My goodness is my brain malfunctioning lately. It seems to have forgotten it’s supposed to be patiently collecting the residue of my not very gentle brushes [read as “wipe outs”] with the absurd so they can be used to paint a technicolored blog for your very much amusement/time wastage. But I barely remember that I have a blog, let alone what’s been going on in my life over the past couple days that is worthy of an entry. And the sad thing is, PLENTY has been going on of the most ridiculous kind, but I seem to not be doing my dutiful filing for later use. But I’ll try and make a go of it anyways. Here is my life lately in ADD-squirrel-brain-bullet-points. If you will allow...

* I went to Germany. Hamburg to be specific. Where I had more laughs than appropriate over the constant use of Hamburger as an adjective denoting “of the city”. And sometimes, its residents – though I think only we daft foreigners did that. But still - “Hamburger Bank?” Yes, I’d like to withdraw a cheeseburger please! *falls over self laughing in the middle of downtown Hamburg, much to the chagrin of very well contained German peoples who mutter “Ach, AmERicans!”*

* I accidentally made someone fall in love with me. Or something. In my defence, I didn’t do anything! Dude musta been cruising for a heart bruising cuz you do not DECIDE YOU WANNA MARRY SOME GIRL YOU MET THREE DAYS AGO BECAUSE SHE WAS FRIENDLY! I COULD BE A PSYCHO AXE MURDERER WHO COLLECTS THE PELTS OF NAÏVE JOURNALIST-MEN! This was flattering for all of five minutes, and now it’s just bewildering and I am sorry it happened. Dear world, please keep the sweet but ingenuous boys away from me? Thank you.

* My propriety wiring is shot. In the past few weeks I’ve been the most unfiltered gasbag EVER. For some odd reason, I am taking especial joy in shocking people. Normally, when I have to do that superficial socializing thing, I’m quite the pro. I can make smalltalk with mommies about teething pains and the latest theories in child rearing. I can talk politics with the menfolks while still seeming respectful and feminine. I can do the polite inquiries about health and the sympathetic clucking and nodding when some old aunty or uncle feels like sharing descriptions of latest carbuncle or gastric disorder. I stay well below all of the radars and come out of parties and suchlike without anyone the wiser that I’m a snarky brat.

But not so much no mores. At one party, I told a young mother of two who had been bewailing her badly-behaved progeny that “Aw I know, kids are like, whoa, so much work! And they don’t even give you training or make you get a license for them beforehand. I mean, what if you don’t like them? It’s not like you can give them back. Hospitals don’t have a return policy!” *wide-eyed innocence* To which she gave me the most hilariously suspicious stare.

Another time, when meeting a friend’s friend who I am not fond of, it awkwardly came up in the convo that I would not be attending the latest gathering of the group. “Uh, why, you don’t like the crew Owl?” the offensive fellow asked. Instead of offering a tactful assurance of my affection, I smiled a mile-wide grin at him and said “No, just you!”

And I think I told a sweet aunty with designs on me for her son that I thought the kids underfoot at picnics made everything like a cool extreme sport, provided they didn’t cry so loud when you knocked them over. By her stunned blinkblinkblink I am guessing that is not what one does with kids. *shrugs*

* And someone bought me charity cheese. Now this is perplexing. When one goes to the supermarket, and takes their painstakingly-selected groceries to the counter, they assume THEY will be paying for said items. But this, apparently, is not always the case. Perhaps it is optional. Or a regional quirk. Like eating dogs or wearing toques. Because last week, someone paid FOR mine.

The queue had been moving abominably slow, helmed as it was by a trainee, and the wait was made more excruciating because in the meantime the gentleman in front of me was doing that “friend holds the place in line while I run off and pick up a few more items.” That is not illegal or even wrong, per se, but it is damned crafty and annoying to those of us who are slow-like and do not think of such time-saving tricks. *shakes fist at smart people*.

Soon though it was the turn of Smart Arab Man In Trendy Glasses – who we will refer to henceforth as SAMIT-G – cousin of Ali-G. When his things were nearly done being rung up, I put my items on the conveyor belt – with a considerable distance in between to make it obvious that they were separate in lieu of the divider stick thinger. Hey, my momma raised me right. But the confused cashier, perhaps lost in the joy of the picking up and beeping of cantaloupes, did not notice the gap and happily pulled my items into his. Before I could stop her, she had rung up my cheese. “Um, excuse me. Those are my things. Not his. The soap was his last item.” The cashier – a cute Filipino woman – looked up, scared and confused, and hesitantly picked up the offending cheese and put it back on the bar-code reader. That was a start, but not quite enough. I was about to discretely tell her to void the purchase when SAMIT-G jumped in, with his swishy English. “No, iz ok! I bay! I like cheese!” and puts my cheese back on the other side of the unpaid-paid line.

*collapses* But I WANTED that cheese, my tired brain wailed. It took me FOREVER to pick it out. I was torn between Bega Mild, Bega Tasty and … get this… Bega EXTRA Tasty. I mean, I want my cheese tasty, like any person, but what makes it EXTRA tasty. And can I handle such cheesy tastiness? And also, if you had the option of Tasty and EXTRA Tasty, what kind of nutter goes for Mild? After much deliberation, I had hedged my bets on Tasty and was anxiously waiting to get it home to find out if I had made the right choice. But then, maybe SAMIT-G was wondering the same thing too. Perhaps, behind the well-coifed hair, mall-mannequin outfit, and expensive sneakers, there was a devious opportunist with a gourmet bent. But whatever yo. He could uncover the mysteries of Bega Tasty on his own time. “Er, that’s ok. I’ll pay for my own cheese,” I answered. To which SAMIT-G offered a dazzling smile, displaying a good use of the Lebanese banking system’s loans for cosmetic improvements, and said “Iz ok! Do not worry! I bay, I bay!”

At this point, I am lost. I am tired. I am confused. I have had a long day. I like cheese, but not enough to argue with some Arab Ken-doll about it in the middle of Union Coop. Maybe he needs it more than me. Maybe the bleach from his highlights has gone to his head and he’s an addled fromage-fetisher. Maybe this cheese was his destiny. Meh. There is always tomorrow. And there is more where that brick of Tasty came from. So I put my vague smile back on, tried one last time to communicate with the bewildered cashier – though my masterful combination of The Force, blinking and telepathy – and then surrendered myself to the fates. SAMIT-G seemed satisfied with that. Grinning all the while, he paid his bill, checked the receipt, and gallantly bid me and the cashier adieu and went away.

Leaving behind – my cheese. To which I am thinking – oh, maybe the cashier did some very fast sleight of hand and un-rung the cheese. She will obviously ring it up with my things now. But she did not. She beeped all my other items and pushed them close to the suspect cheese. Again, I am wondering what will become of the unfortunate Bega Tasty. Will I have to remind her to ring it up and include it in my purchases – which seemed impossible after such a big to-do about it. She can’t have forgotten a brick of cheese whose affections two random customers fought over. Unless perhaps that happens often, which somehow diminishes my story’s greatness so I’d rather not think about it.

But then she picked up the cheese from the far reaches of the paid side, put it in my bag and handed it to me with a knowing smile. Confused, I took it, and waited for my receipt to make all things apparent. And yes, I realize if I was a smarter monkey, I’d have been able to tell if I had paid for Bega Tasty or not just by the size of my bill, but I already told you I’m slow-like. I needed to check the receipt. Which I did. Only to find – indeed. I was NOT billed for my cheese. Musta been SAMIT-G was. And he was long gone before I could have it out with him for trying to buy my fromage’s honor or make him tell me what was the big idea about buying my cheese. I mean, what kind of girl does he think I am?

Life is full of mysteries. Some of them involve Arab men and cheese.

Ok my loves. That is all of the self-deprecating destruction of my good-name I can produce in one day. Be well. Think happy thoughts. Keep your hands off my fromage.