A New Reason To Block My Holes

Tuesday, June 29th, 2010 - the wee small hours of insomnia due to freaky things

For the love of God, people.  As if I don't have enough to contend with, fielding the occasional sass from a tiny rodent trying to nibble my toes or steal my cheese or whatever his motives are for harassing me, now I have a new nemesis to worry about.  He appears to live in a gap in the skirting board where it doesn't quite meet the floor due to some substandard asshole not doing his job properly.  Goddamn builders.  Or carpenters.  Or whoever deals with skirting board issues in apartments.  Goddamn you all to hell you cowboy jackasses.

So I'm sitting around, chewing a cereal bar and inhaling a Diet Pepsi when I look down at my clean, shiny hardwood floor and see.. it.  Slithering - yes, slithering, across the floor, back toward the crack at the bottom of the wall.

And it was the length of a bus!  A really long bus, like the sort that takes football teams to games and has like....toilets on board and maybe a buffet.  This wasn't a bus though.  No!  It was a THING OF MANY LEGS.


I shuddered a little even typing that if you must know.  Ew. So, yes. It was a giant Thing of Many Legs and like every other interloper that comes anywhere near me, it clearly wanted to suck out my innards and have its babies in my bum.

It didn't say that, obviously, but I knew.  I could tell by its swagger.  Did I mention it was the size of a bus?

Or - ok, so it was an inch long.  It was scary.  You had to be there.  And although I couldn't see it clearly, I could sense its poisonous, spindly leg hairs and green, zombie-like, gelatinous goo dripping off every pore in its body.  So I did what any Indiana Jones type of pioneer, macho, not-scared-at-all, badass mofo would do - I shrieked like the fancy lady I am, grabbed a bottle of Febreeze and spritzed his ass.  From a distance, naturally...

He didn't die, but I bet he smells awesome.

As you know, I don't do well with any sort of bug in general and centipedic things in particular, mainly because they are gross, they slither, they make me goose-bumpy all over, lose my mind and try to run in twenty directions at the same time and they are sent express mail straight from Satan himself.

In fact, I have to say, Baxter the mouse is looking more and more appealing to me since The Thing of Many Legs showed up.  I wonder if he eats centipedic, buggy, gross things?  If so, I might just say he can prolong his mously visit a touch.  I almost got to ask him too because the second The Thing Of Many Legs slithered off into the crack, high on the fumes of Febreeze and the satisfaction of terrifying a grown up human, and I eased myself down off the top of the couch  (I was up there to get a better view, you understand, I wasn't SCARED), I looked up toward the kitchen in time to see a furry thing with a long tail duck under the dishwasher.

For fuck's sake.  It's like an open house for vermin at my house tonight.

So, who's coming round for tea?

The Undead Want Me

Wednesday, June 23rd, 2010, whenever

Hi!  I woke up this morning to find that I have two very attractive puncture marks on the left side of my neck.  Clearly a vampire has visited me in the night and sucked some of my precious Assassin blood.   It’s pretty ironic, since the last thing I saw before I went to bed last night was “True Blood”.  Well ok, maybe not exactly ironic, unless your name is Alanis Morrissette and you haven’t quite grasped grammar concepts fully, but it was at the very least a fitting coincidence.  A fly in your chardonnay, Alanis, really?  Ironic, how?  Whoa, that joke hasn’t been topical in about 15 years!  Go me!

Amendment:  I was thinking, perhaps the fly in Alanis's chardonnay was actually a recovering alcoholic and he ended up dead in her chardonnay?  Now THAT my friends, would be ironic!

I’m not worried, I can replace the missing blood quickly by inhaling lots of coffee and maybe a grilled cheese sandwich.  But it’s the principle of the thing.  Taking it without asking me.  Vampires are assholes.  Sure, some are very attractive yet dangerous assholes, like Eric on “True Blood”, although if you’re slightly brain deficient and wishy-washy romantic they also apparently shimmer like glitter, rescue plain, sulky teenaged girls from ridiculous situations and have tousled hair and permanent “sexy” pouts that make them look vaguely constipated, like that giant douche in that horrendous “Twilight” thing that’s going to go on FOR FREAKING EVER, causing me to want to punch things.  More than usual even.

Then to make matters worse, I find this mosquito flying around my room as I’m trying to drink my coffee and it’s eyeing my milky white flesh longingly and buzz diving me like a kamaikaze fighter pilot on an enemy freighter.

No, there is no coincidence between that and my obviously serious neck puncture wounds, don’t you go thinking it.  That was the work of vampires.  Never doubt me.

Anyway, I don’t actually have anything to say (when do I ever have anything to say, hmmm?) so I’ll leave you. Try not to cry.

Soccer Sounds a Lot Like "Sucker"

Friday, June 18th, lunchtime and it's raining like a little bitch

Apparently there's this "World Cup" thing going on at the moment.  I hadn't particularly noticed until I kept seeing people posting about it, and even then, those posts are mostly from the ladies bestowing much admiration on the toned physiques of many studly, athletic gentlemen.

Me though, I don't give a donkey's ass. This is because where football (or 'soccer' to you people who can't deal with a sport where you actually use your feet, being named appropriately) is concerned, I prefer to ignore it. This is primarily because I grew up in Scotland - a country where football is an actual religion right alongside Protestant and Catholic and therefore, you had to hear about it every, single, motherfucking day from every male human you encountered from the milkman to your classmates to your doctor.

It didn't help that we had a dismal team.  Every World Cup we'd wheel them out and send them to qualifiers and if they actually did qualify - i.e., if the entire opposing team dropped dead on the field and forfeited -  the whole country would get into a giant party mode for about three months in anticipation.

This was always more fun than the actual tournament, because once the World Cup actually began, the fun was generally over because usually Scotland would last about oh....one round, before being unceremoniously booted out for colossal sucking offenses.

This is because Scotland was never an athletic country.  We placed athleticism roughly somewhere on a scale between "voting Conservative" and "eating vegetables" on a scale of importance.  The most practiced exercise in Scotland was walking fifty feet to the corner shop for a Mars Bar and some Irn Bru.  So it's hardly surprising we didn't birth the upper echelon of sportsmen, really.   

We'd get all indignant at the draw because Scotland would draw teams like Germany, Brazil and Italy, while our mythical nemesis, England, would draw something improbably snoozeworthy like Lapland, Swaziland and Lichtenstein.

Or at least that was our excuse for failing miserably.

Not that England, was a whole lot better.  They got just as passionate about football and the World Cup and just as monumentally disappointed in their team's generally lame efforts. They did manage to win it once though, back in 1966 and we've had to hear about that victory every, single, motherfucking World Cup or important football event since.

I remember as a kid thinking "Seriously, this 1966 thing again?  That was a lifetime ago and they're still talking about it?  They haven't won anything since then to get all proud about?"   Because naturally that occasion was a fluke, unlikely to be repeated.  It was 44 years ago people, you're not allowed to boast about something that happened BEFORE YOU WERE EVEN BORN.  You almost wanted them to win something so you could hear a different record.

Of course, that's totally just sour grapes from a person who comes from a country that probably deserved a medal just for making it onto the field without stopping at the pub.  Because if there was a World Cup for drinking, Scotland would join forces with its soulmate, Ireland and drink the rest of the world under the table, over it and probably on top of it too.

Anyway yeah. I hate football.  I hate people's devotion to it and I detest commentators with a fiery passion.   You can call me Scrooge.

HUMBUG.

Of Mice And (Wo)Men, Part Trois

Wednesday, June 16th, 2010, some ungodly hour of the morning

Something mously is stirring...


Baxter:  Well hello!
Me:  Oh for fuck’s sake, you are kidding me.
Baxter:  Did you miss me?  It’s been a while, huh? 
Me: Tell me I’m having a bad dream.
Baxter: You’re having a bad dream.
Me: Thank the lord!
Baxter:  Not really.  I’m back.  I decided to give you some space for a while.  You were getting a little psychotic there and I was feeling a little unwelcome.
Me: No shit. 
Baxter: I see you are still employing the old duct tape hole-plugging method.  It amuses me greatly.
Me:  You’re never going away are you?
Baxter:  Hmmm.  Not really, no.
Me: I might get a cat.  A really big cat with an attitude.
Baxter:   Now, do you really think that’s wise?
Me:  How’d you mean?
Baxter:  Well,  I don’t want to be negative or anything but, cats need nourishment.….and look what you did to that plant.
Me:  Yeah well…this cat would be eating mouse.
Baxter: Oh touché my dear, touché!
Me:  Sigh.
Baxter: Anyway, I’m glad to be back.  I’ve missed the entertainment.  I’m happy to see you’re still hilarious.
Me: What the hell are you talking about now?
Baxter:  That thing you do.
Me: ?
Baxter:  You know.  The thing.  Where you wear the sports bra and the funny pants.  Where you throw your arms in the air and suffer some sort of seizure.
Me: What?  You mean ZUMBA? 
Baxter: Is that what that was.  I just thought you were unwell.  You had a terrifying painful look on your face.
Me: THAT IS MY SEXY FACE!
Baxter:  Oh dear.
Me: You utter fucker.
Baxter: Well there’s that other thing you do.  The one when you lie on the floor in funny positions.  That scared me also.  Maybelline was watching on video.  She almost dialed 911.  She thought your innards were imploding.
Me: What. The. Fuck?
Baxter:  You were down there on the ground, with your limbs flailing all over the place and a look on your face like death was near.
Me:  I was doing YOGA!
Baxter: You were?  Oh.  I am sorry. 
Me: I hate you.
Baxter: You know, I’m pretty sure yoga is supposed to be peaceful and meditative.
Me: I am fucking peaceful and meditative!
Baxter:  Well I don’t want to say you’re mistaken.  But generally yoga doesn’t call for people to yell “No way is my leg going there, motherfucker!”
Me:  It is the way I do it, mouse.   Maybe you should just go away and stop spying on me.
Baxter:  Well I’m going now actually because it’s past my bedtime, as you are aware. But I just wanted to alert you to my return.  In case you missed me.  Or were lonely.  Or distressed.
Me:  I am now, you little, long-tailed, hoity toity tool.
Baxter:  I’m going to ignore that.  See you tonight!

See here for Part Deux
And here is the first part.

Won't You Take Me to Funky Town?

Tuesday, June 15th, 2010, in the early hours before coffee has made me human

I was kind of in a funk at the weekend for some reason. The bad kind of funk, where everything's depressing, not the good kind where you groove on down to some Hendrix while smoking a fat, suspicious substance and sporting six inch platforms, purple bell-bottoms and an Afro perm big enough to hide a large family of Mormons. You know what I'm talking about. I know you people and your sexy, retro habits. You really ought to get that hole in your bedroom wall fixed by the way... You never know who's looking through that thing.

Anyway, I was in a funk, probably because it seems to have rained for a month straight and the skies are boring and grey and you know when you really want to go do something, but you don’t know what and even if you did, you probably couldn’t anyway, because it’s rainy and chilly? Well it was like that. Even the buildings look depressed. I didn’t even want to paint, or play my guitar, or use the computer, or do anything at all constructive. I just wanted to stay home and sulk while I whined to myself about how the weather is conspiring to make me insane.

Because obviously, I have a long way to go in that respect.

I'm telling you right now, however, next weekend will be different, because I'm going to have a bucket of frozen margaritas ready, mellowing in my freezer, so that rain or shine, either way I won't give a goddamn hooey. The heavens can spit soccer-ball-sized hail for all I care, because I'll be lying in the middle of the floor, my face red as a baboon's ass and a gigantic grin plastered on my face, while my veins fill up with delicious tequila. I'm actually thinking of mixing it up this time around and along with the usual tequila maybe using Malibu instead of Triple Sec, to get a little Caribbean, coconut, palm tree loving going in my 'ritas. What do you think? Worth a try? I say so! There's nothing an imperial fuckload of coconut rum can't cure, right?

Well, except maybe cancer. Or AIDS. Or Heidi Montag. Or gangrene...

Ok, rephrasing a little, let's just say that mood wise, there's nothing coconut rum can't cure and leave it at that.

Anyway, yes, Malibu is a kickass drink. If it's your clearly false opinion that it's a 'pussy lady drink', I'm not going to argue with you as I don't care, mainly because it's goddamn delicious. In fact, here's something you should try one hot, summer's day and then come back to me with your lame Malibu insults, hosers. 

Pay attention here because you'll thank me for this afterwards. Pour a double shot of Malibu in a tall sundae glass, add two scoops of vanilla or coconut ice cream and fill the rest with Sprite. Stir gently. Voila! A coconutty, alcoholic ice cream float! I warn you though, it's so good you might actually have a little secret orgasm in your mouth. Shhhhh.

Ok. I think it's time for coffee. Have a funk-free Tuesday, peeps.

That's Why They Call Me Mr. Fahrenheit...

Friday, June 11th, 2010, in the wee small hours of the morning
Well hey! I see it's Friday and you're all looking casual-Friday-super-cool. Sort of like people who have a party on their mind. Or even just the weekend. You're all smokin'! Work it, baby!

I'm up late! There's a shock to absolutely no one. But Friday is my day of procrastinating my ass off when I should be using it to do laundry and clean toilets and cook things to freeze that I can eat for dinner next week when I know I'll be too lazy to want to cook and do Zumba, instead of what I actually do, which is sit around painting in my old, sexy, grey velour, paint-splashed sweatpants and hair that screams "I just drank a quart of Turpentine and slept in a hedge!" while sipping Coke Zero, singing along to old Queen songs and farting.

If you'd like to date me, line up here.

And yes, I said Coke Zero. Coke Zero is my new best friend. I mean you all know my alliance to Diet Pepsi, right? I'm a Pepsi girl first and foremost. But lately, I don't know. Something's been afoot and I've been hitting the Zero good and hard. It might be because it's always on sale and I'm cheap, or it could be I'm traversing a sketchy period of insomnia again and it's messing with my brain. Either way, I know it's shocking, but try to breathe. I know you must be thinking, "What's next, will she stop pining after cake and request a banana? Have we entered a parallel universe?"

Don't tell anyone ok? It'll be our secret.

Something that isn't a secret is that Jenny is having a giveaway on her blog where you can enter to win a beach bubble bag thingie (you have to click that link to her blog and go find it, suckers), however, as I appeared to be non eligible to enter as I don't do the social networking thing, I told her I was going to make a voodoo doll in her likeness and stick a pin in her head and she suddenly got all contrite and told me I could be in the competition after all because I am wonderful (or because she is wicked scared of me). But if you all would like a beach bag go and enter. Tell her I sent you and she'll be your bitch.

A Valid Argument Against Beer

Wednesday, June 9th, early in the ay-em

Well hi! It's me again. Please don't pass out, I know it's only been two days and everything, yet here I am again, taking up space in your update list or whatever the hell you people use to find new bloggy things.

I should tell you right now that I have had some beer. Just to make it clear in case service is somewhat patchy or possibly grammatically illegal.

Lovely, cold, icy, fizzy, golden beer. I am obviously a pussy, because even a few beers seems to make me all fuzzy and warm and a little bit disoriented. Gone are the days of drinking all night, dancing to embarrassing songs with a traffic cone on my head and puking in the cab on the way home. No Sir, I am a grown up lady with dignity. I keep my top ON.

It's weird though. I'm drinking Coors Lite, for Christ's sakes. You'd think that wouldn't make a mouse drunk! Well it just goes to show doesn't it? Upwards and onwards.

Anyway, I was going to tell you about these awesome key lime cookies I found today, but I really can't be assed. Although I sort of just did. Well, they're really delicious, anyhow. Let's leave it there. Your mind can do the rest.

You know what else happens when I've had beer? I sound all Scottish. As I was just telling someone earlier, I sound like Groundskeeper Willie and Gerard Butler had a baby. But a really sexy baby. And I'm not even Scottish!

OK, yes, I am. But it would be much funnier if I was say....some other nationality that isn't Scottish.

I've also painted two more little canvas boards. I know, I know. This blog's become all about memes and me telling the world I am an awesome painting machine lately and it's really quite sad. I agree. I truly do. 

So yes. That's what I've done this evening and last. Painted things and drank beer and gone grocery shopping and eaten a Subway BLT (minus the "L" because lettuce, my friends, is for rabbits. So it was really more of a "BT". Only you know...not British Telecom). Oh! And I clunked my elbow getting out of the car and said a new bad word. I said, "son-of-a-fuck-knocker!"

I know what you're thinking too. You're thinking, "Why did you even bother posting this nonsense?" and I will reply with, "Because I can." And that should suffice, crankypants. See you all tomorrow when I refuse to have a hangover. Nighty.

Update: I had a little hangover when I got up at 7am. A little man with a jackhammer in my brain. Lesson learned.