Damn Those Hyenas

Am I the only one who feels like there are too many Mondays in a week? It was touch and go there for a while last week, but I made it. I finished the essay on time. And my reward was a Bachelor’s degree in political science. I now officially have a degree and I am on my way towards a Master’s. I want to say “yay!” but I know how much work I have left and it doesn’t feel like ”yay!” at all.

At the moment I’m sitting in M’s apartment, trying to do homework, but I'm mostly just listening to his washing machine. As are probably all his neighbors. It spits water and fire and it sounds like he’s stuffed a couple of wild hyenas in there and they’re now battling it out for their life. And they’re probably eating my socks as well. I can’t wait to get my own quiet non-sock eating washing machine over here. I swear, I have two legs and two feet, but somehow one sock still goes missing from every pair. Damn those hyenas.

It’s been a busy weekend. Yesterday M’s parents came over and helped us put together this:




It looks deceptively simple. A couple of doors, a frame and a few shelves inside, how hard can it be? Seems pretty straight forward, right? You’re wrong! It took M and his dad hours of blood, sweat and tears to put that thing together. Luckily, my job was mostly just to make dinner and to give completely useless advice. But by the end of the day our bedroom was pretty much done, and all that’s needed now is some art on the walls. Now that feels like “yay!”

On Saturday M, Muschu and I went to visit my parents. When my Grandpa was still alive Muschu, my brother and I would make a gingerbread house together with him every year. It used to look something like this:




Last year Grandpa was too ill to make the house with us, so Muschu and I took it upon ourselves to help our little brother with the house. Turns out when Muschu and I are let loose on a gingerbread house, not even a 13-year old boy can stop us and we tend to go all Barbie on it. Last year’s gingerbread house, in all it’s pink glory, looked a little bit like this:




This year Grandpa is sadly not with us anymore, so on Saturday Muschu and I once again helped our little brother with this year’s gingerbread house. Turns out Barbie wasn’t enough. This year’s house looks like a My Little Pony chew it up and spit it out all pink and white and fluffy. I’m not sure our very macho teenage brother is all that happy with how it turned out, but he’s the one who ate all the green candies so he can just blame himself.

*

Damn Those Hyenas

43 hours, 26 minutes. (Not that I'm counting...)

Very quick update today. This essay is killing me. I probably shouldn’t have sold my brain for some candy bars and toe jam, I’m thinking that was a bad idea after all. I have 16 more pages to go and less than 44 hours to do it. If I don’t make it the world will collapse into itself in proper 2012 style. Or I’ll fail the class, I’m actually not sure which one, I’ve lost perspective completely. One of these days I’m going to realize that procrastination is a bad thing. It’s what Satan uses to drive people crazy.

Clearly that moment hasn’t come yet, as I am obviously procrastinating again. Just shoot me now. And wish me luck.

M – I know you’re reading this, and I’m sad to tell you this, but you’re not allowed to come home from work today, I need peace and quiet. Thanks.

*

43 hours, 26 minutes. (Not that I'm counting...)

U R Mr Gay

Happy birthday Muschu! Today my wonderful little sister will be 23 years old, officially making me ancient. Yesterday I baked a cake for her and gave her a kick ass present (telling her she’s adopted was not the present, that was an accident, the Super Mario Galaxy Wii game was the real present) and today I took her to the movies to see New Moon. M left to get his ass kicked for karate camp on Thursday so I was planning on spending the entire weekend working on a 25-page essay that is due on Wednesday. So far I’ve done a whole lot of celebrating Muschu’s birthday, a whole lot of procrastination and whole lot of nothing on the essay.

And my tooth is having its revenge. The dentist apparently left a tiny little sharp edge on the tooth that I didn’t notice while I was there. Now I can’t stop running my tongue over that insanely sharp edge and I keep hurting my tongue. Here’s to hoping I’ll hurt my tongue enough that I can’t eat and I’ll lose a little weight. (I had a LOT of popcorn at the movies today…) The tooth and I are officially tied at 1-1.

I’m really hoping tomorrow will be a better day for essay writing, it’s clearly not happening today. I swear, I’m even thinking about doing the dishes and cleaning the bathroom. But I’m at M’s place and technically I haven’t moved in here yet so even though I’ve contributed to the mess, by my reasoning, I shouldn’t have to clean. Yet. That makes sense, right?

A Johnny Depp movie just started on TV. Looks like I won’t have to do the dishes after all. That’s a relief. *

U R Mr Gay

Ziva vs The Tooth: 1 - 0

I’m back home, finally. I’m not going to eat for an entire week. That is of course a total lie, I’m already craving Chinese food. And with my brand new tooth, I’ll be able to chow down on whatever I want. See, I just got back from my favorite place on earth, the dentist’s, and she fixed my tooth! This is only a temporary fix, but as of right now my tooth is not a big gaping hole in my mouth. I’d call that a success.

I was already entertaining nightmarish thoughts about my future. I was going to end up alone and living with my 32 cats, cause no one could ever love a girl with a tooth from hell. M told me he still loved me and my tooth, but I think he was lying. I was going to end up as that old lady on the street that all the kids are afraid of. But not anymore!

One thing that sucks, though, is that I was already making plans on how to make good money on my teeth falling out of my mouth. When I was little my mom would pretend to be the tooth fairy and whenever I lost one of my baby teeth, she’d buy it from me. I figured with inflation, the new currency and everything else, my teeth would be worth a smallish fortune by now. And if they came out half a tooth a time, I could easily make some good money off of them. I have no idea what mom needs all the teeth for, but I can only assume she’s secretly into voodoo. *

Ziva vs The Tooth: 1 - 0

Friday the 13th: The Curse of the Tooth from Hell

I’m broken. M and I made the 2,5-hour drive to visit his parents on Friday. And now I’m hurting.

In the car on the way here my tooth broke. I was eating some candy (cause everyone knows you can’t drive for almost 3 hours without candy) and as I chewed on the candy I suddenly realized I was chewing on parts of my own tooth. Nothing makes candy taste bad like little pieces of tooth in it. I spit out the pieces of tooth and felt around a little with my tongue. Half of the tooth was gone and I was sitting there with all the insides of the tooth completely exposed. It didn’t feel great.

For some strange reason it feels like whenever we visit M’s parents all we do is eat all day long. Normally this wouldn’t bother me, but with half a tooth in my mouth, eating has proven a little bit tricky. I try to use the fork to stick the food as far into the other cheek as I possibly can, then I tilt my head to the side and try to make gravity help me keep the food away from the tooth from hell. I think M’s parents think I’ve lost my mind.

Add to that the fact that I apparently have a little bit of a relapse on my herniated disc and my back hurts as hell, which makes me walk around like Quasimodo, back hunched, head tilted to the side. I’m pretty sure the family wasn’t happy with the announcement that I’m moving in with M come January.

I have to cut this short now. Dinner is ready. Again. *

Friday the 13th: The Curse of the Tooth from Hell

"...and it had the consistency of roofing tar!"

Last night M and I visited some great friends of ours who happen to have the most adorable little son. Adam is almost a year old and chaos on two legs. No button, book or spatula is safe when Adam is loose. It’s with great joy and a certain amount of trepidation I’m looking forward to when I’ll be the one dealing with projectile vomit, poo diapers, functioning on 2 hours of sleep a night and playing peek-a-boo all day long. It’s my firm belief that all new parents revert to the level of a 5-year old mentally, to be able to cope with everything a baby brings, (I’m not saying that you, Adam’s wonderful and very adult parents, are at the level of a 5-year old, I’m just presenting a theory here.) I also think it’s fascinating how bodily functions suddenly become so very interesting. This is an actual (completely made up) conversation between two new mothers:

Mommy #1: “The baby’s poop was black for three whole weeks after the birth.”

Mommy #2“ Really? Ours was only black for the first week or so.”

Mommy #1: “Is that so? Fascinating!”

It sure is. *

"...and it had the consistency of roofing tar!"