Move yo butt, cat!
So I have another new cat. Yes, another one. I may or may not be the featured hoarder on Animal Cops next week. But anyway, it is scared. Very scared. So scared that it is a little boring, actually. Even my other cat, Kira, thinks so.
It came yesterday and we let it out of its travel bag. It scooted under the couch and has been there ever since. Kira came over and hissed at it. Hissed some more. It did not move and she decided it was no fun. Frankly, after roughly 24 hours of non-movement, I can sympathize. I could have bought a Beanie Baby, shoved it under the couch and gotten the same enjoyment out of it - minus having to worry that it may have died of shock and fear or something.
To tell you the truth, I'm not entirely sure that it hasn't. I mean, look at it:
It has been like this for hours. It does not move or even blink when I prod it. Is there any way to be sure that it is still alive? I certainly hope it is, it would be terrible value-for-money if it weren't. And we got it for free, so that tells you something.
In any case, if it is alive, it is by far the most boring pet I've ever had. Any tips on how I can get it to do tricks?
It came yesterday and we let it out of its travel bag. It scooted under the couch and has been there ever since. Kira came over and hissed at it. Hissed some more. It did not move and she decided it was no fun. Frankly, after roughly 24 hours of non-movement, I can sympathize. I could have bought a Beanie Baby, shoved it under the couch and gotten the same enjoyment out of it - minus having to worry that it may have died of shock and fear or something.
To tell you the truth, I'm not entirely sure that it hasn't. I mean, look at it:
It has been like this for hours. It does not move or even blink when I prod it. Is there any way to be sure that it is still alive? I certainly hope it is, it would be terrible value-for-money if it weren't. And we got it for free, so that tells you something.
In any case, if it is alive, it is by far the most boring pet I've ever had. Any tips on how I can get it to do tricks?
Furry boogers on 30 Mar 2009 by 
Wet Dog Weather
I look out the window today and I see rain. After four days of relatively nice, sunny weather - the kind I feel I am entitled to after six months of showing up everywhere wet, cold and distinctly frustrated - we are back to square one if square one were hell on earth. I curse my forefathers. Why couldn't they just have hopped aboard a ship and sailed for America (preferably Florida or maybe even California)?
If they had, I'd be getting my nails done at an upscale salon right now, complaining to the beautician that my tan is SO not hot and why does it always have to be so HUMID, my MAKEUP is TOTALLY melting off my face, you know? Like, right? Instead I am looking forward to having to leave the house in a few hours to go to work. It's a half-an-hour bike ride, which means I will arrive looking much like I swam there via Groningen's many stinky canals.
Two months ago, when the hubs and I were in Thailand, we were saying to each other: "We should just stay here. We'll wish we had three weeks into being back at home." And, like idiots, we left anyway. Something to do with pending bankruptcy or whatever - minor shit, really. I could have learned how to carve Buddhas from banana trees to sell by the side of the road. In fact, I could have Ebayed off my damn Blackberry and we'd have been rich over there.
To demonstrate: compare place A (random Thai mountain) to place B (current view from living room window).
Why does any sane, rational human being leave place A for place B? What could place B POSSIBLY offer that would out-do place A? Perhaps if it had full-time, hunky man-servants or something but then again as you can tell from the picture I already have one of those. Or maybe if it had Ben & Jerry's that made you lose weight or government-paid weekly French manicures but to my knowledge we are not that advanced a society just yet. So the only answer is that I am either completely insane or have a tendency towards self-masochism.
Help me
If they had, I'd be getting my nails done at an upscale salon right now, complaining to the beautician that my tan is SO not hot and why does it always have to be so HUMID, my MAKEUP is TOTALLY melting off my face, you know? Like, right? Instead I am looking forward to having to leave the house in a few hours to go to work. It's a half-an-hour bike ride, which means I will arrive looking much like I swam there via Groningen's many stinky canals.
Two months ago, when the hubs and I were in Thailand, we were saying to each other: "We should just stay here. We'll wish we had three weeks into being back at home." And, like idiots, we left anyway. Something to do with pending bankruptcy or whatever - minor shit, really. I could have learned how to carve Buddhas from banana trees to sell by the side of the road. In fact, I could have Ebayed off my damn Blackberry and we'd have been rich over there.
To demonstrate: compare place A (random Thai mountain) to place B (current view from living room window).
Why does any sane, rational human being leave place A for place B? What could place B POSSIBLY offer that would out-do place A? Perhaps if it had full-time, hunky man-servants or something but then again as you can tell from the picture I already have one of those. Or maybe if it had Ben & Jerry's that made you lose weight or government-paid weekly French manicures but to my knowledge we are not that advanced a society just yet. So the only answer is that I am either completely insane or have a tendency towards self-masochism.
Help me
MacGyver, baby!
And now the best news since November 8 2008: New Line Cinema has announced that they are going to be remaking the eighties tv-show MacGyver into a movie. I hereby declare my undying love for MacGyver and by extension, for New Line Cinema.
This news seriously has me reaching for a paper bag to breathe in, people. MacGyver was like, THE HOTTEST MAN ALIVE back when I was a teenager. I mean, the boys in my class were kind of stupid but MacGyver I was going to marry. I had entire scenarios worked out in my head where I would emigrate to where ever it was they were shooting that show, become Richard Dean Anderson's charming personal assistant and not only he, but every important member of the cast and crew would slowly but surely come to love that sweet girl from Holland.
One day, one of the actresses hired to guest-star alongside RDA in a kissing scene would step down at the last possible moment because her boyfriend didn't want her kissing another man even if it was just for a scene, and everyone would be in a panic thinking they wouldn't be able to wrap up the episode in time and the network executives would be seriously pissed off and threaten to cancel the entire show.
And so they would look at me. "Anna, you look kind of like her. Can you do it?" And I would say "You guys, I can't act!" But they would convince me, and as it would turn out I would be an awesome actress. And as he kissed me on the set RDA would think to himself, "Is there anything this woman cannot do?" (because as his personal assistant I would also be saving his ass from his own chaotic - but charming! - nature on a daily basis).
And then he would fall in love with me. And the entire cast and crew would love us as a couple and be happy for us. The end. Never mind the age difference. In fact, age difference? What age difference?
I was a weird kid, then. However, it must be said that were it not for my wonderful, sexay husband (I love you, honey!), I would probably to this day dream of seeing this scenario morph into being. Because:
I rest my case. And strongly encourage New Line to DO THIS. Pretty please? I promise to go see it every day for as long as it is playing, then buy the VHS, DVD, Blu-Ray and even de HD version if it comes out. And I will buy the OST. Please?
Now excuse me while I swoon.
This news seriously has me reaching for a paper bag to breathe in, people. MacGyver was like, THE HOTTEST MAN ALIVE back when I was a teenager. I mean, the boys in my class were kind of stupid but MacGyver I was going to marry. I had entire scenarios worked out in my head where I would emigrate to where ever it was they were shooting that show, become Richard Dean Anderson's charming personal assistant and not only he, but every important member of the cast and crew would slowly but surely come to love that sweet girl from Holland.
One day, one of the actresses hired to guest-star alongside RDA in a kissing scene would step down at the last possible moment because her boyfriend didn't want her kissing another man even if it was just for a scene, and everyone would be in a panic thinking they wouldn't be able to wrap up the episode in time and the network executives would be seriously pissed off and threaten to cancel the entire show.
And so they would look at me. "Anna, you look kind of like her. Can you do it?" And I would say "You guys, I can't act!" But they would convince me, and as it would turn out I would be an awesome actress. And as he kissed me on the set RDA would think to himself, "Is there anything this woman cannot do?" (because as his personal assistant I would also be saving his ass from his own chaotic - but charming! - nature on a daily basis).
And then he would fall in love with me. And the entire cast and crew would love us as a couple and be happy for us. The end. Never mind the age difference. In fact, age difference? What age difference?
I was a weird kid, then. However, it must be said that were it not for my wonderful, sexay husband (I love you, honey!), I would probably to this day dream of seeing this scenario morph into being. Because:
I rest my case. And strongly encourage New Line to DO THIS. Pretty please? I promise to go see it every day for as long as it is playing, then buy the VHS, DVD, Blu-Ray and even de HD version if it comes out. And I will buy the OST. Please?
Now excuse me while I swoon.
I think it's broken...
I have a new cat.
Oh yes I also finally got married two months ago and am now officially someone's missus. This is still very exciting and wonderful, but of no relevance to today's recount. Still, here are pictures:
So anyway, back to the cat.
It comes with three legs. This is unusual for cats, and I haven't decided if it is special or freaky. These words can sometimes denote the same thing but with a different approach, you know? It looks very freaky. Exhibit A:
But it also looks very cute. Exhibit B:
The poor girl lost her leg after a dislocated elbow left her with something called displasia, which basically means the elbow was stiffening up, growing excess bone and being a general pain in the ass. But we'd already said yes to adopting her before we knew the leg would have to come off.
So now she hogs my couch and hops around merrily. Or frustratedly, depending on whether she is being hindered by the loss of her leg or not. Her name is Kira. I think I'm going to go with "special".
Oh yes I also finally got married two months ago and am now officially someone's missus. This is still very exciting and wonderful, but of no relevance to today's recount. Still, here are pictures:
So anyway, back to the cat.
It comes with three legs. This is unusual for cats, and I haven't decided if it is special or freaky. These words can sometimes denote the same thing but with a different approach, you know? It looks very freaky. Exhibit A:
But it also looks very cute. Exhibit B:
The poor girl lost her leg after a dislocated elbow left her with something called displasia, which basically means the elbow was stiffening up, growing excess bone and being a general pain in the ass. But we'd already said yes to adopting her before we knew the leg would have to come off.
So now she hogs my couch and hops around merrily. Or frustratedly, depending on whether she is being hindered by the loss of her leg or not. Her name is Kira. I think I'm going to go with "special".
Somebody mail me some candy!
I'm all better!
(...)
Nobody? Not even one single cheer? The disappointment, it is agonizing. Anyway, after four more days of choking on saliva, snot and various other substances that shall forever more remain unidentified, I can now say that I am back in the land of the healthy. Unfortunately not for long, my tonsils will be removed two weeks from today. It requires an overnight stay in the hospital and copious amounts of morphine, or so I am told. I am still debating whether to look forward to it or not.
In other news, I am unsure as to how sickeningly obvious I have made it so far that I am getting married. Just to be sure, let me pile it on some more. The boyfriend is going suit shopping this afternoon with his mom, aka my mums-in-law. The excitement is almost too much here, with my inner control-freak having nightmares about finding him at the altar dressed in something like this:
and my inner bride-to-be feeling all warm and gushy that today is the day he is going to buy the suit that he is going to wear the day that he will promise to be my man till death do us part and it is JUST SO BEAUTIFUL. SOB. Let me tell you, this whole thing is an emotional roller coaster. I may have to pop some Xanax on our actual wedding day or I might not make it through.
I also practiced my bridal make-up again today, because I am going to do it myself. I can't show you a picture because the boyfriend will see it too. Therefore there is no point whatsoever in me telling you this but I am still busy piling it on. I AM GETTING MARRIED, BITCHES.
I tease. I do really love you, my dearest (imaginary) readers. In fact, I love you so much, that I went to see a lecture on the American elections yesterday night because so many of you are Americans and talk about the elections on your blogs a lot these days, and I wanted to have something more valuable to say than "SARAH SUCKS!!!1!. So now I am all enlightened and I understand (and love!) you even better (more!).
Lastly, I wish you all a great Halloween. I don't get to celebrate because I am not an American, but don't let that stop you from having a good time. Even though I don't get to dress up or eat apeloads of candy. Really, go out and have fun. I'll be okay. I don't mind. I'll just sit here, watch tv (even though there is nothing on) and chew on a piece of cucumber until you get back from the party.
(...)
Nobody? Not even one single cheer? The disappointment, it is agonizing. Anyway, after four more days of choking on saliva, snot and various other substances that shall forever more remain unidentified, I can now say that I am back in the land of the healthy. Unfortunately not for long, my tonsils will be removed two weeks from today. It requires an overnight stay in the hospital and copious amounts of morphine, or so I am told. I am still debating whether to look forward to it or not.
In other news, I am unsure as to how sickeningly obvious I have made it so far that I am getting married. Just to be sure, let me pile it on some more. The boyfriend is going suit shopping this afternoon with his mom, aka my mums-in-law. The excitement is almost too much here, with my inner control-freak having nightmares about finding him at the altar dressed in something like this:
and my inner bride-to-be feeling all warm and gushy that today is the day he is going to buy the suit that he is going to wear the day that he will promise to be my man till death do us part and it is JUST SO BEAUTIFUL. SOB. Let me tell you, this whole thing is an emotional roller coaster. I may have to pop some Xanax on our actual wedding day or I might not make it through.
I also practiced my bridal make-up again today, because I am going to do it myself. I can't show you a picture because the boyfriend will see it too. Therefore there is no point whatsoever in me telling you this but I am still busy piling it on. I AM GETTING MARRIED, BITCHES.
I tease. I do really love you, my dearest (imaginary) readers. In fact, I love you so much, that I went to see a lecture on the American elections yesterday night because so many of you are Americans and talk about the elections on your blogs a lot these days, and I wanted to have something more valuable to say than "SARAH SUCKS!!!1!. So now I am all enlightened and I understand (and love!) you even better (more!).
Lastly, I wish you all a great Halloween. I don't get to celebrate because I am not an American, but don't let that stop you from having a good time. Even though I don't get to dress up or eat apeloads of candy. Really, go out and have fun. I'll be okay. I don't mind. I'll just sit here, watch tv (even though there is nothing on) and chew on a piece of cucumber until you get back from the party.
Marriage License Day
Yesterday was the day we went to pick up our marriage license. In Holland, you aren't officially engaged until you have this license, so in a way we got engaged yesterday. I don't know how many of you are married, but what happens is before you are allowed to wed you have to register your plans to do so with the state. In most cases this consists of no more than stepping into city hall on a rainy Monday morning and talking to an extremely grumpy civil servant who spends 10 minutes printing out your birth certificate and some other documents that prove you exist, followed by a nice piece of paper that says you can go ahead and seek your wedded bliss. Which, by the ring on her finger and the look on her face, you gather she never found.
Can you imagine how immensely irritating it must be to spend your days printing out these documents for mushy couples who are all touchy-feely and kissy-kissy right in your face? I did really feel for her. Although it didn't stop me from being all touchy-feely and kissy-kissy. Back when I was a bitter hag I loathed happy couples, so now I am doing everything I can to be the happiest couple in front of bitter people. There is an equilibrium there that must be maintained, you see?
Anyway, we were in and out in 10 minutes and had planned to spend the rest of the day in the city doing fun stuff: have a gorgeous chai tea, go to the movies, have lunch, go to the museum, go to dinner, go dancing. Unfortunately, we only got as far lunch. By then my third severe throat infection in 8 months had struck with full force and I was a walking furnace, sweating off my pretty make-up and looking like a diseased dog overall. I was in bed by 3 pm and out of bed again, ready to go see the doctor, by 5. Boyfriend, always so adapt at hiding his disappointment, joked that I was looking exactly like the woman he'd always dreamed of marrying. Which is to say, like this:
That's right. That's what I ended up looking like the day we got engaged. Picture that, and add the foulest of foul breaths, the constant saving up of saliva and then spitting on the street and the feel of cold sweat drenching my clothes. Who wouldn't marry me?
So now I am in bed, savoring the thought that at the very least we got to piss off the marriage license lady. The infection got so bad that I got prescribed antibiotics again. Thankfully, in a couple of weeks I'll have my tonsils removed - a shitty procedure for adults, but at least I'll be a blushing bride rather than a drooling bride come our big day. Until then, the boyfriend is proving that he's totally got the part about "in sickness and in health" down, which I will shamelessly abuse until I feel better. Now, what's keeping my damn tea?
Can you imagine how immensely irritating it must be to spend your days printing out these documents for mushy couples who are all touchy-feely and kissy-kissy right in your face? I did really feel for her. Although it didn't stop me from being all touchy-feely and kissy-kissy. Back when I was a bitter hag I loathed happy couples, so now I am doing everything I can to be the happiest couple in front of bitter people. There is an equilibrium there that must be maintained, you see?
Anyway, we were in and out in 10 minutes and had planned to spend the rest of the day in the city doing fun stuff: have a gorgeous chai tea, go to the movies, have lunch, go to the museum, go to dinner, go dancing. Unfortunately, we only got as far lunch. By then my third severe throat infection in 8 months had struck with full force and I was a walking furnace, sweating off my pretty make-up and looking like a diseased dog overall. I was in bed by 3 pm and out of bed again, ready to go see the doctor, by 5. Boyfriend, always so adapt at hiding his disappointment, joked that I was looking exactly like the woman he'd always dreamed of marrying. Which is to say, like this:
That's right. That's what I ended up looking like the day we got engaged. Picture that, and add the foulest of foul breaths, the constant saving up of saliva and then spitting on the street and the feel of cold sweat drenching my clothes. Who wouldn't marry me?
So now I am in bed, savoring the thought that at the very least we got to piss off the marriage license lady. The infection got so bad that I got prescribed antibiotics again. Thankfully, in a couple of weeks I'll have my tonsils removed - a shitty procedure for adults, but at least I'll be a blushing bride rather than a drooling bride come our big day. Until then, the boyfriend is proving that he's totally got the part about "in sickness and in health" down, which I will shamelessly abuse until I feel better. Now, what's keeping my damn tea?
I ran the 4 Mile and all I got you was this lousy post
I try to be sort of athletic these days, at least to the point where I keep my butt from expanding over the edges of the seat of my swivel chair. I find this is a good measurement of the difference between "oh my God, put away the Twinkies!" and "you're good, have another cheese sandwich", you know? So, when a couple of months ago my sports-addict coworker started enlisting people to run the city's annual 4 Mile run as a company team, I figured that would be a great incentive to actually start working out and joined.
Time, of course, plays tricks on you whenever you do something stupid like enlist for activities for which you should prepare. Thankfully, these days I have a better half to remind me of such things. And so, weeks ago, when I was still living happily in the comfort of thinking the run was years away, he said to me: "Don't you think you ought to start preparing? You do want to set a good time, right?" Don't worry, I threw a huge hissy fit over this wise-ass comment. Still, he was right, and so IT BEGAN.
Yes, I trained for it. Four times a week, slowly building up from 5 kilometer runs to 6.4 (which is 4 miles) kilometer runs. I even got one of those totally cool Nike sports bands as a gift from my boyfriend, who apparently realized I was never going to actually work out regularly if he didn't somehow guilt me into it. It worked!
Last Sunday was the day of the run. For those not in the know, the 4 Mile is an annual run held every second Sunday in October. It is a big event, in which three categories of runners participate: competitors, company teams and individual amateurs. Pretty much every company in the city and far beyond sends a team, because roughly 100.000 people come to watch it and it makes for great advertising. Usually if you have a job in the city, you can run it for your company. The competitors come from all over the world, although I'm not sure why they bother anymore because the same damn Kenyan wins it every year. He runs it in 17 freaking minutes.
Me, on the other hand, I ran it in 35 minutes and 53 seconds. What can I say? Next year I'll beat the Kenyan for sure.
Now I know you all want to see a picture of me being an elegant, light-footed athlete, right? Of course you do.
In case you're wondering why I looked like I was about to throw up: that's because I was about to throw up.
Time, of course, plays tricks on you whenever you do something stupid like enlist for activities for which you should prepare. Thankfully, these days I have a better half to remind me of such things. And so, weeks ago, when I was still living happily in the comfort of thinking the run was years away, he said to me: "Don't you think you ought to start preparing? You do want to set a good time, right?" Don't worry, I threw a huge hissy fit over this wise-ass comment. Still, he was right, and so IT BEGAN.
Yes, I trained for it. Four times a week, slowly building up from 5 kilometer runs to 6.4 (which is 4 miles) kilometer runs. I even got one of those totally cool Nike sports bands as a gift from my boyfriend, who apparently realized I was never going to actually work out regularly if he didn't somehow guilt me into it. It worked!
Last Sunday was the day of the run. For those not in the know, the 4 Mile is an annual run held every second Sunday in October. It is a big event, in which three categories of runners participate: competitors, company teams and individual amateurs. Pretty much every company in the city and far beyond sends a team, because roughly 100.000 people come to watch it and it makes for great advertising. Usually if you have a job in the city, you can run it for your company. The competitors come from all over the world, although I'm not sure why they bother anymore because the same damn Kenyan wins it every year. He runs it in 17 freaking minutes.
Me, on the other hand, I ran it in 35 minutes and 53 seconds. What can I say? Next year I'll beat the Kenyan for sure.
Now I know you all want to see a picture of me being an elegant, light-footed athlete, right? Of course you do.
In case you're wondering why I looked like I was about to throw up: that's because I was about to throw up.
No mo towels on the flo
Sometimes I am an unreasonable bitch. And while I like to pretend that 'sometimes' means once a month, when I have a valid excuse, it's really closer to once a week. At least. It's triggered by things like a towel on the floor, dirty dishes in the sink, toothpaste left to dry up on the mirror... all of which I have caused, and am being called on by my man. I'm a pig, and it bugs me that he bugs me about it.
It's the one thing in our relationship that leads to frequent arguments. It feels unnatural to be hounded about these thing by a guy. Didn't Cosmo use to teach me that it's men who clutter the house? Could Cosmo be wrong? Apparently so, 'cause I live with Mary frickin Poppins - only with bigger biceps. I get nervous about it, too. Did I leave my coat on the couch again when I came in? Are there still bits of food clogging the kitchen sink? Did I take the laundry out of the washer yet? It pisses me off that he can't be messy like God intended. That way, we could be messy together, and live lazily ever after amidst our piled-up junk. Instead, I have to watch where I put stuff and I have to clean and wash and polish shit.
Sometimes I miss my student dorm, which was a room in a townhouse so old, rotten and alltogether decrepit that I could be as disgusting as I wanted to. It was perfectly legitimate for me to leave my food-caked plates on the counter for 2 weeks, because what little mould they collected hardly stood out against the mushroom forest growing from the ceiling.
There are moments when the thought crosses my mind that perhaps I'm just no good at living together with another human being. I've never been very good at being considerate towards others, as I am what would euphemistically be called an 'einzelganger', otherwise known as a bitter, selfish hag. Then I realise that if I hadn't moved in with this man I never would have had a dishwasher, so it's all worth it in the end. Even if I can't leave trails of breadcrumbs all over the house while eating a sandwich out of my hands.
And of course, I wouldn't miss moments like the one I'm having right here. Boyfriend, avid fan of all things anime, was so tired from clubbing last night that he fell asleep beside me right in the middle of an episode of Ueki's Law. It's 9:30 pm, and he's done for. I'll have to wake him up at some point, because he's hogging all the blankets and he's still in his clothes, but I'm going to let him snore away for a while. Just to sit here and watch him breathe is worth infinitely more to me than 2 months worth of unwashed underwear on the floor. And if we ever take the plunge, that's what I'm putting in my vows.
It's the one thing in our relationship that leads to frequent arguments. It feels unnatural to be hounded about these thing by a guy. Didn't Cosmo use to teach me that it's men who clutter the house? Could Cosmo be wrong? Apparently so, 'cause I live with Mary frickin Poppins - only with bigger biceps. I get nervous about it, too. Did I leave my coat on the couch again when I came in? Are there still bits of food clogging the kitchen sink? Did I take the laundry out of the washer yet? It pisses me off that he can't be messy like God intended. That way, we could be messy together, and live lazily ever after amidst our piled-up junk. Instead, I have to watch where I put stuff and I have to clean and wash and polish shit.
Sometimes I miss my student dorm, which was a room in a townhouse so old, rotten and alltogether decrepit that I could be as disgusting as I wanted to. It was perfectly legitimate for me to leave my food-caked plates on the counter for 2 weeks, because what little mould they collected hardly stood out against the mushroom forest growing from the ceiling.
There are moments when the thought crosses my mind that perhaps I'm just no good at living together with another human being. I've never been very good at being considerate towards others, as I am what would euphemistically be called an 'einzelganger', otherwise known as a bitter, selfish hag. Then I realise that if I hadn't moved in with this man I never would have had a dishwasher, so it's all worth it in the end. Even if I can't leave trails of breadcrumbs all over the house while eating a sandwich out of my hands.
And of course, I wouldn't miss moments like the one I'm having right here. Boyfriend, avid fan of all things anime, was so tired from clubbing last night that he fell asleep beside me right in the middle of an episode of Ueki's Law. It's 9:30 pm, and he's done for. I'll have to wake him up at some point, because he's hogging all the blankets and he's still in his clothes, but I'm going to let him snore away for a while. Just to sit here and watch him breathe is worth infinitely more to me than 2 months worth of unwashed underwear on the floor. And if we ever take the plunge, that's what I'm putting in my vows.
"It's not a hemorrhoid, I swear!"
This week it's back to school for me. I like to pretend that people other than my parents care about that sort of thing, that's why I'm telling you. I am an English Lit student now, don't you know, so between now and 3 weeks expect me to develop a huge boner for language purism, grammar snobism and spelling fascism. Also, expect me to clog this blog with emo poetry and abstract short stories. I'm just warning you.
In other news, Dut is fine. Apparently no major organs were damaged in last weekend's unfortunate accident and she isn't slowly bleeding to death on the inside like I feared. She's still angry with me, as evidenced by the obvious glare she shot me when I took this picture.
My house smells like hemorrhoid creme right now. The reason for that is less embarrassing than you'd think: boyfriend got a new tattoo last week and he needs to rub ointment on it every five minutes to keep it from drying up and falling off. Buying hemorrhoid creme is hilariously awkward. Everytime boyfriend has to go out and buy a family-size jar he can't help but ask for it and then add "IT'S FOR MY TATTOO, YOU SEE, TO KEEP IT FROM DRYING. A TATTOO. NOT A GIGANTIC HEMORRHOID, I SWEAR". And then the clerk looks at him funny and I just about piss my pants.
Okay, time for cool things. If you have a problem downloading music illegally (i.e. if you're over 30), there's a pretty good, cheap solution available through MP3Sparks. You can download entire albums there for $2 - $3, and they have most popular artists available. You won't have the case to go with it, but you also won't have to shell out $20 to find out if Fergie's solo-album blows as hard as the look-at-me-being-all-naked-and-pouty-picture on the cover indicates (further evidence: the first song is called "Fergialicious").
In closing, I'm awfully lonely with only four affiliates, so if any of you actually made it to this paragraph then you have proven yourself worthy as one and should state your interest in the comments. There's one but: if your site has obvious Google ads or other forms of beggary then I must preserve my e-karma and pre-emptively turn you down.
In other news, Dut is fine. Apparently no major organs were damaged in last weekend's unfortunate accident and she isn't slowly bleeding to death on the inside like I feared. She's still angry with me, as evidenced by the obvious glare she shot me when I took this picture.
My house smells like hemorrhoid creme right now. The reason for that is less embarrassing than you'd think: boyfriend got a new tattoo last week and he needs to rub ointment on it every five minutes to keep it from drying up and falling off. Buying hemorrhoid creme is hilariously awkward. Everytime boyfriend has to go out and buy a family-size jar he can't help but ask for it and then add "IT'S FOR MY TATTOO, YOU SEE, TO KEEP IT FROM DRYING. A TATTOO. NOT A GIGANTIC HEMORRHOID, I SWEAR". And then the clerk looks at him funny and I just about piss my pants.
Okay, time for cool things. If you have a problem downloading music illegally (i.e. if you're over 30), there's a pretty good, cheap solution available through MP3Sparks. You can download entire albums there for $2 - $3, and they have most popular artists available. You won't have the case to go with it, but you also won't have to shell out $20 to find out if Fergie's solo-album blows as hard as the look-at-me-being-all-naked-and-pouty-picture on the cover indicates (further evidence: the first song is called "Fergialicious").
In closing, I'm awfully lonely with only four affiliates, so if any of you actually made it to this paragraph then you have proven yourself worthy as one and should state your interest in the comments. There's one but: if your site has obvious Google ads or other forms of beggary then I must preserve my e-karma and pre-emptively turn you down.
Broken furball
I broke my Guinea pig today. Well, almost did, she's good as new now only she makes a funny sound when breathing. See, what happened was, I was holding her up for a good cuddle and my face up close nearly gave her a heartattack, so she wriggled free and jumped back in to her cage. From a foot up. when she hit the floor she gave a loud squeal and kind of limped around for a little bit, and then she started making that sound. Like a weak, clogged-up engine.
Her name is Dut, which is African for 'comfort', and that is what that little furry goober is to me, you know? So I feel bad to have damaged her, even if everything seems alright now. You never know for sure with guinea pigs, they're basically big sacks of bones with lots of hair. She's happily hopping around now, eating grass like there's no tomorrow and fighting her guinea pig friend for dandelion leafs. But she's making that sound. It's not wheezing, it's more like... gurgling. I hope its something she does on purpose to guilt me into feeding her lots of veggies tonight.
Her friend, Isa, keeps glaring at me and I get none of her usual happy squeeks when I put food in the bowl. Like she's telling me, "I know what you did, I saw it all, bitch". I'm almost scared to check on them now, there's a lot of hate radiating from that cage at the moment. If Dut still does that burble tomorrow I'll have to take her to the vet's, and I'll have to tell him too that I broke her. So in the mean time I'll try and bribe her into breathing normally again by giving her and Isa lots of rodent candy. If that doesn't work, tune into Animal Police sometime next week and you'll probably see my blurred face passing by.
Her name is Dut, which is African for 'comfort', and that is what that little furry goober is to me, you know? So I feel bad to have damaged her, even if everything seems alright now. You never know for sure with guinea pigs, they're basically big sacks of bones with lots of hair. She's happily hopping around now, eating grass like there's no tomorrow and fighting her guinea pig friend for dandelion leafs. But she's making that sound. It's not wheezing, it's more like... gurgling. I hope its something she does on purpose to guilt me into feeding her lots of veggies tonight.
Her friend, Isa, keeps glaring at me and I get none of her usual happy squeeks when I put food in the bowl. Like she's telling me, "I know what you did, I saw it all, bitch". I'm almost scared to check on them now, there's a lot of hate radiating from that cage at the moment. If Dut still does that burble tomorrow I'll have to take her to the vet's, and I'll have to tell him too that I broke her. So in the mean time I'll try and bribe her into breathing normally again by giving her and Isa lots of rodent candy. If that doesn't work, tune into Animal Police sometime next week and you'll probably see my blurred face passing by.
Move it already!
Finally, after literally months of barely touching my computer at all, I am able to sit on my (now unfortunately slightly bigger) butt again and type up some nonsense for the purpose of giving you, my mostly imaginary readers, a story you can easily comment on so that I must then comment on your latest post, too. God, how I have missed the inner workings of the blogosphere (is it cool to use that word, yet?). I wish I could boast about how my absence on the internets was explained by a sudden surge in social activity but the sad truth is that it is in fact the result of having had NO LIFE AT ALL for quite some time. However, I have an excuse. That was because I was up to my ears in saw-dust, paint stains and silicon glue and its very hard to type when your fingers are stuck together with a mixture of the three.
You see, my boyfriend and I are really poor because he has to support my lazy student ass with just his income (and my callcenter salary, which is a few bucks short of negative if you count travel time). But we insisted that since we're almost grown now we should buy a house. Which we did. A cheap one, which was cheap because it basically had nothing; no floor, no kitchen, no paint on the wall. We were all like: oh cool, we'll fix it up and make it all perfect! We won't have to deal with someone else's horrible taste, the house will be everything we want it to be! It'll be like Extreme Make-over, but better because our concrete is already dry! How awesome! So we made a bid on it and prayed for three long months that we would get a mortgage. We did, by the skin of our teeth. Then we got the key. Then it all started.
That's what the house looked like about 2 months ago. Right now it's ready to live in. We have hot water, a semi-finished kitchen and I don't get dressed from a garbage bag full of clothes anymore, although they're all still really wrinkly so I've basically had to buy lots of new ones because I have no idea which cardboard box the iron is in (I didn't look all that hard).
And that's what I've been doing. Futzing around with Ikea manuals. Convincing my boyfriend that it is okay to have super gay wallpaper in the bedroom. Learning how to keep dad and dad-in-law out of each other's business when they're both helping out. Wearing the same pair of jeans for two weeks straight because I didn't want to get paint in any others. Eating take-out every day because we were too cheap to have the kitchen installed, instead making our families do it for us. Not going to the gym because moving furniture should count as excercise. It's been great fun.
You see, my boyfriend and I are really poor because he has to support my lazy student ass with just his income (and my callcenter salary, which is a few bucks short of negative if you count travel time). But we insisted that since we're almost grown now we should buy a house. Which we did. A cheap one, which was cheap because it basically had nothing; no floor, no kitchen, no paint on the wall. We were all like: oh cool, we'll fix it up and make it all perfect! We won't have to deal with someone else's horrible taste, the house will be everything we want it to be! It'll be like Extreme Make-over, but better because our concrete is already dry! How awesome! So we made a bid on it and prayed for three long months that we would get a mortgage. We did, by the skin of our teeth. Then we got the key. Then it all started.
That's what the house looked like about 2 months ago. Right now it's ready to live in. We have hot water, a semi-finished kitchen and I don't get dressed from a garbage bag full of clothes anymore, although they're all still really wrinkly so I've basically had to buy lots of new ones because I have no idea which cardboard box the iron is in (I didn't look all that hard).
And that's what I've been doing. Futzing around with Ikea manuals. Convincing my boyfriend that it is okay to have super gay wallpaper in the bedroom. Learning how to keep dad and dad-in-law out of each other's business when they're both helping out. Wearing the same pair of jeans for two weeks straight because I didn't want to get paint in any others. Eating take-out every day because we were too cheap to have the kitchen installed, instead making our families do it for us. Not going to the gym because moving furniture should count as excercise. It's been great fun.
Hootch histories
Good news, dearies! For you or for me, the verdict's not in yet - but good news nonetheless. It occurred to me that I might as well start writing in the blog while I finish the site because the longer I wait, the more embarrassing episodes of mine you miss out on. Again, I'm not sure whose loss that would be exactly but I'm the kind of person that likes to share, brah. So I am hereby subjecting you to a retelling of my weekend of the too-much-information-variety. Aren't you thrilled?
Friday night was a night like any other, except for the fact that I went out. Usually the couch and tv have an inescapable hold on me, but last Friday I managed to rise beyond my reclusive tendencies and joined my boyfriend for a night on the town with some of our ex-coworkers from when we worked at ABN Amro together.
The lot of us, we are still true to the jazzy bar where we used to spend most every Friday afternoon crying happy tears that the weekend, against all expectations, had come after all. The bank canned us all months ago, and we certainly don't hang out there every week anymore, but every now and then we get together and get really stinkin pissed. Good times.
This was also the plan last Friday. Dress up, make an entrance, throw down a wad of bills and as the evening progresses, sink into a complicated and rather pointless discussion about the meaning of life with a random ex-colleague. The more you drink, the more complicated the discussion gets. In the morning, wake up to the knowedge that nothing you said after drink number 4 made any sense at all.
I certainly started out on the right foot, positioned in between a now stock-broker with philosophic tendencies on the one hand and his friendly, soft-mannered girlfriend on the other. This is by definition a perfect set-up: when the meaning of life begins to completely escape me all I have to do is turn my head and talk about washing detergent for a bit while trying to think of another very profound insight.
Perhaps I broke my brain trying to sound smart while under the influence of at least half a dozen rosés. Or something. Either way, around midnight things got blurry and cloudy and I went flying off my chair. Worried faces all around as I crawled around trying to find my sanity as if it were a contact. It was, unfortunately, nowhere to be found. Praying to the porcelain throne didn't do me any good either, and after half an hour of me stumbling around the joint like a spazzed-out druggy, boyfriend and stock-broker decided enough was enough. They hauled my unstable ass a cab, which I miraculously managed not to puke all over.
Highlights of this lovely night on the town include mumbling "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry" to various strangers. In English. Me being Dutch. Also, lying on the street outside the bar flapping my arms and legs about as if trying to make snow-angels in terra firma. And of course, announcing to the cabby that I might have to hurl.
Feel free to comment detailing your own embarrassing alcohol-related anecdotes, because I could sure as hell use some fun at someone else's expense. In the meantime, seeing as how I live with the person who accompanied me home, I won't be forgetting about these pie-eyed antics of mine any time soon...
Friday night was a night like any other, except for the fact that I went out. Usually the couch and tv have an inescapable hold on me, but last Friday I managed to rise beyond my reclusive tendencies and joined my boyfriend for a night on the town with some of our ex-coworkers from when we worked at ABN Amro together.
The lot of us, we are still true to the jazzy bar where we used to spend most every Friday afternoon crying happy tears that the weekend, against all expectations, had come after all. The bank canned us all months ago, and we certainly don't hang out there every week anymore, but every now and then we get together and get really stinkin pissed. Good times.
This was also the plan last Friday. Dress up, make an entrance, throw down a wad of bills and as the evening progresses, sink into a complicated and rather pointless discussion about the meaning of life with a random ex-colleague. The more you drink, the more complicated the discussion gets. In the morning, wake up to the knowedge that nothing you said after drink number 4 made any sense at all.
I certainly started out on the right foot, positioned in between a now stock-broker with philosophic tendencies on the one hand and his friendly, soft-mannered girlfriend on the other. This is by definition a perfect set-up: when the meaning of life begins to completely escape me all I have to do is turn my head and talk about washing detergent for a bit while trying to think of another very profound insight.
Perhaps I broke my brain trying to sound smart while under the influence of at least half a dozen rosés. Or something. Either way, around midnight things got blurry and cloudy and I went flying off my chair. Worried faces all around as I crawled around trying to find my sanity as if it were a contact. It was, unfortunately, nowhere to be found. Praying to the porcelain throne didn't do me any good either, and after half an hour of me stumbling around the joint like a spazzed-out druggy, boyfriend and stock-broker decided enough was enough. They hauled my unstable ass a cab, which I miraculously managed not to puke all over.
Highlights of this lovely night on the town include mumbling "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry" to various strangers. In English. Me being Dutch. Also, lying on the street outside the bar flapping my arms and legs about as if trying to make snow-angels in terra firma. And of course, announcing to the cabby that I might have to hurl.
Feel free to comment detailing your own embarrassing alcohol-related anecdotes, because I could sure as hell use some fun at someone else's expense. In the meantime, seeing as how I live with the person who accompanied me home, I won't be forgetting about these pie-eyed antics of mine any time soon...
Welcome!
Welcome! This is the first official entry posted to the Anneloes.Net, and those of you who have been invited to look at the beta version are welcome to leave any criticisms, harsh or otherwise, as comments to this post.