Gnarrr!!!

Just who the hell is playing 'I Just Called to Say I Love You' loudly on repeat with their windows open? When I find you, I will kill you.

senile dementia sets in.

Of course, now I'm 26 and no longer on any kind of drugs, my mind has started to unravel. Even though I am currently multi tasking to the max (dehairing my legs with the epilator, on hold on the phone to the cable company and typing this) it seems that my brain is unable to handle even simple solo tasks. I had lost a pair of tweezers and spent a good ten minutes in a whirling frenzy looking for them. Of course as soon as I use a different pair and pull a chunk of flesh from my eyebrow, I sit on the bed and find them precisely where I must have left them, ready to use. I have no idea when I went and got them. I must have, because they usually live in the bathroom.

Evidently the key is to do lots of things at once, badly. When I try and complete a single task, that's when I fail and panic. I underwent a massive spring clean yesterday. (Not personally, I spring cleaned my bedroom) It hadn't been dusted in years. I used to smoke and have no allergies, so it kind of got out of hand. I do a nice line in 'dusting-the-bits-you-can-see'. My mother refers to this as 'Man-cleaning', but I know a lot of men who are a damn sight cleaner than me, so that seems unfair. Anyway, now I've tided up and that, I have no idea where anything is now. Hence the tweezers fiasco. When my room was messy, everything that was in here had it's place. On the floor admittedly, but I knew where it was. This is what clean and tidy people miss about us messy bastards. We evolve photographic memories about where we last saw things. I could have told you where anything was and found it within 20 seconds. Now I'm reduced to poking through drawers in a vague and random fashion, muttering rhetorical things to myself, like 'if I were a fabric hairband, where would I live?'

Mess is all to do with strata. Like in rocks. Layers form and these can be associated with a particular date. If I was looking for my DVD remote control, I would have used it in the last 2 days, so it would be in the top two layers. If I wanted a jumper, it would be in a lower layer because it's been bloody hot for the last few months. Obviously, my room can only be messy enough to actually develop strata for a couple of days because then the whole thing becomes rather dangerous and unstable and then I tend to go on an insane tidying rampage. I can then keep it tidy until I'm in a hurry and looking for something, when I have a tendency to hurl things about madly and then we're back to square one. Otherwise known as 'light ground cover'. Where there's a little mess that would be the work of five minutes to clean up, but you can't be arsed. Then the whole thing begins again. It's a sad fact, but if I'm still a messy bastard at my age, I think there's no help for me really.

Huh, I was so busy multitasking that I actually watched at least half an old episode of Baywatch. I've just tuned in to the end credits. Sung by The Hoff himself, I believe: "you've got to reach up when you're caught in the current of love!" Heh. The thing that I can't help but notice is that one of the lifeguards is completely tiny. Shoni, her name is. How can she possibly rescue anyone? One fattie and she's dragged to the bottom. Swept away by the 'current of love'. That little red float thing just isn't going to cut it.

The Computer State

I've got a new laptop!
I LOVE it! Though I don't know why they have to take your postcode and house number. 'For their files'? Shall I expect a visit from the laptop fairies later tonight to come and rob me. I even managed to buy a hot pink case for it. Not that I'm into pink, it just amused me. Expect to hear nothing else from me whilst I press gingerly at buttons and pray that it doesn't all go horribly wrong. That is all.

And so it goes on...

Have just given my tiny mousepad a closer look. It is about five inches square, which means if you have a big mouse distance to cover you have to swipe frantically at the mousepad around twenty times, like when you use one of those charge up cars. You know, you have to drag it backwards loads of times and then let go. Then it dribbles forward about a foot and off you go again. Ah! The magic power of elastic bands. That's a real and lasting solution to the energy crisis right there...

Anyway on the reverse of the mousepad it claims:

"This is a flipmat. An ultra thin mousemat with an excellent mousing surface & a patented non-slip backing."

Mousing? Mousing?! I LOVE this new verb? How did I miss it? Can I define the verb 'To mouse'? Next time I'm teaching, I'll definitely be using that one. God I love the English language... Wow, I'm lame.

In other news: So this new Coca Cola Zero. Is that just Diet Coke or what? Is the word 'diet' now causing some kind of stigma? I hate it when you go to the pub and ask for a coke, and they say 'Diet?'. No... If I'd have wanted diet I'd have asked for it. That "diet coke" that comes from the pump tastes like crap. All the diet coke drinkers (until recently including myself) I know tend to have it as their staple liquid. I had to switch to the caffiene free diet coke and cut down on account of the fact that I'm twitchy enough as it is. Not just that, it was giving me heart palpitations. No one needs that.

Pfft. I'm so bored without my laptop. I was just going to mention my 'Mousing' and then go, but got a bit carried away. And I'll no doubt be back tomorrow. Don't mess yourself with excitement or anything. I sense it'll be more grumbling about my computerless state. I have 'mousing envy' apparently.

La sange pour moi...

We have a jukebox in our house. It's really cool, and we have recently added a song to it, which I can't remember the name of but it is mainly in French. It sounds very much like the lyrics are 'La Sange Pour Moi'. (It isn't anything as silly as that though. Sadly.) Which, very roughly translated, means 'A monkey for me'. My French is very bad, as you can see. That amused me so much I didn't bother to check the actual meaning. I will have to go downstairs eventually, if only to replenish my glass of red wine, so I'll find out at some point.

This is all pointless digression and even if that is essentially the name AND the purpose of my blog, I'm even boring myself, so I'll move on. I am taking this rare opportunity to write as I have killed my computer for the sixth time since January. I am a menace to technology. I am thinking of buying a new laptop but I'm worried that it's me that's breaking them and not that they are flipping out of their own accord. That being the more obvious answer.

I've also done something to piss off this computer as well. And it doesn't even belong to me. It has frozen twice. In fact, I've been forbidden to use it owing to my tragic track record with anything with a plug. I'm in here under cover of darkness. I should be wearing a balaclava and a ninja outfit, but that would make me giggle and give the game away. This computer is an apple. I have trouble with applemac. Yes, I know all the stuff is there on the screen and you just drag all the icons about and they're really good for graphic design, but JESUS! What the hell is the control key for here? I have never found a use for it, yet still, I keep on pressing it and expecting stuff to happen. Why do they even have the 'apple' key? Just to make things difficult for PC users, that's why.

That said, I am complaining unjustly. My good friend Angus once sent me an email from Canada and every time she tried to put in an apostrophe she got one of those funny 'e's with an accent over it. I have never been more confused by an email in my life.

...and why don't I have all the rich text format stuff so I can make my writing different sizes and bold and stuff? LAME! I just don't do frugal. I don't want to go and try to change it in case I lose everything I've just written. It's happened twice in hotmail today. There's a button I keep pressing that means 'just wipe everything from the screen and replace it with a box with a smiley little face in it'. I don't know which bloody key it is, but I keep on pressing it and when I work out where it is I fully intend to pry it from the keyboard with a screwdriver.

Hmm. I'm sure all this griping is due to giving up my 2 a night smoking habit (and nail biting and fatty food. Gah!). Not a big thing, but it really doesn't aid my rage.

...Muskerhounds are always ready...

Four things that caused me to have a hysterical fit at work:

1. The dog had a strange and mysterious barking attack for no reason that seemed to surprise him as much as anyone else. That in itself is too much of a regular occurance to be amusing, but for some reason the barks were all of different pitch. I swear he actually barked the theme tune to 'Dogtanian and the Three Muskerhounds'. The bit where it goes 'One for all and all for one - Muskerhounds are always ready...'. Admittedly it tailed off a bit, but the 'one for all and all for one' part was as clear as crystal. Don't know the tune? Shame. Shame upon you.

2. In a donated 1950s horse story book there was a story called 'Too Hot for Spunky'. So many smartass comments. So little time.

3. Enid Blyton's hysterically named 'Gay storybook' opens with the exciting tale of 'Forgetful Fanny'. The mind boggles.

4. More 1950s oddly explicit literature continues with 'Kinky finds a clue'. Sadly we never find out if he lives up to his nickname, though in other stories, 'Fatty' (another glorious forray into non PC land for our beloved Ms Blyton) seems to have rather a penchant for ladies clothes as he 'disguises' himself as a woman no less than 3 times during the story. Oo er.

The cup, the nudesreader and the posh gaff.

So Italy won the world cup, which is OK, especially as that hideous spitter, Totti didn’t play much of a part in it. It was sad that Henry wasn’t there for penalties and Zidane going out on such a low note, but I desperately want to know what it was that the Italian guy said to him to make him head butt him on the last match he ever played. It must have been something pretty impressive. (Your Mum!, perhaps.) I’d like to know because then I can start saying it to people who annoy me. I’d have to run away afterwards to avoid the inevitable head butting.

There’s a woman on the BBC news right now, who has a suspicious look of someone naked from the waist down beyond the camera and rather smug about it. (I guess. That’s not a look I’m familiar with…) I don’t know what she’s thinking, but she’s distracting me from the news wondering what the hell she knows that I don’t.

I had an excellent time at a wedding yesterday. The high points being that they had Bob Marley’s Jammin’ played as they left the chapel and that the wedding and the reception were held in this posh ass private school and it had lots of vile paintings of posh old women clutching scary little dogs. We took pictures of me and The Pook doing fine impressions of the women, sadly without the terrifying little dogs. People pay four grand A TERM to send their little darlings to this centre of academic excellence. It would be like going to school in a mansion. I always say some people get all the luck, but I think perhaps this might be more likely to be a case of some people having all the damn money. Fantastic and wonderful it may have been, but I’d rather send my children to a school where they got to circulate with normal, everyday people without all the trappings and prejudice that such a wealthy upbringing might bestow on them. Have them grow up an oik, like myself, who enjoyed a crafty cigarette in the grounds. Heh heh heh…

Happy Birthday to me!!!

Woooo! I am celebrating the last 15 minutes of my birthday. (It's 11.45, regardless of whatever time blogger claims it is...) Apparently I'm celebrating it by farting about on the internet. Wow, aren't I wild and crazy? I did spend the day in Broadstairs, ventured in for a paddle in the sea and get a tan by accident. I also drank several margharitas at the mexican restaurant. About half an hour ago, The Pook and I set off a celebratory firework left over from our now famous Bonfire Night extravaganza. Hopefully anyone who we woke from their slumbers with our MASSIVE rocket will think it was some Americans having a late July 4th thing. Sorry neighbours. Especially those with small children. Whoops. Anyway, Birthday hurrah!!

The REAL jazz mag...

I have just had the most embarrasing experience ever in WHSmiths today. I was bored and had become almost entirely dessicated on the way back from the doctors. (At last. How long ago did I mention the crusty ear? Now have fun steroid ear drops by the way. Woo hoo!) I thought I'd buy the new Muse album today, which I did, and I thought I'd get a magazine too. The only magazine I read with any frequency would be Empire, but I bought it last month and haven't even read it. I'd only got as far as drawing a massive Hitler moustache on Tom Cruise on the front page. (Damn funny, if I say so myself.)

I ended up thinking I'd get one of those Hollywood gossip magazines you only ever pick up in Doctor's waiting rooms when they're about six months old. I picked one up and was suddenly overcome with shame. I hate these kind of magazines. But I love them. But I hate them. By the time I'd got up to the till I couldn't even look the sales guy in the eye. Which was a good thing because he had snuck off and was hugging one of the girls in the backstage music area. Tut. Anyway, I just shoved my magazine and CD at him and hoped to God I wasn't bright red. Unfortunately he only put the CD on the bill and I was forced to point out the magazine to him. 'Hey, you forgot to add my 99p Hollywood gossip rag there!'. Which made the whole experience that much more shameful. I had a copy of 'Catcher in the Rye' in my bag and felt the urge to wave it at people as I went past. I also read classics, everybody!!! I got home, read it. Felt dirty. The usual.

My shifty behaviour reminded me of the one and only time I have seen a guy buying a porn magazine. Not in WHSmiths. I don't think they sell that sort of thing. I don't know, actually... Like most women, I keep my eyes firmly away from the top shelf for fear of what might be lurking there. This guy was roaming the magazine area for ages and appeared to have selected the one he was after. Then he shot in at the speed of light and grabbed one, rolling it up so that you couldn't see the cover. He showed the mag to the shop assistant without unrolling it, so the price could be seen. Then he was out of the shop so quickly you weren't sure if he was really ever there. Must have been a regular because the whole thing was done with such millitary precision you couldn't help but marvel.

The Stoatherd...

Wow, it's hot isn't it? I spend the whole winter bitching about how cold it is and then as soon as the summer comes I spend it complaining about the heat. And sweating. Plus wearing a skirt seems to result in an unnatural amount of shaving.

I have had an exciting week trying to ride my bike. Unfortunately riding my bike involved having the dog 'herd' me. Such is the joy of owning a sheepdog. I'd love to know what kind of farm animal he thinks I am... He runs along after me going from side to side and panting enthusiastically. Sometimes, if he suspects I am going in the wrong direction he comes up alongside and noses me in the knee. People think it is cute that he behaves in this way. It is not. Dog snot marks down one leg will never be the height of fashion. Mind you, I would have said the same thing about velour tracksuits and look where that got me.

The reason this is rather annoying behaviour is mainly because I have to avoid running him over. Or stopping suddenly and having him crash into the back wheel. People aren't going to find it very cute when I run over one of his feet and he does that attention-grabbing screaming thing he is so very fond of. Sometimes he does that in the street for no reason. I am getting a reputation as some kind of dog abuser in my street.

Anyway. During a trip around the park, I took off down a grassy slope, dog behind me. I turned around for a second to check he was still behind me and when I turned back there was a big pot hole. The bike stopped dead, I continued at approximately the same speed, until I was thankfully slowed down by the violent impact of my knees into the handlebars. Then I fell to the grass and ground my face into it, knocking off my glasses and giving myself an attractive black eye. Over the course of the week the black eye has gone, but I have had two fantastic knee bruises to cope with.

On a mildly brighter note, it is my birthday on Wednesday and that means only four more years until 30 sneaks up and beats me with the 'unmarried and childless' stick. Ya-hoo!