To all the lovelies…

… who found themselves here:

This blog is no longer in use. I am very thankful that you followed this blog!! Nonetheless, this was only a test run, a beta-version, a beginning…

… for this blog:


The new blog is very much like this one, except I feel more comfortable using it, having a new name and what not.

Well, I guess what I am trying to say is: if you liked what was on this blog, go check out the new blog, because at some point soon, this blog here will no longer exist and I would regret not offering you an alternative.

Keep on reading, keep on writing, keep on motivating newbies like me to write to readers like you! Thanks once more! 🙂

Shithead-Day: Pure Romance!

It’s Valentine’s Day. The husband and I had the agreement to not make a big deal out of it. Actually, we had the deal to make nothing out of it. We are not really romantic in the traditional kind of way. I got a potted flower three days before Valentine’s Day “because it was near the counter”. And when I asked the husband what kind of flower it was he answered: “I don’t know, something pink, I guess. I took the one where almost all buds are still closed, so…”

And that’s all.

Now, on the actual Valentine’s Day, we had a really greasy and cheesy vegetarian pasta bake and a fresh salad – which the son didn’t even look at.

After that, we all slouched on the couch. And that’s where we stayed. Where we still are.

The husband and I are playing a video game. The son is watching. We are all muffled up under the same blanked. Suddenly the son addresses me.

“Shithead.”, he says and smiles.

“Excuse me?!”, I answer, still staring at my video game character (a tiny Lego figure – the husband and I are totally into the Lego video games!).

“Shithead.”, the son replies calm and in a soft voice.

I’m a bit confused and look at the husband. The husband shrugs.

“Where have you heard that word?”, I ask the son, now giving him my full attention.

I suspect his new friends from kindergarten. The son answers:

“Daddy called me that.”

I gasp and look at the husband. He appears to be innocently surprised by that answer.

“Never.”, he manages to whisper.

“Now, sweetie, tell me the truth. Who taught you that word?”


“I swear I didn’t.”, the husband declares convincingly.

“Honey, where did you hear that word?”, I ask again.

“Here.”, the son answers and points at his ear.

Well… yeah, sure.

“Shithead.”, the son states again, without, so it seems, meaning anyone in particular.

The way he pronounces the word somehow sounds sweet and soft. More like a pet name instead of a swearword.

“Shithead.”, he repeats, kisses my forehead and leaves the couch to play in his play corner in the living room.

“Shithead.”, I echo, kissing the husband on the forehead.

“Bunch of shitheads.”, the husband smiles, proudly glances at his son and hugs me tightly.

Then we continue playing Lego.

Spider-Girl: Do a Good Turn Daily!

There’s something on the wall. I’m sure. I’m sure it’s moving. A little brown spot.

“Read on, mummy!”, the son urges.

I try to concentrate on the book I’m reading him as a bedtime story, but I just can’t focus.

There! Again! The little brown spot. It’s moving!!

Now the son realizes his mother’s tenseness.

“What is it?”, he whispers.

“I think it’s a spider.”, I answer. Then I finally get up.

I have to mentioned that this is a very hard decision, since we have about -35°C outside and we don’t have but a small heater for the whole upstairs. It’s cold everywhere else, but in bed.

I move towards the wall. Yep, a spider. Great.

The little nipper comes and joins me next to the wall on the floor.

“I go get some paper.”, he tells me.

I look at him getting some tissues from the nightstand. He hands them to me.

“Ehm, thanks sweetie… but, err, what am I supposed to do with that?”, I ask him dazzled.

“SQUASH! SQUASH!”, he yells delighted and claps his hands with every ‘squash’.


“Daddy always makes that.”, the son explains.

“I see.”, I say slowly.

I sniff a chance to teach the little one something about compassion and the value of life, no matter how little a being.

“But I don’t. I won’t squash the spider.”, I testify bravely.

The only problem: I dread spiders!!

Though it is true. I never kill them. Because: we have a deal, the spiders and I. I am very allergic to mosquito bites. Not in a way that I suffer from respiratory distress – I just excessively swell and redden. And the pruritus reaches the level of insufferableness. So when it is summer and the mosquitos fly, the spiders and I have a deal: you (the spider) sit in this corner (far away from my bed) and don’t make excursions to where I (the human) am, and in return you can have an all-you-can-eat mosquito buffet!

But now it’s winter. There are no mosquitos, no flies, no nothing. But there on my wall, there’s a little, yet somehow fat spider.

“See, buddy, how little the spider is. It won’t harm you. There’s no need to kill it.”, I tell my son, but mainly myself.

Now, all I need is an idea. An idea how to stop the spider from moving around. My eyes take the empty glasses into account. The husband always complains about them. There is an omnium gatherum of glasses and plastic cups on the nightstand, some empty, some half-full (because we are optimistic!). The son and I always take a fresh cup of water upstairs when we go to sleep. If thirst should haunt us in the night, I don’t have to walk the whole way to the kitchen. However, instead of taking the mug downstairs the next morning, they somehow always stay upstairs until we realize some mug-shortage in the kitchen.

I stand up, get an empty glass and impose it upside down on the spider. The tissues are placed underneath the glass. Great, a little spider glass house. The spider doesn’t look pleased. Well, glass prison then. And though the glass was empty, it still was wet. Two of the spiders legs are stuck in a drop of water.

“I’m sorry. It’s just… I can’t sleep with you walking around here.”, I apologize to the spider.

I place the spider-glass-construct in a corner on the floor.

“We will free the spider tomorrow.”, I tell my son.

Then we go to bed.

The next day we are all very busy, for we are going away for the weekend.

The spider is still in the glass.

We go to the car.

The spider is still in the glass.

We are away for three days and two nights.

The spider is still in the glass.

We come home.

The son goes to visit the spider.

Surprisingly enough the spider is still alive. But it looks at us very reproachfully.

“Hey little eight-legged friend.”, I greet the spider.

“Get that thing out of here, already?!”, the husband directs. “It’s been in here for many days and nights. You promised me to get rid of it ‘first thing in the morning’. When was that? Like four days ago?”

Without thinking too much I open the window and through the little, yet fat, spider out of the window. And as I watch it fly through the air, towards the snow, it occurs to me, that I might have made a fallacy somewhere…

I’m not so sure if you can save a spider’s life by throwing it into the wild, when the wild’s current temperature is -36,4°C.

“Is the spider happy now, mum?”, the son asks.

“Err… sure, sweetie. I’m sure it’s, err, drop-dead happy, you know? Since it’s to die for outside today, right?”, I turn to my husband.

The husband just smirks amusedly and kisses my forehead.

I’m going to hell…

Error: You shall not write!

This is just great! Finally I have ideas flowing, stories building up in my head. So I sit down in front of my laptop and open the site of my blog. Everything goes as usual. Until I try to click the “My Site” button to add another post.


Nothing happens.





I try to log out again, so I click on the associated button.



I start to get a little angry.

Click, click, click, CLICK, CLICK, CLICK!!!!!!

The husband let’s me know that there are more convenient ways of communication these days than Morse code.

“HA HA!”, I answer with a fake sarcastic laughter.

I open another tab, just to make sure the problem is not connected to the browser or the internet connection. Everything runs smoothly. Hm…

I go back to my blog site.


Still nothing.

The anger accumulates.

“Ahhh!”, I scream a little primevally. Then I continue hitting the mouse button.


“One shall not hit the computer, it might break.”, the son cites his father in a know-it-all manner.

“This is my computer, I can do with it what ever I want!”, I say using teenage rhetoric.

“Well, obviously you can’t, which is the reason for your anger.”, my husband remarks cleverly.

“SILENCE!”, I command.


“Why don’t you just… you know? The power button?!”, the husband recommends.

I turn around in my executive chair.

“Oh, such wisdom! As if I had not thought of that myself already!? The problem is, that everything else is running just fine and I have a lot of documents and websites open for my law course. I don’t feel like investing work and time into saving all the websites, closing all the documents, then shutting down the computer, rebooting the computer, reopening all websites and documents…”

While I’m talking the son is sneaking around my desk.

“… I will probably miss a site or document. Then I have to spend time searching for it again… time, time, I have no time! Do I look to you like a woman who has a lot of time?”

The husband checks out my usual work clothing: a pajama trendily combined with an oversized, baggy cardigan (we have -35°C, so I need a little coziness), my hair in a messy bun, my face lined through discontent.

“Well…”, he starts. Then he stops.

My eyes glisten dangerously, my left eyebrow arches upwards.

“That’s a trick question.”, he grumbles.

“Anyway…”, I continue. Then I turn around, just in time to see that my son is already executing his father’s proposal: his lovely tiny finger is on my power button.

“No…!”, I whisper desperately.

Then I can see how my screen goes bla…


New Year’s resolutions – what a hooey! I’m blown away…

I don’t understand all those people making special lists and plans for the New Year. What has really changed since a couple of days ago? I mean, besides that some dumbass has blown up our mailbox with a firecracker?! And of course all the confusion when writing down the date: “Oh, I wrote ’15 again, though it’s ’16 already…”

Blah, blah…

We didn’t even attend any party this year, or then last year. We just went to sauna and had the traditional New Year’s Eve food: potato salad and sausages. Nothing special happened… well, except for some idiot blowing up our mailbox with a firecracker.

Of course I also thought about making a list of New Year’s revelations and then even sharing it here with you. But I really didn’t come up with things that needed to be done this year, which did not needed to be done already last year. Apart from buying a new mailbox, because some jerk blew up our old mailbox with a firecracker!!!

I could promise myself to exercise more regularly… but whom am I kidding?! Whenever I have time to exercise, I know I rather should be reading for school. (Every time I have time to do something else than reading for school, I know I should rather be reading for school, which is kind of a downer… almost like finding your mailbox in pieces, because it had been blown up with a firecracker by some turd!!).

Or I could cheat myself and promise something like: I won’t smoke this year. I never smoked and have no intention to start (I also react slightly allergic to cigarette smoke, which has ALWAYS made it easy for me to stay away from cigarettes and their kind), so this should be an easy promise to keep – but what kind of a stupid promise that would be? Almost as stupid as blowing up other people’s mailboxes with a firecracker!!!

Then I thought I should at least make one promise. A small one to share here, that is related to the topic of my blog. Of course, the most obvious and easiest would be: update the blog more often and more regularly. But I wanted to go even one step further. I wanted to also promise to finally have more visual content on my blog, like pictures. So my promise for this year:

I promise myself and you to update this blog more often and more regularly not only with written, but also with visual content.

I shall start by posting a picture of our blown up mailbox.

I wish you all a happy New Year!

Foto am 02.01.16 um 15.51

… and have yourself a drunken little Christmas!

When being a foreigner in Finland, it can happen that you are introduced to holidays that are not celebrated in your home country. For me, those holidays were Midsummer day and pikku joulu, meaning “little Christmas”. It can also happen that holidays familiar to you are celebrated completely differently (e.g. Easter) or not at all (e.g. St. Martin’s Day).

Another thing that foreigners learn when celebrating Finnish holidays is that – no matter which holiday it is – you always drink alcohol. Lot’s of alcohol. Really, very mucho grande a lot of alcohol!!!!111 ALCOHOL! AL-CO-HOL!!!!

I think you catch my drift.

As mentioned before, I’m not the hard-drinking kind of lady. So when I am invited to celebrate a Finnish holiday with Finnish friends, I’m usually more or less sober, watching the others get drunk – which is actually more fun than it might sound like. And since I am not the only one in our circle of friends to do so, I am not alone. It’s actually quite helpful for creating funny memories: while one part of the group is actually doing the funny things, the other part of the group is sober enough to remember the funny things. But moving on…

When I was first introduced to the habit of celebrating “little Christmas”, I was charmed by the idea: since Christmas is such a huge thing in Finland, Finns decided one should celebrate it more often than once a year. “Little Christmas” is celebrated during the Advent season, for example at work with colleagues or at home with friends. The “real” Christmas is then celebrated with one’s family. Usually, when celebrating at work all the employees get a little gift or a bonus. When celebrating with friends, sometimes you play Secret Santa.

“It is also the holiday, when most of the cheating is happening.”, my husband explains.

I have to admit, this information makes the holiday appear less charming to me.

He goes on:

“You know, even when you are celebrating with your colleagues, there’s always a lot of alcohol. People start sleeping with their bosses for a raise. Or they hump the one colleague they always felt attracted to. Or then, when they start hitting the bar, they find someone there.”

In my face you can read confusion and disgust – this doesn’t sound charming at all anymore!

“I didn’t make that up myself – neither do I speak from experience. But they have conducted some researches about this, let’s call it phenomenon. They write about it in the papers almost every year around Christmas.”

Very nice…

“But it’s not always that bad. Sometimes you just get very drunk. Like one guy I knew: always silent at work, very shy, hardly makes any eye-contact with you when you talk to him. And then at pikku joulu: boom! He starts talking to you, about life in general and his life in detail. He tells you how delicious his schnapps is, and then in the sauna, he shows you how much he can drink of it. Sadly, shortly afterwards he shows you the whole performance in reverse and all across the dining table… Ahh, the good old days.”

I remember that guy. We once met him at the Christmas fair. There really was no eye-contact.

“Or then, you remember Pauli?”

Yes, I remember Pauli. He and his girlfriend visited us just a few days ago. Pauli told us he got so drunk at his work’s little Christmas that he mistook the red wine stains on his shirt for blood, which made him take of his shirt and spend the rest of the evening topless. Very classy!

But those are things one can laugh about after a few weeks have gone by.

I wonder what kind of Christmas is coming for those who actually had a little fling…

“And this year for Christmas, I got you an STD. Surprise! And merry Christmas, honey!”

I don’t know. Maybe I start preferring Midsummer day. The only weird thing about Midsummer day is the media counting the drowned and injured people and compare the numbers to last year.

Help, this man is not my father!

Lately I am really busy. I am working my internship while I try to complete about eight courses for my studies (mainly law courses, so it’s gonna take a while, since it’s reading, reading reading and then writing, writing writing – that’s how you create a learning diary.). This leads to my husband spending a lot of time with our son, you know, “among men”. Since there are things that usually I do with the mini-he, sometimes he reacts confused when suddenly daddy is doing them. Like picking him up from his playgroup.

“Where’s mummy?”, he greets his father.

“Hello.”, says the nursery nurse, “Who are you?”

“I am this little fella’s father.”, the husband explains.

“Where is mummy?”, the son asks again.

“Today I pick you up.”, the father answers.

“No.”, the son defies.

“Excuse me.”, the nursery nurse tells my husband, then starts talking to our son. “Don’t you wanna go home with daddy? This is your daddy, right?”

“I can’t tell.”, our son replies.


This answer was not really helpful.

The simple silence evolves into an awkward silence.

But then finally, the redeeming hug – clumsily the little monkey takes his jacket and climbs onto his dad’s lap, who is sitting on the children’s sized bench next to the coat reck. A real Gulliver in Lilliput, his knees almost hit his own chin.

“Do we go shopping, daddy? Look what I made today. That’s for you, daddy.”, the monkey produces an octopus made from an empty toilet roll out of his backpack. Confusingly enough the octopus has a beak. “That is… nice, monkey. Err… what is it?”

“It is an ink fish – obviously!”, the son states, not realizing that he – yet again – is using the straight translation from the German word “Tintenfisch”, which means octopus.

“Is this a beak?”, his dad asks him.

“Well of course, it has to eat somehow, right?!”, explains our little genius.

The nursery nurse eventually is convinced enough of my husband’s paternity to let the two of them go. (Just in case you wondered: they have a number they can call to make sure if the person coming to pick up a child is really entitled to do so.)

They drive to the city to do some christmas shopping together. It’s a really windy day. Cold, with drizzle. The son sits in his buggy, which hardly offers any shelter from the elements. I don’t know why, but whenever our son is uncomfortable, he starts yelling “HELP!”. He does this, too, when we frolic and tickle each other in bed before sleep time. Then he screams it with a big smile. And when you actually stop doing whatever you were doing, he commands you to do it “Once more!”. I’m just saying, in my opinion, the son simply likes to scream “HELP!”, though there is no real emergency (like almost every child I ever met).

So here they are, walking down the shopping mile, and the son continuously screams “HELP!”, for disliking the wind and rain in his face. An old lady stops, concerned, looking at the two of them. As they pass her, she decides to follow them “low profile”.

“Stop screaming?!”, the husband suggests.

“No!”, the son screams back at him. Ah, such a lovely age, this defiant age!

“Please? Very please! People start looking at us.”, the husband tries again.


The lady looks even more concerned. She finally plucks up some courage and asks: “Excuse me, but is this even your child?”

The husband blushes, eyes wide, trying to smile.

“Of course he is!”

“NO!”, says the son. Then he adds a little: “HELP!”

“Monkey, please…” Already a little desperate.

“I promise you, this is my son, I am his father, he just…”