Blogging 101: Never Post Drunk

Monday, July 12th, 2010, One in the ay-em, which technically makes it Tuesday, but as I am not yet asleep, it's still Monday.  Officially.

Hi!  I've had margaritas!  Home made margaritas and not very authentic ones at that, but successfully using up the spare tequila I had lying around just calling my name.  I mean I'd hate it to go bad or something, sitting there on top of the fridge all forlorn.  And really, can you think of a better way to end a warm, summer weeknight?  No.  Me neither.

However, I couldn't find a store bought mix (ok, I forgot to go look, sue me) so rather than give up, I made them with frozen lime soda.  Yes, I know, it IS classy! I think I may just have invented actual white trash margaritas.  You can thank me later.   They still tasted pretty good, despite the lack of fresh fruit or indeed any margarita ingredient except tequila.  Let's face it that's the most important one, right?  Let's not kid ourselves.  Screw formality.

Don't tell anyone but I am rather toasted, I freely admit it.  My toes feel like they're possibly in a separate continent from my feet and I've already corrected about 67 typos in this entry alone.  Hola!

To complement those fine, high class drinks, I played some mariachi music I found on YouTube (it seemed appropriate somehow...) and threw some paint around on a little canvas I had repurposed in the hope of painting a design I could photograph, print and use to make those cute little blank greeting cards you pay a fortune for in stores.

I'm kidding.  I'm very reasonable.  And bribable.

I can already tell you're thrilled.  That's what all that yawning means, right?

Viva tequila!

Suffering for Independence

Sunday, July 4th, 2010 - 8:25 p.m., craving a Mars Bar

Well hi there! It's July 4th, it's hot as a pig in heat and naturally I'm a big, hot, sunburned mess.

I spent the day at the beach at one of the nearby lakes, with a cooler full of icy cold drinks, some slightly soggy food, and boasting a quite impressive hangover due to copious amounts of margaritas last night, while happily floating on my big blue and white inflatable chair, purchased from Satan (That's 'WalMart' to you) last summer for $20.

It's freaking enormous too. I can barely even touch the water when sitting against the back rest and I'm a gigantically tall (ok...average) five foot six.

I spent hours just bobbing over waves on that thing, partaking in my favourite beach pastime - trying in vain to stop cold water splashing up my clunge. There's always a random icy wave that just takes you by surprise and infiltrates your fleshy fortress with its icy tentacles. And I think we can all agree, ladies - there is surely nothing worse than a cold *fanny.

Except perhaps finding your fanny under attack by that mutant that makes up the dude half of Speidi. That guy is the human equivalent of herpes, I swear.

*By "fanny" I mean it either in the British/Australian or North American way, up. To. You.

I thought I was such a wiseass too, by smugly slathering my pasty white flesh in factor 50 sunscreen regularly and remembering parts that normally I forget, like my feet, my knees and my nose, however I clearly wasn't smart enough to figure out that floating in the water with your feet dangling overboard meant there was a chance the sunscreen would wash right off and leave you stumbling around blindly two hours later, hair sticking out in every direction like a feral child, two giant, red, swollen hams attached to your ankles and a look of absolute torture plastered on your face, like someone who's just seen Hulk Hogan naked.

So yeah. For once I do not look like a crazed alcoholic with a bulbous red schnoz after a day in the Sun, but instead I walk like I pooped my pants. If you hear some echoey, loud, far-off voice yelling "Pigfucker!" drift by you on the breeze, in the next couple of days, that'll be me, trying to get my shoes on.

P.S. If you are the man from the beach today who was wearing the fetching shiny, red Speedo, please don't do that anymore. Speedos belong on only two groups of people - swarthy, oblivious Italian men and perverts.

Happy Independence Day America. I hope you ate well, drank lots, got in some quality relaxation and that your extremeties are burn-free.

More Stuff You Didn't Need To Know

Friday, July 2nd, 2010, hot, blustery afternoon, at home on a long weekend

Check me out, writing actual entries on Fridays, that don't involve memes!

Ha, fooled you. Today is totally going to be a meme. I always complain about the damn things yet I always do them regardless, because obviously, there is nothing I enjoy more than talking about myself ad nauseum. Or complaining. Or throwing darts at pictures of Tom Cruise's head.

This one was bestowed on me by the evil, but quite delightful Muummmmeeeeee who knows the world cannot possibly survive without knowing what makes me tick.

Where were you five years ago?

I was living in New York City, working in advertising and planning an exciting trip to the Keys with my sister. I'd wanted to go to Key West since I was about 12 years old and finally I was stoked to be doing it! So we flew down to Fort Lauderdale and drove down to the middle Keys, where we were staying a night before moving on to Key West the following day. It was beautiful and tranquil and the small hotel we stayed in that night had everything; a salt water pool, hammocks, cocktails...and a big, fucking hurricane called Rita. So the next morning instead of heading to Key West as planned, we got our asses evacuated and had to drive maniacally around Florida trying to outrun it, while improvising accommodation, dodging alligators and drowning our sorrows in extreme amounts of beer, pizza and my sister's legendary farts. Good times.

I still haven't been to Key West.

Where would you like to be five years from now?

In my Airstream, travelling around, free as a bird. Maybe we'd finally make it to Key West, who knows? Naturally, I'd have a totally mobile job, my Airstream would be custom fitted for all my needs (including a cocktail bar to match its retro decor) and I'd stay only in the most beautiful of spots, moving on when I needed a change. I'll be mysterious and admirable and adventurous, like that Dos Equis dude who claims to be "the most interesting man in the world", only unlike that guy, I'd look less like "the most dishevelled homeless guy in the world with 'the diabeetus'".

What's on your list to do today?

Let me see. I have to finish this damn meme. I then have to eat this grilled cheese sandwich, let some guy in to fix the dishwasher because I managed to slaughter its will to live, then I have to finish painting a Cylon (yes, another one!) for a friend of mine, package up some small paintings ready to ship to some other people and finish perfecting John Locke's nose, for my good buddy Red. Then I am making a big-assed batch of frozen margaritas for my joint Canada Day/4th of July party tomorrow, (can 2 people and a stuffed cow constitute a "party"?) and I might do some yoga.

What five snacks do you enjoy?

Well I have to say I enjoy potato chips a lot. The more bizarre the flavour, the better too. You're just never going to catch me buying Salt and Vinegar or Cheese and Onion flavour. This is where the UK outdoes the whole rest of the world. It has the best chips/crisps on Earth. With the best flavours. Every time I go over there I bring a suitcase just for fancy flavoured chips. Apart from chips I like red grapes. And devilled eggs. And chocolate dipped strawberries. And cupcakes. And I like cucumber drizzled in black pepper, salt and vinegar. And sweet pickles. And...oh wait, you said five? Well you got eight, because I provide value, baby. Value.

What would you do if you were a billionaire?

Probably the same answer as the five years from now thing. Airstream, travel, cocktail bar, hammock. Only maybe without the mobile job - I'd just paint and craft full time and sell those for fun. Wouldn't that be nice? And I'd pay off my debts and my family's mortgages and get a better car or truck to pull my Airstream and I would be almost worry free. People tell you money can't buy you happiness, but they can pucker up and kiss my pattoot. Money might not buy you happiness but I just bet it comes pretty damn close.

I'm not going to nominate anyone for this meme, but feel free to take it and abuse the shit out of it with your own answers. In fact, I encourage it. Have a happy fourth of July, America. And a perfectly adequate weekend to the rest of you too. Ha.

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.