The Art Of Reading Between The Lines

I’m in pain.

And I have to warn you. There will be talk about women’s issues. If you want to skip the women’s issues, just scroll down until you see grass. You should be safe then.

Today I had my old IUD yanked out removed, and a new one fitted. Just for you, I’m going to recount the dialogue between my OB/GYN and myself. What was actually said is written in bold. What we really meant is written in italics.

OB/GYN: I see you’re here to have a new IUD fitted.
I see you’re here to have a new IUD fitted.

Ziva: Yes.
Yes.

O: Here’s the thing. You’ll be 25 this year.
You’re old.

Z: Yeah.
Thanks. Jerk.

O: At your age women are usually starting to think about babies and it’s that time in your life when a new IUD shouldn’t really be top priority.
You’re old. You only have a few more baby-making years ahead of you.

Z: Yes, I’m aware of that, but my boyfriend and I are not at the baby-making stage yet.
Thanks. Jerk.

O: Are you sure? We could sell this *holds up the IUD* to someone else and you could go home and make some babies. *laughs*
You’re old. Don’t you get it?

Z: *laughs awkwardly* I think I’ll go with the IUD.
Jerk.

O: Well then. When the new IUD goes in, it can safely stay there for 5 years and would have to be removed in 2015. *looks at my chart* At which time you would be 30. *makes ugly face*
Damn, you’re old. At that point you’ll have one foot in the grave and won’t be able to have babies if they sold them on eBay.

Z: Yeah.
Jerk, jerk, jerk.

O: Okay then, let’s get to it.
Let the torture begin.

Z: Sure.
Oh crap.

O: I’m going to take out the old one first. You might feel this. *yanks it out*
This is going to feel like I’m ripping something out of your uterus. It will hurt.

Z: *jumps at the pain and tries not to whimper* Uh huh.
Goddamn that hurt!

O: I’m going to grab your cervix with these pliers and dilate it. Did you take any painkillers before coming here today?
This is going to feel a little like someone’s sliding a knife inside of you.

Z: Uh huh. *jumps at the pain and tries not to whimper but fails miserably*
Fuck!! Hurry up, hurry up!

O: I’m going to insert the IUD now. This might hurt a little.
Hehehehe.

Z: Uh huh. *jumps at the pain and tries not to scream, screw the whimpering*
Motherf***er! Are you trying to insert it into my brain??

O: All done. It wasn’t so bad was it?
Just wait until you have to give birth.

Z: No, not bad at all. *wipes away the sweat on her forehead*
Holy shit, get me out of here.

I survived. And then I had massive amounts of potato chips with dip to make up for the mental trauma. Speaking of mental trauma, tomorrow M and I are leaving to spend Easter with his parents. I’ll have to pack lots of potato chips.

I’m kidding. I love them.

Because of the trip, today is the second to last time I’ll be posting a picture of my grass. Today’s grass is designed, composed and assembled by my sister, the fashion designer. She chose to mimic a real life situation, in which a bear scientist and a beaver scientist find a dinosaur egg twice their size. Very realistic, if you ask me.

She also cut the grass, which seems to be growing at an alarming rate. Every day I wake up to find it bigger and bigger. Last night I cut it, and this morning it had covered the entire kitchen again. Muschu started by cutting a little on the left. Then she cut a little on the right. But then the right side was suddenly shorter than the left, so she cut the left side some more. But then the right side was longer again, so she had to go back there to cut some more. When she started to talk about a mohawk, I stopped her.

Watch That Grass Grow!

Beaver and bear scientists with huge dinosaur egg.

The observant will notice mommy dinosaur sneaking away. Oddly enough, she appears to be very small compared to her egg. I bet her belly looked ridiculous.

*

The Art Of Reading Between The Lines

Time To Dust Off Those Nuclear Bombs

It was brought to my attention that the harmless druggie that was arrested at Subway yesterday, while M and I were having a nutritious and healthy dinner, wasn’t a harmless druggie at all. He was an escaped inmate who was receiving medical care at the hospital. No wonder the cops seemed so eager to take him in.

M and I live next to the hospital, and I’ve never thought that it could present a danger for us. Which is silly, really, because I’ve worked at another hospital for years and I’ve seen the crazies first hand. Once I was assaulted by a woman who was high as a kite and suicidal. The cops came and saved me, but it took 4 police officers to get her into cuffs and into the van. And at several occasions we've had the local winos come in. Sometimes they throw bottles, but most of the time they just pee on the floor. Marking their territory, I suppose.

Luckily, I live in one of the safest countries in the world and inmates on the run is something that doesn’t happen very often. Which is sad, I’m way more popular today than I was yesterday.

A country that isn’t as lucky, though, is our neighboring Russia. Yesterday morning two suicide bombers went to work at two Moscow metro stations, killing 38 people, injuring many more. Russia blames Chechnya and demands international aid. Seeing as Russia is always the first to come to other countries help, I bet Obama will immediately stop funding abortions with tax money (universal healthcare – ha! whoever gave him that idea?) for as long as it takes to level Chechnya with the ground, “preferably using nuclear weapons”, as one Russian woman said in the news.

I’m particularly fond of the nuclear bomb idea – it’s been way too long since we had a good world war on our hands. Also, I was about one year old when Chernobyl didn’t happen. (Shh – the Russians are listening.) The contaminated rain water was delicious, and I’m very fond of my third arm.

In other news, my Easter chick had a bunch of baby chicks and found her baby daddy. Or was it the other way around? I can never remember; which one came first, the chicken or the egg?

Watch That Grass Grow!

The chicken and the egg are actually symbiotic and identical subspecies of an extinct parent species called the chegg.

Baby chicks, wondering why daddy is green when they’re obviously not.

*

Time To Dust Off Those Nuclear Bombs

Thank Heavens I Got Taken Off The 10 Most Wanted List Last Year

Insomnia paid me a visit last night. I think she came over because someone stole an hour from us on Sunday and she was pissed and wanted the hour back. Frankly, so did I. I tossed and turned from midnight to 4 am, when I finally gave up. I got up, had a little water, and went back to bed to wait for the alarm clock to ring. And promptly fell asleep. Weird how that works.

After having slept so well last night, I made M a three course meal for dinner took M to Subway for dinner. It was close to closing time and M and I were pretty much alone. While I was munching on my chicken teriyaki sub, a man came in. He was looking a little frazzled, and locked himself into the men’s restroom.I figured he just really had to go.

Next, a security guard came in and took a look around, spotting the locked door. He ran out again and came back 30 seconds later with two police officers. The cops went to the men’s room and pulled out the screaming and cursing man, cuffed him and took him away. He had a bunch of pills and a syringe. I guess he robbed the big hospital next door and apparently the old lady who needed those pills wasn’t too happy. Poor lady.

Anyway, things like this doesn’t happen over here. Ever. A druggie getting arrested in Subway is the equivalent of a bank robbery turned hostage situation turned kidnapping drama. When M and I came home we had to make sure the grass was okay. In situations like these you realize that your spawn is the most important thing in you life.

Oh yeah… The grass.

I feel sort of bad. I abandoned my poor, helpless grass because I was having a hard time dealing with the responsibilities of being a parent. I will never do it again, I swear. To make it up to the grass, I have now watered it, fed it little plastic toys, read to it and even trimmed it and given it a nice new haircut. And I let my Easter chick sit in the grass to keep it company.

Watch That Grass Grow!

*

Thank Heavens I Got Taken Off The 10 Most Wanted List Last Year

I've Had Enough

The grass is giving me anxiety. It’s just sitting there.

Staring.

Demanding.

Water me. Feed me. Play with me. I’ve invested every waking moment in that grass, and it’s killing me. When the sun moves, I move the grass. When it gets dry, I water it. When it feels lonely I sit with it, read to it. Play with little plastic toys with it.

Too much responsibility!

No water for you today.

Watch That Lousy Grass Grow!

*

I've Had Enough

When Drinking With Ants - Always Sit To The Left

And the winner of yesterday’s game of spot the foreign object is…

MikeWJ at Too Many Mornings!

He didn’t get it right, but he was the only one participating and he scored a very respectable 23 points (mostly for creativity). Congratulations, Mike! The correct answer was:

Squidward Tentacles

Amazingly enough, the grass is still growing. I haven’t killed it, it hasn’t accidentally caught on fire, and I haven’t left it in the car without the window rolled down. I didn’t even smoke it!

Watch That Grass Grow!

Today’s foreign object is a fine specimen of Camelus bactrianus. He is plastic and spits water if you press on his head. He came into my possession after I found him abandoned in a Kinder Egg, and when he comes of age I will trade him in for a new wife. He looks rather stunning in high grass, don’t you think?

While we’re talking about animals, did you know that an ant always falls over on its right side when intoxicated? Whoever did that experiment had a really twisted sense of humor. I’m just saying. I’m also curious as to whether the ants preferred vodka or whisky. It makes a difference. *

When Drinking With Ants - Always Sit To The Left

Stay Safe - Don't Drink and Blog

Don’t worry, my blog is supposed to look like this. I went blonde. I had a nice brunette thing going on with my blog, but then I decided it was just too dark and gloomy, so I went blonde. I once did it in real life, and that didn’t end very well, but I’m hoping my blog can pull it off. The only thing I’m concerned about is that I’ve had a couple glasses of wine, and I’m not sure my judgement is where it’s supposed to be. I think it might lie in the gutter somewhere, along with my brain and the better part of my sanity. Also, someone should really light those little cute birds up there on fire. That would say “inferno” in such a nice way.

Someone needs to design a breathalyzer for the computer. If your blood alcohol level is over the legal driving level, chances are your judgement is impaired and you shouldn’t be using Facebook. Or re-designing your blog.

Yum

*

Stay Safe - Don't Drink and Blog

Call Me Mom

I think I would make a great mother. I have sown the seeds, provided my seeds with fertile soil, sunlight and love. I kept my tray of dirt out of harms way and provided for adequate humidity at all times. And today, my beloved tray of dirt has finally grown into the most beautiful, green grass you can ever imagine.

Watch That Grass Grow!

I know every mother thinks her baby is cute, even though it looks like an old Richard Nixon, but can you honestly say this isn’t the cutest grass you’ve ever seen? And it happened so fast. It seems like only yesterday my tray of dirt had nothing but a few strands of short yellow grass, and the penguin was making fun of it.

No, wait… That was yesterday… Never mind.

I do believe I promised we’d play a game today. I can imagine the game will get more interesting when the grass grows thicker, but until then:

Can anyone spot the foreign object?



Extra points if you identify the character. More extra points if you tell me my grass is pretty.

I’m going to have some wine now. Let’s hope I’m not one of those moms who forgets all about her baby when she’s tipsy and leaves them in the car without the window rolled down. Maybe I should convince M to take care of the grass tonight, just in case. *

Call Me Mom

Soon I'll Have To Mow It

Today my little brother turned 14. I’ve spent the entire day at mom and dad’s place, cooking, baking, decorating the cake and then eating the whole thing. I’m pooped. Eating really takes a toll on you. I was so tired when M was driving home that I was daydreaming about my bed.

But then I came home and saw this:

Watch That Grass Grow!

Holy crap! Can you imagine how excited I was? There's grass on my tray of dirt! Not a lot, and it’s kind of yellow and looks a little diseased, but I’m sure it’s supposed to look like that. Anyway, doesn’t the pretty penguin make it look all nice and friendly? There’s nothing like a good penguin to make your diseased grass look friendly.

Super friendly, slightly crooked, grass with nice penguin.

Even though the grass grew a little today, it still feels pretty much like watching grass grow, so maybe we should spice things up with a game. Like a game of spot the foreign matter. Yesterday it was four lazy aliens. I already told you it was a penguin today, so obviously I made it too easy for you, but tomorrow I’ll hide something fun in the grass, and then we can play. Let’s hope the grass grows quickly, because this game will probably be a lot more challenging when the grass gets a little thicker… And higher. *

Soon I'll Have To Mow It

Lazy Aliens

Someone told me that a good blog has lots of pictures to keep the readers interested and focused. So, in order to keep you interested and focused, I’m posting lots of photos today. First up, my tray of dirt:

Watch That Grass Grow!

It appears the workers have parked their excavator on the counter and are now sitting on the grass, drinking beer. It also appears the workers are actually aliens. Weird that.

No grass. Only aliens.

But since I’m supposed to keep you interested and focused and since my grass still looks like a tray of dirt, albeit with aliens, my sister Muschu’s grass is making a guest appearance on today’s “Watch That Grass Grow!” Hers is actually looking less like dirt and more like grass.

Watch That Grass Grow, Again!

Muschu is a poor student and can’t afford a fancy tray like me. That’s why, as any good college student, she’s resorted to shot glasses.

I’m going to finish this post with a picture of the flowers I bought for myself to celebrate Hump Day. Pretty, aren’t they? And expensive. Good thing M is usually the one buying me flowers, I couldn’t afford to keep myself with flowers.

I'm particularly fond of the wine in the background.

There. Are you interested and focused now? *

Lazy Aliens

Under Construction

No grass yet. But it appears that someone is working on it so I’m sure we’ll be watching the grass grow any day now. And they look like really hard workers; I bet my grass will be better than everyone else’s grass.

Watch That Grass Grow!

In other news, M and I are now having all our conversations on yellow post-its on M’s breakfast chair. If he leaves it out, I’ll write “Evidence #...” and if he remembers to push it in, he’ll write “I love you honey”. Can you tell which one of us is the adult? *

Under Construction

Like Watching Paint Dry - But So Much Better!

My hit series Today’s Bridge wasn’t such a great hit after all. I’m not sure why, but I have a feeling it sort of jumped the shark when the bridge catastrophically failed to do anything interesting at all. It’s still hanging there like yesterday’s news, looking a little sad and lonely, probably wishing someone would put it out of its misery by marching 26 elephants over it.

And since Today’s Bridge failed in ways the actual bridge can only dream of, I’m taking Today’s Bridge off the blog and introducing a new segment. I don’t know if you do this where you, dear reader, live, but in Scandinavia we grow Easter grass. Easter grass is real grass, grown for the single purpose of looking like grass when Easter comes. It’s highly rewarding and very easy. Not even I could screw up Easter grass. I hope.

With that in mind, I give you:

Watch That Grass Grow!

It still looks a little bit like a tray full of dirt, but fear not, we’ll be watching the grass grow in a mere 4-6 days – provided, of course, that I see to adequate humidity in the soil at all times.

Are you as excited as I am?? *

Like Watching Paint Dry - But So Much Better!

The Breakfast Chair Problem

This week is Breakfast Week over at Theme Thursday. I wasn’t going to participate at first due to the fact that I mostly just sleep through breakfast and get up in time for lunch. But then I realized that just because I know nothing about breakfast doesn’t mean I can’t write about it. It’s never stopped me before.

I actually had breakfast today. Muesli and yogurt. (Or müsli for those of us who are a little better than everyone else.) It was okay. Not really worth getting up for, but I was already up so it doesn’t really matter. Speaking of breakfast, last night I went to see Alice in Wonderland. It wasn’t as good as I’d hoped it would be, but I always enjoy a little Johnny Depp. And he wears his makeup better than any grown man I’ve ever seen. Sadly, they didn’t have any breakfast. They hardly even had tea.

Someone who does have breakfast every single day is M. He gets up, does his thing and then sits down for breakfast. He spends about an hour reading the paper and eating his yogurt. And then he gets up and leaves for work. Did you notice how I left out the part where he would normally have pushed his chair back in?

I knew you’d notice, you’re smart like that.

Yes, M has a chair problem. A breakfast chair problem. He doesn’t have this problem during any other meal. Dinner, lunch, brunch, supper, elevenses… No problem. But come breakfast and he appears to lose all capability of operating a basic chair.

This is how my morning usually goes: M’s alarm goes off 20 or 30 times, depending on how many times he can fall back asleep and how hard I hit him when the damned thing doesn’t shut up. He gets up and leaves me in bed, wide awake. He does his thing, eats his yogurt and wakes me up to tell me he’s leaving for work just when I’ve gone back to sleep. After he’s left, I get up. I walk to the kitchen and start my day by pushing in his chair. Every day.

Some time ago I brought it to his attention that he has this problem. He didn’t believe me. So I did what anyone would have done. I took a post-it, wrote “Evidence #1” on it, and put it on the chair and left the chair out, just as he left it.

When M came home and saw the chair and realized I was indeed right (I usually am), he laughed a little and promised he wouldn’t leave the chair out again. Today I wrote “Evidence #17” on a little post-it. He definitely has a breakfast chair problem.

Do you know where I could find a Chair Problems Anonymous around here?

The original post-it was written in Swedish, but I wrote a new one for your viewing pleasure. You’re welcome.

*

The Breakfast Chair Problem

Inglorious Tunes

Snow, snow, everywhere I look there’s snow. In the air, on the ground, in my brain… If spring arrives under the snow, and no one can see it, is it really there? We had a few beautiful days and some of the snow looked like it was thinking about maybe considering to melt. But now it’s snowing again. And it’s everywhere! I’m going nuts.

But I’m not here to talk about snow. I’m here to talk about another thing that has been driving me nuts lately. Namely, my neighbors.

See, my neighbors have a piano. And I hate neighbors with a piano.

No. That’s not entirely accurate.

I hate neighbors who play the piano day and night.

No. That’s not entirely accurate either.

What I hate is neighbors who play said piano day and night, and have the audacity to play it better than I play my piano.

Yes. That’s definitely what I hate.



I used to play classical piano. Did all sorts of concerts and people would actually come and listen. And they hardly ever threw rotten tomatoes at me. Probably because rotten tomato juice is really hard to get out of a grand piano and people know this. Even so, after a while I started to play with the lid closed, just in case.

When I moved away from home, my new apartment was the size of a postage stamp. If I stood in the middle I could flush the toilet, make dinner and take a nap on the bed at the same time. Very convenient. But I couldn’t fit my piano. As the years went by my fingers slowly grew slower, fatter and horribly clumsy.

When I moved in with M I suddenly had room for a piano again, and M, my hero, bought an electric stage piano that sounds and feels almost like a real piano. I play it all the time, a little Beethoven, a little Bach, a little Evanescence. All your major composers. Right now I’m in the process of re-learning Michael Nyman’s The Heart Asks Pleasure First. My fingers are still slow and fat and clumsy, but I was getting better all the time.

That is, until the neighbors moved in. The neighbors and their damned piano. A real piano. No electric crap for them. A real pianoforte that sounds awesome. Even through the walls. Now I can’t practice anymore. If I play a song on Monday, the neighbors will play that exact same song on Tuesday. If I play late on Friday night, they will play early on Saturday morning. No one wins and no one backs down. It’s a Mexican standoff without the guns.

Lots of guns.

A Cold War without the nuclear bombs.

Nuclear bomb.

A Quentin Tarantino film without massive amounts of blood.

Massive amounts of blood.

And with lots of pianos.

I have to be at the top of my game. Every note perfect. Every song flawless. My only problem now is, where the hell do I go to practice? *

Inglorious Tunes

Cheating My Way To A Beautiful Blog

I need some advice. The incredibly funny Candice, from Life According to Candice, is hosting a free giveaway that I absolutely need to win. One lucky soul will win a free blog makeover. A makeover! I could finally get rid of the nasty brown heart up there that is nothing like my own little shrivelled black heart. I need to win this. It couldn’t be better if she were giving away little pieces of pure gold. Um, well actually, gold would do. I’m not picky. But I am, however, worried that I might not win this just by entering the draw. I need to make sure she picks me. Here’s where your advice would come in handy.

I have already thought of some ways to ensure my success in the contest. First, I’m going to bribe Candice. I’m sure a nice little puppy would do. I’m also going to lavish Candice, who’s not only extremely good-looking, but also thoughtful, sexy, kind and not at all as stupid as you’d think by looking at her blonde hair, with flattery. I also considered babysitting her kids so she could get it on with her husband, but I’m not really a babysitting kinda person. And I thought about washing her car, but I’m not really a washing kinda person either.

M is leaving for Estonia tomorrow so I’ll have the entire weekend to myself and I plan to do nothing but suck up to Candice. Wonderful, amazing, Candice. Now, I know that my sucking up and my flattery will take care of the win for me, but just in case Candice proves difficult to bribe… Does anyone know how to rig that random.org generator thing in my favor? *

Cheating My Way To A Beautiful Blog

I Guess This Is Goodbye

It’s official. I’ve used the words ”terrorist”, ”bomb” and ”free healthcare for all” in the same sentence one too many times. The government of the USA is on to me. If I suddenly stop blogging and you never hear from me again, you’ll know I’m busy having my nails done in Guantanamo.

Like every blogger, I’ll occasionally have a magical googlebot come crawl around a little and sniff at my blog, probably to see if it still smells like yesterday’s dirty socks. But never before has my stat counter said this:



The googlebot was sent by the USA and resides in a region called Armed Forces Europe. The Armed Forces! In Europe! That’s where they keep the guns and grenades and all the hot soldiers. And you know they chose the armed forces in Europe because that’s closest to where I am. They are going to come for me any minute now. They’re going to lock me up and throw away the key, only to find it again 20 years later and throw it away again because it seemingly led nowhere important. By the time I get out cars will have wings and airplanes won’t.

It was nice knowing you. *

I Guess This Is Goodbye

The Man In The White Hat (16 Years Later)

So, I went to the concert, saw Kent, got the t-shirt with the naked lady on it.

And it was good.

Very good.

But it turns out that everyone was wearing their best bra and with 12.000 boobs to choose from, Jocke Berg didn’t choose mine. It’s okay though, because the concert was amazing. The studio albums seem flat and boring after that burst of raw energy on stage. There’s nothing that gets me quite as revved up as live music. Melody and beat coming together to perfection right in front of me while thousands of people scream their appreciation and create a mass-psychosis like no other. LSD, someone?

Jocke, if you’re reading this, I’m great looking and awesome in bed. Please take me home.

M, if you’re reading this, I didn’t mean that.

Jocke, yes I did. Don’t tell M.

*

The Man In The White Hat (16 Years Later)

Today's Bridge

You know that today’s outfit thing that fashion bloggers are so fond of doing? I’m thinking about doing the same thing here. Except instead of today’s outfit, I give you:

Today’s Bridge

Photograph by Jonas Westerlund

It’s still collapsing, just kind of slowly. Which is a bummer, nothing exciting ever happens where I live. At least the bridge could have gone down with a big splash.

But speaking of exciting, M and I are off to the concert with Kent. I told M this morning that I’m wearing my best bra today, so I’ll be able to charm the lead singer. M said I’m getting laid for sure. Score! *

Today's Bridge

It's Not Paranoia When They're Actually Out To Get You

I am delighted to declare tonight Game Night. We’re going to play two games. The first I like to call “Spot the car.” It’s very simple. Just take a look at the picture below (taken outside our apartment building today) and let me know where the car is. I’ll give you a hint. It’s not on the construction site in the background.



The second game it just as easy. First, take a look at the pictures below.

Photograph by Mathias Johnson.




Photograph by Jonas Westerlund.

It’s a bridge in my town and it’s in frequent use. By me, for example. This morning it started to sag a little. Like a woman’s bosom, the years took their toll and at the ripe age of 40, the bridge is now sagging like grandma Betsy’s ass. It’s now 3 feet lower at the middle than it was yesterday and experts say that it might crash down into the river at any moment. The game is called “When will the bridge drop?” Give it your best shot.

Now, I feel like I should tell you that I don’t like things that can go “boom”. I’m worried my car will catch on fire while I’m driving it. But I do drive it, because if I don’t the car won and I won’t have that. I’m not particularly fond of flying, either, but I’ll do it if that’s what it takes to get me to Rome. Or USA. Actually, as long as it takes me out of Finland, I’ll pretty much get on a plane and just pray that it’s a no-boom day. I also have a tendency to step on the gas whenever I get to a bridge while I’m driving. That way when the bridge breaks and crashes down into the water, I’ll have enough momentum to carry me across to the other side, unharmed.

Cars burning in the middle of the road while I’m driving past, or bridges collapsing into the river, do absolutely nothing to help my phobias. I considered taking the bus, but then I watched the news and a bus had lost both back wheels while on the highway, so that was out of the question too. Soon I’ll have to start walking to get to places. Yuck. *

It's Not Paranoia When They're Actually Out To Get You

747

I had big plans for tonight. Huge, in fact. M and I had tickets to see Kent in concert in Helsinki. Kent is a Swedish band that usually sings in Swedish, but a couple of the albums were released in English as well. They sound a little bit like this:



They’re known for their unique sound and their weird lyrics. And M and I are huge fans. Tonight we were going to drive to Helsinki and have the best time ever. But apparently Kent aren’t just tripping when they’re writing their lyrics, but also when they’re planning their mode of transportation.

Any idiot could have figured out that with the Baltic Sea looking like this…



…they probably shouldn’t take the boat. As it is, over 50 ships and ferries are stuck in the ice. One of those is Viking Isabella, where all of Kent’s instruments and equipment is currently busy standing still at sea.

As of right now the concert is rescheduled for Sunday. I’m trying to see it as a good thing and make the most of the situation. I’ve done three loads of laundry today, because after going to see a live concert, laundry is the next best thing. And I’m going to make tonight into sauna night and maybe, just maybe, I’ll have time to lose 10 more pounds before Sunday so I can wear my skinny jeans to the concert. A girl can dream, right? *

747

Prejudice Is Only Good If You're Jane Austen

I don’t often go off on political tangents on this blog. Except from the time Obama was awarded the peace prize, I’ve mostly stuck to making fun of myself or people who are unfortunate enough to know me. But green is the color of the month, and like everyone else, I think of Libya when I hear the word green. The color of Islam is green, for one. And the flag of Libya is nice and green – and not to be confused with just any green rectangle, it’s very distinct. You can tell the difference, right?



In honor of green being the color of the month, I’m going to tell you a little story, that might or might not take a political turn, about Libya and its fearless leader. But this story doesn’t start in Libya. It starts in the most peaceful country in the world, where it seems like the people are always busy carrying large amounts of cash to the national banks. It starts in Switzerland.

Way back in 2009, Switzerland did what any self-respecting, cheese-making, chocolate-eating country would do. They banned the building of minarets. As Switzerland is on the evolutionary level of Ancient Rome, they were able to do this by a simple referendum. In a country where referenda are held trice a week and twice on Sunday, people have a hard time working up the energy to care about unimportant stuff like whether or not everyone’s right to freedom of religion is respected.

Now, you can’t blame the Swiss government for not trying. They did recommend that the proposed amendment be rejected, probably because it was inconsistent with the basic principles of the constitution. And all that crap. But the right wing campaign to ban minarets was nevertheless successful and before the Swiss could say “Give me some Toblerone!” the building of minarets had been banned.

This, of course, was met with great joy and approval around the world. There’s nothing Europe needs more than a little white supremacy to get the juices flowing. And while we’re at it, why not add a swastika to the Swiss flag that’s supposed to represent neutrality, just to get the point across.

I can see why Muslims around the world are a little miffed at this development in Switzerland. And common sense would dictate that the only reasonable thing to do now is express the deep disappointment the Muslim community feels towards this unreasonable ban declare a holy war on Switzerland. Yes. That makes sense. Let’s fight ignorance with jihad. That will end well.

Only, the thing is, didn’t anyone tell them that Switzerland is one big freaking army? Don’t let the neutrality thing fool you. Switzerland has an active army of 134.886 people. And every single one of them has a personal rifle that they keep at home in case someone declares jihad on Switzerland. Yes, that’s the single reason. That, and major cheese catastrophes. They might not be completely up-to-date on their civil and political rights, but they sure know how to fight. Priorities, people.

Muammar Gaddafi, the leader of Libya (who coincidentally came to power by a very legal and constitutionally sane coup d’état and also ordered the expulsion of Italians in 1970 – a very agreeable person in general), appealed for jihad against Switzerland when he heard of the ridiculous ban on building minarets. He wanted Muslims to target Switzerland through airports and harbors, preventing Swiss planes from landing and Swiss ships from docking. Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t think Switzerland actually has a merchant navy. Or even a coast. Muammar Gaddafi was probably too busy writing his Green Book to study unimportant things like geography.

Anyway, he called Switzerland an infidel, obscene state which is destroying mosques and made it clear that Switzerland at the very least was an ideological enemy. That actually sounds a little like the lyrics to a Marilyn Manson song, don’t you think? Gaddafi made this speech on the Prophet Muhammad’s birthday, to make sure that as many Arabs as possible would take it seriously. I can only hope that right now, the harbors of Libya aren’t filled with Muslims trying to stop Swiss ships from docking. Because folks, they ain’t coming.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go build some minarets, tear them down and declare holy war on myself. There’s just too much crazy in the world. *

Prejudice Is Only Good If You're Jane Austen

Why Sleep When You Could Be Putting Out Fires?

M and I were getting ready for bed at 2 am the other night – I blame the Olympics – when a fire alarm went off somewhere. At first it sounded kind of like a two-stroke engine driving a generator in the middle of the night and since I particularly dislike the sound of a two-stroke engine driving a generator in the middle of the night, I was pissed. But when we got up to check on the sound, what sounded like a two-stroke engine driving a generator in the middle of the night in the bedroom, sounded more like an equally annoying mechanical alarm ringing in the middle of the night in the kitchen. Now, I’ll take the sound of a two-stroke engine driving a generator in the middle of the night over an alarm in the middle of the night any night. Often I can just ignore the idiot with the generator, but an alarm going off, not so much. A crack of the balcony door told us that the alarm was ringing right under our apartment, in the garage under the building. The garage where M and I keep both our cars, as does half the people living in our building.

Any alarm going off near my car is a bad thing. See, I have a weird feeling that my car is one day going end up like this;



Except my car is blue. And it’s not a Toytoa. Who buys a Toyota anyway? Don’t ask me how I know my car will go up in a ball of flames, just call me psychic. Every time I drive my car I continuously check for little warning signs: red warning lights on the dash, weird noises from the engine, loss of power, huge flames under the hood… You know, that sort of thing.

We got dressed and took the stairs down to the garage, because in case of a fire you’re never supposed to take the elevator. Don’t ride and burn, kids. On the ground level we saw a huge fire truck outside the building, and intelligent and self-preserving as we are, we continued down to the garage where we were met with the greatest anti-climax ever.

No fire. No smoke. Not even a little. Two fire fighters stood outside the garage door, trying to get in and turn off the alarm. We let them in, they told us we did the right thing to come check on the alarm, they turned off the alarm, we bonded over hockey, and they left again. M and I felt like real heroes. The fire fighter said that if you check on alarms as quickly as we did, we would have probably had time to prevent a bigger fire by extinguishing my car whatever car was on fire.

I didn’t feel like telling him that if my a car had actually been on fire, I would have probably run screaming in the other direction. I’m brave like that. See that picture of the burning car up there? See the guy standing right next to the car on fire? Yeah, that’s not me.

I’m off to the gym again. And speaking of the gym… Guys, if I can tell if you’re a righty or a lefty just by looking at your shorts, you are wearing shorts a few sizes too small. I’m just saying. *

Why Sleep When You Could Be Putting Out Fires?

Meanwhile, In Finland

…it’s still snowing. Yesterday the snow came down as big heavy snowflakes that made me and Zelma realize that the ice age is making a much awaited comeback. In order to prepare of the ice age, we did what any sensible mammal would do. We prepared for hibernation. We went out for pizza to make sure we have the body fat needed to survive 10.000 years in a cave. We felt really good about it too. Today, however, we’re not feeling as good about it, because the big heavy snowflakes of last night first turned into rain, and now this morning they turned into itty bitty fluffy snowflakes that definitely couldn’t cause another ice age anytime soon. So, as any sensible mammal, we decided we need to get rid of all that excess body fat and prepare for summer, in case it arrives. We’re going to the gym later tonight. Maybe. We’re definitely maybe going to the gym later tonight.

But that’s not what I was going to tell you about today. See, last night, after the pizza, Zelma and I went to Dani’s place for a party. And this wasn’t just any party. Dani was the benevolent hostess of a Me&I party. It’s like a Tupperware party, except instead of a saleswoman trying to sell a bunch of highly useful, practical and air tight containers, there’s a saleswoman trying to sell a bunch of very colorful, high quality and highly expensive clothes. Mostly baby clothes, in fact. As I’m actually neither pregnant, nor a mommy, I was mostly there as moral support. And Dani would get a free gift if enough people showed up.

There were actually some pretty nice clothes there. If I had a little baby boy I would definitely consider emptying my bank account for a shirt buying one of the many pieces that were on display. The saleswoman had some women’s clothes too, that she was very eager to sell. Dani bought a wonderful pink dress that looked awesome on her, but would have made me look like a sausage. How Dani can have given birth to an actual human being and still look awesome, while I look 10 months pregnant, I have no idea. I’m definitely going to the gym tonight. At least if it stops snowing.

But I didn’t just sit on my ass all night and look at clothes, this tower that I made in Adam’s room is actually the most constructive thing I’ve done all week.



Then Zelma destroyed it with the evil hedgehog. Zelma is good like that. I think she was bored since she doesn’t have any kids either and her bank account isn’t much better off than mine is. But we did see a nice pair of pants that we both wanted. I think it was because they had a nice wide strip of fabric over the tummy so you could have some pizza and still wouldn’t have to worry about looking pregnant. Come to think of it, maybe the pants were aimed at people who actually are pregnant… Huh.

Anyway, I had a great time and the night ended on a good note when Zelma almost ran over a kid on a bike while giving me a ride home. *

Meanwhile, In Finland