31
May
2006
Since I’m not doing memes and today nothing interesting happened, yet I feel like writing, here are a few searches that brought people in the jolly month of May to shrinkmamma.fmg.ro .
Picture of Slash’s birthday cake - While I remember seeing his first wedding cake’s pics in a teen magazine long, long time ago, and my weblog definetely contains pictures of cake, I don’t think I helped him too much.
How to fix shaved eyebrows - Get two medium-sized squirrels. Dye their tails in the desired colour. Apply superglue to eyebrows. Press squirrel tails on eyebrows. Trim excessive squirrel fur with scissors. If the shaved portion is small or you want to be more precise, use ferrets.
What happens to a fetal pigs trachea when you push on it - sweet Moses, what do you think will happen - maybe it will start singing the opening theme from The Magic Flute? And where did you find that unlucky pig fetus anyway? Bloody sadist.
Wear makeup during c-section - sistah, I say don’t do it. If you’re going to have a general anesthesy you’ll drool a lot anyway and you’ll ruin that carefully applied lipstick, plus the lip contour will be obstructed by the oxygen mask. If you’ll have an epidural or a spinal, the last thing you want is to distract the docs with that shiny beauty of yours while they’re happily digging into your entrails.
www. sex german ro. - Schatzi, wir haben keine Deutsche hanky panky hier. Verstanden?
Fetal monitor and bump on the head - Tell your kid she’s not supposed to tap Morse code on the Sonicaid while in-utero. Especially with her head.
Dear mama two pack - I like to think of myself more as of a “mama sixpack“.
Sexy photograph with pipes or other things -my hit was on the third page, somewhere at the bottom. Poor guy, he must be really hungry for some pipe hotties. Wait a minute .. Mario, was that you? Tired of the Princess already? Well here you go, you dirty, dirty bunch of pixels:
Happy now?
And finally, a search that was done while I was writing this post: PEPSI GOLD AD CLAUDIA SCHIFFER, THIERRY HENRY - kid, turn the caps lock key off, do the search again and I might tell you how to find the ad, mmkay?
Posted: stumbled upon
30
May
2006
Today’s taxi driver was driving a large Mercedes. I kid you not, I went to work in a white 600 SEL.
As soon as he started the engine, he bursted:
“You know, miss, the clients I took before you were three women. They were going to work to [Huge shoe factory name]. We passed the mayory’s workers who were changing the flower pots (*my town has lots of potted flowers on the public domain, placed in custom - made postaments*) and one of the women shouts:
I tried to take one of those pots last night! But the bastards screwed them in the postaments! I’m so mad at those idiots!Why are they screwing them in?
I thought of not telling her anything but she just went on an on. Finally I turned to the backseat and told her:
Lady, if you’d put some expensive flowerpots in your yard and there’s no fence, wouldn’t you screw them in too? To which she says that it’s not the same. I ask her why she did it anyway, since she doesn’t look poor. And then she tells me:
Well, don’t you know that stolen goods last longer?
After that, I was so angry I stopped the car and left her in the middle of the street, without wanting money or anything”
I left him a big tip .
Posted: chestii
29
May
2006
There is a certain hour in a day’s time after which when you hear the phone ringing, it means trouble. For our household it’s somewhere around 10 pm.
Yesterday the phone rang a quarter after ten. I wasn’t worried though, because Timi and Robi were at my mom’s so I figured they were calling to let me know the’re coming home. Instead of Robi’s voice or Timi’s tiny shrieks of excitement (if she would be a dog, she’d be a Labrador, methinks) I heard a pleasant male voice that asked me in English (hmm, Dutch accent? German? Lithuanian?!?) if I was Andrea.
Confirming that it was My Royal Highness indeed, he told me that he’s Martin, a Hospitality Club member from Germany (am I good or what?), that he knows it’s late and he didn’t email me earlier, but he’s here in my town with his bike and could we please give him a place on our floor to sleep on? I asked him to phone me again in 5 minutes, called Robi and made a small PR chef d’oeuvre by convincing him to take the guy in. (But he had such a nice voice! So what if it’s 10 PM and he might be a serial killer or carrying the flu! Think about the greater picture! Karma, Robi, karma and freezing puppies in the rain!) Robi being the wonderful husband he is, when Martin phoned for the second time I could tell him he’s welcomed in our house.
Half an hour later while folding clothes in the bedroom I notice a lone biker with an enormous quantity of luggage on the street. “I’m going down to get him, he’s heeere” I shout while I get my slippers. Out of the block I go, tank-topped and midi-skirted. Wow, it’s cold outside. The lone biker is entering the pizzeria under my appartment. I enter after him, gesticulating frantically to the waiter that just offered him the phone to take it back. This not being the first time a backpack-wearing person asks to phone my appartment from there, the waiter obeys while I ask “Martin?” His whole face is enlightened by a lovely smile of relief. (KAWAIIIII! shouts the 16-year old Japanese fangirl which makes her appearance inside my head whenever I look at an Orlando Bloom picture. I kill her in a quick and non-painful fashion and regain my composure.) We go to my appartment where he unloads his two tons of luggage. (Okay, not two tons. Maybe one.)
Long and pleasant chatting follows, he being one of my most interesting guests until now. Working as a driver for a luxury tour bus, he drove for the Chippendales, Alice Cooper, The Tenors and a lot more - and is willing to share stories about everybody. One advice to you international stars - when touring, respect your bus driver’s sleeping hours. Othervise he’ll have plenty of methods to make your resting time miserable. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
He’s going to Bulgaria from here, then Turkey, Iran, India, South East Asia.. I give him a few tips about what to visit in Ro and a couple other countries. We finally decide it would be wise to go to sleep around 1 AM.
He went on his way this morning. After all, he has a year and a half ahead to travel - and a lot of places to see.
Posted: chestii
27
May
2006
Our household is renowned for its fearless curiosity when it comes to trying new things. We ate frog legs,blue cheese with mandarins, fried brains, fishheads, seafood (which makes a lot of Romanians go Ewwww) and Robi loves tripe soup (which provokes the same reaction at the rest of the world). Thus, trying the new Pepsi Gold seemed mandatory.
Pepsi Gold it’s supposed to be a limited edition, made to honour the FIFA World Cup held this year in Germany. It’s advertised by Claudia Schiffer and somebody named Thierry Henry, which I presume is a huge football player, since we are talking about a footy-themed edition. They try to snatch a solitary bottle of PG from each other, until an Average Joe parts with it, asking them with a jaded voice: “Wha’, you not thirsty?” After tasting it I can’t blame the bloke though, I would sound the same if I’d appear in that commercial.
Anyway!
Robi came home today with a Pepsi Gold placed proudly on the case that contained our weekly supply of mineral water. I opened it immediately and since I was thirsty, drank a generous ammount without getting to taste it first.
That’s when the tastebuds called an emergency conferrence.
Chief Papilla: “Listen up mates, we’re in trouble. The brain is expecting to like this stuff and we all know now the taste is a lot more close to horse piss than ambrosia. Any ideas on what to do?”
A small Folliate guy: “Tell the truth?”
Chief Papilla: “Are you serious? A leucocyte I bumped into today told me she’s been waiting to taste this thing for two weeks. Can you bear the responsability to provoke her such a dissapointment?”
A lazy Circumvallate, smoking a joint: “Go with the flow then dudes .. tell her it feels real good. Yeah. We need more positive vibes … ”
Chief Papilla: “Can you lie about two liters of that abomination?”
Silence.
Chief Papilla: ” Yeah, I thought so. We’ll have to tell her exactly how bad the thing tastes then. Back to work, everybody.”
So, how bad was it? On a Scale of Evil from 1 to 10, 1 being the old man next door that yells at kids and 10 Adolph Hitler, I’d say it scores a 6. The taste isn’t even remotely cola-ish but more of a clove-and-cinnamon scented lemur urine. The colour didn’t help much to change this impression either.
Will I ever buy it again? No way, Jose. Do I recomend it? Well, if you have any annoying angsty friends you need to put into a suicidal mood, go ahead, gift them a bottle. Otherwise, stay away from it.
Posted: chestii
26
May
2006
Yesterday I had a gipsy lady coming for testing with her daughter, who just turned sixteen. I went from the nurses’room to my cabinet without seeing the girl, then asked the mom to bring her in.
When I saw her, I literally remained breathless. She was beauty incarnate. The purest, most angelic face structure I’ve ever seen, golden complexion only slightly kissed with a few freckles by the sun, a nose drawn by the patron saint of plastic surgeons, a soft, sweet voice that could make Boy George switch teams, all this completed with a dark wave of hair and an elfin body. If I’d be even a little bi-curious I would be composing love poetry for her right now.
She sits on the chair in front of my desk, quiet, hands in her lap, her mom doing the talking. The mom’s pregnant (6th child, she says) and looks like a more mature version of her girl. We chat a bit and then she leaves me with her daughter.
The angel is seriously broken. She has spina bifida and a moderate mental retardation, sayeth the papers. She also had undergone three major surgeries, two on her spine and one on the cranium. She shows me the scar on the skull, carefully masked with a hairpin. She tells me what it feels like to get an infection after cranial surgery and develop meningitis, then stay three months on a hospital bed, not sure if you will be able to walk or talk again, or even survive. “I saw death a few times, you get used to it after a while”. She shows me the hospital discharge papers for her surgeries . “This one’s for the first cancer tumor removal”. “And this one is for the second”.
We joke, I make her laugh and be more talkative while trying not to stare at her face too much although she seems oblivious to her glow. She tells me about her girlfriends, the little sister who gets straight 10s and wants to be a doctor, the brother that can’t get past 4th grade even though he’s 15 years old, the alcoholic dad that beats mom and takes the money mom earns to go drinking. I discover that she’s illiterate. “The brain surgeon said I cannot sit in a schol chair for four hours”. I give her the IQ tests - yup, moderate retardation. “I wish I would be alowed to wear high heels. Or maybe run a little. I dream a lot of running, just running.” She shows me the drainage tube left permanently in her body - a thin line under the skin of her neck, going from her skull to the abdominal cavity.
I write her papers, ask mom to come inside, give mom a few advices on how to deal better with the girl when she’s angry or frustrated, ask about the overachieving little daughter and the abusive husband. “He doesn’t beat me while I’m pregnant .. It’s not that bad, really.” I tell her we have a shelter, if she ever feels enough is enough. “They won’t let me go there with five kids and one more on the way”.
Mom and daughter leave, both of them smiling, mom helping daughter to walk. I watch them on the window until they dissapear .
Posted: hospital
25
May
2006
The czechs sure know that politics are not for the weak. You need proof? I have it. A few days ago their Minister of Health got his ass kicked old-school style by the (ex) vice prime minister. Check it out, it’s worth the click.
I met yesterday the hospital’s Work Protection chief. We chatted about the elevator ladies I tested not so long ago.
It seems that the lady who caught her husband cheating agreed to give him one chance to repair the relationship, mainly because things went so well in their marriage before the affair. The husband is doing his best to unscrew the things he got screwed. Considering the lack of idiocy both of them sported when I tested them, I’m optimist about the outcome.
The lady with the premature girl is taking a lot of days off because her daughter seems to go through a rougher period. The chiefs were sympathetic for a while but now they decided to cut some of the benefits she was receiving. She’s stressed and snaps out frequently to her colleagues.
The depressed lady was told by her chief to switch to cleaning lady - almost the same salary, no responsability . She was angry, went to another psychologist for a re-testing. The psychologist found the same depression I saw and refused to pronounce her fit. She doesn’t want to start psychiatric treatment, says she can manage.
Posted: hospital, stumbled upon
23
May
2006
It’s been a while since I found a celebrity blog worth linking.
Ladies and gentlemen, Dubya’s blog :D
Posted: stumbled upon
