On Streptococcus

To whom it may concern,

Normally I'd start a letter with "Dear...", but in this case there cannot be any reason to be so generous. There is, after all, nothing "dear" about streptococcal pharyngitis, strep throat, and just like that we have arrived at the core of the matter: the absolute repulsiveness of the Streptococcus,  and how they themselves refuse to acknowledge this fact and improve (or better still - just leave already!).

At the moment,  the latter is their biggest flaw in my humble opinion.  That they simply won't leave. Gah.

I get that I'm a great host, and I recognize the compliment disguised in this. The streps think I provide a friendly growth-promoting environment, and they show their gratitude by staying, and thriving. Gee, you guys! You really shouldn't have! No, really...

Because being the host of (uninvited) guests that overstay their welcome (not that they ever were welcome...) is no walk in the park. In fact, I haven't been able to walk much at all outside, even though the weather has been lovely. All thanks to those nasty coccus (oh, come on, someone had to say it, and since I'm the only one "speaking" here it better be me).

The streppies have been nothing but trouble. In addition to blocking outdoors (and indoors, I might add) recreational activities, they have now stopped me from going to work. You see, holding a lecture (or five, as it was supposed to be) about World War One is slightly difficult when your throat is swollen to the point that speaking at all (or eating. Or drinking. Or for that matter breathing) is difficult.

Add to that the fevers. I nearly never have one (probably partly due to the fact that my body on average holds a temperature around 36 c, a full degree below normal body temperature for human beings), so when I actually get a fever my brain more or less stop functioning. Once I achieve 37 c, normal for most people, I am already burning. Kick it up to 39, which I did this weekend,  and you'd be lucky to get coherent sentences out of me. My boyfriend tried, when picking me up from the pile I'd collapsed in on the floor: "Is there anything I can do for you?" My answer: "Doctor. Medicine. Radish" (or something very close).

Thus, the strepsons and I do not function very well together.  See, this isn't their first visit. Oh, no. They were here just a week and a half ago too. Back then I was convinced I had an ear infection because the swelling was affecting the nerves going up there, but a visit to my doctor revealed the true culprit. She gave me antibiotics, and after a few days I was more or less restored to my old self ("less", because my motivation to do anything but lie on the couch all day watching "Game of Thrones" was still out sick...).

No wonder, then, that I was annoyed when after I had returned to work (once I got the motivation on board) my throat started aching again, in an all too familiar way. It was as though the coc-streps (you thought it, not me) had launched a new and fierce plan to disrupt my peace (or rather stress, actually, since the idea of lecturing about World War One in no way seem peaceful to me).

I can only hope that a new batch of antibiotics will do the trick and send the strepomens packing. And to help, here is my plea to them (thus explaining the "whom" from the introduction of this post): just leave already!!!

On bags

I recently got a new bag.

It was a good bag. A great bag. I had been searching for one for a while, and there it was. The first one I spotted in the shop. It was surprisingly easy to find, and the price was right.

So I bought it. Started using it immediately. Put all my other bags away. And it felt good. I liked using it. I liked the way it looked on me. Liked the things I did with it

Still. It wasn’t perfect. There was nothing objectively wrong with it – the bag looked good, I felt good with it, it was exactly the kind of bag I’d needed. But there was this small voice in my head, whispering that this bag wasn’t what I *really* wanted. That I liked it because it was easy and comfortable, but that I didn’t love it. Not really. As long as there wasn’t anything wrong with the bag, however, and as long as I didn’t have any other bags that seemed better, I faithfully stuck with the one I had.

Then, one day, the bag broke.

I hadn’t had it for long – only about a month. There was no warning – the bag went from great to broken with one tiny snap. The strap tore off, and just like that, I was without a bag.

I thought about going back to the store and complain. It was a new bag, and it should last longer than a month. I also thought about fixing the bag – maybe the strap could be sewn back on and everything would be as before?

In the end I didn’t do any of those things. I accepted that the bag broke. After all, I was partially to blame. I’d probably put too much stuff in the bag, causing the fabric to rip prematurely. It probably would have been broken sooner or later anyway, but this way I didn’t have the time to get too attached to the bag. Besides, now that I started to think of it, there were things about the bag that I hadn’t liked. It put a little too much strain on my shoulder, for instance. I’d been willing to ignore that since I liked the bag, but now that it was broken, I realized that this was something that with time could have become a real problem. Better to nip it in the bud than to end up with an injured shoulder.

Should I get a new bag? I thought about that too. Even browsed a few stores. But in the end I’m strangely okay with not having a bag right now. I’m not even sure what sort of bag I’m looking for, so for the moment I feel fine without one.

Instead I found an old tote I can use until I know what it is I really want.

For now, that’s enough. 

On my desk

...there is a bottle, empty, but it once contained orange juice. No longer. Someone drank the juice. Me, presumably.

On my desk there is also a postcard, blank, but I originally bought it with someone specific in mind. I still look at it from time to time and find a special guilt in my heart. I should write the postcard soon-ish.

There is a telephone, or two, actually. One is my cell phone of five years this fall. It's been with me through a lot - across oceans, through a master's thesis, several jobs. I've had good news and great news and terrible news and oh-well-it's-probably-for-the-best-news handed to me through it. I've heard voices I despise, and voices I love. Texts that have made me cry. Some that made me glow.
The other phone is the land line to the office I currently occupy. It's rarely in use. This morning it nearly startled me to death, as I'm not used to the sound of it. The conversation was comical and irrelevant.

On my desk there is a Starbucks travel mug. Sakura 2011 edition. I bought it sometime in the early spring last year, expecting to actually be able to see the 2011 sakura blossom in Tokyo. Then the earthquake changed my plan. I hold no grudge against the mug, though.

There is a timetable on my desk. It is too full for my liking.

On my desk there is a pair of sunglasses. They long for usage.

On my desk there is a lot of papers. Some of them belong there, some of them really don't. I should take some time to organize them. I probably won't.

A couple of books - history books - open on the pages of "World War Two" are covered with a pair of gloves and a cheerful scarf.

Another pair of sunglasses. They too long for usage.

On my desk there is three pairs of earrings and two regular rings. And then a keyring. With lots of keys on it. Most of them are to my apartment (4), the rest (3) are for a) work; b) my parents' house; and c) and old bike I haven't used for at least ten years. The figurines attached to the keychain are all bought in Japan, but with 8 years in between.

I have three types of lipgloss and/or lipbalm lying around on my desk.

The various equipment for writing include: one keyboard, three ballpoint pens, two pencils - one of them red, three different colours of highlighters, two felt-tip pens, one "gel-ink" marvel.

On my desk there is a watch. It's not working. Benefit: I didn't have to adjust it for daylight saving this weekend.

Post-it notes of at least three different shapes and colours are spread across the desk.

There is a water bottle on my desk.

On my desk there are two fairly good loudspeakers. The problem is that they only work about half the time.

On my desk there is a dead fly. It's been sitting in that exact position since I moved into this office in October.

On placebo

You know the feeling you get after having been aboard a boat for some time? When you get back on land, it feels like you're still rocking, back and forth, along with the waves. I had that exact feeling for two weeks after the Japan earthquakes on 11 March. Occasionally the earth really did move, of course, since we had heavy aftershocks several times a day, and aftershocks are still felt in the region. But about half the time I seemed to be the only one feeling the rocking, and when I still felt it when I got back to the seismically inactive Norway, it was apparent that these were my own, personal quakes. In short, my brain was playing tricks on me.

When I decided to return to Tokyo to finish my internship, one of the major worries were the aftershocks. Sure, a potential increase in radiation in the air, food or drinking water could be a threat, but for some reason that didn't bother me much. The effects are more long-term (depending on the level of radiation, of course), and radiation is a more subtle danger, which might both be reasons I'm not freaking out over it. In addition, it really does seem to have cooled down a bit in the Fukushima power plant - or at least the media has cooled down their coverage - both of which contributes to me being more calm.

The thought of aftershocks, however, was still terrifying to me, because I've felt real earthquakes now. Experienced what they can do. Many believe - and not in a "the rapture is upon us" kind of way, "many" in this case includes scientists in the field - Tokyo's big centennial quake is still to come, and with the increased seismic activity in the general area it doesn't seem unlikely this might happen now. Plus the fact that earthquakes make me physically ill. There is very little I hate as much as the seasickness the above mentioned rocking leads to.

So, then. Why would I want to go?

I decided - from safe, far-away Norway - that I wanted closure. That I enjoyed the job, the city, the people too much not to give it another chance. That I didn't want the earthquakes to win. That my fear of quakes after all could not be bigger than my fear of missing out of great experiences I'd treasure for the rest of my life.

My assessment was almost right. It did feel good to come back. I still love my job - perhaps even more now, since the quake ironically has created a whole lot of new, interesting perspectives in my work. I adored meeting all my friends here again, and I've also met a whole lot of new friends since I got back. And Tokyo has shown itself from its best side these past weeks. The weather is lovely; the city is its normal, crazy self; and everywhere I go, everything I do, really make me feel like I'm making memories for life.

But. Those quakes. We haven't had any major ones since I got back. I think I've felt five in two weeks, only one of which was strong enough to make me get out of bed, and one made me look around for my earthquake helmet. But in reality they have been minuscule compared to what I'm used to by now.

The worst part, though, aren't the real earthquakes. The placebo ones are. It's funny how I'm never in doubt when there is an actual quake, but whenever I have a placebo one, I'm all "was that a quake? Or was it me? Am I shaking? Or is it the ground?". As mentioned, they stopped after about a week or so in Norway. Two days before I left for Japan again, they were back. Thus there is absolutely no doubt that they are triggered by my own anxiety. It's a little scary, actually, that my mental state is capable of tricking me like that. I KNOW they are not real. But I'm still not sure (until there is a real one, that is). Placebo drugs have an effect because people believe they are real drugs. I tell myself over and over and over again that these aren't real quakes, but  the results of this case study are still messed up. I feel them all the same.

Japan has had several thousands of quakes since the 11th of March. I've had about twice that amount. Frankly I am fed up. Despite everything I love about being back, I am counting the days till I can get off this boat.

On ash*

We’re covered in ash. Isolated by it.


Norwegians had forgotten how it felt to be an outpost. Now we remember.

No more Tanzanian roses for Oslo. No more Norwegian salmon for Japan.

Are we at the risk of losing coffee, sugar, bananas, rice –things we have come to consider as crucial in our daily lives? Not to mention the decreased demand for oil that equals decreased prices and a giant income loss for oil-producing Norway.

We stood tall through the financial crisis. Will the ash be what pulls us down?

It is worth asking (ashing?) what a flight-free weekend in Europe meant in environmental terms. Perhaps we should take this opportunity to think of alternative means of transportation? Businesses and government agencies have been forced to host video conferences instead of flying in negotiators. If this is a possibility today, why can’t it also be something to consider when the ash disappears? Perhaps this was nature’s way of telling us to find new solutions? It will be interesting to see whether the pollution from the volcano was less than the pollution it prevented because of grounded planes.

In the end, though, the immediate feeling is inconvenience. There is nothing we can do. Turning off a volcano is harder than you’d think.

It is tempting to say with the Britons: “Damn you Iceland, we said cash, not ash!”



*The English word “ash” sounds suspiciously similar to the Norwegian “æsj”. Which can mean anything from “eugh” or “yuck” to “damn” or “shoot!”. At the moment I am not so concerned with the ash, but more with my own personal æsj. I have a cold which is keeping me from doing anything sensible. To top that, I am at home with two computers – one which cannot connect to the Internet, the other which refuses to connect with its own keyboard. I challenge you to figure out how I was able to post this…

On growing up

There is a certain type of innocence that can only be lost by growing up. For some, this comes gradually. Little by little you gain responsibility, and somewhere down the line you discover that your three kids, an ex-husband, plus the adult version of m&m – mortgage and minivan – probably are signs that you’re a grown-up now. For others, it comes in a specific incidence, abruptly, instantly. It can be an unpleasant situation, like the death of a close one which suddenly kicks you out of the comfortable zone of post-childhood/pre-adulthood. It can conversely be a happy occasion, like the day you finally land the job of your dreams.


To me, it was the latter. And by latter, I mean the latter of the first two options, not the latter of the two under-categories of the second option (clarity is overestimated).

My growing up came quickly, and it was not a gradual thing. Or at least it did not feel that way.

Yesterday I went to the dentist. It was a while since my last visit. In Norway, you are automatically summoned to the dentist’s office until a certain age. It’s like a magic trick. Also similar to a magic trick is the fact that it is free to visit the dentist until this particular age. It’s brilliant. Far less brilliant, however, is that you are kicked out of the automatic summoning system and the no cost system at once. The result? Thousands of young adults/old kids like myself ignore the fact that we are now supposed to take care of dentistry ourselves. Yes, yes, I still brush my teeth. I even floss. But I did not rush making an appointment to see the dentist.

A few weeks ago I realized that I hadn’t been to the dentist at all since before my visit to Japan. Which, however close in my heart, is starting to become fairly distant in time. I last visited the dentist in 2006. That is four years ago. Wow. Time flies.

I have not experience any particular problems with my teeth these past four years, but it’s recommended to have your teeth professionally checked every once in a while. So I called and booked an appointment.

How very grown up I felt doing that without my mother telling me to do so!

How very childish of me…

When I arrived at the dentist, again feeling very grown up, it did not occur to me that I should have anything to worry about.

Until that moment, all my visits to the dentist have been pleasant ones. “Pleasant???” you say? Well, yes. As a kid I used to love going to the dentist. It meant a few hours away from school, and it meant I got to pick a prize from the top drawer. Even when I was too old for the minuscule tubes of toothpaste and the fake jewelry, I liked going to the dentist. I was always told that my teeth looked fine, that I was doing a great job brushing them, and that I had zero cavities. Always. I’ve never had any cavities. Ever.

Until now, that is.

The dentist I visited yesterday was nice enough. In fact, she was really nice. She was also very thorough, and she too praised my tooth brushing skills. She could also inform me that despite my lengthy dentist withdrawal, my teeth appeared to be in good condition. Except… I had one small cavity.

I was grown up before the words were fully out of her mouth. I was no longer part of the “very exclusive” part of the population with zero cavities (“null hull” – it even rhymes in Norwegian!). Suddenly I felt old, and dirty and tricked. The world as I had known it, where you visited the dentist to receive praise, was crumbling. My next visit to the dentist will not award me a tube of toothpaste or a fake ring; it will give me my first shot of anesthesia and a round with the drill. My naïve idea of going through life being a goodie two shoes that never had any cavities was crushed. I might as well take up smoking now!

Well, no, I won’t. I’m an adult, after all. I know that smoking is bad for you, and I know that it is silly to take it up as a habit to get back at the world for giving me cavities. Cavity, actually. It’s still just the one. The dentist assured me that there did not appear to be new ones forming. She even claimed this first one probably could not have been avoided even if I had come sooner. So it wasn’t my fault. The growing up happened without my knowledge or approval, and there was nothing to be done about it.

But the world will never be quite the same again.

On -itis

Blogging has been tougher lately. First of all, the new NaNo thing is draining my writing capacity. Secondly -  and probably more importantly - being back home, I don’t have as much to blog about. I know I don’t have to be overseas to have interesting things to say, but it comes easier there. Finally, I am frequently falling in the gap between being lazy and getting back to being busy. I have a bad case of the bloggingnotpriorititis.


Yesterday I went to Oslo. My supervisor has (ir)regular meetings with all of her students, and since I have been on the mailing list while in the U.S., I knew there was one coming up. During these meeting we comment on each other’s drafts, and it’s a way for us to get to know each other despite the fact that we’re on different stages in our research projects. I remember how terrifying it was to present my project the first time, weeks after I’d started working on my thesis, and how intimidating (and yet inspiring) the older students were. Now, the situation is reversed. I am one of the veterans, while there are new students who are every bit as lost I was. What surprised me a little, however, was the way they seemed to think that criticism was a bad thing. I can’t remember I felt that way about my project. Criticism is good, because it helps you improve. Feedback is the most efficient way I know to snap out of the bubble writing can be (needless to say, this also applies to non-academic writing), and if they haven’t learned that after (minimum) three years at university, I think it’s high time. (They otherwise stand the risk of developing cannottakecriticismitis.)

The meeting was productive, but I could have gone without the 40 minutes of justifying why we were giving them feedback after the meeting. Oh, well. It was nice seeing my supervisor and my co-students. I’m looking forward to moving back to Oslo and become a part of the crowd there again. It really has been too long (I haven’t lived in Oslo since April).

However, I now fear that it might take longer than I expected. The swine flu scare has made me wish I could avoid getting sick on principle, but unfortunately, it doesn’t work that way. My mom woke up this morning not feeling too good, and from her symptoms, it seems that it might really be the flu. What I haven’t told her (she doesn’t need double worry), is that I’m not feeling too good either, and now I wonder if I might have whatever she’s got. If so, that efficiently ends my plans for this weekend – I am supposed to go back to Oslo to celebrate two birthdays, and I was really looking forward to it. If I have the flu, however, I won’t have the stamina. And even if I don’t, if my mom has it, it’s well worth considering whether it’s wise to expose my friends to the germs.

I’ve been acting as nurse today – a role that does not come natural to me. I knew early that health care was not a line of profession for me, and it has not changed. I can do it if I have to, and I will do it for someone I care about, but boy am I glad that normally my only “patients” are a little thing like the Middle East conflict and the decisions of some long dead U.S. policy makers (I don’t even have to treat them, my job solemnly lies in the field of diagnosis).

Bottom line – I’m glad I’ve found a better direction for me (though I am very glad there are people who do want to become nurses and doctors); I wish my mom a speedy recovery; and I hope that whatever I’ve got it’s just the sympathitis.

On flying

I am not afraid of flying. Though I can relate to the phobia (I’m terrified of snakes), it doesn’t bother me much to think about the possibility that my airplane might drop to the ground. I know the statistics, and I know that the likelihood for something like that to actually happen is minuscule.


However, I’m not overly comfortable in an airplane either. This all started when I flew to Japan the second time (in 2006). Prior to this I had always enjoyed flights – I love the view from airplanes, I like the buzz of airports (except Newark, but that’s another story), I even enjoy airplane food. I adore travelling, and the airplane part has always felt like a bonus at each end of a journey.

Until 2006.

When you are flying from Oslo to Tokyo (and beyond), it is sensible to fly east. Well, I started by flying west. See, the cheapest tickets I could get my hands on were British Airways (amazing, I know…), and they required a stop at Heathrow. This added several hours to the travel time (flying there and back again, plus the wait at the airport), but the savings were considerable enough for me to ignore this. After all, I liked flying. And I liked waiting at airports. I thought.

The flight to Heathrow was fine, and the wait wasn’t so bad either. Fortunately this time I was not travelling alone, but with my friend, Linette. When we got on the plane that actually was taking us to Japan, however, things started to go downhill. First of all we were not seated next to each other. Annoying, but not to be helped (we tried). Secondly, and more importantly, there was something wrong with the plane. When there is something wrong with a plane, the solution always is to stay on ground. I get that. What I don’t get is why they had to keep all the passengers on the plane, for more than an hour, with no air-condition. By the time we left London I was very hot, very dizzy and I had a terrible headache.

The flight to Tokyo was about 12 hours. During this time, the only thing I could do was concentrating on not getting sick. I was really, really unwell. By the time we landed in Tokyo I could hardly walk, and it is one of the most discouraging things I have ever done to get off that airport, get on a bus for an hour and a half to get to another airport, and from there get on yet another plane. The second flight was almost as bad as the first, but thankfully shorter. When we arrived in Akita (where we proceeded to spend four delightful months), I felt exactly the way you do a Sunday morning after having spent your Saturday drinking 7 cans of beer, two bottles of wine and 5 tequila shots.

After this I developed a certain hesitancy for flying. I have flown afterwards, naturally – for one thing, I got back from Japan, and it’s not like I took a ferry to the US. I have also had a number of shorter flights in the three years between. Most of these are okay, it’s the long ones that really kill me.

When I went to the US it was the same thing all over again. Well, except this time it wasn’t an over-heated plane that was the cause, it was turbulence. A lot of it. For at least an hour before landing the entire plane was shaking heavily, and my face was as green as a European Tree Frog when we finally hit ground. It was possibly the worst way of arriving in a foreign country (followed by a delay in my connecting flight, hence my dislike for Newark airport), and believe me – had there been another way for me to get home than getting back on a plane – right there and then I wouldn’t have hesitated.

Thus I was not entirely happy about the thought of flying to the Midwest this week. I tried looking for train options, but as it took everything from 17 to 29 hours to get to Chicago or Detroit, I gave it up as a bad case. Instead I booked three individual flights between Baltimore, Minneapolis and Detroit. Two of them have stops, meaning I will be on five airplanes within one week. I try to comfort myself with the thought that at least they are all short flights, but I can’t ignore the fact that I am dreading the flying. Fortunately I have some travel sickness pills, and hopefully this will make the flights a little easier. When I get on another airplane in a few weeks – this time to back home to Norway – I think it will be my last flight in a loooong time. There are better ways of feeling hung-over.

On a little bit of everything

If you’re wondering why I didn’t obligingly post between 8 or 9 am this morning, the reason is this: scheduled posting. Or lack thereof.

Usually I write my blogs one day early and schedule Blogger to post them at 8 am (which often makes me all iffy about writing “today”, since “today” often is “yesterday” when the blog is actually up, but still “today” when I write it. Which I considered writing a blog about, but then I figured it wasn’t worth it since I could fit the entire drama inside a single parenthesis. Then again, my parentheses often are extremely long, and thus I could probably fit any old drama inside them (Daddy dies via ear by uncle who is revealed in play but unfortunately girlfriend dies, mom dies, everyone else dies and I can’t stand it no more – tell my story, “friend”!). See?). However, even though I yesterday considered myself well enough to go into the city, attend a lecture (which was interesting though the compromiselessness (I’d try to figure out what the real, English word for this is, but I’m on a deadline here – got to finish this before my parents call because afterwards I have all sorts of other stuff to do) - the compromiselessness of a couple of the speakers made me barking mad), and then rob Macy’s (or was it the other way around? It sure had nothing to do with a robbet), I'm still not 100% well. By the time I got back home I only had the strength for a little chicken soup, some mindless television (though House had a moral agenda last night), and bed. No blog.

Today is another sickday (see, I’d write it as two words as Word wants me to, but according to my logic, at least, there should be a considerable difference between “a sick day” and “a sickday”. Maybe I’ll compromise and write sick-day. That’ll do) – another sick-day, though this one I have to devote to all sorts of chores like laundry, cat-petting (one of the cats here has adopted me – wonder what’ll happen when I go back home), figuring out how to get to the airport on Friday, calling my grandpa who had a birthday yesterday (I meant to call him then, but, due to mismatching time zones plus yesterday’s general poopiness (see above) that didn’t happen – but happy belated 86th, gramps! By the way - he said that this morning they had SNOW! Brrrr.... That's early, even for Norway! ), calling my parents to make them feel sorry for me since I’m sick, more laundry, drawing giraffes (keep reading, I’ll get to that) and making a blog schedule. I did make a blog schedule yesterday, but since I’ve already diverted from it, making a new one seems like a good idea. I’m not sharing the schedule with you guys, though, as I don’t do spoilers (*snort*).

What I am sharing, however, is my reason for making the schedule. Since I’m leaving town on Friday, to be gone for almost a week - that is a week without my laptop - I figured it was a good idea to schedule (here we go again) Blogger to post daily posts for me without my interference (even though I hear they have Internet both in Minnesota and in Michigan these days *snicker*). I might interfere. One of the scheduled posts currently reads “what we’re actually doing” (*claps hands over mouth – err… fingers* SPOILER!), but I might change that. You never know. It’s a miracle I’ve gotten this far on the whole blog-thing, really, as random rarely is consistent with regularity. Well, I don’t have a choice. Because I have committed to posting once every single day all through October. You might have noticed the shiny, new badge on the top of this site? That’s a link, peeps, and it’ll take you to a neat blog called NaBloWriMo  (huh! There’s another link! Wow!), which I totally forgot to actually blog about (that is, I didn’t so much forget as I deliberately decided to postpone the mention until everyone else had, to avoid the hype, you know.. Right…). Oh, well. Means I cannot afford to skip even one day, and my only hope to avoid that is my hero – SCHEDULED POSTING!

Speaking of heroes, it’s been a while since I’ve giraffed about Ola, the giraffe-collector. Since I may or may not be harvesting, sorry, Halloween season must be getting to me (that totally should have gone into a parenthesis), attracting new readers in the midst of all this NaBloBlaBla (clever as this title is, it really is annoying to type!), and thus I figure it is time to once again encourage you all to draw/knit/bake/shape/paint/crochet/sculpt(is that a word? Wow!) a giraffe, take a picture of it and post it on http://www.onemilliongiraffes.com/. No requirements in terms of talent or creativity – just any old giraffe will do (as long as it is not computer-generated). My last effort is one of the reasons this blog was postponed this morning (I had to colour the ocean around Giraffenland, okay?), but don’t let that stop you. At the bottom of this post you will find a guide that'll show you how to draw a giraffe in ten seconds.

Alright, I think this was about all my brain could come up with in 20 minutes. Now off to posting, before I regret (this was pre-caffeine and sugar, imagine how I can get…).

(And yes, it's one of the 308 277 alerady posted on the site)

On being under the weather

Ahchoo!


It’s that time of year – I believe it is accurately referred to as “flu-season”. People are falling like flies – one after another we must succumb to the superior force of the threatening micro organisms that so effectively disrupt our everyday lives. This year, in addition, there is the swine flu scare making even the moderately sore throat feel like a potential danger.

Normally, I'll fall at least twice a year. Once during spring, and once during autumn. It’ll start with my throat, move up to my nose, and before you know it I sound like I speak fluent French. The nasal voice I can live with; but the runny or stuck (or both) nose, the headaches as a result of this and the coughing are all more bothersome elements. It’s not comfortable having a cold, but I’ll survive.

Which is why it really annoys me that the news continue to report new incidences of the H1N1 virus every day, and how this makes me feel a little bit insecure – could this be what I’ve got? Even though I know that it is perfectly normal for me to catch a bug this time of year, it does admittedly make me a little bit edgy. Contributing to this is the fact that I’m in a foreign country, which not only means I’m far away from friends and family members I’d normally turn to in case of emergency, but it also means I am subject to a foreign health care system [*cough*orlackthereof*cough*] if it should get serious.

Now, I have of course already googled swine flu symptoms, and found that I don’t have that many of them. In fact, I don’t even have all the symptoms for normal flu (fortunately I rarely get the achy muscles), so the only conclusion is that this is nothing but my twice-a-yearly cold. Hence, I’m not really worried. It still is inconvenient.

Then again, when is it really convenient to get sick? Never. And after all, right now my position isn’t as bad as it could have been. I live with friendly and helpful people who would certainly take me to the doctor if I should need it. I am only a phone-call away from comforting words from home if I should need that. And being my own boss, there is nothing stopping me from taking a sick day or two (Friday was one).

Keeping this in mind, I try to put the “cozy” back in being sick (hm... This would make it “sickozis”, which actually sounds really bad...). After all, there is very little that is more comfortable than waltzing around the house in sweatpants all day, drinking lots of tea and eating chicken soup. I have the Kleenex supply of a talk show hostess’ wardrobe, I have several good books and movies awaiting me and I have nothing scheduled until Monday morning. Therefore I will take the opportunity to wallow in self-pity this weekend, and hopefully be all better by Monday.

Besides, there is a silver lining to this. I’ve felt this cold approaching for a while, hoping that it would turn out to be nothing. Nothing it was not, but at least I got it now, instead of a week from now, when I’ll be putting on my traveller’s boots and go west! *crosses fingers that I’m all better by then*

Currently listening to: Hallelujah by Nick Cave

Currently reading: Image and Reality of the Israel-Palestine Conflict by Norman G. Finkelstein (though I did fall asleep during the introduction, so I’m not entirely sure this qualifies as “reading”...)

Currently missing: my sense of taste and smell