Two fallopians to go, please.

First off, visiting the gynecologist is never a ride in the park. Reading about someone’s visit to the gynecologist is probably not a ride in the park either, but hey. I just provide the goods. The doctor- Ricardo Hernandez- if that was his real name, which for obvious reasons it isn't - was some fifteen minutes late, which meant fifteen more minute’s worth of hand sweat. Metaphorically, lovelies. Not to worry, I never sweat, never quite seen the point.

The first few minutes are used to discuss my medical history.

Dr. H : “Cases of cancer in your family tree?”

Creep: “There’s been a couple of stiffs, yeah.”

“Smoke?”

“No. I use chewing tobacco.”

The man emits a little scream. I kid you not. And lemme tell you, when a doctor screams, well. You just don't want that happening.

“Eeek! What does your husband say about that?” (blow under the belt, thank you, drive through)

“Well, see, I’m terminally single. So maybe I don’t really have that problem.”

“Maybe it would help if you changed your tobacco habits.”

“…”

“Cases of genital diseases in your medical history?”

“Oh they are LEGION!" (goggling) "Just kidding. No." (no goggling) "Haha, I'm a lesbian, we don't get that. " (goggling) "No, just kidding again.”(no goggling)

Except the chit-chat doesn’t end there. When I'm stripped waist down and positioned in such a way that you could probably see my brains if you had x-ray vision or were highly imaginative, the doctor comments my…hygiene. See the thing is, I’m no feminist, but I don’t really believe in messing around with things down there. Something about how bushes should live and be let live and greenpeace and other such mythical organizations saving the trees and shrubbery AND the penguins. But seeing as how I was going to have my package examined with a microscope, I thought I would make things easier on everyone by shaving.

I’ve seen it on tv! "Prep him, nurse!" and pop goes the razor. Ten million episodes of ER and I could probably save your life in ten minutes or less, or your kidney for free. You might want to consider that when my attitude offends you enough for you not to want to be my friend. Say you’re in a restaurant, all happy-like with your conformist Prada “Daaarling!!” friends. Say you start choking on a chicken bone and there’s no-one there to do a triple by pass on you with a spoon and a napkin alone. Where would you be then? Wanker. A bunch of squawking mongooses with silk purses running around screaming "Oh Fudge! FIDDLESTICKS! Oh for the Love of some GEORGE or the other!!" - but no Creep. Sad, really. Your loss.

Anyways, so I’m here then, displaying my pride and glory, and the doctor says:
“You might want to quit shaving your privies. If you have to remove hair, use a scissors.”

Now I don’t know about you, but a man close enough to kiss you where it smells...unmentionable - and not doing it but instead telling you how to properly barber your unmentionables' hair (which otherwise hasn't seen the light of day since 19...12), well that’s just absurd. So I start laughing. The doctor places his hands on my legs trying to steady me, but mental picture of his look of dismay, helpless to do anything about his million dollar microscope- equipment stuck between my legs and bobbing up and down and ready to get ejected across the room or shot in his eye at best - well, it did nothing to help the situation. But it’s all right to get a little nervous when you’re paying a man to look at your pubes, you know? You’re entitled to a little something.

Don’t think the giggles left me until he turned a small ultra-sound tv screen around to face me and showed me my fallopian tubes. That was AWESOME. There’s like two of them. Because really are there. Sure, you know you have a heart and a couple of guts and a uterus and all that, but you never really see them around that often. It’s not like you go to a bar where everybody knows your name including your fallopian tubes. You never go out and hang with your fallopian tubes, have a beer and a bud with your fallopian tubes. As a matter of fact, You and Your fallopian tubes are probably not even on a first name basis. There’s a reason for why all these morning talk show people go like “HELL-ooo San Francisco!!” and not “Wazzup, tubes?”

And even if they did, I’m not sure that it would be kosher.

But now that I’ve actually seen my tubes and can vouch for their existence, I would probably sit there in my morning couch sipping my morning coffee, and raise my cup to Kathy and Regis in silent agreement. Wazzup indeed.

Epilogue

Dan and his girlfreind have broken up. For good. Despite my anti-relationship campaigning "Ah, the freedoms of single life! The herpes is a bitch, but you can't have it all!" - I get kind of happy when people hook up. You drop one liners slandering all that is love by day, but still kind of feel warm inside by night. Not so much for your wit and wisdom but because falling in love these days seems like defying the odds. And it's nice to know that people still do it. Like square dancing and the kinds of things you thought left the building hand in hand with Elvis.

Can't say I wasn't slightly disappointed when they got together, because couples are as a rule Very Boring People, but then she started bringing rolls and cakes, and then all was forgiven, somehow. They were good rolls.

Miffed about the break-up as well. You know how some single parents wait some five-six months before bringing home their new partner to meet their kid? I'm that kid. Though slightly larger and less apt to be considered cute when I poke plastic marbles up my nose. Oh, I know the world doesn't revolve around me. But I don't know if I feel comfortable disclosing the feelings of others in a blog, so forgive me if it tends to get a bit one-sided.

Maird. It's just not right. They really were good rolls.

Hit me with something better, mofo

I find myself in a rut of sorts. You know what I mean. I'm sure you've been there yourself at some point in time. Life loses its meaning, wine loses its taste, oh woe is me, and bewaretheidesofMARCH!!

-and all that. And here you have two options. You either sink into your couch write obscure poetry about bleeding hearts and ruptured spleens, or you do something. Something else. Like Kendo. Or needlework, if you are of the senior persuasion. I'm considering the former option, but with my hand eye co-ordination I'm likely to put one of these two out. And though it defies all logic, having only one eye to see that which is the ruins of your life is not likely to halve your bleak outlook on life.

So maybe kendo isn't the solution to this. But something has to be done. I mean, you hear all the regular advice - when life gives you lemons, make lemonade, when your cat dies, make mittens. Not that many options when you're fresh out of lemons and knee deep in turd though. Turdonade? Behold, I am the mighty Turdonator. Turdonator three- The Rise of the Septic Tanks.

As you might have observed, the level of maturity of the more jovial content is directly proportional to the happy I feel. Right now I'm looking at age 4-6. A view from below, naturally, as I am trapped in the deepest pits of hell. Come to think of it, I feel a ruptured spleen coming on.

Strike out

Went on a date yesterday. Or something like that.

"What were you listening to when you walked in?" he asks.

"Stroke!"

"Hahaha!" the evil and ignorant puny human laughed. " Don't you mean The Strokes?"

"No."




Well, it was nice while it lasted.

Sailor Moon

Finally saw the last episode of Sailor Moon today, after having sat through three seasons of re-runs.

I cried.

I lie, I bawled. I broke down and sobbed. Felt slightly guilty afterwards while wiping my snot off on Dan's sweater that happened to be laying next to me. [Armani, forgive me] I mean, here I am, grown girl and all, sobbing at the "death" of little animated super heroes whose eyes are bigger than your average thrift shop hams, while there's so much other sadness in the world. Little children whose parents can't even afford Christmas trees, and little children get the same branch doll for Christmas every year.

Son: "I can see its arms, that's those branches poking out of the middle, but where's it's head?"

Father:"There!"

Son: "That's not a head, that's a wasp's nest!"

Father: "No, it's not. See? There are the beady little eyes! Ten of them! And they move! Yes! Yes, it's a remote control action figure stick doll that's what it is."

Son: "The eyes Pappa! The eyes are flying out of its head! They're hurting me!"

Father, groaning : "Damn thrift shop!"

I'm not the only one around these here parts who's done a fair share of crying. I might have mentioned that Dan's got himself a girlfreind. I might have also mentioned that I find this hilariously funny. I find all relationships hilariously funny, unless I happen to find myself in one, in which case I'm either being stalked or dead. Considering my renowned beauty and wit, I wouldn't be surprised if both of these occurred simultaneuosly, I hear Necrophelia is the third white meat. Still probably wouldn't find the situation very amusing. I find Dan's situation amusing. Like all people who claim to be searching for that one great romanticised-to-extinction love and write countless breathless sonnets on it, Dan is pathologically afraid of relationships. Naturally, I exploit this and use relationship-related terms as often as possible.

[scene: couch in living room]

Me, shreiking "Ick! What would your GIRLFREIND think if she saw you scratching your crotch in public?"

Him "We're indoors right now."

Me "Yes, but try to think outside the box" (congratulations to me and my metaphor!) "Think of your GIRLFREIND."

You can see his balls fleeing in hordes.

But I'm not evil. I'm just the DESIGNATED SINGLE PERSON. It's my responsibility to weed out the frail among us, and bring them back to the corall. The world of singles' parties, stale wine, bad cigarettes and worse lovers at the occasional swinger-related festivities. Back to the Stockholm Suburbian reality of that we have a reputation to keep. We can't all just go and get married. We are known for having the second highest suicide rate and the most single people in relation to land, or space, or cows, per capita -I can't remember - but there are rules to be followed. Kosher to keep kosher. Sabbaths to be recognized and one night stands to be stood. Aren't there?

This coming from someone who's been called an Oprah of relationships a couple of times (in a positive context mind you.) I'm no Oprah. I'm just black anyway - and I can do quite well thank you without people asking for advice about their relationships and me frantically flipping through my chinese fortune cookie collection. You can only tell people "You will live long and prosper" so many times before they start getting suspicious, you know? Sword of Damocles, that's what it is. And then their hearts break. And then no fortune cookies in the world can help you to help them. And you stand there like an actor without a script, or a stage, or a clue that you're really just day dreaming while you're flipping fries.

And then your best friend falls in love with you. And you stand there like, just standing. And then you turn and run, your balls fleeing in hordes.

I know I was supposed to stick to the theme. Sailor Moon, was it?
I always seem to be getting off track.
I cried anyway.

The Letter

A month ago, I got a letter from our local hosptial, inviting me to do a Pap Smear. Sure, inch back in disgust if you will, that's what I did. Well, that's not all I did. I panicked.

Me: "They're gonna scrape me! They're gonna scrape me bad!"

Him: "Calm down. They're just going to use a q-tip and poke around a bit!"

Me: "They're gonna poke me! they're gonna poke me bad!"

Which, considering, didn't sound like the worst possible scenario.

I went, they did what they had to do, I left. And now I have to go back again, which is so wrong. Spreading your legs in front of someone wearing a nurse's uniform does not rank in my top ten fantasies of all time. After the procedure, filled with babbling about- if I recall correctly- extra-terrestial life forms from my side - I asked the nurse what the chances of getting called back were. The nurse laughed- "Oh, they're little, very little'" And what were the chances of getting called back on account of cancer, after that second callback? "Oh, even littler! Even littler!". It's not the 'little' I'm worried about now, it's the 'littler'. The fact that there is a tiny letter 'r' standing between me and some Very Bad Things.

The nature of the call-back letter did nothing to ease my mind either. They were careful to assure the reader that "NOTE WELL! Just because the previous test has shown that there have been changes in the cells, this does not mean that they were changes of the cancerous sort, but may only indicate that you have a mild infection."

Infection or cancer.
Pest or Cholera.
Cake or Death.
Don't like those odds.

NOTE WELL! In Capital letters. Hate it when they do that. It's the equivalent of the part of the movie where the skinny researcher nerd guy goes "We seem to be having a minor problem here. Nobody panic." Famous last words juuust before all the Godzilla babies run out of nowhere and try to eat everyone especially the fat people first. And that's a consolation. I may have a vaginal infection and or cervical cancer, but at least I'm skinny and can run like the wind.

To recap: Dan gets a new girlfreind, and I get new pap smear.
So not cool.

Typepad vs. Blogger

Blogger won.
I'm a sap for sentimentality.

The Little men that live inside the tv and the Big men that live outside.

Since I usually fall asleep in front of the television, the televisions that pass through my home usually don't have very long life-expectancies. Which is why I wasn't too shocked when I woke up at 4 am this morning to hear a rythmic knocking sound coming from the tv, even though it was turned off. Even though I'm usually scared everything that goes tap in the night, I wasn't too shocked.

Two trains of logic thought met in my head-
[1] On Off is going to steal my next paycheck.
[2] Bugger. There's someone stuck inside the tv.

I turned it on and flipped though the different channels to see if there was indeed someone who had been trapped inside the television when I'd turned it off before falling asleep. Having checked through all seven, I decided to give up. I'd tried anyway. Whoever he was, he had himself to blame.

Meanwhile, Dan comes to me today and tells me that he's gotten himself a girlfreind. I laughed, naturally. He said he was serious, so I laughed some more. I didn't really mean to. It's just that he looked so sad.

Crises and things.

All I'm saying is that I'm not sure if this whole mid-life middle-agia is that bad.
You hear people talking in hushed voices about (mid-life-crises). It's absolutely horrible. It's something that makes you dye those greys and buy a cabriolet. Get a partner who's twenty years younger than you to keep your juices flowing.

From where I'm sitting, it doesn't sound like a very bad deal.

I'm in my twenties. I know a couple of your people out there are as well. Aren't the twenties a bitch? Good. Everything's in place then. Romance and wine and dine and dance about the teens if you will as well, but if I recall correctly- and I try not to - they weren't a walk in the park either, they were this awkward run to the finish line and System bolaget and the promise of a drivers liscence that never seems to have come, and the option of buying smokes, which you probably did, because, heck, you're 18. And pretty darn stupid. And whoop there it is, the twenties, and you're still pretty stupid. Hooking up and shacking and shagging with other stupid people because it's all part of this...system.

It seems to me that every age comes with its own crises and life threatening (bad hair days, worse hair days, no hair days) situations.

Where will you be in ten - twenty years, and will it be you who's depressed over having to buy a new cab and and will it be you who's looking back at the golden age of the twenties thinking "Ah. Those were the days." Because if that is you, then you're a moron. A moron who's terribly terribly wrong to boot. So much for the wisdom of ages. Look at you. You've hit fifty, and you've accomplished nothing except delusions of post-grandeur and greatness.

Why all this?
I'll tell you. Life changes. Changes, and changes, and changes.
A bad hair day and a pimply arse might not be troublesome at fifty as when you were twenty - especially when you've got receding hair and an concave bottom (ho! Wasn't here yesterday!) - but having four kids and no hope for the future for the approaching sixty-something greyzone, well, it has its equivalent, and it has appeared at every age. From twenty to forty to Cleopatra to you, baby.

Typepad

I've fallen in enchanted by typepad, and I don't know why.
Seems like the sort of thing you say when you're standing in the middle of a room and start off by introducing yourself to a group of twenty-something other looking sorry morons with silly hair.

"Hi, my name is Creep, and I'm addicted to Blogging."
"HI CREEP!"
"Sod off."

No, I say what The Great Groucho once said - I wouldn't be a member of any club that would have me as a member. The downpart is that I'm also in love with Blogger.com - while having started two blogs using Typepad.

As I said, I can't commit.

And as you might know, I can't talk serious if it were my native tongue. meaning that the thought with the first typepad blog was to reflect life from a comical viewpoint, while the second was meant to be kept private, and reflect my more sombre thoughts. I'm thinking that sombre thoughts don't really mean entries including thoughts like
"And then buzzards will swoop down and carry him off. And that will be that."

I could be wrong.

Adding Dan

"Oh, dark grin. He can't help when his happy looks insane. Ooh."
Pearl Jam's Even Flow, off Ten

And I can't.
Things have twisted and topsy-turvied themselves in ways I never thought possible. oh sure, I'm still working my 0200- 1300 job. Oh sure, I'm still sleepless in Stockholm. Oh sure, I still miss all the lovely people who don't come by here anymore, and all the lovely people I've failed to visit lately.

Oh sure, Dan the Man and I are finally going to sign that contract together, the contract that will make us co-owners of this little house of mine Which is awfully scary, and at the same time tickles me pink. It's terrifying in that signing a contract with someone is almost like, well, hey, committment. And I can't commit. Well, I don't want to commit. I want to commit, but just not right now. Give me twenty years and I might agree to share my last pop-tart with you, but that's as far as it goes. Capische?

I've never shared a contract with anyone before. Feels awfully mature. And as if it should come with 2,3 kids and a dog to boot. Or not to boot. I mix up my slangs. A chihuahua, to be exact. A one year aiting list and a 15 000 crown fee, but to look into the darling eyes of someone whose eyes are prone to popping out at uncomfortable hours, well, that's definately incentive. Except I'm mixing up my slangs again. Predicates. Whatyoumacallit's. Signing a contract with Dan is like playing craps with the devil. And you know that playing something called crap with anyone of a more crap-like nature than your is a no-brainer.

So Why am I doing this?
A number of reasons.

I'm afraid I can't both study and work this term. Meaning that Dan will have to keep the 'student' part of the agreement in the student apartment contract. Because it makes it a whole lot easier to skip town while Dan isn't looking, and feel at peace with the thought that he has a roof over his head. Because it makes it a whole lot easier to stay, knowing that I have an escape route.

Just
like
that.

Tips & Au Reviors:

Tips for writers can be found here.

Off to the Northern Countryside tommorow, to a small town called "Norrbo", otherwise known as "Yea though I walk through the shadow of the valley of death". This will all be highly interesting, naturally, I wouldn't expect anything less form my life.

Fear and Romance

In a way I wouldn't mind ending up an english teacher in some country-side gymnasium.
I find the thought of a spinster grappling with 30 unruly kids and broken writer dreams very romantic.

Here you are. (Again). You've hit 60. You've accomplished nothing. You have a cat who doesn't even like you. You have truly accomplished nothing. You go to school, meet people who hate you when you teach them and hate you even more when you give them the grades the little vermins deserve, you go home, grade hand-ins, open a tin of cat-food (not the fancy kind), a beer of can (not imports, no) and sink down in the sofa to watch your now favorite soap. You fall asleep in that same position and wake up to the blearing of the alarm clock and find that one of your slippers has glided off while drool was making an exit down your chin.

At least that would be something to write about.

I got another letter from my father today. My father and I have a curious sort of correspondence.

I'm afraid of - not getting anywhere in life, I suppose. I'm afraid I've missed the important bits of everything. I'm afraid that music today won't change much over the next twenty years, I wonder if some sixteen year old swooning over the Beatles back in the day ever expected Black Sabbath and kids with safety pins in every part of their body to make their respective entries. I'm afraid that I'll never get into the line of education of my choice, afraid that I'll never even be able to decide on a line of studies. I'm afraid that there are two sorts of people- those who make it, and those who don't. And those who won't, because they find failure more romantic. Neither of these options seem desirable. I'm afraid there's no fourth mystery alternative behind any fourth mystery door, and that I'll just end up with a year's supply of cornflakes instead of that top job where you earn top dollar and have the top life and have good bones & teeth. I'm afraid of listening to Syd barett's "Scream thy last scream, of woman with a casquet, blam bam you point, your point, your point" I'm afraid i'll wake up sixty, single. I'll be barren. I'll be fertile and have two bastard children. I won't be able to support them on a teacher's pay, not with cat and all. I'll be dead. I'll be alive and senile to the point where I'm not sure whether I'm alive or dead. Gum disease - won't be able to eat anything but strained yams - mental disease - won't want to eat anything other than strained yams.

Above all this, is the overwhelming fear of turning into just another Linda Skugge.

And the funny thing is that my father is afraid of the exact same things. So we write letters to one another. But never reply each other's mails.
The concept is all very romantic though.

On the First Day of new Year's

Right.
I'd written a serious blog while I was in the gaurd's booth sipping tea and eating Chilean Christmas bread, he'd put on this song by red snapper called 'gridlock' and I sat and wrote about this lady I saw crying.

Philosophical.
Philosophical indeed. No, seriously.

But I got home at ten, had me a glass of wine and now my head is not quite where it should be.
Meanwhile, I'm sitting here half singing half laughing. because there is something very very hilarious about singing both parts in "I Got You Babe" by Cher when you're by yourself.
No, seriously.

Night, dears.

Ho Ho Ho Happy New Year and Raspberry Berets

Seems that the soundtrack for the year will be- gasp if you will- Prince's Raspberry Beret.
Let me just assure you that hey, me and Slayer & Deicide & Ministry, we're like homeboys and everything, but if you want to dance yourself silly, Prince's Raspberry Beret offers amazing oppertunities.

I can hear your laughter from here, and chances are that I know where your IP lives.
Reconsider.

And so it is time for new year's resolutions!

Snusa less.

The first time I snusade was behind the school at the tender age of 17. I used to hang out with the cool girl then, and the cool girl snusade, which made snus all the more irrisistable. My head started swimming after a minute or so. After two, I became immensely nauseuos and though it a better idea to lie down. Why I chose to get up from my laying position outside in the grass and assume the exact same posture on a table inside the school with millions of students milling around remains a mystery to me. Why I continued for six years after that incident, well, that's just- let's just call it god's own little miracle.

Be more decisive.

Capitalism has nothing to offer me. Give me communism and my daily allotted potato anyday. I'd be happier then. THE POINT IS- and I have a point here- is that everything, from cutting your hair, clipping your toe-nails, to deciding whether to donate that kidney or flee the country in hopes of finding yourself - you Buddhist wanker - can be just as dramatic. hear me out. You can rank things according to risk and circumstances, but in the end, you have to take a stand. Rip off that plaster, or let it slowly rot off, both of which seem just as unpleasant. You either do something, or you don't. Skip the if's and don't even think about going near the "if I had just..." that follow.

Be More Social.

Even if people who do not realise my true potential and amazing economical situation and the possibility of lavish gifts seem to think as highly of me as gum disease. The kind that makes all of your teeth drop out and subsequently kills all remaining tooth fairies with over-exhertion. Did I mention I have cold hard cash?

Climb every mountain

Except everyone except one. I'll find me a medium sized mountain. Preferably not a tall, tall "Yegad, you won't be-leive the crick in my neck"- mountain. I mean, tall mountains and fear of heights have never just synched. I don't want to set out to meet my maker to have to walk home again with a look of defeat on my face and a crick in my neck from gawking too long. Course- we don't have to be speaking real mountains here. Not real real mountains. A mountain can be metaphorical. Explore the possibilities! While it's geneally not recommended to make a mountain out of a molehill, this no unwritten law against this.

I'll find me a medium sized mole-hill.

[Right. Be More decisive.]

Tell more people you love them

And almost finally, and foremostly, my New Year's resolution for You.
There is not enough love in this world. There is not enough love in this world. Me, I tell myself I love me every day. Slightly redundant, yes, but I can never be pampered enough, if you ask me. And I'm glad you did. I can never be pampered enough, if you ask me. But be a little wild and crazy for a moment, and try to look beyond Me: Walk up to the cashier at Pressbyrån or your convenience store of choice, and tell them what a beautiful smile they have. I'm not asking you to run a ten km marathon, I'm asking you to walk that extra mile. Roll a Yard. Spin around on that cubic centimeter of yours why don't you. Just spread the love. Show appreciation for the people you appreciate. Cause next thing you know, you'll find yourself walking down the street and suddenly surrounded by gremlins, which is never a good thing. Here's your life flashing before your eyes, and here's you feeling pretty stupid right now. Because here's you realising that you'll never have the chance to tell everyone how much you loved them. Here's You, surrounded by gremlins, AND ORCS (!) and you never even had the chance to put people in your will, which is also a form of love, and in which case I'd be happy to disclose my real name. For legal purposes and such.

Dance more. I don't care how stupid it looks. You've got a freind over for dinner, and your favorite song pops up, take them by the hand and dance that crazy polka dance that only you can dance. Laugh, love. Tell everyone in your life how much you love them. Don't let restraining orders stop you.

And lastest but not least

Have a good one.
I think you deserve it.