Coming out of his cage... and he's been doing just fine

ExMi and Cath said let him go. So I let him go. Result:

*He had a blast. There was a foam pit. (A foam pit?!)
*He's dating the Head Girl.
*She's a minister's daughter.
*The same minister that married us.
*They're not on a smooching basis. Apparently.
*She asked him out. Via a third party.
*He has another party tonight. A Grade 7 chick's leaving-junior-school bash.
*I was informed of this this morning on my way out the door at 6a.m
*Shall I just hand over my car keys and a bottle of Jack Daniels this time?

I'm still processing all this. And giggling to myself.

Thank you ExMi for your advice on unknotting those apron strings and putting things in perspective.
Thank you Cath for consenting, then putting on your Amish cap right along with me and holding my hand via sms all evening while I cleaned, chain smoked, drank champagne and freaked out quietly. (Not necessarily in that order.)

So what I'm trying to say is: I blame you both.
The God Botherers found a way to get to me through my son. And I'm probably about to become a grandmother, too. Dammit it all.

(I kid. Really, thank you both; Mini-Me has you to thank and I'm glad I let him go, he came home practically bouncing off the walls. And I think the 'girlfriend' thing is too cute. Unfortunately I'll have to impose a life-long ban on the internet. Because if he ever finds this I'm so screwed...)

Ack

Alrighty, have found myself in a bit of a situation and am in need of advice:

First off, am ridiculously proud of Mini-Me, he was chosen to be a Grade 7 prefect at his school for 2009, and has been literally sleeping with his shiny new badge and sash (sash: wtf? they look like little military minions, but I digress...) for the past two days.
SO... my baby is growing up, no doubt, am so proud of him and I hope being recognised in this manner and given some pretty hectic duties and responsibilities is going to boost him bigtime in 2009, just in time for high school. (Oh my word that's another kettle of monkeys altogether, I break out in a cold sweat just thinking about it...)

BUT (taking the above into account, though this is an unrelated incident) he has received an invite to a party. S'ok, they cost me a small fortune in R50 notes and cards, but there seem to be many, many parties.
First problem? It's a school night. I know it's breakup day tomorrow, but still. School night.
Second, nigglier problem? It's from a giiiiiiirl. Again, s'cool, he went to a chick's party last weekend. But this girl? She's 13. Mini-Me's 11. Why on earth would a 13yr old want to hang around with an 11yr old? Apparently a couple other kids from his grade are going, but I don't know the parents. It's a pool party. With a best dressed prize for best girl's swimsuit and boy's swimsuit. Erm. Wait. What?
AND....pool party. My mind goes to slippage, fallage and... other scary '-ages'. Which I can't think of right now. But they all spell CONCUSSION, alright?

But what bothers me most? I know what goes on at 13yr olds parties. I remember those. I was such a good girl, but it didn't stop someone trying to ram their pre-pubescent tongue down my throat while making for second base like my bra was on fire. And the thought of dark corners and pre-teen hormones make me kak. my. pants.
On the other hand (see how these apron strings are apparently wrapped so tight they're cutting off my air, along with my ability to make a firm decision?!) what's the worst that could happen?
Realistically, he's never had a full-on proper girlfriend - not for lack of them trying, though. I reckon he'd be awkward to the max if cornered by a female, and the most that could happen would be what? He kisses a girl...and he likes it? (Oh Lord I despise that song. I apologise.)

Gah. My rational mind says: "Let him go, he has every right to go celebrate his achievements and the end of a tough year - let go a little and trust you've had 'the talk' openly and often enough that he'll make good decisions."

My mommy mind says: "Woman, are you mad?! Don't you remember those parties? He's too. young for those. Plenty of time for that later. Keep him home and deal with being 'sounfairyoudon'ttrustmeyoukeepmelockedupinabox' for the umpteenth time this year."

If I concede to him going, I'm going to call the parents and ask if this thing is going to be well-supervised, without trying to sound Amish or like I think their daughter is a harlot.
(Which I don't. I'm sure she's lovely. I just wish she wouldn't come be lovely next to my 11 year old.)
Here's where you insert advice. Because I'm turning this over and over in my mind so much that I can smell burning.
HELP!
(P.S. Cath has a bitchy kidney. And she's fucking ornery, too. Feel better soon, sweetpea. One hokey pokey dance in darned socks coming up...)

(P.P.S. I loved this. Watch it. Seriously.)

May a rabid possum chew on your genitals

Am feeling considerably more snarky today, a good sign that my mojo be returnin'. It's when I don't care enough to express sentiments like the one above that I worry. Today? Today I'm unleashing the possums.

To the self-important assholes who need constant validation for simply doing their job? A possum for you.

To the cardigan-wearing soccer mom who sneered at me this morning because I'm wearing these:

And not these:

...a possum for you, lady.

To the makers of the bootleg viagra (that will probably result in you growing a wang on your forehead) who are spamming me about my apparently flaccid penis?

Two possums for you, sirs.

I have spare possums. You've been warned.

(Btw: Covety covety covet I want them....)

My sentiments exactly

2008 = Sucktastic

So. It's been a trying year. If reincarnation exists (we're made of energy - energy has to go somewhere, right?) I have chosen this lifetime to do what seems to be an inordinate amount of "personal growth." Learned many things the hard way, swimming upstream all the way. Making a "rock for my own back", to quote someone stupendously stupid I once had the displeasure of working with.
I better be coming back as a friggen kazillionaire playboy, cruising on my yacht in Monaco and snorting coke off hookers' asses in my next life.
Looking back on the previous year, 2008, particularly the second half thereof, has been a rather "challenging" experience on all fronts. (You like my gratuitous use of super-duper-I'm-OK-you're-OK self-help book jargon? Got a bookshelf stuffed with the sanctimonious bastards and I'm none the wiser, trust me. The Secret? The secret is: Save your money and take the happy drugs, people. Anybody got some they're willing to part with?)

Aware that I lean too far into emo territory as it is, and am far too introspective and intense to be any kind of good company, I'm just gonna whack it out there and be done with it. No drama. Just to get it all in perspective and hopefully move the fuck on and up. Gotta do something to purge the urge to stay in my little cave, maybe. Am actually becoming resentful of the fact that the world expects me to get up every morning and function - can't they see how tired I am? How heartbroken? How ill-equipped I am to be dealing with their demands? Those kinds of thoughts can't be good, no? Can't lose even one day to the emo. Got a very perceptive Mini-Me (also an intense little buglet) and he picks up on that stuff. Not fair.
So, catharsis is my little Shitlist, where it's going to come out and stay out. The nominees for Fucked Up Events of 2008, (the last 5 months, to be exact) in no particular order are:

• A kitchen fire that necessitated some serious and seriously expensive renovations and dealing with insurance mouth-breathers, red-tape spackled paperwork, sworn affidavits that I'm not a (diagnosed) pyromaniac, and contractors that sucked, sucked my last bit of faith in humanity right into the abyss.
• Two separate burst pipe bathroom floods that decimated all the pack-ratting, bulk buying I'd been doing.
• Absolute despair over finances (or lack thereof) and no raise or Christmas bonus this year.
• A marriage that is teetering on the brink of ridiculous - commuter husband means I may as well be a single parent most weeks. When he is home, I'm tired, moody and generally gatvol of his being able to come home and sit down. And stay there. All evening.
• A cute but impractical car that is showing signs of needing a lung transplant and blood transfusion after doing a minimum of 100kms of mileage a day. The most awful "skrrrreeeeeeeeeeeeeeee" greets me on startup every morning and alerts the whole neighbourhood to my whereabouts. Yes, it's the fanbelt. No, my mechanic categorically states, it cannot be fixed simply by replacing it. What? Dude. I know I have boobs - they are in addition to, not in place of actual brains. You're lucky I can't afford a fan belt right now. Douche.
• A surprisingly long and painful recovery from a spine operation to remove something that revealed itself to be a tumour. S'fine, benign, pass the wine. Bit of a hairy week waiting for those results, though. Yeesh.
• A second emergency impacted wisdom tooth removal. Would have been nice if I was knocked out and not gripping the armrests for dear life, while Doc had his foot firmly planted on it too for leverage.
• Forced to take meds from both these episodes that kicked my ass so badly that I was unable to maintain any level of healthy eating or exercise. Weight gain, loss of muscle tone and general sallow, yellow appearance. Soooo sexxxy.
• One missing Siamese babycat, eventually discovered a week later she had been run over, her body thrown into an open plot of overgrowth down the road. The person who did it clearly saw my son and I calling for her, plastering our tiny neighbourhood with posters, saw the expensive newspaper ads, and didn't give a shit. They have no clue that losing her shattered me, but the waiting and hoping for her return made it so, so much worse. They didn't have to lie with my sobbing son every night and pretend to be positive about her return. She had just emerged from kittenhood having already survived being born and living on the streets of Joburg, numerous eye infections, stunted growth, parasites and infections, and falling out of a second storey window. She grew into a healthy, affectionate and gorgeous little girl who made my heart so full. She loved Mini-Me best of all, and would follow him all over the house just to jump at the chance of some lap-time when he sat down. The impact she made during her relatively short time with us was huge, and Mika's place can never be filled.
• Tigger was the gayest cat in the whole wide world, and was highly strung, shrill of meow and scared of his own shadow from the day we got him. Seven years later, his breathing became far too rapid and after many different diagnoses and vet visits, he was labelled as having a heart condition. Congestive heart failure ensured massive fluid buildup in his abdomen, constant medication and breathing difficulties. Through all this, he remained ridiculously affectionate, chipper and ate like a horse. As his condition worsened we came to terms with the fact it would be kinder to put him to sleep. Appointments were made and a day set - soon. Before this could happen, his condition changed abruptly and I returned from work one day to find him lame, lying in the rain in the garden. Remaining as calm as possible for Mini-Me's sake, all I could do was grab my keys, throw all of us in the car and drive to mom's one handed, holding him with the other, so she could hold him as I shunted it to the nearest vet. I was fully aware that this cat was dying, and a scared Mini-Me sat in the back and quietly watched me as I struggled to hold my composure and talked gently to poor Tigs. Despite my outward calm, I think he knew it too. Marching into the vet, I interrupted her explanations with a request to please, please hurry and put him out of his misery, as he became more frantic on the table. Distress at being held down caused him to turn around and sink his teeth into my index finger, cutting right through the muscle. And before she could even reach for her needle, his struggles grew weaker and he slipped away. Horrified and blood fountaining from my hand, I lost all composure as I made arrangements for his body to be cremated. As she stressed the urgency for a tetanus shot and stitches, all I could think was, "This is my fault, he didn't deserve such a painful death, I should have acted faster..." Walking to the car carrying only his blanket, I watched Mini-Me's face crumple as he eventually cried at the realisation that Tigs wouldn't be coming home. Holding him while he sobbed in the back seat as he sobbed, I would have given anything to take his pain for him. After three different visits to so-called 'after hours' doctors who refused me an emergency appointment, I landed up in the storeroom of a very lovely pharmacist who took pity on my sobby, rain-sodden self and gave me a shot and the other necessary dressings and antibiotics without a prescription. I fought at the 1000mg horse-tablet sized antibiotics and their sick-making side effects, and was told in no uncertain terms that a cat bite was waaay worse than a dog bite (who knew?) and I would surely get something nasty without them. He was right, I did; they didn't work and I still have limited use of the finger from nerve and muscle damage, and the remains of a nasty, painful infection. Tigs left his mark, both on my finger and on my heart. He was gentle, intuitive and dignified, and I'll never forgive myself for his most undignified ending. My ginger ninja, I hope you're in a good place now.
• Resignations abound at my place of work, one recent one belongs to the only person I can stand, and who I immediately recognised as me, only years ago. She's what I was when I was younger and very idealistic, my scarily similar 'I-just-read-your-mind chick, don't even think about it' now best friend. That person. And she has to leave, if she has any chance of not letting an exceedingly fucked-up environment jade her any more than it already has. I know it's been each other's presence that has kept us both here for so long, and that to ask her to stay would mean she would sink in deeper. I absolutely will not show her how devastated and adrift I feel at her leaving, she's the kind that will feel guilty and shitty, always worried more about other people. But damn. Heartsore. Going to be harder than hard. And our project? I'll need to grow another set of hands, because I'm on my own. I'm not surely how this is logistically possible right now, I'm already in the office til midnight some nights, and working evenings and weekends at home, but there we go. Work. The place you spend the majority of your time. It's important that you're appreciated as a human being, that you're good at what you do, and that it's not an environment loaded with poobombs waiting to explode if you step the wrong way. That's all I can say about that right now.

That's pretty much all the private stuff I can talk about in public, so the rest I'll keep to my chest for now. Yikes. Long list. What a major moan. I do feel a little lighter though, if not exactly sure of how to get out of this hole. They say you have to hit rock bottom before change is forced upon you. Can anyone spare some change?

Douchebag Dedications

Let's ROLL with the vitriol

Ahhhhhh maaaaaaan. Why? Why do you gotta go be dumb all up in my space today?
Cath says there are no dumb people, only dumb actions. Oh honey I am soooo gonna have to disagree with you on that one today, because I have been an IdiotMagnet alllll week, with today's events (all before lunch, are you shitting me?!) resulting in a spectacular crescendo of my irritation.

It's not an original idea, but it's a good one: stupid people need to come with a warning sign. Takeaway coffees come with "Caution - Contents Hot" emblazoned on the packaging, (in case, you know, you were expecting something different when you ordered that poncey cappuccino with a longer name than a pedigreed cat?)
Vacuous people need signs to warn the general public immediately. "Caution - Contents Stupid" is short, to the point, and would make a lovely T-shirt. Please take a memo and execute with immediate effect. (The idea, not the stupid people. Although that would be lovely too. Can we just skip ahead to that part?)

To wit; to list:

1) Handbrake. The thing you use to ensure your shiny new Honda Civic doesn't go rooooolling out of its parking and down the entrance ramp. So that the poor driver you hired (because at least you realise you can afford it, but you are incapable of driving it) doesn't have to fling himself into the rapidly-moving vehicle, only to be met with "Don't scratch it!"
It also ensures I am not squashed flat by said vehicle as I'm having my morning smoke break. Thankssomuch. Here's your sign.

2) Oh you're pregnant? This makes you feel a little warm, does it? Well now, the rest of us don't mind wearing three layers of clothing or keeping a jersey in the office all summer long so that your gestating ass can be cool and comfy. Sure! How about, when you're screaming in at the maid for making you the wrong lunch (no we really wouldn't expect you to walk to the fridge yourself, you're pregnant, woman! Are you mad!?) we turn it down a few more degrees? All that shouting must make you even hotter. (Although it may help if you took your own jersey off, too) How about 15 degrees as opposed to the normal 17? Just a hint too - pregnancy doesn't make you fat, honey. It's the large pizza hidden in your desk drawer. Nom nom nom.

3) To the cold-caller who wants to sell me a funeral policy/new account/credit card/cellphone contract/electric ass-wiper. Stop. Right. There. I appreciate that you are doing a job. A shitty one, at that. You must deal with some real assholes every day. I will attempt to halt your spiel (you should put some animation into that reading-voice, by the way, but I understand - shitty job, and all that) by telling you politely, but in no uncertain terms, that I am not going to waste both your time and mine, that I do not purchase anything over the phone, especially not from unsolicited calls, and that I am currently at my place of employ and therefore unable to chat, so thanks but no thanks. IF after I have taken the time to stop you, politely explain my reasons and reject your advances, you continue to talk over me, argue with me about why I should purchase your product right now and get snotty, offended and obnoxious, I reserve the right to go postal on your ass. And it will be horrible. I will be scarily calm but will probably make you cry. Really. Just let's not and say we did, mkaaaaay?

4) To the gentleman (and I use that term soooo loosely) in the BMW who sidled up next to me and started to nose his way into the queue I had been inching along in for 45 minutes: you sir, are a meatpuppet. You don't care that you've blocked an entire offramp. You are very busy and important and simply deserve to cut in front. Waiting in line is for everyone else, not you. The rules of polite society and common decency don't apply to you, you are special. So special that you refuse to glance in my direction, and it takes numerous hoots on my part before you will turn to acknowledge my existence with a sneer. I'm glad you did, asshat, so I may smile back sweetly while gently extending my middle finger and simultaneously pulling off nice and close to the car in front of me when the light changes. Oh dear, are you stuck there now? Why are all those people behind you beginning to hoot? Friendly, aren't they?
You're the same person (you're all the same person to me) who simply MUST ride my ass in the fast lane, where I happen to be going 20kms over the limit anyway, because I drive a teeny tiny car. You find it incredibly offensive to your (tiny penis? er... massive ego?) overpriced midlife-crisismobile, that my oddly-coloured, gnat of a car is in the fast lane, and keeping pace. Suck it. I'll slow down just to annoy you. I hope you are reincarnated as Barry Ronge's favourite g-string.

5) Oh. OHHHH my. ExMi got me worked up. I am a fellow Grammar Nazi and proud of it. Again, not perfect, not pretending to be, but I love languages. Specifically, English. Please, please make an attempt to at least learn the basics, people! Is it your native tongue? Then why did your parents pay for you to be educated for so many years if you still can't tell the difference between loose and lose? That they're not burGUlar bars, it's not a cockAroach, it's not they're ball, it's THEIR ball? There is no such thing as a MUTE point?! Mootmootmoot! Oh god I could go on and on and on......... somebody stop me. I'm getting rabid.
Read. Read books. They make you smart in teh brains. Teach your kids to read early, read to them, and let them stay up that extra ten minutes to read every night. The benefits are boundless. Let's eradicate analphabetitis.
(An actual word, analphabet, meaning "an illiterate; one who doesn't know the alphabet or the basics of something." Anal.Phabet. Am soooo anal.)
Watch there be numerous spelling/grammatical errors in this here post. Karma, man. Karma.

6) And lastly, to the person who is too lazy to purchase milk, and has been opening and helping themself to mine? Die. You're a waste of skin if your mother never told you stealing isn't nice. I purchase my own fat-free because I find the full-cream abhorrently vom-inducing. DO NOT diss me because I bring my own healthy food because it's not office-budget sanctioned (majority rules, I get it. I like biscuits and chips sometimes too, but I prefer fruit salad and wholewheat bread. You like fried bacon, glutinous pasta that comes from a bag and clogged arteries), and then proceed to steal that "gross stuff" of mine when yours has run out. I promise you, I will find out who you are, and then it's on. Just fight fair - no trying to sit on me.

Harsh? Petty? Maybe, but as a person who does not suffer fools lightly (no, really. Dad managed to work that into his speech at my wedding. Nice, Father. Defining character indicator or what?) I am not saying I'm supremely smart, or that I'm superior in some way - promise. I am only asking one thing: don't make the stupid near me. Go do it somewhere else. So I can retain some faith in the human race. Please. See? I said please. I'm nice, I'm well-mannered la la la lalala.

Pass the prozac. Nom.

Taking Up My Headspace

Bad

Am horrible person.
An indication of how wrapped up I've been in my own damn shitstorm lately: I forgot The Ex's birthday yesterday. Which wouldn't be so bad, except that...ya know, I kinda went and produced his offspring 11 years ago.
My. Big. Fucking. Bad.

As hard-ass as I have to be with him, all differences and past assholery aside, we've come a long way towards being if not always friendly, at least civil, for the Mini-Me's sake. And who reminds Mini-Me that it's Dad's birthday? And purchases a gift to proffer when he's collected for his every-second-Sunday visit? Me. And I forgot. Out of order. Not my finest moment. And I feel like absolute shit. So if you'll excuse me, today is reserved for quiet self-flagellation.
Jeeeeeez.

TAG! Wait,.... I'M it?????

You know it has to happen someday, but when you're young (*cough*shuttup) and innocent, you think you that time is far away; something to do when you're a grown-up... for now you only read about it in secret and hope that one day it will be as fun for you as it seems for others...

Then one day, you're going about your unsuspecting little business, and someone new comes along, says lovely things to you, you become enthralled by their way with words... and then they jump you when you aren't looking and nail you!

Yes, ExMi popped my (meme)cherry. I'm loving her blogs (she's a fellow bad mommy) so I'm going to attempt this and still retain some shred of dignity!

Ahem. Right then. *clears throat* "do re mememememe..."

The Real Mom Meme

1. Real Moms don’t flinch when they talk about boobs. They do make you laugh your brains out.
2. Real moms go on vacation. Real moms go on vacation and learn to play traffic cop.
3. Real moms brag about their kids
3. Real moms do not mince words when they present the truth.
4. Real moms juggle
5. Real moms “resist the guilt and embrace the journey”
6. Real moms don’t give a damn to media generated Mommy Wars
7. Real moms have kids with potty mouths.
and mine......
8. Real moms are unable to hold back the f-bombs when golf clubs and fishtanks collide.

Don't judge me! (Oh alright, go on then do, it's fun.)

Er. The only problem now? I read (see: stalk) most of the same people she does! Can't just jump out of the woodwork and start tagging strangers, can I? No really, can I? Cause I am the last one to the party on all things internettiquette.

I had an update. I swear. But the gecko ate it......

See? Spot's eeeeevil.

Disclaimer type-thing:

(Alright, fine then - I'll admit I do love a meme. Is that a bad thing? Self-indulgent? Am led to believe it may be? But hell, I love reading 'em, so maybe they're a bit more difficult to actually do...ahee.)

And so I'm back...from inner space

Alright, I'm back.
*Wave's sheepishly to the two people in the back*

Well, kind of.
So many things have happened in the past two months (months!) that I've been on a life-imposed hiatus. Some will be explained, some I'll keep to my own damn self, if that's alright.
More later.
I feel a little bruised and bombarded.
And as usual, work's kicking me squarely in the vajayjay. (What a boring excuse, I know.)

Time to regain my sanity. I'll start tomorrow...

Klassy

This is my friday happiness.
I could spend ages pondering the inner-workings of this elegant lady's brilliant mind.
Not to mention the reactions of her guests (and minister.)
The only thing I know for sure?

She is klassy with a K, right there.

I'm not worthy. I think I love her.

Oh, and?

I learned today that "fugacious" is an actual word.

Pronunciation: (fyoo-GAY-shuhs)

Pity it doesn't mean what I use it for, but I'm still absurdly amused it's a real in-the-dictionary type word.

Meaning: Lasting a very short time.

Momagement meaning: So ugly it makes babies cry/eyeballs bleed.

You may use either definition you like in this weekend's Scrabble to the Death Battle-o-rama.

(But I vote for mine.)

And on that note, time to quit talking shit, pack up my meagre possessions and rain-check the soul-destroying drudgery til Monday. Positivity be my name.

This shit is gold

A random assortment of low-quality phone pics collected over the past two days. Because I have lost the will to give a shit. And yet here I am.

I know you come here for the cat pictures. I cannot disappoint my public.

It's riveting stuff. Try to contain yourself.

No washing floors in my house without pre-authorisation from the occupant.

No washing of anything, actually.

Skateboard+elbow+driveway = Blergh. Good times.

Julie. If you would share your secret I'd be eternally grateful. Crapping gold nuggets is a skill many of my co-workers have (sadly, not I) but turning them into actual crackers and selling them? Genius.

(Yes, these were a genuine item in Pick 'n Pay. No, I did not purchase them. I'm done having smug assholes sell me crap and tell me it's gold. But sooooomeone IS buying them, obviously. Come on. Fess up. Did you have an "Extra Flaky" Golden Kaka at lunchtime?)

And speaking of assholes and co-workers, this is for Cath:

Can you identify the perpetrator from this lineup?

May I suggest this?

Do. Not. Want

Given Fridays' flaming balls of fun, the weekend was a bit of a write-off. Am glazed over and pretty much dunzo today. There was an abundance of other unrelated life-changing shit and other niggly, "does this ever end?!" little hurdles to contend with.

Victim mentality annoys the shite out of me (jokingly referring in this bloglette to the bizarre fuck-ups that season my daily existence is a coping mechanism, alright? Laugh so you don't cry. There's always someone worse off than you. Don't take it all so seriously, blah blah blah...) And no question, I provide endless comic relief to those around me, who then go on to use my own brand of fucktardery and pure shitty luck to amuse and amaze their friends and family. I don't mind, I really, really don't. Hell - I am only too aware you couldn't make this shit up - it's funny. Comedic value for them and I both.


But some days?

My life would be a lot more hilarious if it weren't happening to me.

Some days I just need a bit of a self-indulgent mooch.

Today is a some day.

I'll laugh and be strong tomorrow.

Keep it together, now

Sick kitty. Prognosis: not good. Five days of medication and then say our goodbyes.

Heartbroken. Had to apologise for not being able to hold my shit together in front of the lovely vet.

Who's going to say "Hiiiiiii" (he really does meow 'hi', it's too odd) as I walk in the door every day. He loves me when I'm a horribly unfair mom and a faulty wife-type-thing.

Tigs, my big gay cat, I do love you.

Can today just be over so I can go home now, please.

Crumbs

Upon my lap. Make me nervous.
Like a little army of toast guerillas who refuse to stick to the rules and just get in mah damn mouth already. What are they plotting down there?
I suppose I’m a crumb, then.
I can see how that could get annoying for other people.
Revelatory.

In other news, my PC still insists on taking a giant crap every time I try to tax it with unreasonable tasks like opening a website on (growing and raising your own alpaca) very important work stuff AND a Microsoft word document at the same time. Emails? Pshaaa. Not so much. I followed C@th's advice from the last post and smacked things around repeatedly and loudly, to no avail. Apparently beating the shit out of and cursing the mothers of inanimate objects is alarming to clients in the reception area. Who knew?

Spurty broken bathroom pipes and wet slippers at 5:30am do not make for a fun waking experience. ‘Specially when you know the person you would usually yell at to turn off the water while you attempt stem the fountain that has been drenching all your cosmetics/medications/pat-rack on-special-must-buy-it boxes of tampons and tissues for evidently the last four hours or so, is blissfully aslumber in a B&B far, far away. That person, who shall remain nameless, the same person that previously self-plumbed said pipes, can choke on his B&B bacon and eggs this morning. And tomorrow morning. And return to a wrench-wielding and unwashed wife. Nuff said.

Also. Sit on a pilates ball at your desk. Not only will you be able to convince yourself that your exercise is done for the day (is that an ab? Let’s say it is, m’kay?) but your co-workers will find yet another reason to write you off as a flake that they should avoid at all costs. Constant calorie burning and peace and quiet? Damn, I should be paid for this shit.

I will shake you

I love my co-worker. She's a friend and the only other living entity I can tolerate in my space most days. We are in a semi-shared open plannish type office. This makes life easier for constant work-related communication (read: bitching) and notsogood for one. very. important. reason.





She sings. A lot.


Loudly.





This I can take.


But when she doesn't actually know the words of the song she's singing?


And I'm treated to one line of the same song overnovernovernoveragain?


And when her internal playlist consists mostly of obscure, annoying or random earworm snippets?





I have visions of shaking her like an iPod shuffle. Just to change the damn track.





There's only so much my sanity can take....please, for the love of Mike, sing another line. From another song. You're frozen on repeat. And it's making me want to punch you in the uvula.



Just today, I have been treated to the following gems:

"I can see cleeeeeeearly now, the rain has gone..........."
"And I. HAD. THE. TIME. OF my LIiiIIiiiiiiiife...."'
"Relax! Take it EeEeeeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEEasy..."

And my personal favourite:
"Oh when the Saints, go marching in, oh when the SAINTS go marching IN..."

So please. Stop sharing. Or I will shake you.

That is all. As you were.

Your kids are safe with me

...and they will learn new and valuable social skills.

Give me five minutes. You'd be amazed.

All I ever do here is moan....so why change now? Wheeee!

Monday: Server. Down. All. Day.
What do I know about fixing them animals? Nuffink. Call hundreds-by-the-hour-charging techie. "Broken, you say? Is that a technical term?"

Tuesday: Haul ass out of bed at 4:45am and remind sparrow to fart. Gym. Do Monday's work. Do Tuesday's work. Leave office at 4:30 and sit staring at a pretty pretty row of headlights stretching as far as the eye can see on the N2......until 7:45. Run out of smokes, reading material and patience in that order. Assholes in the rearview mirror may appear closer than they are. Bye yoga class. Bye petrol.

Wednesday: More of the same, minus the big eco-unfriendly group hug clusterfuck on the highway. Farewell braai for hubby's relatives. Braai means rolls and tits'nlips sausage aka boerewors (even the word squiks me) so no edibles for me. Coerced into drinking with distraught leaving relo in kitchen (she actually likes me too...hey hey) one glass kaktastic red wine, eleventyhundred blue Sambuca shots (disgusting at the best of times, but on a school night, nogal?), something in a leopard print bottle (that can't be good) and something which, I swear, had a plant inside it. Greek, I think. Wherever it came from, it all had the same accent coming up.
TMI? Sorry.
But I'd like to point out that for someone who despises vomming, I sure have done it a lot lately.
Blergh. I should get a hobby, I think.

Thursday: Hanging like a buncha wet washing. I am too old for this. MUST you type so loudly?!?!

If anyone needs me, I'll be cowering under my desk.... I'm too dehydrated for tears

Happy Barfday to me

Bad, bad blogger. Not only am I stretched to near-breaking point time wise lately and therefore don't blog as much as I should, I have the distinct and unsettling feeling that I'm doing it wrong.

I have no blog ettiquette (bloggiquette?) and seeing as I don't know the rules, I shall do as I please until someone is kind enough to point out that I'm retarded and the internet is laughing at me. What's the rule of thumb on re-posting an email when you're too blue-assed-fly busy to write another version?

Oh bollocks, don't answer that.
On with the circus, I haven't got all day.

(Comments in red kindly provided by Cathsarseis....cause she's helpful like that!)

Friday: Leave work 9:20pm – feelin iffy in a very odd way.

I've read this whole email already and i just have to say you sure thats not a foetus? *ducks as you lob a stapler*

Saturday: Lots to do. Hey ho, let’s go. Shelve that funny feeling and clean a toilet or two. Get awful haircut. Take mother and sister shopping. Think vomity feeling may just be from sibling proximity and cake you had for breakfast.

yes. blame those we are related to. please. if its not their fault, its mine. and i know its not mine

Sunday: No mojo. Cook for surprise guest with very little in cupboard/fridge. Explain why not only Hippy Americans eat tofu and force it on someone. More cleaning.

bloody surprise guests should.bring.dinner.

Monday a.m: Happy birthday to me! Had forethought to fight for day off. Woo – my birthday present to moi. For me? You shouldn’t have! Spend day feeling old/vomity/grouchy and fidgety because I was coerced into seeing a movie (am NOT a movie theatre person!) Think vomity feeling may be because I was forced to watch 465 hours of self-absorbed women trying on shoes and bemoaning their man troubles and some (man in a suit) slapped a title on it and Sex and the City: The Mooooovie was born. Wolf down lunch.

sex and the city? sex and the shitty. nuff said.

Monday p.m: Happy Barfday to me! Spend Happy Happy Dinner Evening wrapped alternately around mom’s and then own toilet bowl. “Hi, lunch! Wait….I ate that last week.” Apparently husband made sure there were no leftovers while I was doing so. Thoughtful. Hear dessert was good. Chirpy Happy Birthday messages make you want to put your head in and flush. Those assholes should be suffering TOO! WHY ARE’NT THEY SUFFERING!? WHY IS MY PHONE SO LOUD!?

oh holy mother of god i am so glad you blog

Tuesday: Henceforth referred to as The Day You Spend Throwing Up Things You Are Only Going To Eat NEXT Week. Was that my spleen? Do I even need a spleen? Who cares. Sweet Baby Jesus, take me now. Please.

just to clarify, are you sure you are not bulimic and/or harbouring a fetus *ducks as you throw the desk*

Wednesday: Walking to bathroom is a new and dangerous challenge as you attempt to retain consciousness and dodge furry obstacles that would rather like to be fed. Now. Taking actual bath requires a four hour power nap to prepare for and is so exhausting you would rather expire in your own filth next time. Husband makes you feel better with ‘What’s for dinner?” and son looks accusingly on as he reminds you yet again that he will probably be needing something IN his lunchbox tomorrow. Thanks Husband. Will dispense with reminding/pleading with you next time and just hand the poor kid my credit card. The mountain of washing everyone is ignoring like a big, be-socked elephant in the middle of the room begins to make ominous noises.

Its your spleen. and it wants lunch.

Thursday: Can ignore work calls no longer. Dispense with all make-up and niceties and take up post behind desk. Late. Only to leave again midway through day to attend funeral of someone you barely knew or gave a poo about. Get called callous, cold, unfeeling, heathen and any other manner of equally accurate terms. Consider projectile vomiting on name-caller. Settle for smoking in their near vicinity. You haven’t eaten since Monday, so cigarettes provide a lovely head rush and you once again prove yourself to be a very cheap date. End up babysitting four kids under 7. Come away pretty sure the bodily fluids you’re covered in aren’t actually yours, this time.

makes for a nice change tho.

Friday: What just happened here? Goddammit I want my week back! Head down…go, gopher, go! Woo. Headrush. Go go go!
“Please provide the management with a Doctor’s note.”
“I don’t go to doctors – I see a homeopath.”
“We need a doctor’s note.”
“Are you discriminating against me based on my choice of medical care?”
“Um….we’ll accept a note from the homeopath.”
“I wasn’t off longer than two days. And Monday was annual leave.”
“The policy is that you provide a note if you’re off for longer than ONE, *smuggitysmug*….OR on a Monday or Friday!*smuggitysmug*”
“You mean THIS (pulls out transcript of handout from staff meeting circa 2006) policy? The one that says TWO days or longer?*blinkblinkdoe-eyes*”
“muttermutterOKnevermindmuttermutterfume……”

oh sod right the fuck off you lot.

That? That was the highlight of my week. Hey, you asked. Told you it was boring….

Result? It’s a virus, not a foetus. I kept telling everyone. God, that one gets old fast. Um, hi? I know that feeling.

You know it's bad when...

...your Monday morning Post Secret obsession is delayed to Wednesday afternoon.







This struck me because it's bizarre, yet strangely beautiful behaviour:

I kinda get it. I'd truly class my reading habit as a bit on the OCD side; I'll read the back of a shampoo bottle in the bath for want of something better.

And sometimes there's the perfect book, the perfect ending or revelation or lesson... you just want to catch it and hold it somehow, so you never forget it, it needs to stay with you and become part of your makeup.

So I get it. I personally can't get on board with literally ingesting the literature (vegetarian doesn't mean twigs and bark for me), but I get it.

And this:

Occasionally I pick pretty flowers from trees and leave them places for other people to find.

...this one struck me in a different way - not one the poster had intended, I'm sure.

Those are (if I'm not mistaken) lantana. And they're poisonous. Pretty and poisonous.

It's a lovely, well-meaning gesture that's been suffused with some really dark undertone for me now. There's a parallel with lovely, well-meaning gestures in real life, which turn out to have some hideous consquences, I spose.

Bah. Not too articulate today. Am over-worked, under-caffeinated and worried about a few people.

One in particular.

You know who you are. Send up a flare.

The most uninspired title ever

Sorry, no time to make with the funny. You need to find a hobby if you come here for that, anyway.

In short, my work week can be summed up thusly:

Sigh. So many "oooh I need to blog that"-s, so little time.

I have some particular insights about moustaches I would like to share.

Next time.

Maybe then a long soul-searching post about why I can't commit.

(Maybe.)

Sterkte

For the person who made me listen to Tori Amos again. Even the hurty bits.

Mother Revolution

Lucky me
I guessed the kind of man
that you would turn out to be
Now I wish that I’d been
wrong and then
I could remember
to breathe

And all along the Watchtower
the night horses and
the black mares
ready themselves for the outcome
for the strange times
upon us

But what you didn’t count on
was another Mother of
a Mother Revolution
but what you didn’t count on
was another Mother of
a Mother Revolution

you could’ve had me
you could’ve had me
you could’ve had me

Right there beside you
you could’ve had me boy
you could’ve had me yeah
you could’ve had me
Right there beside you

A wife on loan
in a cafe
in old El Paso
Next I go to
Seven Gates and
my sister’s Bass Bonanza

And all along her Watchtower
the night horses and
the black mares
steady themselves for the outcome
for the strange days
upon us

What you didn’t count on
was another Mother of
a Mother Revolution

Helpful hint:

"I'm in luuuuuuuuuurve with a dancer"

"Dancer" means "stripper", kids.

Just thought I'd clear that up.

On another enlightening note, I have it on good authority (from the incredibly eloquent entity that is CathsArseIs at Random Thoughts) that the "H" in Jesus H. Christ stands for Hortense.
Who knew?
She so smart.

Confessions of a food-whore

My guilty confession for today:

Not eating makes me Cranky. Yes, with a capital C. I love food. Really.
(Alright, I'm vegetarian and really love my hippy-food so I'm not talking junk food here, so I won't feel too bad about it. Not much junk, anyway.
Alright FINE I ate allllll the cupcakes. Happy now? Sob.)

So when there is nothing nom-ible in my nearby vicinity, and I'm feeling the needing for a feeding, I can turn into the biggest bitch this side of .... um..... a place where there are many bitches.
I feel a bitch coming on....right...about....now.

I can be happily pottering along feeling just fine all day, and generally have an "eat when I'm hungry, not cause it's dinner time" approach. But that fine feeling can morph into "MUST. FIND. FOOD. NOW" mode with a scary quickness.
Then it's every man, woman and bagel for themselves. People who know me well generally retreat to a safe distance and throw edibles at me until I'm a nicer person.

I blame low-blood sugar. Ahem.
Wonder if "Hypoglyceamia-Induced Red Mist of Rage" has ever been successfully used as a defense for murder?
Must Google.

Let the motherfucker burn

Holy crap I love this site.

http://www.graphjam.com/

Menagerie

Five (million) fussy fish
Four bitchy cats
Two stinky dogs
One leopard geko

And a paaaaaartridge in a peeeear treeeeee

And not a one was purchased. All adopted/dropped off/abandoned/rescued/on death's door.

And all have special needs.

Siamese fighters. Yep, they'll fight to the death if you let 'em. Gotta Keep Em Separated. Oh, and baby guppies? Really small. Try separating those so mama doesn't follow her maternal instincts and eat them for lunch. If you feel like a special challenge before you head off for work, leave son unattended with golf club in the same room as the tank. Hilarity ensues as you attempt to save all the fishies by hand without slicing yourself to ribbons in the process. Bonus points if you keep your grown-up work attire dry in the three hours it takes to clean the carnage up.

We have food-obesseed obesity kitty.
Growth-stunted, flew out of second storey window retarded kitty.
Allergic-to-fish and scared of his own shadow super gay kitty.
And tail-less but refuses-to-come-inside-ever-due-to-other-kitties kitty.

One suspected-abuse case doggy of unknown genetic origin.
One definitely-abused chow with a bad attitude, bad breath and missing teeth, pins in all her legs and chewed off ears.

A sulky geko who regularly goes on month-long hunger strikes, refuses to eat alternately worms OR crickets and makes you guess which one she favours this week, and escapes her cage for a walkabout in the skirting boards, only to return days later to sit atop said cage with an air of superiority second to none.

Sound gorgeous, don't they?
It's a zoo. And I wish that was a figurative term. (Not really. I love them all. I like animals better than I like most people. Sheesh.)

Which is why I'm so not going to adopt newest kitty in need.

It's a just a bad, bad idea. No matter how adorable and adrift this little one is. Five cats is pushing it.

So I'm definitely not gonna do it this time. There has to be a limit. I'm not taking in this cat.




Unless, you know, you guys think I should totally do that.

This little piggy went to market

And now I am flat broke. Hurrah! No more shopping to be done for the rest of the month! An enforced hiatus! (That's me trying to be positive. Doesn't suit me, does it? Our apologies, we now resume our normal angst...)

Saturday began with two new tyres for the Snotmobile (if you have boobs you may want to steer clear of such places - or risk being spoken to in veeeeery tiiiiiny wooooords), Makro anally raped me while I tried to purchase washing powder and catfood en bulke and the (shudder) Housewives Market stamped on my toe and called me a bitch as I gasped at the total amount one week's worth of fresh (hopefully) produce would cost me. I may as well just pony up my first born son next time.
He eats too much anyway. Problem solved!

Petrol at R10 a litre from Wednesday, you say?
Blowjob, anyone?

Five kinds of awesome

CathsArseis 28 today.

So she deserves her very own post.

Because she's special.

(And not in the "licks the windows of the short bus" way.)

She has been known to lick other odd things, but that is a story for her blog...

Chick is five kinds of awesome.

Smooches! I'm going to eat this entire packet of Strawberry Whirls in your honour.

I'm fuckin' loaded, yo

That's it! It's the moment I've been waiting for!
I QUIT!
I can finally afford to go and live the life of debaucherous lechery and excess I know I was destined for. Why, you may very well ask?
Well because I have just completed (apparently) a massive business deal and now I'm rooooolling in it.
Don't believe me?
Take a look:

Hello Dear Friend,

I am glad to inform you that I have successfully concluded the transaction, the money has been transferred to London through the assistant of Mr.Howard Ferraro who is a London base business man.Currently I am in London with him and my wife and children. However, I did not forget you because you are the source of my success,you made me what I am now though you are not there to complete this project with me but I gave all the credit and thanks to you. I know it is not your fault or rather your wish to back off on me and the transaction, I understand it was simply because of some circumstances you could not control.
In appreci ating your assistance, I have compensated you with a sum of $450,000.00 which I have writt en in certified bank cheque in your favour. I left the cheque with my secretary Mandela Freeman on my departure to London. I would like you to contact him with the below info and instruct him where to send the cheque to because i have directed him on that already.
Name: Ken ThembaEmail:kenthemba@hotmail.com
As soon as you recieve the cheque you let me know because i am busy here trying to put things together and may not be chanced to email you frequently.Feel free to contact him for your cheque.I will stop here. Once again,thank you very much.

Regards,
Cross Weaver

See? Got this email this morning. Everybody can stop complaining about the damn petrol prices now, because anybody who's broke is just freaking stoopid.

Earnin: u iz jus doin it rong.

HAHA suckers. I quit. Take that. Gonna call up Mandela FreeMAN right now and collect my cash. I'm the source of ol' Cross Weaver's success, after all. It's the least that bastard can do. Better get on that now though, I may not be chanced to do it later.

I think I'll have a money room.

And a wrapping room, like Candy Spelling. To wrap my insane amounts of moolah in.

Wonder how much a Spanish pool boy costs? Better get a pool...

I hate to sound repetitive but...

...all this repetition is beginning to become a little repetitive.
meetingmeetingmeetingmeetingmeetingmygodimgoingtohangmyselffromtheshowerrodmeetingmeeting

Today's Top Execu-tip:
Always check appearance BEFORE going into meeting.
Or risk sidelong glances from concerned colleagues about the copious amounts of white powder down your front and on your face.
Cue (probably unconvincing) assertions that you excused yourself to take refuge in the bathroom with a Grandpa headache powder, not a shnarfload of nose candy.
Damn, people. Don't be stupid.
There are no drugs hard enough to get me through this week.

W.T.F...

...happened to my week?
Please pardon my busy-ass self while I attempt to locate the plug.
It's been pulled out and my hours are swirling down the drain.

(ab)Normal programming will resume shortly.

(@ Cath: one word. Meeeeeeeeeting. Said in requisite nasal voice. Grab your stapler and cover me, I'm goin' in.)

"One two, Freddy's coming for yooouuuuuu...."

I should have known Friday the Thirteenth would mean good things for me.


I've always been extremely contrary.





This made me laugh. Like a drain.






This, on the other hand, is complete PANTS.

They worked as a team, gave each one of them a chance to present (and even went to the extent of color-coordinating their outfits)- We have no doubt that they will be a great team to watch and to work with. The next monthly meeting will be on Wednesday the ** and Thursday the ** July at *[pit of hell]*.

I see not only a TWO DAY meeting (yes, overnight included) in my future, but 'color-coordinated' outfits. I think fucking NOT, thanks.

Meh. I will disregard the latter. Cause it's Friday. The thirteenth. And in roughly five hours I get to collect my progeny, pin him down and smother his adorable protesting face with smooches and tell him he's in charge of chopping for tonight's dinner stir-fry-vanganza.

Roll on long weekend. Le Woot.

"I'm super, thanks for asking"

Big wet sloppy kisses to anyone who caught the heading.

A big girl-crush inducing meeeeeting with the evahsohgorjus Cath prompted a return to the experi-blog.
She has that effect.

So in the effort to keep things moving smoothly round these here parts (why am I reminded of those horrible adverts for poop-inducers where the woman is carting round a handbag supposedly filled with her own excrement? Vom.) I shall re-post my comment left on her blog because I am THAT laz...er....busy.

On Cath'sArseIs asking how it came to be that she has an abundance of fabulous people in her blessed life, and how she got to be such a lucky motherfucker:

Because good things happen to good people.

Because I asked The Great Infinite Random for some good energy today, and it arrived in the form of you.
Because when I leopard crawled into your office, lost, dishevelled, bladder bursting and caffiene deprived, you provided.
Because I unloaded my baggage and let go for a second in a safe space. THIS I don’t do, but you got you some Voodoo, obviously.
So please do pardon my word-vomit.
Because it was the first meeeeeting in forever where I knew I didn’t need to pack my stapler.
Because we all have the ability, even when operating purely in our own orbit, to make another’s day better or worse.
And you made mine infinitely better.

Because you are good people.

Shall stop now before I become all gushy, but suffice it to say I’m in awe of your awesomeness.One day at a time…. just like an alcoholic.

“i iz in ur parkin lot, stalkin ur boom gayte. i can haz coffee?”

I've extracted a promise of alcoholic beverages and potential Best New Flat/Soul mate Award Winner 2008 meeting in the near future.

Cath, apologies for mentioning you and laxitives in the same post. I'll trade you a cocktail for forgiveness when we do the Collaboration of Retardation.

Maybe I'll even brush my hair this time....

Whip Smart

"I'm gonna tell my son to grow up pretty as the grass is green
And whip-smart as the English Channel's wide
And I'm gonna tell my son to keep his money in his mattress
And his watch on any hand between his thighs
And I'm gonna lock my son up in a tower
Till I write my whole life story on the back of his big brown eyes

When they do the double dutch, that's them dancing
When they do the double dutch, that's them dancing
When they do the double dutch, that's them dancing
When they do the double dutch, that's them dancing

I'm gonna tell my son to join a circus so that death is cheap
And games are just another way of life
And I'm gonna tell my son to be a prophet of mistakes
Because for every truth there are half a million lies
And I'm gonna lock my son up in a tower
Till he learns to let his hair down far enough to climb outside

When they do the double dutch, that's them dancing
When they do the double dutch, that's them dancing
When they do the double dutch, that's them dancing
When they do the double dutch, that's them dancing..."
Whip Smart, Liz Phair

I get my bebe back today;-)

Absolutely, positively the best thing about my entire week!

Got a GBFF? Johnny "Gay Pimp" McGovern has just released his new single "Don't Fall In Love With a Homo".
Jesus Christ I think I wet my pants...

Don't Fall In Love With A Homo
by gaynerd

I dare you not to love this...

Rilo Kiley. You can't listen to this without it hitting you somewhere ouchy. Guaranteed.

Hippy Mama

Am off to Bone Cracker today to have my Hippy status rectified.

That's not to say I'll cease chucking herbs, homeopathy and all manner of hocus pocus at any given ailment before I'd concede to taking death-in-a-bottle (aka antibiotics). I won't. I love me some natural medicine, people.

But I am going to subject myself to the sneaky ninja neck twisting stylings of a very lovely chiropracter in order to make my "mom hips" level once more.
Looking at me from the back is a laugh. Thanks for the heads up there, friendly friends. Woulda been nice if I didn't have to discover that for myself....bah.

Years of toting an increasingly weighty baby/toddler/kiddy around on predominantly one hip has taken it's toll and I now am out of whack, jack. Frankly one leg appears so much shorter as a result that I'm surprised I don't walk in circles.
Don't even get me started on why my left bicep remains a puny ghost of a muscle, while the right looks like I've been practising for the Wanker Olympics.
Kids: The gift that keeps on giving!

Techno Tard

WHYYYYYYYYYYY is the stoopid time stamp-majiggy always wrong on my posts!
Do I have to change it every damn time I post? Woah....too much admin, dude.
Rather let it look like I was toiling away into the wee hours, sharing these pearls of wisdom with....exactly nobody. Bahaaaaaa.
Technamalogically tarded. What would that old bird who taught me how to manouvre that "turtle" around the glowing green screen in Std. 4 think of me now?
For shame.


EDIT, 5 MINS INTO THE FUTURE:
Nevermind. Crisis averted. I actually figured it out without that usual burning smell when I think too hard. Who knew?
Still think all that turtle-shoving was a load of bollocks, though.

Interesting, but only to me

Salt and vinegar chips give me hot flushes. Like, instantly. One innocuous lil chip and I'm doing my best impersonation of a photocopier - all hotty uppy downy top-to-toe action.
And as of today, so do salted peanuts.
Holy Sodium, Batman!
Maybe it's time to put down the crap.
But me being me, I can't let it rest. Thank God for Google, cause I'm off to do that thing you're not supposed to do.... y'know, that thing where you self-diagnose a horribly debilitating illness purely by listing your symptoms and hitting "I feel lucky!"
Oh the irony.

Breathe in, breathe out

Mini-me (so-named because I know that child is going to sneeze even before he does most days. Wonder how long the bliss of pre-empting his every attempt at fucktardery is going to last.....)
has been dispatched to some scary-sounding place called White Mountain (does that name conjure images of wolves, or is it just me?) for a WHOLE.THREE.DAYS.
Am beside self.
Damn school. No cellphones allowed (which is a little bone of contention in my house anyway, as his has been consigned to my bedside drawer, where it has languished for good on six months now, for infringements which I will not go into now....)

Rats. Feel like I am missing an arm. And it's only been six hours. I'm on a constant high alert when he goes on these things. Cell glued to my person. Praying it never rings, jumping at every unknown number. Terrified it will ring. It's like if he's too far away I can't control the universe. I like to think that his safety is directly proportionate to my proximity.
Can you say apron strings, kids?

Of course he will never know this. Am soooo good at doing the "Love you, mean it, last minute safety tip, big squeeze, now go have FUN!!!!" thing. He has no clue about the anxiety. I will not ruin it for him by betraying even a smidge of that shit. But I'm in knots, and I know I will only sleep properly (if you can call what I do on a normal night sleeping properly) when he gets off that deathtrap...er....bus. Come home, Boo. I breathe more shallowly when you aren't here.

Ooooh. Forgot to wish Mr. Freud happy birthday yesterday. After the severe dressing down I received a few weeks ago (regarding my state of general undress, harhar) I suppose I should acknowledge this special occasion. I conceded some of the points, I even unnerstan the logic behind those theories. But I'm still gonna do it my way, fellas. Thanks for the insights into the male psyche. But I am growing my own male right now, and he seems well-adjusted (or in my house maybe mal-adjusted would be funnerer and more appropriate) and seeing as I've lost the manual that he came with (oh Cath, hear my plaintive cries and sympathise!) I'm thoroughly ok about things as they are right now. He deserves a little more credit. He's always been the one to make his own milestones. The kid removed his own nappy and declared himself potty trained before he was 2, for chrissakes. He'll be fine.
Now let's get nekkid! (I can't help it. I love button-pushing. We all gotta have a hobby, man....)

Hairband crack. I'm a pusher. Mwhahaha. Lauren, just who is going to supply you with the perfect hairbands when you desert me for the United Kuntdom? Go to your room and think about what you've done.

Ooh, ooh....! Californication. Watch it. It's worth getting through the lordy-bits of the preachy programme prior. Thanks Mnet. Occasionally you make me feel like the exhorbitant fees you bleed me of every month are worth it. Let's hug it out. (Of course I am still but a second class citizen pleb for refusing to shell out for the big guns. Fuck you, DSTV. Fuck you and your drool inducing array of mindless mind candy that is the Series Channel. Damn I love me some trash TV. So ashamed.)

In other news: (Parentheses are clearly my best friends.) Ditto elipses....
(Use them abundantly, people, and experience their grammatically-garbling joy today...!)

My heart

My Heart
Today you are 11. Double ones.
You are the prize in the cereal box.
You are my best teacher.
You bring me peace like no other.
You bring me terror like no other.
You are the best triumph over tradgedy.
You saved my life. And you'll never know it.
You are my heart
walking around
outside of my body.

Salmon

Two seperate people told me the same thing, in the same words, hours apart on Saturday:
"You don't need to swim upstream all your life."
One knew me before I was born. The other is a recent re-appearance after many years of self-imposed solitude and shape-shifting, so probably had only the evidence before him on which to base his observation.
Both were probably right.
But when it's all you know...?
Letting go... quitting swimming... just going limp and trusting the tide?
Is beyond my comprehension.
Not within my capabilities.
And terrifying.
I thought I'd come so far. It seems the stream has been pushing back, despite what I thought, all this time after all.
Oh bother.

Public Service Announcement

Don't trust me with your plastic, people. I decimated a water bottle last night. It was only 3 hours old. Melted all to fuck. No flames involved. My reign of terror on my kitchenware continues...
Mwahaha...
MWAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!

I'm bringing cranky back

I'm 3 days in on the "Master Cleanse"...the juice fast that supposedly removes plaque and all sorts of other nasties from your delicate lil intestines. Holy crapping hunger-pangs, Batman. I could eat a cow (or a cow-like shape made of Brussels sprouts....mmmm, Brusselsssss sproooouts....)
I hope this fucktardery is worth it, I better be all shiny and new and glowing with good health at the end of day 10, dammit. Because I would sell my soul for some cereal right now. It's supposed to break my cravings and I know it's a mind-over-matter thing, that I can totally subsist on the lemon-juice, water, molasses, cayenne pepper mix I am shovelling down in leiu of solids, but damn....maybe my MIND would like a big ol plate of nachos right now...mkaaaay?
Rah.

Can I just say...?

Rowr.....

Not one for celeb-worship. I have been called mad over this particular one. Sorry, but cover him up and you'd still hear my jeans being yanked off so fast there'd be friction burn. Ahee. TMI?

I like 'em quirky, me...

These boots are made for... snoring

I have not worn high heels in a week. I can always gauge the quality of my mood based on my footwear choice. This week has been flat and comfy...much like my ass. At least there's some sort of symmetry in my life right now. For someone with a most extensive collection of what could be termed "ARE YOU INSANE?!" heels, I reckon I should be making more of an effort. Bah. Next week. If I knew how to read my biorythms I reckon they would tell me to take a nap.

My shoes
Which art in cupboard
Apathy be thy name.

Most exciting discovery of the week? Celery sticks+sugar free peanut butter=2 kinds of awesome. Though I think I may be late to the party on this one.

Am still learning to navigate the blogosphere (I use that term with a heaping dose of irony, because I love how up-my-own-ass I sound when I say it, mwhahaha) but I know this looks about as interesting as an ad for toilet paper right now. I need to clean up around here.
Bah.
Next week.

Fart jokes

My lil foul-mouthedf Pollyanna mind-twin
When I am pre-anxiety attackerous over guns and potential disaster, you manage to make me corpse laughing with fart jokes.
I love you for that.
The fact that you're leaving me for colder pastures makes me more scared than you know.
But I won't say it.
You SO deserve better than here.

Champagne and melted washing machines

Work is totally kicking my ass, so this experi-blog thingy has suffered as a result. As has my resolution to get my ever-widening ass to the gym on a regular basis again. Shocker.
The only thing that hasn't fallen by the wayside due to my shiteous time management skills (who needs a whole six hours of sleep anyway, c'mooooon get moving!) is my champers habit. Have developed a new mini-addiction (they arrive fast, furious and seemingly out of nowhere, few stick around long) to JC LeRoux. The pink kind, if you please. God, what a girly-girl. Pink. Strictly one glass per evening - medicinal purposes. Ahee.
In more interesting news, well, to me anyway, I melted my washing machine last night. In a totally champagne-unrelated event.
That it all.
As you were.

Ssssh, there's no one here...and that's fine by me

A quiet place
to rest my rage
confrontations buried
on this page

Let's see if I can courage-up enough to do so again, minus the locked diaries and scent of brushes soaking in spirits.
Slowly, slowly...