Whore your mind
for the good of the
establishment.
Swallow your distaste.
Like so much stale beer.
Turn a blind eye as the spawn of the boss
skims from the corporate account.
To feed his demon.
His eyes red with the hue of despiration.
Plod through another day in this
corp o ration
night mare.
Don't look up, or someone might see
the revusion in your gaze.
Don't open your mouth, or someone might hear
The bitter scorn in your tone.
Don't listen to the whispers in the lunchroom
or you might become
an accomplice
to this
raging machine.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Saturday, June 28, 2008
And So It Begins.
About a month and a half ago my husband and I joined a gym.
I'm a big chick, and I have never been bothered by my weight. Overall, I'm fairly healthy, though inactive. I rarely get sick, and even when I do, my immune system works in overdrive- I have healing powers like wolverine! Yearly physicals revesl great colestrol, normal blood pressure and overal goodness. My first husband pushed me alot to lose weight, which did nothing except piss me off and make me stubborn. My current has never pushed me- because he is happy if I'm happy.
But he was not happy. Depressed and without energy for anything, he needed an outlet. And I knew it. He was a big child, and then in the early 2000's, he suddenly decided he'd had enough and dropped alot of weight. Over the past few years hes slowly gained, and it bothers him.He still sees himself as a fat child when the reality is he is an average man, not fat. Just inactive.
And so we joined a gym. I hoped that with both of us joining, we could motivate each other and therby not be able to flake on the couch each night with the excuse of wanting to spend time together. The gym has a pool, and I've always enjoyed swimming, so I envisioned myself swimming while Sean weight trained.
I have to stress, exersice was not something I defined as fun. I am shocked, therefore at what has transpired. For the first three weeks, I begged off some days, finding trivial excuses to stay home. So I went to the gym 3 or 4 days a week. But rationed that it was better then nothing. I was bored with the pool. I had tried the nightly aquasize class, and found most teachers sucked. Mondays morning class teacher was great, so I'd find myself going to her classes no matter how was feeling.
Ay week 4, I was well and truly bored and undermotivated. I popped in on saturday for a swim to find the pool closed for an event. So I went to the gym instead, rode the bike and cooled down on a treadmill.
Click.
Ten minutes in, hot and sticky, with my thigh muscles burning, I was feeling fantastic. Three weeks on from this discovery and my attendance has gone up to 5-6 days a week, and I'm the one whining at Sean and draging him physically out of the house to go to the gym. I am absolutely addicted. The crappiest sort of day at work, no desire to do anything but crawl into bed, and I know if I get myself into the bike, in 15 minutes I'll be feeling like sunshine is coming out of my ass.
Three weeks later, and my energy levels have shot through the roof. I'm ready to take on anything, and feel super accomplished. I cannot gush enough. My ten minute bike ride and ten minute cool down of the first day has morphed into a 7 km bike ride (8 kms twice a week), followed by half a km of rowing, and 1.5 km treadmill cooldown. Another week of this and I'll have boosted the rower to one km and then will add the evil looking cross trainer machine into the mix. I think that the wee after that, I will also throw in a weights based routine once or twice a week as well.
We've done nothing different in the diet field- we eat a varied healthy range already, with our problem being portion size rather then wrong food choices. But even this is righting itself- for reasons unfathomable to me, I find myself eating smaller portions as I feel full faster. This does not make and sense to me whatsoever- if anything, I expected to be hungrier.
Last week, I noticed my pants are lose and I have to leep hauling them up. Yesterday I bought a new pair of track pants and two tank tops. All items had to be bought in one size smaller then I've been wearing.
And so it begins.
I'm a big chick, and I have never been bothered by my weight. Overall, I'm fairly healthy, though inactive. I rarely get sick, and even when I do, my immune system works in overdrive- I have healing powers like wolverine! Yearly physicals revesl great colestrol, normal blood pressure and overal goodness. My first husband pushed me alot to lose weight, which did nothing except piss me off and make me stubborn. My current has never pushed me- because he is happy if I'm happy.
But he was not happy. Depressed and without energy for anything, he needed an outlet. And I knew it. He was a big child, and then in the early 2000's, he suddenly decided he'd had enough and dropped alot of weight. Over the past few years hes slowly gained, and it bothers him.He still sees himself as a fat child when the reality is he is an average man, not fat. Just inactive.
And so we joined a gym. I hoped that with both of us joining, we could motivate each other and therby not be able to flake on the couch each night with the excuse of wanting to spend time together. The gym has a pool, and I've always enjoyed swimming, so I envisioned myself swimming while Sean weight trained.
I have to stress, exersice was not something I defined as fun. I am shocked, therefore at what has transpired. For the first three weeks, I begged off some days, finding trivial excuses to stay home. So I went to the gym 3 or 4 days a week. But rationed that it was better then nothing. I was bored with the pool. I had tried the nightly aquasize class, and found most teachers sucked. Mondays morning class teacher was great, so I'd find myself going to her classes no matter how was feeling.
Ay week 4, I was well and truly bored and undermotivated. I popped in on saturday for a swim to find the pool closed for an event. So I went to the gym instead, rode the bike and cooled down on a treadmill.
Click.
Ten minutes in, hot and sticky, with my thigh muscles burning, I was feeling fantastic. Three weeks on from this discovery and my attendance has gone up to 5-6 days a week, and I'm the one whining at Sean and draging him physically out of the house to go to the gym. I am absolutely addicted. The crappiest sort of day at work, no desire to do anything but crawl into bed, and I know if I get myself into the bike, in 15 minutes I'll be feeling like sunshine is coming out of my ass.
Three weeks later, and my energy levels have shot through the roof. I'm ready to take on anything, and feel super accomplished. I cannot gush enough. My ten minute bike ride and ten minute cool down of the first day has morphed into a 7 km bike ride (8 kms twice a week), followed by half a km of rowing, and 1.5 km treadmill cooldown. Another week of this and I'll have boosted the rower to one km and then will add the evil looking cross trainer machine into the mix. I think that the wee after that, I will also throw in a weights based routine once or twice a week as well.
We've done nothing different in the diet field- we eat a varied healthy range already, with our problem being portion size rather then wrong food choices. But even this is righting itself- for reasons unfathomable to me, I find myself eating smaller portions as I feel full faster. This does not make and sense to me whatsoever- if anything, I expected to be hungrier.
Last week, I noticed my pants are lose and I have to leep hauling them up. Yesterday I bought a new pair of track pants and two tank tops. All items had to be bought in one size smaller then I've been wearing.
And so it begins.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
I hope you dance.
I hope you never lose your sense of wonder
You get your fill to eat
But always keep that hunger
May you never take one single breath for granted
God forbid love ever leave you empty handed
I hope you still feel small
When you stand by the ocean
Whenever one door closes, I hope one more opens
Promise me you'll give faith a fighting chance
And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance
I hope you dance
I hope you dance
Exerpt from Lee Ann Womack's "I Hope You Dance"
We stumbled upon this statue, Dancing Bear (by Pauta Saila) when wandering through Ottawa a couple of years ago. He is the first piece of public art from Nunavut in the far north to be displayed in Canada's capital city.
The Inuit people of the Canadian Arctic use the Dancing Bear as a recurring art theme, typically in soapstone carvings much smaller then this one. The polar bear is top of the food chain, the ruler of his environment, and feared by all. Because of this, it is considered a great honour, and a very desirable thing to come back as a polar bear in the next life. And the Dancing Bear is seen to be just that- a person's soul re-incarnated as King of the World, and understanably quite happy about it.
Today, I feel like Dancing Bear.
You get your fill to eat
But always keep that hunger
May you never take one single breath for granted
God forbid love ever leave you empty handed
I hope you still feel small
When you stand by the ocean
Whenever one door closes, I hope one more opens
Promise me you'll give faith a fighting chance
And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance
I hope you dance
I hope you dance
Exerpt from Lee Ann Womack's "I Hope You Dance"
We stumbled upon this statue, Dancing Bear (by Pauta Saila) when wandering through Ottawa a couple of years ago. He is the first piece of public art from Nunavut in the far north to be displayed in Canada's capital city.
The Inuit people of the Canadian Arctic use the Dancing Bear as a recurring art theme, typically in soapstone carvings much smaller then this one. The polar bear is top of the food chain, the ruler of his environment, and feared by all. Because of this, it is considered a great honour, and a very desirable thing to come back as a polar bear in the next life. And the Dancing Bear is seen to be just that- a person's soul re-incarnated as King of the World, and understanably quite happy about it.
Today, I feel like Dancing Bear.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Funkiness
I'm writing here again as a means to drag myself out of the funk I have been smothered by for a few months. But it's time to uncurl myself from my safe little warm ball and venture out into the land of the living once more.
I've largely been frustrated with some things in our life which are completely fixable, but which have gone unattended to because my husband, whom I adore utterly and completely, is sometimes a twit:)
I am being unfair, of course. My husband as Asperger's, and it makes him see life in a very different sort of way. When things are out of control, he just does not function at all...wherein I (and most people, I think), feel the need to wrestle control back, he just gets overwhelmed and refuses to deal with it as though the problem did not exist at all.
We're financially struggling. We have not yet paid off the big trip(18 months ago we travelled around the world), as the credit cards are still full and the bills are absolutely crushing us. We decided months ago to re-finance the house, pull out the equity and use it to clear the bills and start fresh. He's so scared that they will say no to re-finance that he is dragging his heels and being slow to do everything. There are documents he need to gather and such that he keeps "forgetting". For months. Despite daily reminders. It is ENRAGING me to the point that I want to throttle him somedays! I think we have everything ready now, and we will get the papers to the mortgage broker this week. Finally.
I have no intention of making this blog a place to bitch about him- this will be the ony entry in which I will focus on this...but I also need to clarify where my head is at right now- mostly because I feel for the first time in a long time that I am in a good place again. It's all dark and dusty in the corners of my head, and I've spent too much time in there lately with the cobwebs. And recently I had the sudden realization that none of this is his fault. I've been focussed too much on the nit-picky things.
It is partly because I am so far away from MY friends, MY family. I moved here in 2004 after meeting him on the net, and hauled up everything I knew, packed my life into three very large suitcases and boarded a plane. Everyone we have here are OUR friends. So naturally, when the thousand of little things that crop up in a relationship bother me, I've ben sitting on it. I don't want to complain about the petty things to OUR friends.
But, if I had MY friends here, I would bitch about stuff, we would laugh about it, drink a bottle of wine and it would be over and forgotten, instead of me thinking and overthinking,dwelling on it until it grows. Just little issues, miniscule daily routine passing things getting blown out of proportion till they seem like big issues. Once I made that connection, everything got much sunshine-y-er in my head.
And the really big, overwhelming things about him? Are the good things. The patience that is without end, the willingness to go along with my randomness, the ability to deal with the crazyness of a woman with PMS, the astuteness to know exactly when to kiss me, exactly when to tickle me till I strugle not to pee myself, exactly when to surprise me with a bottle of bubbles and a blowing wand.
I've never met a man quite like him. I never even knew such creatures exsisted.
And so, If I have to drag him, kicking and screaming into reality till he gets his shit sorted, then he'd best hang on tight, cause it will be a bumpy ride.
Life....here we come again.
I've largely been frustrated with some things in our life which are completely fixable, but which have gone unattended to because my husband, whom I adore utterly and completely, is sometimes a twit:)
I am being unfair, of course. My husband as Asperger's, and it makes him see life in a very different sort of way. When things are out of control, he just does not function at all...wherein I (and most people, I think), feel the need to wrestle control back, he just gets overwhelmed and refuses to deal with it as though the problem did not exist at all.
We're financially struggling. We have not yet paid off the big trip(18 months ago we travelled around the world), as the credit cards are still full and the bills are absolutely crushing us. We decided months ago to re-finance the house, pull out the equity and use it to clear the bills and start fresh. He's so scared that they will say no to re-finance that he is dragging his heels and being slow to do everything. There are documents he need to gather and such that he keeps "forgetting". For months. Despite daily reminders. It is ENRAGING me to the point that I want to throttle him somedays! I think we have everything ready now, and we will get the papers to the mortgage broker this week. Finally.
I have no intention of making this blog a place to bitch about him- this will be the ony entry in which I will focus on this...but I also need to clarify where my head is at right now- mostly because I feel for the first time in a long time that I am in a good place again. It's all dark and dusty in the corners of my head, and I've spent too much time in there lately with the cobwebs. And recently I had the sudden realization that none of this is his fault. I've been focussed too much on the nit-picky things.
It is partly because I am so far away from MY friends, MY family. I moved here in 2004 after meeting him on the net, and hauled up everything I knew, packed my life into three very large suitcases and boarded a plane. Everyone we have here are OUR friends. So naturally, when the thousand of little things that crop up in a relationship bother me, I've ben sitting on it. I don't want to complain about the petty things to OUR friends.
But, if I had MY friends here, I would bitch about stuff, we would laugh about it, drink a bottle of wine and it would be over and forgotten, instead of me thinking and overthinking,dwelling on it until it grows. Just little issues, miniscule daily routine passing things getting blown out of proportion till they seem like big issues. Once I made that connection, everything got much sunshine-y-er in my head.
And the really big, overwhelming things about him? Are the good things. The patience that is without end, the willingness to go along with my randomness, the ability to deal with the crazyness of a woman with PMS, the astuteness to know exactly when to kiss me, exactly when to tickle me till I strugle not to pee myself, exactly when to surprise me with a bottle of bubbles and a blowing wand.
I've never met a man quite like him. I never even knew such creatures exsisted.
And so, If I have to drag him, kicking and screaming into reality till he gets his shit sorted, then he'd best hang on tight, cause it will be a bumpy ride.
Life....here we come again.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Waxing woes
So I decided, somewhat foolishly, to try one of those home waxing kits. (Don't the best stories start this way?)
My first concern came when the waxing kit I specially selected (after 45 minutes of reading each and every package available at the super-sized pharmacy) had hidden within its depths a particularly worrysome thing.
What can be so perplexing from inside the recess of a waxing kit you ask? Consider this- I bought a kit specifically designed for bikini waxing. And yet, inside there was a slip of paper warning me not to apply it to my genital region.
I know I am Canadian and all, but where I come from? We don't wear bikinis as mittens or anything. They definitely are worn over the pink bits.
So I spend a few more minutes re-reading the exterior packaging. Yep, definitely a bikini waxing kit. And so on I proudly marched.
The box said "raspberry scented". I'll suggest to the manufacturer that they should more aptly describe the aroma as that of the scent of a Grizzly bear taking his first dump after a 6 month hibernation. Though, to be fair, grizzlies do eat alot of raspberry.
Clamping my nose shut with a clothespeg, I get stuck into it. First strip on, first strip off. Painful, but nothing more then I would expect when ripping out a few dozen hairs by their roots.
As I'm settling up for the next strip, sudden disaster. Like a dozen pint sized sadists were poking my flesh with heated pokers. Pain that was most certainly not of the good variety. And it just gets worse and worse.
So I get understandably worried, and grab the package again. It says to rinse after, but says that soap will not remove residue. Fabulous. Screming on the inside, i stand in a ice-cold shower for about ten minutes till my eyes stop watering and the pain is now just a dull roar that I'm able to think through.
Out of the shower, I survey the damage in the mirror. hmmm. a Perfect wax-strip sized patch of skin on my most favouritest bits is now red and inflamed to the point of being noticeably puffy.
I think I've broked it. this is not good.
I spend the next hour and a half lying on the bed with cold wet facecloth compresses laid over my cunt to try to stop the bee-sting like swelling from closing up shop completely.
Eventually, the urge to cry at the pain abates, and I even have a moment of amusement thinking about the Bastard having to suffer through the afternoon wanting to get home to do exactly what I asked of him in a naughty text earlier, only to find things in less then working order.
ok. So soap won;t help, but I need to figure out something else. Because I can't sit on an icepack all night. If soap and water won't fix it...what about lube?
The dogs both went running in fright and cowered by the back door when the lube hit my skin. Apparently, dogs dogs extra sensitive hearing means screams are extra noticable.
After intitial application, though, the lube worked. I was actually able to get dressed and move around without wanting to kill everything that touched me- including the air.
So here I sit, slip-sliding around on the edge of the couch wondering how long it will be till I'm able to break out the trusty razor and finish the job.
I have a new-found respect for every fucker who waxes. I am not worthy.
My first concern came when the waxing kit I specially selected (after 45 minutes of reading each and every package available at the super-sized pharmacy) had hidden within its depths a particularly worrysome thing.
What can be so perplexing from inside the recess of a waxing kit you ask? Consider this- I bought a kit specifically designed for bikini waxing. And yet, inside there was a slip of paper warning me not to apply it to my genital region.
I know I am Canadian and all, but where I come from? We don't wear bikinis as mittens or anything. They definitely are worn over the pink bits.
So I spend a few more minutes re-reading the exterior packaging. Yep, definitely a bikini waxing kit. And so on I proudly marched.
The box said "raspberry scented". I'll suggest to the manufacturer that they should more aptly describe the aroma as that of the scent of a Grizzly bear taking his first dump after a 6 month hibernation. Though, to be fair, grizzlies do eat alot of raspberry.
Clamping my nose shut with a clothespeg, I get stuck into it. First strip on, first strip off. Painful, but nothing more then I would expect when ripping out a few dozen hairs by their roots.
As I'm settling up for the next strip, sudden disaster. Like a dozen pint sized sadists were poking my flesh with heated pokers. Pain that was most certainly not of the good variety. And it just gets worse and worse.
So I get understandably worried, and grab the package again. It says to rinse after, but says that soap will not remove residue. Fabulous. Screming on the inside, i stand in a ice-cold shower for about ten minutes till my eyes stop watering and the pain is now just a dull roar that I'm able to think through.
Out of the shower, I survey the damage in the mirror. hmmm. a Perfect wax-strip sized patch of skin on my most favouritest bits is now red and inflamed to the point of being noticeably puffy.
I think I've broked it. this is not good.
I spend the next hour and a half lying on the bed with cold wet facecloth compresses laid over my cunt to try to stop the bee-sting like swelling from closing up shop completely.
Eventually, the urge to cry at the pain abates, and I even have a moment of amusement thinking about the Bastard having to suffer through the afternoon wanting to get home to do exactly what I asked of him in a naughty text earlier, only to find things in less then working order.
ok. So soap won;t help, but I need to figure out something else. Because I can't sit on an icepack all night. If soap and water won't fix it...what about lube?
The dogs both went running in fright and cowered by the back door when the lube hit my skin. Apparently, dogs dogs extra sensitive hearing means screams are extra noticable.
After intitial application, though, the lube worked. I was actually able to get dressed and move around without wanting to kill everything that touched me- including the air.
So here I sit, slip-sliding around on the edge of the couch wondering how long it will be till I'm able to break out the trusty razor and finish the job.
I have a new-found respect for every fucker who waxes. I am not worthy.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
She's going to hell, for sure.
Today, at work.
Ring ring
Pleasent ladies voice; "Good morning, you've reached St Francis of Mary's*, how can I help you?"
Me; "Hello, could I speak with someone in accounts payable, please?"
Pleasent ladies voice; "That would be Sister Angela*. I'll put you right through"
Me; "Thank you"
Pleasent ladies voice number 2; "Hello, Sister Angela Speaking"
Me; "Good morning, Sister. My name is Nikki and I'm calling from Random Organization* regarding an invoice for St Franscis of Mary's overdue since last November"
Pleasent ladies voice number 2; "fuck"
Me;"..."
* note; names changed to protect the guilty and the innocent.
Ring ring
Pleasent ladies voice; "Good morning, you've reached St Francis of Mary's*, how can I help you?"
Me; "Hello, could I speak with someone in accounts payable, please?"
Pleasent ladies voice; "That would be Sister Angela*. I'll put you right through"
Me; "Thank you"
Pleasent ladies voice number 2; "Hello, Sister Angela Speaking"
Me; "Good morning, Sister. My name is Nikki and I'm calling from Random Organization* regarding an invoice for St Franscis of Mary's overdue since last November"
Pleasent ladies voice number 2; "fuck"
Me;"..."
* note; names changed to protect the guilty and the innocent.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Going to the Loo is not a Spectator Sport!
...but I am thinking about starting to charge admission in my house.
My cats are scat and watersports fetishists, it would seem.
Any move towards the hallway, where you could, conveivably, be going to towards the bathroom, results in a stampede of truely impressive proportions.
There are only two cats, you see- well one and a half really as one is still a kitten- but in that moment in time, anyone would swear there is a plethora of shrunken elephants charging you from behind.
Your best bet is to stand still and wait till they pass, allowing a moment for the dust in their wake to settle. But no one every waits. Human instict kicks in and all you can think of is "arghhh! Run! before you are trampled underneath their mighty feet!"
Usually running presents another problem. Both the cats are too dumb to avoid feet. So, inevidably, one will be stepped upon. And, drama queens that they are, they can't simply wince, learn from their mistakes and move on- no- thye have to freak the fuck out, youwling and hollering about like someone is poking hot sticks into their ears.
So then you have to stop and check that they are ok. Difficult to catch a hurt cat, too. They just wont stop wiggling and writhing about. So after you've managed to grasp one of the slithery little bactards by getting the tip of an ear, a back paw and most of a tail in your fist, that tends to set the whole howling process off again.
5 minutes later and you are in the hallway, dancing from one foot to the other because you are busting to pee, and the little furbag is finally calm enough to begin purring contentedly- until you make the move to lay it down. Then its all huffiness and indignation.
Continuing along the hallway, and making it finally to the bathroom with milliseconds before your protesting bladder gives way, you will usually find the door has developed this weird inability to close, and make a strage squeak with repeated attempts.
This usually menas that one - or more frequently, both cats and stuck, halfway in the bathroom and halfway into the hallway, stretched thin in the middle, attempting to hold their spleens in as the slamming door does iots best to guillitine them.
And so begins the epic tale of yowling for sympathy once more.
Usually at this point I allow them in the bathroom- not cause I desire and audience, but becuase I'm mortified at the idea that I might, as a full grown women in her 30s, wet my pants like a toddler.
Cats are supposed to be refined. Dignified. Elegant. Especially ours- both purebreds- one lilac point burmese, one black oriental. Somehow this elevated sense of being does not get bestowed upon those around. They could not care less that you are pising enough to put out a small forest fire. They think nothing of your privacy.
Winding about your legs, standing on hind feet to see under your ass like they don't have any idea what the noise is. Jumping into your lap, head butting your chin and demanding that you treat them as they are your sole purpose in life.
And as if this is not enough, their newest game is to goblin into the bathroom overnight and steal away with the toilet roll.
I find that when this happens, it is best to open the door to call out to Scootah and ask him to find it or bring me another. I do this partly because I really need the loo roll to wipe- but also, I'll admit to finding it amusing to watch the wee furry little bastards ears prickle at the sound of footsteps in the hall, watching them sprint off excitedly, and seeing, a moment later, the Boi coming round the corner full tilt, eyes wide as he tried to change step mid stride as to not step on a stray cat limb.
Perhaps it is a spectator sport, afterall.
My cats are scat and watersports fetishists, it would seem.
Any move towards the hallway, where you could, conveivably, be going to towards the bathroom, results in a stampede of truely impressive proportions.
There are only two cats, you see- well one and a half really as one is still a kitten- but in that moment in time, anyone would swear there is a plethora of shrunken elephants charging you from behind.
Your best bet is to stand still and wait till they pass, allowing a moment for the dust in their wake to settle. But no one every waits. Human instict kicks in and all you can think of is "arghhh! Run! before you are trampled underneath their mighty feet!"
Usually running presents another problem. Both the cats are too dumb to avoid feet. So, inevidably, one will be stepped upon. And, drama queens that they are, they can't simply wince, learn from their mistakes and move on- no- thye have to freak the fuck out, youwling and hollering about like someone is poking hot sticks into their ears.
So then you have to stop and check that they are ok. Difficult to catch a hurt cat, too. They just wont stop wiggling and writhing about. So after you've managed to grasp one of the slithery little bactards by getting the tip of an ear, a back paw and most of a tail in your fist, that tends to set the whole howling process off again.
5 minutes later and you are in the hallway, dancing from one foot to the other because you are busting to pee, and the little furbag is finally calm enough to begin purring contentedly- until you make the move to lay it down. Then its all huffiness and indignation.
Continuing along the hallway, and making it finally to the bathroom with milliseconds before your protesting bladder gives way, you will usually find the door has developed this weird inability to close, and make a strage squeak with repeated attempts.
This usually menas that one - or more frequently, both cats and stuck, halfway in the bathroom and halfway into the hallway, stretched thin in the middle, attempting to hold their spleens in as the slamming door does iots best to guillitine them.
And so begins the epic tale of yowling for sympathy once more.
Usually at this point I allow them in the bathroom- not cause I desire and audience, but becuase I'm mortified at the idea that I might, as a full grown women in her 30s, wet my pants like a toddler.
Cats are supposed to be refined. Dignified. Elegant. Especially ours- both purebreds- one lilac point burmese, one black oriental. Somehow this elevated sense of being does not get bestowed upon those around. They could not care less that you are pising enough to put out a small forest fire. They think nothing of your privacy.
Winding about your legs, standing on hind feet to see under your ass like they don't have any idea what the noise is. Jumping into your lap, head butting your chin and demanding that you treat them as they are your sole purpose in life.
And as if this is not enough, their newest game is to goblin into the bathroom overnight and steal away with the toilet roll.
I find that when this happens, it is best to open the door to call out to Scootah and ask him to find it or bring me another. I do this partly because I really need the loo roll to wipe- but also, I'll admit to finding it amusing to watch the wee furry little bastards ears prickle at the sound of footsteps in the hall, watching them sprint off excitedly, and seeing, a moment later, the Boi coming round the corner full tilt, eyes wide as he tried to change step mid stride as to not step on a stray cat limb.
Perhaps it is a spectator sport, afterall.
Monday, November 12, 2007
Australia; love it or hate it?
I became an Australian Permanent resident last week. So I've been reflecting a little on my experiences in the “Land Down Under”, and of all its quirks and curiosities.
Hates;
-Australians insist on retaining the use of French words, but completely disregard proper pronounciation of the same. For example “Debut” is used at least daily on various news programs, pronounced “deboo”. I cringe every time. Maybe that makes me a snob. I don't care. it's still wrong.
-The service industry. It completely lacks- well...service. Because there is no tipping, waitstaff simply overlook any attention to detail or even common courtesty. They get paid regardless, and any one daring to rudely point out that their work is not up to snuff would probably regret every saying anything. “So you ordered steak and got chicken? Oh well- enjoy your chicken- and we will still be charging you for the most expensive steak on the menu”.
-The heat. oh my god, the fucking heat. Paradise, my ass! It actually IS the underworld- Yes, Virginia, there is a hell- and the Devil went down to Queensland.
-Women are women. Girls are women. Female toddlers are bloody women. Tomboys just don't exist. Look around the average shopping centre, the average beach, the average playground- you can easily tell the sex of each and every baby from the age of 4 days old because the girls are completely clad in matching Oscar De La Renta handbag and shoes, and are wearing the latest shade of lipstick.
Likes;
-Australia is where the boy is.
-The beach. The ocean. Endless white sand, water warm enough to actually swim in (or fall about helplessly in, in my case), gorgeous enough to make me cry.
- Fruit, nuts and flowers that are common enough to practically be considered weeds. Mangos, Avocados, Macadamias, calla lilies- all grow in backyards without most people giving a second thought to just how good they have it.
-Taxes are built into the price on everything. No more guessing or calculating taxes on the way to the checkout. no more being caught short. What you see is what you pay. Simple.
-the breathtaking wildlife. Nothing quite compares to an early morning coffee on my deck while a flock of several hundred Gallahs sail by gracefully overhead.
- Surfers Paradise- a city that combines all the cheese of Las Vegas with a breathtaking view where city skyscrapers meets white sand beaches that stretch for miles. The glorious wrongness of strolling through the all night open malls that are patrolled equally by hookers and families out for a late night stroll with their kids in tow. Neither thinks the other are out of place.
-Traffic that merges like a zipper. One lane merging into another simply means that the far furthest in front has right of way. None of this waiting on the side of a freeway waiting for a break in traffic cavernous enough to let a car go from 0 to 100- you simply math speed of traffic on the on-ramp, and traffic actually accommodates your entry smoothly.
-The fact that my accent is considered “Exotic”. I've been harassed on several occasions to read simply so I could be listened to. It is a surreal thing to run into a convenience store at 4 am after a night of clubbing to be held up for ten extra minutes, simply to read the ingredients on a package of hot dogs for the clerk or sits enraptured at your every word.
- An economy that has been growing steadily for so long that an entire generation of Australians have grown up not only hoping to achieve all their dreams- but with the security that anything really is possible. No, not even possible- but expected. It's resulted in a delightful positive, laid-back, devil-may-care attitude that is infectious. Que Sera, Sera indeed.
-Australia is where the boy is.
Australia. It seems I love it more then I hate it. But its still not pronounced deboo.
Hates;
-Australians insist on retaining the use of French words, but completely disregard proper pronounciation of the same. For example “Debut” is used at least daily on various news programs, pronounced “deboo”. I cringe every time. Maybe that makes me a snob. I don't care. it's still wrong.
-The service industry. It completely lacks- well...service. Because there is no tipping, waitstaff simply overlook any attention to detail or even common courtesty. They get paid regardless, and any one daring to rudely point out that their work is not up to snuff would probably regret every saying anything. “So you ordered steak and got chicken? Oh well- enjoy your chicken- and we will still be charging you for the most expensive steak on the menu”.
-The heat. oh my god, the fucking heat. Paradise, my ass! It actually IS the underworld- Yes, Virginia, there is a hell- and the Devil went down to Queensland.
-Women are women. Girls are women. Female toddlers are bloody women. Tomboys just don't exist. Look around the average shopping centre, the average beach, the average playground- you can easily tell the sex of each and every baby from the age of 4 days old because the girls are completely clad in matching Oscar De La Renta handbag and shoes, and are wearing the latest shade of lipstick.
Likes;
-Australia is where the boy is.
-The beach. The ocean. Endless white sand, water warm enough to actually swim in (or fall about helplessly in, in my case), gorgeous enough to make me cry.
- Fruit, nuts and flowers that are common enough to practically be considered weeds. Mangos, Avocados, Macadamias, calla lilies- all grow in backyards without most people giving a second thought to just how good they have it.
-Taxes are built into the price on everything. No more guessing or calculating taxes on the way to the checkout. no more being caught short. What you see is what you pay. Simple.
-the breathtaking wildlife. Nothing quite compares to an early morning coffee on my deck while a flock of several hundred Gallahs sail by gracefully overhead.
- Surfers Paradise- a city that combines all the cheese of Las Vegas with a breathtaking view where city skyscrapers meets white sand beaches that stretch for miles. The glorious wrongness of strolling through the all night open malls that are patrolled equally by hookers and families out for a late night stroll with their kids in tow. Neither thinks the other are out of place.
-Traffic that merges like a zipper. One lane merging into another simply means that the far furthest in front has right of way. None of this waiting on the side of a freeway waiting for a break in traffic cavernous enough to let a car go from 0 to 100- you simply math speed of traffic on the on-ramp, and traffic actually accommodates your entry smoothly.
-The fact that my accent is considered “Exotic”. I've been harassed on several occasions to read simply so I could be listened to. It is a surreal thing to run into a convenience store at 4 am after a night of clubbing to be held up for ten extra minutes, simply to read the ingredients on a package of hot dogs for the clerk or sits enraptured at your every word.
- An economy that has been growing steadily for so long that an entire generation of Australians have grown up not only hoping to achieve all their dreams- but with the security that anything really is possible. No, not even possible- but expected. It's resulted in a delightful positive, laid-back, devil-may-care attitude that is infectious. Que Sera, Sera indeed.
-Australia is where the boy is.
Australia. It seems I love it more then I hate it. But its still not pronounced deboo.
Thursday, April 26, 2007
I truely am an innocent...
Today, I received an unsolicited email from a young American lady, curently on holiday in London, UK, who tells me she "read it on the net somewhere" that I used to live in London myself. And then she asked me to tell her where she could "buy some green".
It took me about three minutes to figure out what she was asking for. I honestly had NO clue. I was sitting and thinking to myself; "Green? Why would she want to BUY American dollars once there? Why not bring them with her? and surely everyone knows about banks and currency exchange places?"
It's a wonder I can tie my own shoes.
It took me about three minutes to figure out what she was asking for. I honestly had NO clue. I was sitting and thinking to myself; "Green? Why would she want to BUY American dollars once there? Why not bring them with her? and surely everyone knows about banks and currency exchange places?"
It's a wonder I can tie my own shoes.
Monday, April 16, 2007
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
Nikki WhereIS
I've been debating changing my name to Nikki WhereIs. As it is the most commonly heard phrase in our home, particularly in the morning. I don't mind it for things like keys, which could get set down anywhere (except on the actual keyrack, cause that would just be silly, wouldn't it)?
But I do get the littlest bit irritated and sassy when asked on a regular basis things like "Nikki WhereIs the milk?
"Ummm...its 40 damned degrees at 7 am- where do you THINK I might be hiding the milk? Did you even LOOK in the fridge"?
My typical morning involves following in the Boi's wake, picking up things he will need along the way; wallet, car and house keys, swipe card for access to the office, gym clothing, laptop, sunglasses, lunch, books for class. By the time we get out to the car, I'm juggling his gear and mine (A single handbag), a la Octopus Extraordinaire, and he's relaxed and empty handed, save for his bottle of water, stretching and enjoying the morning sunshine while I dance about on one foot trying not to drop anything while unlocking the car door with keys held in my mouth.
I love mornings But I should demand a raise.
But I do get the littlest bit irritated and sassy when asked on a regular basis things like "Nikki WhereIs the milk?
"Ummm...its 40 damned degrees at 7 am- where do you THINK I might be hiding the milk? Did you even LOOK in the fridge"?
My typical morning involves following in the Boi's wake, picking up things he will need along the way; wallet, car and house keys, swipe card for access to the office, gym clothing, laptop, sunglasses, lunch, books for class. By the time we get out to the car, I'm juggling his gear and mine (A single handbag), a la Octopus Extraordinaire, and he's relaxed and empty handed, save for his bottle of water, stretching and enjoying the morning sunshine while I dance about on one foot trying not to drop anything while unlocking the car door with keys held in my mouth.
I love mornings But I should demand a raise.
Thursday, November 30, 2006
2005 Xmas Wish List, redux.
From a post I made last year, in response to a What do you want for Xmas thread on a message board somewhere;
-a Smart Car (eco friendly, I want the sporty coupe, convertible)
- a laptop. (i mac)
- mp3 player (creative Zen)
- Plane tickets to London and Canada.
- a few grand to blow on books.
- Hookers and blow. Ok, so I'm not ~that~ greedy. Anal will do. But he has to wear a Santa Suit and call me Ho.
- a laptop. (i mac)
- mp3 player (creative Zen)
- Plane tickets to London and Canada.
- a few grand to blow on books.
- Hookers and blow. Ok, so I'm not ~that~ greedy. Anal will do. But he has to wear a Santa Suit and call me Ho.
The first 6 items are dispensible.
I found it today with some amusement.
I bought a car some month ago. Looked very seriously into Smart Cars, but in the end the enormous cost factor detracted from their benefits, and I wound up with a sunshine-y, screamingly bright yellow Hyundai instead. Still guzzles about half the petrol that the monster truck I drove before did, so I feel I did not totally sell out on the environmental concerns portion of this one.
The IMac. Yeah...still with a strange unexplainable desire to own an apple, but have moved on now to the MacBook Pro. And will make this one a reality in the new year. Gotta love the Australian "Salary Sacrifice" scheme...wherein you can purchase high ticket items that can be justified as partially work related by obtaining item right away, and paying for it in installments from your pay, PRE tax.
The Creative Zen. Never got it. Sort of. I made the mistake of telling the Bastard that I wanted a new MP3 player...and what does he do? Buys a Ipod for himself. Then bores of it and buys a goddamned Creative MP3 player....and wonders why I am a touched miffed at him showing off his toys. And I STILL don't have a decent MP3 player. Not that I am bitter, or anything. I've just appropriated one of his for the time being. That'll learn him.
Plane tickets to London and Canada. Check. We leave Saturday. And Have managed to throw The U.S and Bangkok into the mix, as well. Have I mentioned "Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!", yet?
A few grand to blow on books. Hmmm. While I doubt I've spent quite THAT much, we've added to our collection considerably; and next month I'll be sorting through some of my things in storage in Canada and ship a number more books here.
Hookers/Blow....immediately replaced by anal on second thought. I'm pretty much guaranteed to get this one if I ask nicely. Hell, even if I demand bitchily.
Which reminds me.....I need to go shopping for a Santa Hat.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
I was thinking of you today...
For T.
The window was open, the early morning air was clean from an overnight thunderstorm. I could hear the kids next door splashing in their pool. The macaw was back and feeding on the seed I leave out for him...or her...I don't actually know.
I was standing at the kitchen counter, cutting open avocado's to make guacamole, and suddenly, I feltt myself back in your flat, remembering the day I first made you guacamole and it launched a discussion about how British people ruin it by adding tomato and onion.
You were so close I could smell you. But when I went to touch you, it all dissolved.
Next time I will try to hold on tighter:)
Miss you.
The window was open, the early morning air was clean from an overnight thunderstorm. I could hear the kids next door splashing in their pool. The macaw was back and feeding on the seed I leave out for him...or her...I don't actually know.
I was standing at the kitchen counter, cutting open avocado's to make guacamole, and suddenly, I feltt myself back in your flat, remembering the day I first made you guacamole and it launched a discussion about how British people ruin it by adding tomato and onion.
You were so close I could smell you. But when I went to touch you, it all dissolved.
Next time I will try to hold on tighter:)
Miss you.
Monday, November 13, 2006
Better then Books?
A friend of mine covets the Sony Reader. Basically, a hand held electronic storage device with the capability of holding about 80 books on it's memory card, displaying them on a scrolling screen for reading pleasure.
While I am a total junkie for new toys, and readilly admit to this, the Reader is one device that passes me by. I just don't get it.
I don't get the same innate pleasure from reading words on a computer screen. The texture, the smell, the experience of a book in my hands cannot be duplicated in the digital format.
Google news (customized) is my homepage. I spend the first hour of every morning skimming news articles.
I also read one print paper every day, and about three days a week, another print newspaper as well.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not knocking digital media in any way. 99% of my job is carried out through the internet.
I check online for movie tickets, travel bookings, first stop for any research, for directions and maps, for phone numbers, I check ebay for an estimate of cost before buying pretty much anything of value.
But I love my books and newspapers. The internet is convenient, and versatile, and able to keep up with my 2 second attention span, and my need for info NOW. And that is alot of "ands".
But I hope it never completely replaces print media. Reading books in digital format is only half an experience for me. And nothing can replace my leisurely saturday morning coffee and newspaper ritual.
While I am a total junkie for new toys, and readilly admit to this, the Reader is one device that passes me by. I just don't get it.
I don't get the same innate pleasure from reading words on a computer screen. The texture, the smell, the experience of a book in my hands cannot be duplicated in the digital format.
Google news (customized) is my homepage. I spend the first hour of every morning skimming news articles.
I also read one print paper every day, and about three days a week, another print newspaper as well.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not knocking digital media in any way. 99% of my job is carried out through the internet.
I check online for movie tickets, travel bookings, first stop for any research, for directions and maps, for phone numbers, I check ebay for an estimate of cost before buying pretty much anything of value.
But I love my books and newspapers. The internet is convenient, and versatile, and able to keep up with my 2 second attention span, and my need for info NOW. And that is alot of "ands".
But I hope it never completely replaces print media. Reading books in digital format is only half an experience for me. And nothing can replace my leisurely saturday morning coffee and newspaper ritual.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
I....
AM: Excited
WANT: A cannon Eos and a MacBook
WISH: that travel was cheap
HATE: Bigotry
MISS: London
HEAR: Gottan Project
WONDER: if it will snow for xmas in NF
REGRET: nothing.
AM NOT: managing my time effectively
DANCE: far too little these days
SING: to nearly everything
CRY: when i need an emotional de-pressuring
AM NOT ALWAYS: confident
WRITE: not often enough
CONFUSE: the sensible
NEED: love
SHOULD: be at the gym
WANT: A cannon Eos and a MacBook
WISH: that travel was cheap
HATE: Bigotry
MISS: London
HEAR: Gottan Project
WONDER: if it will snow for xmas in NF
REGRET: nothing.
AM NOT: managing my time effectively
DANCE: far too little these days
SING: to nearly everything
CRY: when i need an emotional de-pressuring
AM NOT ALWAYS: confident
WRITE: not often enough
CONFUSE: the sensible
NEED: love
SHOULD: be at the gym
Monday, November 06, 2006
26 days to go!
So the tickets are paid for, the hotels and rental cars are reserved, and everything is a go for the big upcoming trip. Just over three weeks to go and we've already packed out backpacks, which are sitting expectantly at the end of the bed, reflecting the anxiousness that is us.
And as an added bonus gift, I have learned that when I return, I no longer have a job. Company is being sold, and out we all go. How's that for a send off gift? "Enjoy your holidays! and subsequent unemployment"!
I'm fiddling with the idea of starting a small business on my return. The boi is terribly supportive, and certain it will explode and we will be rolling in success and money inside a year. He's already planning to quit his job and make me his sugarmamma, coming to work as my biatchboi while finishing his degree.
Not that there's any pressure, or anything.
I'm mixed about it all. With 5 grand for new equipment and marketing, I'm more then confident I can pull it of. As things stand, with no capital, and second rate (in my opinion) equipment, I'm really fucking nervous about wetherI will have the balls to pull this off. Doubting myself will not lend itself to a good sales pitch, either.
Stress over money and plans to move again in the near future means my face is broken out and splotchy like a teenagers. Sexy!
And yet, several days ago, I tossed all cares and concerns out the window. I am determined to enjoy the trip with every ounce of my being, and debt be damned. I've waited too long as it is, and the travel bug and friend-sickness will wait no longer. So off we went today for vaccinations (to protect from all the nasties on the Asian portion of the trip), and giggly-excited we are about the entire thing.
Our credit cards will smoke and combust by the time we are through, but damnit, we are in for a riot of a time.
Clear your calendars and pack away your breakables; hurricane Nikki is on it's way.
And as an added bonus gift, I have learned that when I return, I no longer have a job. Company is being sold, and out we all go. How's that for a send off gift? "Enjoy your holidays! and subsequent unemployment"!
I'm fiddling with the idea of starting a small business on my return. The boi is terribly supportive, and certain it will explode and we will be rolling in success and money inside a year. He's already planning to quit his job and make me his sugarmamma, coming to work as my biatchboi while finishing his degree.
Not that there's any pressure, or anything.
I'm mixed about it all. With 5 grand for new equipment and marketing, I'm more then confident I can pull it of. As things stand, with no capital, and second rate (in my opinion) equipment, I'm really fucking nervous about wetherI will have the balls to pull this off. Doubting myself will not lend itself to a good sales pitch, either.
Stress over money and plans to move again in the near future means my face is broken out and splotchy like a teenagers. Sexy!
And yet, several days ago, I tossed all cares and concerns out the window. I am determined to enjoy the trip with every ounce of my being, and debt be damned. I've waited too long as it is, and the travel bug and friend-sickness will wait no longer. So off we went today for vaccinations (to protect from all the nasties on the Asian portion of the trip), and giggly-excited we are about the entire thing.
Our credit cards will smoke and combust by the time we are through, but damnit, we are in for a riot of a time.
Clear your calendars and pack away your breakables; hurricane Nikki is on it's way.
Thursday, September 28, 2006
The captain goes down with the ship.
The point of diminishing returns often sneaks up on us, unawares. We plod on, extending more and more effort, invest time, money and emotions into a situation; or a person, and wake up one day to find that our effort is going out at an exponential rate, but the returns have dwindled to the point that the balance is completely off.
To give is a wonderful thing; but no person should be expected to give everything. There needs to be a replenishment of self, of happiness.
It’s so easy to get caught in the spiral; to extend just a little bit more with each crisis, to roll up your sleeves and chuck in something extra when the situation warrants. But some situations; some relationships go constantly down the drain and a very slow and steady rate.
It is incredibly hard to recognize this phenomenon when it is happening. And it is very easy to shrug off the words of others, well meaning in intentions when they tell you the ship has sunk and you are just doing a dog paddle to stay afloat. Titanic was unsinkable, remember?
“Don't always follow the bright lights, sometimes they ain't as shiny as they might seem. P”
She (P) is honestly the most astute and logical person I know when it comes to summing up the situation of another person, and spitting things out the other end in a blunt, but entirely correct fashion. She leaves no room for interpretation, no room for argument or rebuttal. Because she is right. Absolutely.
And yet, somehow, when it comes to herself, she buys into the romance of it all everytime. She chases that shiny light like nothing else exists.
“Sometimes relationships end because they are done. Most things don't last forever. They last only as long as necessary, to teach us something- or to bring us something we needed...even if, at times, we aren't aware there is something lacking. Me”
For a much-needed time, it brought her happiness. And she deserves happiness. Problem is, the happiness it offered is limited in scope. It’s constrained by othering things, other people, and theres nothing she can do to conquor those things. They are unmoveable rocks, the fioundations on what makes him him.
She has trouble living in the here and now of a relationship. Love is like that; it sweeps you up in the headiness of it all, and logic no longer has a place. You can’t run a relationship when focusing on what might be, what could be…what you want it to be. The only way to maintain balance in a relationship is to appreciate it for what it is this day, right now.
Is it enough? Can you go on, knowing that this is what it is? Don’t account for all the “what if’s”…focus right now on what IS?
To constantly expect things to live up to the unreal expectations that you set for it, based on the ideal thing you wish it was, you set yourself up for failure. And every time something goes wrong, it is easy to overlook the simple fact that what went wrong never actually was in the first place. It is an alternate thing, a reality removed from the one smacking you in the face. It’s not an always and forever, white picket fence sort of deal. It can’t ever be that.
There will always be external forces beyond your control. There will always be kids demanding time, there will always be work, there will always be a life outside of the rose-tinted romance.
I watched my own personal Titanic go down while sitting in P’s bathtub some years ago, snotting and bawling while she talked me through it. I grasped at every possibility, every external factor, every variable I could imagine. Anything, just to make it work like I so desperately wanted. But nothing I could have offered would have been enough to keep it aloat.
When you strip it down to the bare essentials, P, is it enough? Forget the dreams of him coming home to a clean house, a cooked meal, and a naughty smile. Is it enough to be forever living for those few precious moments snatched between other concerns?
Because this is the way it is. And it is the only way you can count on it ever being.
To give is a wonderful thing; but no person should be expected to give everything. There needs to be a replenishment of self, of happiness.
It’s so easy to get caught in the spiral; to extend just a little bit more with each crisis, to roll up your sleeves and chuck in something extra when the situation warrants. But some situations; some relationships go constantly down the drain and a very slow and steady rate.
It is incredibly hard to recognize this phenomenon when it is happening. And it is very easy to shrug off the words of others, well meaning in intentions when they tell you the ship has sunk and you are just doing a dog paddle to stay afloat. Titanic was unsinkable, remember?
“Don't always follow the bright lights, sometimes they ain't as shiny as they might seem. P”
She (P) is honestly the most astute and logical person I know when it comes to summing up the situation of another person, and spitting things out the other end in a blunt, but entirely correct fashion. She leaves no room for interpretation, no room for argument or rebuttal. Because she is right. Absolutely.
And yet, somehow, when it comes to herself, she buys into the romance of it all everytime. She chases that shiny light like nothing else exists.
“Sometimes relationships end because they are done. Most things don't last forever. They last only as long as necessary, to teach us something- or to bring us something we needed...even if, at times, we aren't aware there is something lacking. Me”
For a much-needed time, it brought her happiness. And she deserves happiness. Problem is, the happiness it offered is limited in scope. It’s constrained by othering things, other people, and theres nothing she can do to conquor those things. They are unmoveable rocks, the fioundations on what makes him him.
She has trouble living in the here and now of a relationship. Love is like that; it sweeps you up in the headiness of it all, and logic no longer has a place. You can’t run a relationship when focusing on what might be, what could be…what you want it to be. The only way to maintain balance in a relationship is to appreciate it for what it is this day, right now.
Is it enough? Can you go on, knowing that this is what it is? Don’t account for all the “what if’s”…focus right now on what IS?
To constantly expect things to live up to the unreal expectations that you set for it, based on the ideal thing you wish it was, you set yourself up for failure. And every time something goes wrong, it is easy to overlook the simple fact that what went wrong never actually was in the first place. It is an alternate thing, a reality removed from the one smacking you in the face. It’s not an always and forever, white picket fence sort of deal. It can’t ever be that.
There will always be external forces beyond your control. There will always be kids demanding time, there will always be work, there will always be a life outside of the rose-tinted romance.
I watched my own personal Titanic go down while sitting in P’s bathtub some years ago, snotting and bawling while she talked me through it. I grasped at every possibility, every external factor, every variable I could imagine. Anything, just to make it work like I so desperately wanted. But nothing I could have offered would have been enough to keep it aloat.
When you strip it down to the bare essentials, P, is it enough? Forget the dreams of him coming home to a clean house, a cooked meal, and a naughty smile. Is it enough to be forever living for those few precious moments snatched between other concerns?
Because this is the way it is. And it is the only way you can count on it ever being.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Aging; the good, the bad, the ugly.
The Good;
-I’m a better judge of character, because I just learned to listen to that inner voice that tells me something is wrong.
-Sex is better. Seriously. In my teens and twenty’s, I just went along with whatever my partner wanted, out of fear of being thought of as a slut. With age comes the ability to effectively communicate, and the recognition of what things you really like, and what things just don’t cut it, as well as not really caring if they think you are a slut, just so long as everyone’s happy.
-People take me (more) seriously. No more of that automatic dismissal based on age and a perceived lack of wisdom. I don’t always feel such a need to prove my own worth.
-Life is simpler, on purpose. Drama-laden friendships that were the norm when I was younger started to take a toll on me, so I purged them from my life.
The Bad;
-Without glucosamine supplements, my knees creak when I use the stairs.
-Unless club nights are chemically enhanced, by 2-3 am, I want to go home to bed. I miss watching the sunrise while still sweaty from a dance floor.
-I still get asked for I.D. I could have put this under “good”, except that sometimes I will forget to bring the damned ID.
-Constant fucking questions about when I am going to have kids. I don’t stop you on the street and ask when you plan your next shit, so why the fuck is it ok for you to ask something as intimate as when I plan to procreate?
-I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up. And at my age, selfishness is no longer an indulgence that is acceptable to most. People have an odd desire to talk to me about things like retirement savings and investments, when I am still delighted that someone pays me to do next to nothing, thereby funding my weekends. I suspect they also wish I would grow up and stop with the pink/purple hair and the piercings, too.
The Ugly;
-Why the fuck do I have a single chin hair that erupts in the same damned spot over and over again?
-I’m a better judge of character, because I just learned to listen to that inner voice that tells me something is wrong.
-Sex is better. Seriously. In my teens and twenty’s, I just went along with whatever my partner wanted, out of fear of being thought of as a slut. With age comes the ability to effectively communicate, and the recognition of what things you really like, and what things just don’t cut it, as well as not really caring if they think you are a slut, just so long as everyone’s happy.
-People take me (more) seriously. No more of that automatic dismissal based on age and a perceived lack of wisdom. I don’t always feel such a need to prove my own worth.
-Life is simpler, on purpose. Drama-laden friendships that were the norm when I was younger started to take a toll on me, so I purged them from my life.
The Bad;
-Without glucosamine supplements, my knees creak when I use the stairs.
-Unless club nights are chemically enhanced, by 2-3 am, I want to go home to bed. I miss watching the sunrise while still sweaty from a dance floor.
-I still get asked for I.D. I could have put this under “good”, except that sometimes I will forget to bring the damned ID.
-Constant fucking questions about when I am going to have kids. I don’t stop you on the street and ask when you plan your next shit, so why the fuck is it ok for you to ask something as intimate as when I plan to procreate?
-I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up. And at my age, selfishness is no longer an indulgence that is acceptable to most. People have an odd desire to talk to me about things like retirement savings and investments, when I am still delighted that someone pays me to do next to nothing, thereby funding my weekends. I suspect they also wish I would grow up and stop with the pink/purple hair and the piercings, too.
The Ugly;
-Why the fuck do I have a single chin hair that erupts in the same damned spot over and over again?
Thursday, September 21, 2006
Stupid Nikki tricks.
I've given myself a papercut. By accident.
On my nipple.
A big one, right across the very centre.
It hurts as though a thousand pint-sized sadists are on there jabbing it with hot pokers.
My nipple is deformed. It's flapping open; looks similar to when I had a piercing reject and was too stubborn to give in and remove it; eventually it ripped out when it caught on something.
Oh yeah, that "something" was one of those evil olive picker-style wire gripper clamps.
Why do I hate my nipples so? They've never brought me harm...quite the opposite in fact. They have done nothing but love me.
So why is it, in my clutziness, that I try to kill them?
On my nipple.
A big one, right across the very centre.
It hurts as though a thousand pint-sized sadists are on there jabbing it with hot pokers.
My nipple is deformed. It's flapping open; looks similar to when I had a piercing reject and was too stubborn to give in and remove it; eventually it ripped out when it caught on something.
Oh yeah, that "something" was one of those evil olive picker-style wire gripper clamps.
Why do I hate my nipples so? They've never brought me harm...quite the opposite in fact. They have done nothing but love me.
So why is it, in my clutziness, that I try to kill them?
Monday, September 04, 2006
Where is ~MY~ slave, goddamnit?
I'm at that breaking point again; where the pressure of being so many things to so many people is building up and every little task seems like a monumental mountain.
You know what I mean; full time employee. Cleaner. Cook. Buyer of presents. Laundress. Chauffeur. Proofreader. Researcher. Personal assistant. Doer of homework. Trip planner extraordinaire (don't even get me started on the bloody trip planning). Ebay seller. Fucking car mechanic. Vet. Sex kiten. Bill payer. Shopper.
The never ending, constantly increasing demands for my time, my energy, my very fucking lifeforce.
I want someone to step in and start doing things for me. I want an entire week wherein I can pass on every task, big and small, to someone else. One week where I never have to hear the sentence "could you please......" or "Where is my..." or "have you..."
Do it your goddamned self...are your legs broken? I don't know where it is, keep track of your own possessions, and no, I bloody well have NOT. It's hardly an appropriate, expected, dignified, fair, or even called for response. But holy fucking hell, have I ever THOUGHT of such things.
I feel as though I am expected to know the answer to every question, there whereabouts of every item, the perfect solution to every problem....and to do it all with a grateful smile. The pressure is overwhelming me. I'm drowning, and I seem to have missplaced my snorkel.
I'm a strong person. I have huge shoulders, and am used to lots being carried thereon. I even enjoy being relied on. I like feeling usefull. It gives me purpose, and great satisfaction. I like feeling needed.
But good god, there are times when it all seems so huge. Like even one more tiny request is going to result in my screaming or falling into a crying heap.
I want help, but I am a perfectionist bitch for whom anyone else's effort would not be enough, and I would wind up redoing it anyhow.
I'm losing the ballance, and I need to bring everything back into perspective, but I don't know how to make it right. I feel overextended in every direction, and yet, I know I can't quit (anything) or it will go undone...and in all likelyhood require more effort to fix further down the track as payment for neglect.
Anyone have a slave they can lend me for a few weeks?
You know what I mean; full time employee. Cleaner. Cook. Buyer of presents. Laundress. Chauffeur. Proofreader. Researcher. Personal assistant. Doer of homework. Trip planner extraordinaire (don't even get me started on the bloody trip planning). Ebay seller. Fucking car mechanic. Vet. Sex kiten. Bill payer. Shopper.
The never ending, constantly increasing demands for my time, my energy, my very fucking lifeforce.
I want someone to step in and start doing things for me. I want an entire week wherein I can pass on every task, big and small, to someone else. One week where I never have to hear the sentence "could you please......" or "Where is my..." or "have you..."
Do it your goddamned self...are your legs broken? I don't know where it is, keep track of your own possessions, and no, I bloody well have NOT. It's hardly an appropriate, expected, dignified, fair, or even called for response. But holy fucking hell, have I ever THOUGHT of such things.
I feel as though I am expected to know the answer to every question, there whereabouts of every item, the perfect solution to every problem....and to do it all with a grateful smile. The pressure is overwhelming me. I'm drowning, and I seem to have missplaced my snorkel.
I'm a strong person. I have huge shoulders, and am used to lots being carried thereon. I even enjoy being relied on. I like feeling usefull. It gives me purpose, and great satisfaction. I like feeling needed.
But good god, there are times when it all seems so huge. Like even one more tiny request is going to result in my screaming or falling into a crying heap.
I want help, but I am a perfectionist bitch for whom anyone else's effort would not be enough, and I would wind up redoing it anyhow.
I'm losing the ballance, and I need to bring everything back into perspective, but I don't know how to make it right. I feel overextended in every direction, and yet, I know I can't quit (anything) or it will go undone...and in all likelyhood require more effort to fix further down the track as payment for neglect.
Anyone have a slave they can lend me for a few weeks?
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