Just an observation

My belief is that leggings are not called pants because they're not pants and should therefor not be used as such.

I'm sorry people, but I can't take this assault on my eyes any longer and I don't care if your leggings are printed to look like denim, the fact is they are not and it looks horrible when you pair these non pants with crop tops or really any garment that does not cover your ass and crotch area.

So yeah.
Just wanted to clear that up.
Peace.

The bald and the beautiful*

Ah, the weekend has passed, the orangeness patchily subsided and once again I find myself on the couch, waiting for the week to begin...
And while waiting, indulging in a little "Days of our lives"-action.

The love/hate affair I have with daytime soap operas is not new but seems to come and go in waves, forever ebbing and flowing, pulling me in and releasing me from it's hypnotizing and possibly incestuous embrace.

At times (not all that surprisingly these times often coincide with the times of paid employment) I have not the slightest hint of interest for them, scoffing at the outlandish intrigues at hand and rolling my eyes while changing the channel and letting out a patronizing "puhleeze" under my breath.

And then there are other times, the less productive (and much more recent) times spent on the couch, where the windowless and apparently time warped existence of the Brady family casts me under it's spell and has it's way with me.
Then usually I have a little nap.

I do realize that I am but one pregnancy away from waving my hand in my child's face while yelling "Be quiet Lula-Mae, mama's watching her stories!!"
And as horrifying as that may seem, at least I'm not married to the half brother of my daughter.
At least not that I know of.


*This is what my fourth grade English skills lead me to believe was the title of that famous soap opera. It made sense to me at the time, but then again, so did over sized hypercolour t-shirts.

It is I, the Oompa loompa

Dear readers,

The person writing this is not the Josefine you know and are so very fond of, but a slightly more Hollywoodized and much more orange version of her.

Yes people.
I've done it.
I've had a spray tan.

Now, before you avert your eyes in disgust and mime sticking your fingers down your throat contemplating my vanity, I will say in my defence that this was a first (and quite possibly a last), and that it was done as a favour to a friend who's learning how to, ehr, spray tan people.

It should be stated that with the exception of my rather thick and very dark eyebrows and my dire need for some serious IPL, I do display the stereotypical traits of the Scandinavian. My hair is dark blond (or, roughly and literally translated from Swedish "rat coloured"), my eyes are blue/green and my complexion is very very very fair. With a sort of pinkish tint to it.
An unflattering tint, and one that despite years of trying to condition my skin into thinking otherwise, does not tan well.
Or at all.

So when I got a call yesterday asking me if I would be at all interested in having somebody practising spray tanning technique on my pale and very unready for bathing suit season body, I of course said yes.
I could picture it in my mind; me on the beach, all tan and glowing and somehow through a diet consisting only of wine chocolate and cheese, seem to have lost 5 kilos.
It was glorious.
And, as I believe I disclosed, a figment of my imagination.

In reality it turns out that Scandinavian complexion + spray tan = a look most recently sported by Magda, Cameron Diaz's kooky landlady in "There's something about Mary".
Or in the loving words of fiancé as he walked in the door:
"Wow. It makes you look... older

Yeah.
On the bright side, I won't be made fun of at work tomorrow.


You know, cause I'm unemployed.


The end.

There's a mucus party in my head and you're invited

Oh how glorious it is to wake up only to realize that your body has betrayed you and decided your skull should like totally host some kind of phlegm themed festival. Which then, in the way festivals do, escalates to the point where it's completely out of control and the phlegm has nowhere else to go but out my nose, and from the feel of it, soon out my eyes and ears.

It's also a beautiful feeling when this betrayal of the flesh coincides with the annual coming of spring and the glory of pollen.
Which for me means allergies.
Which, you guessed it, means phlegmfest '09 is one gift that will just keep on giving.
Oh joy of joys.

I feel like somebody has implanted one of those instant towels in my head and then left the water tap on and it just keeps expanding and it's not stopping and my eyes are bulging out from the pressure and I can't hear anything cause all the sounds are muffled and OH MY GOD, MOMMY JUST PLEASE MAKE IT STOP!!!!!!

My eyes are so itchy and my nose is all raw and irritated and whenever I walk past the mirror I wonder who put that poster against domestic violence up in my apartment.
Not cool.

So now, without further due, I will go drug myself into a coma and hopefully wake up looking a little less like I'm dating Chris Brown.

Coffee, of all things I thought I could trust you...

No one drinks drip coffee in Australia it seems. It's all posh espresso machines and the cleverly named nespresso machines and stuff.
Which is fine. I love coffee and that love is of the kind that does not discriminate.
However, I have noticed that drinking a pot of espresso doesn't seem to affect me very much, and I can easily have more coffee during the day with no other side effects than my urine smelling suspiciously like a latte (too much information? I'm sorry, I just find it quite interesting how that happens... Maybe I should have my kidneys checked? I've never heard anyone else having this happen to them, but then again maybe most people don't find it necessary to fill people in on what their urine smells like. Unless they've had asparagus recently, which seems to be an acceptable excuse for talking about what you did on your visit to the lavatory).
Nothing else. No twitchiness, no extra energy, no feeling nauseous. Nothing.

What's up with that? I thought to myself.

And I'll tell you what's up:

Apparently drip coffee has more caffeine than espresso, for the simple reason that the water spends a lot more time hanging out with the coffee grind in a drip coffee maker than in an espresso machine.

I am so confused right now.
I mean it makes sense, the way most things do once you have them explained to you, and yet I feel as if I have been deceived.
How is it I didn't know this?
I feel ashamed.
I feel like if coffee was a person I would look at it with a hurt and puzzled look on my face and say something like "It's like I don't even know you anymore".
That's what it feels like.

On children and not having them. At the moment.

A while ago I read an article in the paper, stating that couples without children are generally happier and enjoy way better mental health than couples who have procreated.

Reading this article, all I could think was: "Well, duh.."

Despite my mother assuring me that I was a very good child, and a very good teenager, I can remember quite a few instances of being a complete asshole to my parents. A spoiled brat, whining and screaming and slamming doors, sulking and more often than not responding to the question "how was school today" by throwing a tantrum.
As you do.

It is obvious that in an effort to keep from feeling hate and resentment for her child, my mother has repressed memories of any such incident.
Which is kind of great news, since I do prefer her to keep loving me.

Being a parent a lot of times seems to mean putting up with all kinds of abusive behaviour that in any other kind of relationship would be pretty good grounds on which to tell the person in question to piss off.
That is however, in most cultures not considered good or even acceptable parenting technique, though I'm sure the children of Joseph Fritzel might have some objections to that statement.

Anyway.
I'm sure I will at some point in my life at least attempt having a child, considering fiancé's aversion to indoor pets and all, but a process that starts with not being allowed coffee, wine or soft cheeses for nine months only to be followed by being ripped apart from the inside by a small persons head?
As tempting as that sounds, I think I might have to pass.

At least for now.
But who knows, maybe it's like how I used to hate olives and now I really really like them?
Maybe all that stuff will seem like fun and exciting in a year or two.
Until then, I will continue to gorge myself on cheese and wine and maybe I'll throw in a bit of mercury laced salmon just for the thrill of it.

Excuses excuses excuses.....

I know I haven't been the most frequent of posters lately, and for this I apologize.

However, I actually do have a reason for this seeming lack of devotion, and a valid one at that.

As fiancé's mom is in the hospital for surgery, his dad is staying with us. This, I know, doesn't seem like a reason at all, and even less so a valid one, but just let me finish. Ok? OK.

Fiancé's parents had him quite late in life, he was what I suppose you'd call an accident if you wanted to be funny about it, which I often do. Fiancé's dad was 46 at the time of birth of his youngest son, which according to my calculations makes him a 78 year old man today. This is another useful piece of information as this enables me to make funny jokes about fiancé's parents obviously having relations even after 14 years of marriage and suggesting that this might still occur.
Iam aware that this is not so much a joke as it is deliberately making fiancé uncomfortable, but it's funny none the less.

Anyway, I digress.
So fiancé's dad is 78, and Italian and has pretty much worked his whole life while fiancé's mom has run the home and taken care of children and still managed somehow to be a successful artist, which is weird since I have no job and no children but still seem to only ever manage a pot of coffee and watching the occasional "the bold and the beautiful" episode before the day is over.

But that's besides the point.

What I'm getting at is that fiancé's dad, when faced with such tasks as grocery shopping or cooking, seems puzzled and confused, much in the same way I would if someone suggested I'd change the oil in a tractor.
I could probably do it, given enough time and instructions, but if given the choice I would gladly hand over the assignment to someone more capable than me.
He's never had to do these things, and it's easy to see how he is just a little bit lost without the woman who's been his wife for 48 years close at hand. They've come to depend so completely on each other for all those tasks they're each assigned, to the point where it's not only emotionally but also practically difficult to live without the other person.

Which is kind of lovely. And a little bit sad, somehow.

So anyway, that's the reason I'm a little bit absent at the moment.
I'm trying to prevent my father in law getting scurvy caused by a salami-only diet.
Thanks for understanding.