I just don't.

What is this hold Google has on our lives (apart from controlling the weather and the known universe, of course), and does it even know what it is doing? Or is it just my life?

Oh Google, what will I ever do with my life?

On my way to Africa

Exactly one year ago today we landed in Madrid, Spain, after having waved Mexico goodbye, possibly for good.

Actually I can't remember whether it was one year ago yesterday, today or tomorrow, but I'm going to say today for dramatic effect. And since I'm telling you I might be fibbing, the fib doesn't really count as a fib, right? Just more of a literary tool. Yes? 

Although... I bet the Hubs would know what day it was. Maybe I should call him. 

[telephone ringing]

Hubs: Yell-O

Me: When did we come here?

Hubs: Oh, Hi Pumpkin! Did you know that the Woolies that's opening at the new mall is like the farthest away from us?

Me: huh? (also because his Woolies sounds like 'wolies')

Hubs: Yup. First you have to turn off the road and then you have to turn left at the parking lot entrance and drive aaalllll the way to the other end of the mall to get to it. It's at the far corner.

Me: What?

Hubs: It figures, when that's the only store we're gonna be going to, it's at the far corner of the mall.

Me: Why you telling me this?

Hubs: Just making conversation. Thought you'd want to know.

Me: I called you.

Hubs: Oh. Yeah. But you're gonna have to drive further.

Me: Across a parking lot.

Hubs: Just making conversation.

Me: But I called you. I'm using up my fokken prepaid.

Hubs: Thought you'd want to know.

Me: Whatevs. Love you. Bring pizza.

[Click. Or bleep. Or whatever sound cellphone makes when you hang up]

Exactly one year ago today we landed in Madrid, Spain, after having waved Mexico goodbye, possibly for good.

When the plane landed and we were faced with the smallness of Europe in the fact that we had to take two taxis from the airport to the hotel on account of having two suitcases each, it began. We began pining for Mexico. An nowhere else was going to be good. Although the taxi drivers all spoke Spanish (seeing as we were in Spain) they lacked the flexibility we had first come to accept, then to understand, then to utilize and finally to appreciate in Mexico. None of the taxi drivers were willing to strap a suitcase on the front seat.

Not allowed by law my Mexico-missing patootie.

After our (non-simultaneous) arrival at the hotel, and following the sampling of some suspect tapas from the room service menu chased down with some minibar-peanuts priced at €2 a nut, I began to miss the Mexican food.

Why is it that I never have any pictures of the food that I actually ate? Just stuff that is notorious for giving you Montezuma's revenge.

After attempting to chat with the hotel staff, the staff at Starbucks (yes, Madrid has them. A great redeeming quality), and one very, very rude shop assistant, I began to miss the Mexican people.

Mah peeps. Aren't they cute. Don't you just want to grab that hat, and...

An exact replica.

Ah, the people and their bold accessorizing. Purple is the new black.

More fashion choices. These are those pants that make it look like you have a tattoo, I'm told. 

Once I ventured outside of the Starbucks I noticed the pervasive dust on the streets and buildings of Madrid (however, I must admit this might have been the result of a going away party followed by one mother of an airplane-bender) and I began to miss the colors, that shine through any and all layers of persistent pollution.

Ain't them colors purty?

I mean it.

But then I thought, "I'm moving to Africa (the country). This will be an amazing adventure, this here Africa deelio. It really will!" followed by "I'm so lucky to be experiencing Africa, not just as a traveler, but as a resident, as a working part of it, as a Mandela-stalking nut. This'll be fokken awesome!"

Little did I know that I would discover blogging, only talk about stalking Mandela and the occasional Oprah, and never leave the house again.

Guess what the paint on the inside walls of our house is called?

Mexican sand.

Try that on for irony.

On coffee

I think it wouldn't be completely off the mark to say that 'twas coffee that was the beverage of choice in the blogging world. Well coffee and wine. Shouldn't forget the wine. Ever. Still, most of you, in reply to my question as to what makes your day or week or year, answered coffee.

Sweet, hot, caffeinated coffee.

Some of you even had the nerve to question my personal love for coffee. Tsk tsk! And made note of my supposed "oversight" in not including coffee on the list of things that have recently made my day, week, or year.

Hmph.

A place of indignation seems as good a place as any to draw a post from. So here I go.

Coffee was not on the list, because, well, coffee stopped making my day long ago. Today, coffee is an integral part of my day. Something, without which I can't really seem to be able to start my day, let alone get through it. I might as well face it, me starting an average day does not speed spell, so without coffee I don't think I would ever get as far as the shower, my bathrobe, or even the bedside table. I would just be a naked, smelly zombie, with really matted hair (as opposed to a robed, slightly odorous hermit with fokken awesome, pointy hair?). I know it is a cliche, but there really is no functioning for me without having anywhere from 2 to 10 cups of coffee every day. I'll need a minimum of one cup at least, just to tide me over the initial terror of waking up to a new day. There is, after all, so much of that light stuff around in the mornings. And birdsong. And that annoying sense of new beginnings.

Wine I can skip for a day or two, not so with coffee.

I have been known to cry if there is no coffee in the morning, and have had to quit every single attempt at detoxing I've ever made in the early stages, not because of the budding alcoholism, but because of my severe caffeine dependency.

I'm a full blown caffolic, so help me Zeus.

I'm not completely sure, but I may have mentioned coffee on this here blog before. Why yes, just a few times.

But what was the best cup of coffee I ever had?

Well, first of all, I'll have to enlighten you on my special brand of crazy coffee enthusiasm. I'm not one of those people who swear by an Italian espresso, or at the very least something that comes out of a french press. On the other hand, I don't quite consider instant worthy of the denominator 'coffee' either. I like my coffee lightly roasted, finely ground, and brewed in your run-of-the-mill coffee maker. I prefer my shots of espresso firmly drowned in the frothy milkiness of a good latte. To put it simply, I like my coffee Finnish.

I know coffee doesn't actually grow in Finland (nope, we just grow ice and santas for the world market), and I'm really talking of coffee beans that came about somewhere in south and central America, or Africa, but what matters is that they were roasted to suit the Finnish palate. And what a palate it is. Turns out, I don't get my inability to do anything in moderation from strangers.

Let me go google you some proof. Because to you, I may come off as just one completely coffee-crazed person, whilst in fact I come from a long line of coffee-crazed, very pasty, and silent folks, who very much like their coffee. We have coffee coursing through our veins. (Are you surprised that it's not wine? Because I am. Just a little bit.)

According to Frontline World "Scandinavia boasts the highest per-capita coffee consumption in the world. In Finland, people drink more than four cups of coffee a day on average."

According to International Coffee Organization, in 2007 Finland topped (again) the statistics of consumption of coffee per capita with 12 kilograms per year.

And even with all that caffeine, we still manage to be quiet and reserved. Without the coffee, we'd probably have to forgo a heartbeat entirely. One of my professors, a Dane, once asked me whether J.R.R. Tolkien really had modeled the Ents after Finns? I said I wasn't sure, but I might just have been hopped up on caffeine.

But I digress, I just thought it necessary to show you that I have, because of my cultural background alone, tested and tried quite a few cups of coffee in my time on this earth. In different countries, on different continents, in different homes and cafes, and even in a pretty good variety of different Starbucks.

And I have loved it all. Well, except for the latte spiced with spit and most airplane coffee.

I have, however, especially loved certain cups of coffee more than others:

There was that time when I was sixteen and had to stay up all night to study for an exam. I had an entire pot of coffee and indeed stayed awake the entire night. I think that caffeine high is what i have been hunting for ever since then, never quite achieving the same state of alertness. Hmm. I wonder how many brain cells I killed with that specific bender...

There was that time that I woke up with rice in my hair, caked makeup on my face, and the man of my dreams next to me in the penthouse suite of a lovely Copenhagen hotel. A little hung up, but the happiest I'd ever been. The hotel staff brought us breakfast, and that cup of coffee was something else. My first as a married woman. It even tasted more grown up.

There was that time in Cuba, driving on some back road two hours from Havana when we stopped at a zoo-like place that turned out to be a cafe also. That shot of sickeningly sweet goo the 'bartender' (that's what he called himself) called coffee and handed over to me was the best caffeine fix for years to come. I sipped it quietly while thinking that Che, whose pictures served as the wallpaper of the place, really truly was a handsome bugger, and my Zeus had he been lucky to be born an Argentine, for the coffee alone.

Then there is the coffee that I'll have with my family. With my friends. With a good book. With breakfast, lunch and dinner. With dessert. While reading a good post, The New Yorker, the obituaries in a Finnish newspaper. On the go. Lounging about. Lying by the pool. After having come in from the cold. To ease my nerves. To calm me down. To keep me awake. To help me fall asleep. To take me back. To surprise me. To make me take my mind off things. To help me focus. To make up for a bad day. To celebrate. And to quench my thirst and hunger.

Coffee really is its own food group, and possibly an emotion too.

And there really is nothing better. To quote my severely profound (not) Facebook profile: the Hubby, coffee, wine, and good books make life worth living.

At some point I should probably consider adding blogging, but to get to being that organized, I'll need a lot more coffee.

Go ahead, make my day.

What better way to start a day than with a little Clint Eastwood, eh?

Since I was on about making other people's day, week, or even a year yesterday by giving into trust and doing something nice for a change (I know, yada, yada, yada, moderately profound Extranjera, where did you emerge from?), I thought about what has been making my day, week and year lately.

Since, oddly enough, instead of the highly insightful comments that always seemed to contain something about fingernail clippings (by now so passé), wigs (and whether pigs should wear them) or aerobics, I have been leaving comments that have ended in either 'too cool' or 'thanks for making my day' (and cacti, but we won't go into details on that one).

Weird, huh?

No, not really. Could this mean that I am ....GASP... growing up?

*farts and then giggles loudly*

No, no fear of that. Thank goodness!

But apart from the fun found in farting loudly there are also other things that have been making my day, week, and year (Where did month go? I don't know.), and that do not involve any of my own orifices.

Now, how bad does that sound? Did she just connect making someone's day with an orifice? 
Yes, she did, and she thinks the connection is far more valid than people like to admit out loud. But, hey, it's not that kind of a blog. Really, it isn't. 

One thing that always makes my day is when someone in my sphere gives me advice. It means that they care enough to put themselves into my shoes and give my situation a second, or even a third thought. I will almost never take heed of the advice, since that is not how I was put together (how I ever learned anything boggles me, and many people in my life, greatly) and I need to make my own mistakes and learn without appearing to do so. But it still makes me feel loved when people care enough to want to help me not to screw up (or possibly kill myself) by trying to steer my behavior. Unless of course they are being annoying about giving advice (it's a fine line) in which case farts make my day much more.

It makes my year to own this Mielie bag:

And that I was able to give my Albugherkin™ friend Gringa this one:

Notice how my bag is bigger than hers. Complete coincidence. No?

And that she took it everywhere with her for as long as I was in New Mexico.

It made my day that a bloggy friend by the name of an Open Heart made up an award and gave it to me (Okay. She also gave it to some other people, but I like to think it was tailored just for me. Shhhhh! My blog, my delusions. Thanks.), and then Judearoo gave me cake (with a catch I really doubt I'll be fulfilling because my track record consists of gracefully accepting, followed by misplacing, and then completely forgetting an award, but anyhoo) on her new blog Babble Value (or is it valve, Jude?).

Can you believe it? Completely unsolicited cake. Cool!

Actually, I have received quite a few awards lately (read: since the beginning of this blog, and not so many, but who will pat my back if I don't myself, hey?), and really, I love the fact that so many folks are thinking of me, and think that I'm funny. I mean, I have always thought myself that I am funny, just sometimes misunderstood as gross, scary, or possibly mean/boring/consisting completely of swear words and toilet humor, but that so many of you should think so too. Totally awesome! Although, as I wrote to one of the kind bloggers who awarded me with [insert name of award here, since I seem to be in stage two of my cycle of forgetting], and as I state above, I really, really, utterly suck at this 'being all reciprocative' stuff. Am I exonerated yet? Cause I have more excuses lined up. Those I am extremely good at.

Point?

Yes. Point.

It also makes my day when you comment. But that's old news. Still, I am, like totally and shit, working up to answering the comments. I'm just waiting for the fever fog to completely clear and for the ear to stay firmly attached, and you know, for the buzz to be killed, my gills to fully develop, and the butterfly to croak.... See, this is what I mean by excuses.

It makes my year that the Hubby would send me all the way to America to hang out with my Mexican BFF (Yes, I'm exactly like Paris Hilton, I have BFFs all over the world too, and drive a jewel encrusted iPhone to prison, like, every day) just because I needed a break from South Africa. He's also offering to send me to Finland, but I'm not sure how I feel about seeing my mother in real life since the ear-incident. She is not into piercings, especially if they turn out to be potentially disfiguring on her kin. And it's not for appearances sakes I have in the past referred to her as Ironfist.

I'm joking mom, really I am. I love you!

It makes my day when a photo comes out way better than expected. And the complicated camera actually does what I want it to.

It makes my week to have an intelligent discussion about a really good book. In fact, just such a discussion will make my Friday this week. We will be discussing DBC Pierre's Vernon God Little on the Hermit Book Club blog. Come join us. Unless you don't want to read the book and thus have nothing insightful to say, in which case laughing at farts with me right here on my blog is also totally okay. The fun created by farting is largely to do with the audience.

Let's see, what have I got so far:

• farts
• advice
• Mielie bag
• awards
• cake
• more awards
• you commenting on my blog
• Hubby sending me away, far away (doesn't sound so good, must research this point further)
• some photo stuff, so that I can post my current favorite picture
• discussing a good book, and
• farting

Yup. Pretty much there. Should put in some insightful stuff too though. To balance out the ubiquitous talk of farting.

Hmmm.

It makes my day to see someone clearly for who they are. Because no one wants a "friend" (no, those are not unnecessary quotation marks), but someone loyal, supportive, and real. And when someone of the latter description comes along, it makes my year.

It makes my life every single day to have the Hubs. Sap, sap, sap, but really, without his snoring ass, I couldn't exist. And not only because without him cooking for me I would be on my scurvious deathbed by now.

Hubs taking a photo of ....water. Yah.

Now, what makes your day? And don't say cakes and farting. I'm having the combination patented, or trademarked, or something.

Trust? How do you spell that?

There is this thing that I have been meaning to write about for quite a while now (this time I mean it!), and since apparently I have completely stopped answering any and all comments (again) that you still keep leaving (thank goodness, since they truly make my day, every day), I must have been heavily thinking (doesn't that just sound like it should say heavily drinking, since it is, after all, my blog?) about something very, very big and heavy.

Sound credible?

I hope so. Because thinking big is all I have right now.

Every single time anywhere outside of South Africa I tell anyone that I live in Johannesburg I either get the 'oh wow, where's the bullet hole/ contours of the bulletproof vest/ the holster' or the 'You are too cool for living in a war zone' look. And while I love being thought of as seriously hardcore (like a ninja, or Toni Morrison) and utterly cool, the reality is quite different.

Don't get me wrong, I am, like, totally cool, if not even a tad rad, but the truth is that South Africa is not a place where one absolutely needs a gun, a handbag-size rocket launcher, or even a bulletproof vest.

Not really. Not even in Downtown Jo'burg.

However, sometimes it is very hard not to be swept up by the general atmosphere of fear and danger that often permeates this country and especially our city of residence. I know, I know that there is a lot of crime in this country and a lot of it is concentrated in our hood of Jozi. Believe me, I've heard and read all about it. It is a favored ice breaker, after all.

But.

There's a lot more to the situation than rape, murder, and other kinds of horrendous terror.

There's also distrust, and fear for fear's sake. And panic and hysteria. Unfortunately.

When there really should be trust, compassion, and togetherness.

(What is this? Is she fokken trying to be all sweet and cuddly? No way! Creepy is all I'm getting.)

All nice colorful rainbow-like. Like that guy Mandela said. I'm now calling him 'that guy' to throw off the scent of stalk that I may have previously been too vocal about, although I now think it is the US government for a change who is after me, since I keep getting all those blog-visits from various USDA departments. (Yes, being sarcastic, very sarcastic. Don't shoot.)

I think the paranoia stayed when the fever left. Let's hope it's not permanent, eh?

But obviously the Hubby doesn't suffer from any sort of paranoia, since today, because we hate feeling unsafe where ever we are and often feel the urge to demonstrate to ourselves how safe and sound (not really mentally, but in all other ways that I or you can think of) we indeed are, and that we just might be completely certifiable (but at least we have no offspring), we picked up a couple of guys in need of a ride (asking for a ride at traffic lights, sometimes with intricate hand signals, is a common practice in SA) to their respective places of work. One to a gas station and one to a shop, in our hood.

"Do you know them," I ask the hubby. "Nope, but that guy is wearing the gas station jacket," he says.

They guys get in. We have our shopping, my handbag, and assorted items (I did say I would drown in filth, if other people didn't clean for me and the maid refuses to clean the car) in the back seat. The guys make like there's only one of them until we remember it and tell them they can shift some of the stuff.

They are really grateful for the ride. They were going to be late for work, because the taxi (the lethal van packed with peeps that in theory functions as 'public transportation') hadn't shown up. Although, I think the one without the jacket would have been eventually able to buy a Merc to get to work just by trading in his gold teeth. But alas, we, the people not looking to trade in a vehicle of any sort, were his only chance of making his shift.

And we're not into gold teeth. Or at least I'm not. You can never tell with the Hubby. The guy has kept his cast from when he was injured in his teen years. And there are those old Norse/ swearing Copenhagener genes... Also, I think he would sell the car for some 'gold' teeth just to help someone out, if I wasn't there to, you know, keep him from being all saintly and neighborly and such.

Sheesh, I'm married to a friendly person.

A taxi-stand kiosk in Orlando, the township of Soweto. You know, Mandela's neck of the woods. 

As far as what she will use the drum for... I have no idea. I don't.

But sometimes, even I have to trust. To make our world livable. To put something out there that is purely good. That will make someone's day, that will make someone's week, or sometimes even someone's year. I don't want to think people want me harm just because they look at me. That is not the kind of world I want to do my wine drinking in. I mean it.

Now go out there and trust. It's pretty easy once you just go ahead and stop being afraid.

Although, I must add: Don't trust anyone who will want to rob, rape, maim, or murder you or anyone else.

Just saying.

Really. It's nothing.

WARNING: The following is even more about nothing than anything I've ever written before. I repeat, it has absolutely no point. None. So now you know.

Regardless of the range of thoughts varying from panic to nonchalance about my badly infected ear that have been pretty nigh completely occupying my mind (and my time), there have occasionally been other things coursing through the wide open highways of my brain as well. There really have been. Although, apparently none of them have been about mixing my metaphors or contradicting myself in one single sentence. Huh.

Yeah, right. Like you haven't been fiddling with the ear every second you get trying to see whether it's "getting any better," and are probably making it a lot worse with the variety of germs from you mouse and keyboard alone? Puleeze. Give me a fokken break. 

I have actually been thinking about other stuff too! I have. It's just that I'm a little worried. I think that's only understandable? And I haven't been fiddling with my ear. I'm moving the stud back and forth. Like the guy said.

The stud.... Hahahahahahaaaa.... Have you been fiddling with your stud? Moving your stud back and forth?.... hahahahahahahaaaa

GHRMHahahahahahaaaa...

Well, Yeah. Okay. But you did stumble into this one all on your own accord. No accident or universe at work here. You went ahead and got those piercings because your little heart so desired, and then talked about the 'stud'. Double whammy.

I know. I know. Don't you think I know? And don't you think...

Naah. I'm done. I am. What I actually wanted to say is how I've been thinking about some interesting things lately.

Again? And when you say interesting, do you by any chance mean like that time you took a photo of some stuff from your trash can and wrote about that? because that was definitely something, but I'm not sure interesting would be the right way to describe it.

No, not again. And when I say interesting, I mean interesting. What exactly was wrong with the trash post?

Hello? Am I the only one with some brain power here? 

Wait.

Nooh? 

You wont write again about.... CORN.... will you? Because I'm not sure I could handle that again.

What? Corn will always be there. In the background. So quit it. But no, that won't be my main focus this time. I have actually been thinking about some interesting stuff. You know, the world, the earth, and such.

Oh, so nothing much?

Just give it a rest, and let me say my piece. Right after I've been to the bathroom to check in the mirror whether the swelling has gone down. I'll be right back.

Yup, the change is remarkable. FROM 30 SECONDS AGO. You are insane! Just relax already woman. You are being just a tad paranoid. Don't you think? 

What exactly is it that you wanted to say?

Err... You really think the swelling's gone done? Really? 

Hrmph.

Please just tell me. It does look like it's gone down, doesn't it. I knew the antibiotics would work. I just knew it. Oh wow, and I've been so fokken freaked out. And completely felt like I wanted to bang my head against the wall if it wasn't for the pounding pain, already on the right side of my head doing all sorts of punching the inside of my scull all by its lonesome.

I am so relieved. Thanks.

Ah, ...err... I was being sarcastic. 

But you know, I don't think you should be so worried. Really.

What? I'm trying to be serious here and you just make fun of me. I'm trying to talk to you about some serious stuff. Some world and earth stuff, and you just make jokes. Good splinter of a personality you are. I have actually been pondering about some serious questions, while you have just been thinking up means things to say.

You're just mean! You are.

KABLAM

And that, my dear readers, is the sick and paranoid Extranjera slamming the door to the subconscious on us (or possibly Batman decking the bad guy, but that could just be the fever talking), and when she locks that door and decides to sit with her back against it and sulk, there's just really no getting through to her.

Too bad the subconscious is also where the wine cellar's located. She may never resurface.

But wait! Our saving grace: The subconscious has no coffee! She'll be out by Monday.

Have a good weekend y'all. See you on Monday again!

So about last night...

I think I just might go all Bridget Jones on you now. You know, to lighten the mood (mine) and to prattle on about absolutely nothing. But hey, it's one of those days.

• Hours slept last night: One whole one this morning.
• Jet lag going strong: One immense one.
• Ears in danger of being horribly disfigured by either a doctor or an extraterrestrial being: One (and a half - it's that big)
• Realizations relating to why Van Gogh might have cut off his own ear: A whopper, which I firmly believe must in some way be related to a piercing gone bad.
• Ears still attached to head, however: The standard two (and a half).
• Pages read from John Van de Ruit's Spud - Learning to Fly between midnight and morning: 188, and would have indulged further but had to finally think about sleep at 5am. If you haven't already, rush out NOW and get all of Van de Ruit's Spud books: Spud, Spud - The Madness Continues... and Spud - Learning to Fly. In This Twilight infested world they are good, well-written, and fokken (I shouldn't use that in connection with these books, should I?) funny specimens of teen-literature. 
• Time spent laughing in bed last night: Roughly two hours. Not consecutively though and only at Spud, not in any way at the curled up Hubs, who kept grunting all viking-like in his sleep.
• Time spent being horrified at possible ear surgery in the near future: If it wasn't for Spud, six hours, but because of him, roughly 15 minutes.
• Times the Hubby was poked by someone because of rattling like something made out of tin in something made out of tin: Three
• Times the Hubby was poked by his concerned spouse because he seemed to have stopped breathing: Four. Glad I'm still more afraid of him dying than being annoyed at his man-sounds. 
• Time spent hyperventilating in fear over alien-ear in bed last night: About two minutes, but then hubby would say something really vikingly archaic in his sleep and I would have to giggle.
• Time spent mulling over complete lack of reason in relation to piercing decision: Will never admit to anything. Never. 
• Number of different possible scenarios thought up last night involving mother's reaction to daughter's actions, especially if losing part of daughter's ear becomes a reality: Many, and all of them rather daunting.
• Times pondered whether it would be fair to cut someone's beard while they are fast asleep: Just in passing...
• Time spent cutting a beard with eyes closed this morning: Only some of the time, and there was no blood.
• Time spent ogling at the Spud book and thinking reading it right away seems like a fun thing to do: Current thought. A persuasive thought....

See you again tomorrow. Hopefully with all of my ears still complete and attached. 

The alien shall shrivel up and die - an incantation

My poor, poor ear.

"I feel for you, but I just can't ever know how it is for you, because I never, ever have a hard time sleeping."

By Extranjera, let out in connection with poor Gringa's sleeping issues

And ladies and gentlemen, as if you hadn't already guessed what happened, this is how I jinxed myself. I should have known better. Universe won't ever let you spout out things like that, and not let you get a taste of what it is that you have never, ever experienced.

It is now 1pm and I just woke up.

I attempted going to sleep at 2am last night, got in a nice 20 minutes, during which I had a weird dream about having to choose between two beautiful young men (one of whom was a doctor), which leads me to believe that since, in my absence, the Hubby has let his beard morph his countenance from a fearless viking warrior to what can only be described as a lecherous amish elder he should maybe rectify that, so that I can start dreaming about him again.

So, although it was an epiphanic 20 minutes of sleep, it didn't do much for me in the way of actual rest.

I kept trying. But something, be it jet lag or the other worldly life form impersonating my right ear, just wouldn't let me drift off.

What? A homegrown alien?

Yes, indeed. As far as the other worldly being attached to my scull goes, I am now on antibiotics because of a case of perichondritis and the alien should, according to the science of medicine, shrivel up and go away in a week (But what does medicine really know about aliens, I ask you?). I know there is a moral to this story and it might have something to do with 'doing your homework before showing up for class', but I think I'll still just go with 'stop and smell the roses', because I like that one better and that's just the way that I roll.

That, and antibiotics.

Thank Zeus for antibiotics.

At 5am, after having turned on the light three times in order to take note of my insightful thoughts (delirium, in the light of day), I started panicking about the alien and its motives. Would it want to kill me, or just mangle my ear? I decided that since I wasn't sleeping anyway I might as well get up and clean the infected piercing with alcohol and hopefully aid in the extermination of all things not of this world.

Turns out, I don't come in peace.

And that rubbing alcohol on a piercing gone very bad does not for a peaceful sleep make. Or peaceful anything.

After having quietly screamed into my fist for a good 10 minutes I ventured into bed again, right after making note into the notebook on my bedside table, of my serious intent to write an entire post about Hubby's propensity, while sleeping, to breathe through his nose, which obviously wasn't put on his face for that purpose since the air has a really hard time passing through it and consequently makes the man rattle purr in his sleep like a broken tram a sweet kitten. Which makes it very hard for other people to fall asleep.

Delirium, I tell you.

Finally, it was time for the kitten to leave for work and leave me to attempt to rest the top of my head on the pillow and consequently sleep in a part handstand, part half nelson like manner. Which, oddly enough I eventually succeeded in doing, only to wake up at 1pm with my arms completely numb and with creases on my forehead I'm not sure will ever go away, to frantic phone calls from the Hubby who had gotten himself into a frenzy over the alien and wanted to ferry me off to a hospital to get the being surgically removed.

I thought it best to get up and write instead.  

I'm pretty sure I feel better now.

Maybe.

Wine, gun control and Obama

My eyes are barely open. If it wasn't for my computer telling me it is 'Wed' I would be at a complete loss as to what day it is.

But I am home. In South Africa. Safe and more or less sound.

Less sound?

Why yes, less sound happens when the entertainment system of a massive plane that just took off from Atlanta and will fly for 16 hours to Johannesburg, malfunctions and leaves the entire plane completely entertainmentless. No movies or games for anyone. On a plane that is practically full.

What do most people do in such a situation?

They eat and sleep.

What does Extranjera do?

She figures out she can't really read that book she has at the ready since she has already spent three hours flying from Albuquerque to Atlanta, and then overdosed on Starbucks at the Atlanta airport during the six hours she spent there, and her concentration is consequently just a tad off the mark. It also seems the sudoku she attempts for a while is not an activity to be done high on the equivalent of eight shots of espresso, and after having been awakened at 5am. So, naturally, she decides to chat up the old fella from Mississippi who is sitting next to her and they take turns getting more wine from the galley.

It quickly transpires that Extranjera and the old fella don't quite see eye to eye.

On anything.

And that the old fella is a bit hard of hearing. To put it mildly. But Extranjera is feeling the horrifying void of nothing to do and proceeds to dig out that American lurking in her brain and talks loudly and E-NUN-CIA-TES with the best of them.

Gun control somehow comes up.

So does Obama.

The discussion spins out of control.

Red wine is spilled. And dried up with the pillow the airline is kind enough to provide. What else? A napkin? Bah humbug.

The pair decide to consult the threesome of South African engineers sitting behind them on the question of gun control as well as the lack of entertainment. The engineers have been having some wine as well, and Extranjera should have known better: The engineers all love hunting. She is outnumbered and attempts to enlist the help of the stewardess who is not amused and very clearly wishes the galley would run out of wine already, but is also unnerved by the thought of this happening.

Writing comes up. Extranjera cannot, for some inexplicable reason, keep her mouth shut about the blog and promises the old fella that he can defend his views on Obama and gun control when she writes about the issues. She gives him her actual email, before realizing she should have given him the 'blog' one. The one that is not made up of her full name. Her very special, one of a kind, full name.

Finally Extranjera feels Mr. Sandman beckoning. Too bad her ears are so swollen and sore from the cartilage piercings she so intelligently decided to get just before leaving the US, that she cannot rest her head comfortably on pretty much anything. And that pillow is soaked in wine.

Extranjera pretends to fall asleep. The discussion has gotten far too out of hand.

Eventually she does sleep. Only to repeatedly wake up to a throbbing swollen ear that is starting to resemble an alien life form, and might, in fact, be growing its very own brain.

The next morning in the line to immigration Extranjera is not at all embarrassed and no one is looking at her funny. No one. Absolutely no one.

She is sure she hears snickers when the old fella reminds her of her promise and asks her to 'drop him a line' when she comes up with that 'article'.

And it is very likely that no one at all notices that her suitcase passes her by twice on the conveyor belt before she realizes that it is hers.

This might actually be my ear. Not kidding.

Silver lining: For once she is not stopped at customs.

Bye bye al-boo-ker-keh, I'll miss you!

My last day in Albuquerque.

What is a gal to do?

Eat some more hamburgers and fries? No. Been there, done that, currently suffering the heartburn that just won't go away, but oddly tastes like pickles, feet, and ketchup at times. However, can heartily (and not just heartburn-ily) recommend Ezra's place (And not just because of the Margarita either). Best burger in town. Honest.

Go to the mall? No. Been there, done that, have no more room in the suitcase, although all of the meat is gone from there, and will not be making the long trek back to South Africa. Some Hannah Montana crap will though. Because I'm cheesy. And consider myself old and fat enough to pull it off as kitch, and not creepy. Right? (Don't answer, unless it's in the affirmative. Thanks.)

Go to a museum? No. Been there, done that, absolutely loved the Georgia O'Keeffe museum in Santa Fe and am now seriously considering becoming a tortured artist, only wearing black sleek clothing with my hair slicked back, never sweating, and painting horse skulls with flowers. What originality?

If I could only paint something else than stick men. If only. Stick sculls?

Visit the multitude of galleries in Santa Fe? No. Been there, done that, and felt everything from seriously weirded out by 'art' to superbly inspired by art.

A tad weirded out, neh?

Inspired, but not in the GAP way. Just plain inspired.

Take more photos? No. Been there, done that, am ready to bore anyone and everyone with days and days of illustrated tales of my travels. I probably have hours of footage of coffee alone.

COFFEE, SWEET COFFEE!

What to do, what to do? Before becoming a tortured artist in high-waisted pants, that is.

Well, I guess there is nothing else to do than to go to University of New Mexico, play the crazy aunt Helga from Finland to an unsuspecting Mexican American 18 year-old 'nephew' (how could I have come all this way and miss family day? Not possible!), and introduce some new holes into my earlobes.

There really is nothing else to do.

Besides Starbucks. But you so already knew that. Didn't you?

I almost missed this one. Almost. Can you believe that?

Have a good start of the week y'all! I'll be back to regale you with my tales once I land safely in South Africa and the wine and coffee fumes jet-lag fog finally clears.

Are you distracted already?

So I think my social skills have somewhat deteriorated in recent years. Or I've just completely stopped paying attention to what is being said to me, because I'm too distracted by anything and everything shiny.

America is very shiny after all. And glittery.

Mis amigos in shiny and glittery Albuquerque

Yesterday, I was being distracted by a pair of shiny pants at the mall (yes, have spent inordinate amounts of time at Starbucks and at the mall. Much more time than is decent...), and was giving them a proper feel, almost bringing them to my cheek.

Okay. I did bring them to my cheek, but just for a few seconds, and they really were some nice, soft pants.

A woman walked past me and said "Oh, nice top!" I was wearing a kaftan-like thing that is really meant for the beach, but that I have appropriated for everyday use, and like the socially awkward woman that I am, I looked at her, looked at my top, while holding the pants to my cheek, and answered: "Yes, it is." Because that is what my brain somehow elected as the appropriate response to a compliment.

I'm sure she feels good for having made the day of a mental patient on a day trip to the mall.

I have been having quite a few odd discussions with very random people. Like, with the woman who sold me my Birkenstocks about her work at the Library of Congress, like with the very pierced and tattooed fella who apparently was flirting with me (I was later told by the Mexican niece and nephew), like with a guy who was wanting to pluck my (I think rather non-existent) eyebrows with a strange looking string-apparatus, and like with the woman who though it was cute that I was taking pictures of my lattes.

I seem to have forgotten how much Americans like to talk and engage each other, and complete strangers.

Or maybe I'm just being my usual freak-magnet self? I'm pretty sure if I wasn't already married I would totally be going out with the tattoo-wonder. He was pretty cute in that inked, holey, punk way that I like, but I'm still glad I already have a cute, bearded, un-holey Hubby waiting for me in SA.

Other people's piercings can be dangerous, and I don't need any more hazards around. I already have me. Behind the wheel of my friend's car. Trying to drink water or extricate gum out of my bag while driving with my knees. Hazards aplenty.

Ag, just look at the pretty pictures. Apparently there never was a point to this, and there isn't one in sight either.

Unconventionally sad sunflower

Wires are pretty, neh?

They really are.

But not as pretty as flowers. Not nearly.

Have a good weekend y'all! I'm off to eat some Mexican food and drink some wine, and to chase it all with Starbucks. 

But you already knew that.

  

Revisiting Paradise

Yesterday, pretty much in its entirety, was spent in the most American of places. I and my Mexican niece and nephew. Or at least, in the place that I first got to know and love when I and my family made the big move to the United States when I was a teenager.

See, Finland was even smaller back then. And more Finnish. Back then we really were all about lakes and Saunas. Today we're far more European and only break out the Sauna and the frozen lake for special occasions.

Like, a Saturday.

So imagine my bewilderment and wonder when I first set foot in a Mall. A glorious shoppers' paradise. A jungle of things just waiting to be bought and consumed.

No natural water anywhere, but a complicated water feature, inside of all places. People walking indoors from shop to boutique to department store, while stopping at the food court to grab a quick burger and a soda or a milkshake. Everything under one high, high roof.

There was indeed bewilderment and wonder, with the added air of country bumpkin, but with some budding consumer thrown in. I knew I had arrived. At the Mall.

Yesterday, I revisited that paradise, and while it no longer holds the same kind of magic for me as it did when I was a teenager (or actually any magic, but more of a get-out-of-my-way-people-I-am-trying-to-find-me-some-shoes feeling seems to win out in the end) I still managed to spend some money.

And there was absolutely no way I was ever going to pass up on these:

Mi nuevos bebes

.