Unwedded Bliss

Being one of those happily engaged (swoon! at the romance) but really can't quite make the extra effort and do the deed type of people, I spend literally minutes of my time working out if there is a good way to finally make Sidekick an honest man. Options include:


* The "Registry Office Number". Get married to the strains of your chosen deeply cheesy ballad (I'd suggest "Nothing Else Matters" by Metallica for preference) and allow the most important day of your life to be presided over by Betty, who's put on her best hot pink polyester skirt suit. She'll list your vows in a voice that somehow manages to drip sarcasm, saccharine sweetness and boredom in equal amounts. This is legally binding. And she'll make sure you know it.


* The "We wrote all the vows ourselves" wedding. Speaks for itself, really. I'd recommend stealing Jonathan Safran Foer's words from "Everything Is Illuminated" along the lines of some very worthwhile promises (I will refill the toilet paper holder, I will allow you to have the last word in every third argument, after you have given up hope of ever seeing me do the washing up, you will come home to discover that the draining board is empty, etc) rather than listing just how much you looooove your other half. Of course you do, but there are bound to be cynics at the wedding, and providing 80+ (colour co-ordinated and stylish, possibly avant guarde) sick bags may prove a budget breaker. Mr SF's site

* The "Druidic Rune-Fest". Still, at this point, a winner for me, owing to my conviction that my father would disapprove mightily. Childish I know, but I am the youngest, and therefore genetically most likely to disappoint. Hire a long haired aging hippy chap to make the incantations, dress like an extra from the Rohan set of LOTR, and force all of your friends and family to join together in blessing your marriage in an empty field somewhere "celtic". Note: check for bovines before beginning. They can become almost terrifyingly curious once they get over being startled.

* The "Piss off abroad and avoid having anyone you know watch". Good for those who want to combine sun, sea and strong liquor, with absolutely not under any circumstances spending any time or cash on Great Auntie Ethel. Bit of a cop-out really. Suffering the presence of your family is an integral part of any wedding. And you know that foreign food doesn't agree with you. Ever since you were a kid you've got the runs every time you're away from the house for a night...sorry, I've slipped into mother mode. See? You cannot escape, no matter how much you want to.

* The "We've got an obsession and we are not afraid to blackmail you into taking part" celebration. Suggest on the invitation that anyone not wearing a really excellent Star Wars costume will not be allowed in, and have all the hymns translated into Wookiee. Aren't you a little short for a wedding guest?

So there is my dilemma. Anyone got a better idea, let me know. The time it takes me to come to a decision, I'll be away the crow road before I get to be a Mrs. Pity. I've got a dress pattern ready to sew and everything....

Faster, Pussycat!

Deranged hair? Check


Eyebrows accidentally over plucked into a permanent expression of surprise? Check


Fat buster tights forming weird triple ridge beneath skirt, around hip area? Check


Legs with stubble you could light a match on, on account of not having shaved? Check


Business entirely as usual. Must be nearly Wednesday then.

Sideshow Boob

Last time, I absolutely promise. Or call it a leitmotif, whatever makes you happy.

At the weekend I purchased a new bra. I rather liked it, it's kind of meshy and slightly floral, with those sort of foamy line-enhancing cups. Foolishly, I did not try it on, assuming that manufacturers of lingerie actually stick to sizes when they make the damn things. Idiot.

I tried all the usual manoeuvres while getting dressed, tightening the straps, hoiking the twins up and resettling them, to no avail. The bosoms rested in the cups (hate that word) like a pair of Victoria sponges that had been cooked for too long and had shrunk back in the tins. Running short on time and patience, I slung on a loose sweater, hoping this would disguise the evidence, and made haste for the office. Uplift, schmuplift.

On reflection I should have thought the whole thing through more. In the bathroom mirror, the tightened straps made my chestal orbs appear to be levitating against the wool. There was a definite amount of quad boob going on , only the top two halves of the quad had seemingly sunk. I also noted a certain level of oscillatory action. Look into my boobs, you are feeling sleepy, very sleepy.......

I can only assume that either a) Lingerie makers are assholes or b) my boobs have shrunk.

Sidekick notes, "Bigger is better than smaller, I suppose. Although, that's a matter of opinion". Definitive, I think you'll agree.

The Joy of Spam

Once in a while I delve into the bucket of dross that is the spam folder of my email account. Gmail is pretty good at catching this stuff, but I still feel the need to go in once in a while to check that no vital missives from NASA are stuck in there and can't get to me ( they will call, one day, and then yea verily, I shall save the Earth). Today, this gem:

Subject: cockroach dossier boris

Well, as far as spam goes, the subject line caught my eye. That is one magical title, the imagery, the mystery, the poetry of it, magnificent.

Turned out to be the usual offer for WALLIUM C1ALlS VlAGRRA of course, but frankly, as far as drugs go I prefer nicotine, caffeine and cocaine cut with baby powder and meringue dust.*

What a disappointment. And who the hell is Silas Huntley? Or Gilah Holt? Apparently someone thinks I know them, 'cos the email was addressed to them. These spam generators are getting artsy perhaps? Spam as literary art? Laudable.

*just kidding about the baby powder

Regrettable Conversations

I expect to be hit with some sort of sexual harassment lawsuit any day now.

Me: "Have you got those info sheets from last week?" Him from work: "Yup. Copies of 'em." Short pause. "I'll give you one." Me: "That'd be great! .......Hur hur hur."

And previously, aiming for some sort of group harassment charge:

Me: "Have you heard about Steak and Blowjob day? It's the masculine antidote to Valentine's day." Another, different him from work: "Great! So everyone should come round to yours later then." General laughter from gathered colleagues.
Me: "I'm not doing steak for that many people."

So, for the record, I swear I am innocent. I am merely victim to my total inability to think before I speak, leaving me to regret my words at a leisurely pace later on. You know that flesh creeping sensation as you remember what you said? Remembering the look on other people's faces? The expressions of disbelief?
They'll never get the charges to stick, right?

Mindless Tedium

You must have experienced that moment of self knowledge, when it becomes clear that all that is exciting, fresh and new is behind you. Never again will you feel the thrill of the new, the pounding heartbeat of life, the frenetic song of existence. Ahead is only drudgery, day melting into day, month into month, year after year, until finally, weak and exhausted by ennui, your life is snuffed out like an inconsequential tea light.

In other words, I had to get up at 6.30 this morning to go back to work after a week off. It's remarkable how a night of mild insomnia followed by an obscenely early shower can make you question the meaning of life. However, I am not alone. Apparently getting up too early can be bad for your health. I'm bringing it up at the next staff meeting, with the suggestion that I am allowed to start at 10 instead of 8. For my continued good mental health, of course.

Acceptance

What I wrote:

Dear Mrs Smooze,

Thank you for your invitation to Cooty and Pooter's wedding. We will be glad to accept, and look forward to joining you in celebrating the happy event.

Yours sincerely
La Receptionista


What I wish I wrote:

Dear Mrs Smooze,

Why did you send us an invitation to Cooty and Pooter's wedding? Thanks though, we'll be there with bells on. Or with nothing but a smile on, which'll make the photos more interesting.

I barely know Cooty, having only spoken to her with regards to cat-sitting, but I'm assuming she is a good soul, and that there will be at least one free drink on offer at the do. This is payback for the aforementioned cat-sitting.

I love you, Mrs Smooze, and cannot live any more without you. By the time you read this I'll be face down in a vat of spicy curry.

Yours sincerely, LR

PS. We'll always have Paris xxx

Boot Based Erotica

Way back in the dark past, when I was still trying to improve my handwriting to something approaching legibility (NOWADAYS WHEN I HAVE TO HANDWRITE I USE CAPITALS SO IT CAN BE READ) and working out just who the hell I was, I decided to buy a pair of commando type boots. You know the kind; long, hefty, hardwearing, great for wearing with stupidly short skirts and eye-paringly bright tights*. I harboured goth intentions, a reinvention of myself as "kewl" or maybe "hott". In hindsight, I must have looked like I was wearing them either for a bet, or so I wouldn't blow away in high winds.

In the shoe shop was the most beautiful boy, no older than me, perfect in black T shirt and tousled straight-from-a-warm-bed hair. Nervous sweat inducingly gorgeous. So far out of my league I could have cried. But he is coming this way, and shitshitshit, he is talking, quick! form words you moron! After silently gibbering for a matter of minutes I succeeded in stuttering out my size and hefted my boot of choice at him, simpering helplessly like a drugged chimp all the while.

He came back with the boots and I was so pleased with their lumpen effect, I paid for them there and then.

Picture the scene. There I am, preparing to walk out wearing my new pavement crushing megaboots, when he stops me and points out the price tag still hanging from the laces. I fumble pointlessly with it and stand up. And then he kneels down on the floor, looks right up at me and bites the fucking tag off. While looking at me in a meaningful way, remember. Goodbyes were said. I left the shop and giggled hysterically all the way down the road.

Formative experience that. If only I was a little older and wiser at the time, I'd damn well have asked him what time he finished.

*Translation: Pantyhose. My God that is one filthy suggestive term

Bosomy

This morning, in between the usual foul language, tripping over stuff, including the cat who is permanently underfoot, drinking the coffee helpfully provided by Sidekick, washing while still unconscious, I mistakenly grabbed a lethal combination from the wardrobe - a push up bra and a fitted shirt. Which gapes.

I was getting odd looks all day, the whole look down, look at face, look down routine. I spent my time clutching at my chest as if suddenly suffering from angina, while secretly thinking hey! I got breastage worth checking out! Special.

When I arrived home I thought I'd have a look at my bazoombah display to see what the fuss was about.

Side view. Through the tiny gap in my shirt, I appear to have one strangely enlarged boob, while the other pales into insignificance. Actual melons on view: two. Visible norks: one only. More distressingly, this happens on both sides. The viewing angle doesn't seem to matter. The ribbon decorating the centre of the bra, which looked so damn perky when I bought it, droops sadly between the uneven valley of my pasty cleavage, in the gloom it looks less festive than slightly sinister, like a dribble of tomato soup.

Gah. Foiled again. I can only hope my mutant boobs haven't scarred anyone for life.
(Blogger spellcheck wants me to replace "boobs" with "bob's", and "breastage" with "barracudas". I refuse.)

Living and Mooing

I experienced what is perhaps the essence of true adulthood this weekend. This single event, more than anything else, illustrates that I am hurtling towards 30, and half my friends are rapidly fleeing it: the dinner party.

More than that, this was an actual fondue party. For real, there was a cheese fondue, and hot oil, all in all it was an accident waiting to happen. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Once upon a time the pub was the place for social interaction, meeting there at about 7ish after having scarfed down a pizza by way of ballast. Being fairly sozzled by 9ish was par for the course, in fact it was actively encouraged. This, my Bacchanalian idyll, my drink fuelled Eden, is long since gone. Because, let's face it, it was all about getting your phreak on (as I believe the kids call it these days).

Now it is all done differently. Most of our circle is now regularly (or perhaps not so regularly - it is also no longer de rigeur to ask) "getting their phreak on" with just the one person. This makes for a change in our social gatherings. The underlying tension is gone, leaving a different dynamic for interaction. This particular party started off as a gathering of the damned.

Imagine a bus stop. Then imagine a group of listless people waiting for a bus, one which may never come. Now position them on a group of sofas around a coffee table laden with three (count 'em) fondue sets. Give them neat little glasses of white wine, or pint glasses of lager. With guests quaffing tidily, silence descends. I deeply regretted not having stayed at home, I mean, Casualty was on and everything.

Thank God I managed to breach the gap and start up conversation with the other geek in the room, otherwise I might have had to strangle myself with my own knickers just to end the boredom. I never get tired of talking about how Trekkies are sadder than Star Wars fans, and about how, if I get the chance, I will drive toothpicks into George Lucas's cold, black heart for what he has done with the whole Star Wars ouevre. Or what browser is best, or about sites to go look at. Geek and proud of it, that's me.

The food was good too.

And finally, the crowning glory of the evening. One guest, desperately trying to cling to adulthood while everyone else was trying to forget it, piped up with this little gem: "I'd love to see a live production of The Mikado..." There was a short pause as we tried to compute this, like someone kicking the record player at a real party. Silence. Then Sidekick said "Naw. That'd be really dull - watching them tighten nuts and bolts and stuff". I replied "No, you're thinking of Meccano."
He sets 'em up, I knock 'em down. Being childish really kicks ass sometimes.

Miss L and me decided to enter our massive intellect into a pub quiz.

For the record, out of 27 teams, "Hogs on the Run" came a smashing 23rd. Perhaps we have trouble with memory retention, but we remain blissfully unaware of the name of whoever won the Nobel Peace Prize in 1984, or who the oldest footballer ever to make a debut on the national team was. Shame, one of the prizes was described as "other bit and bobs". Note the lack of a plural there, had to be something good, I reckon. But we did get the question about horses right, and the one about who played Dirty Harry. And, most importantly, we were not last.

In lieu of entertainment, we spent our time doodling pictures of spaceships, beasts, cowboys and genitals on a spare bit of paper. Good to see we've matured nicely over the years.

When we skulked back to the car, I noticed that a strange slimy streak of matter appeared to have oozed, like ectoplasm, from the metal and glass. It glistened sickeningly in the street light. I goggled at it for some time before I realised someone had egg'd the damn thing, and it wasn't anything we needed to call TV's "Most Haunted" in to inspect. Which led us to wonder who the hell carefully packs an egg, takes that egg into town, nestled deep in a soft pocket, chooses a car, unwraps the precious chicken ova, aims and throws? Did it offend them like a politician might? Perhaps it was a drive-by egging?

One single egg, mark you. I hope they chose correctly, and did not regret the decision later, when they were eggless. At any rate, it seemed like a judgement of sorts - fare crap in Pub quiz, receive eggs. On your windscreen and bonnet. So there.

Office Fun

When bored out of your tiny mind, why not send letters to people who don't even exist?

Mr C
38 Pootle Lane
Ferckley in the Wold
Botswanadon
BB5 4RR


25 May 2007

Dear Mr Cheese & Onion

Please find enclosed a timetable for eyeball pain / headaches this year.

On the 8th of June, a shower of bastards is expected in the morning. Be sure to take the necessary precautions.

Please contact me if this change causes any difficulties for you.

Yours Sincerely

La Receptionista
Office Ham Sandwich

Messages for the Unhearing

To the aging professor who cut me up in Asda's car park:
I hate you. I do not care how new your pathetic car is. I do not care that I may have driven within 20 foot of it.

When your pale, moon shaped, beard wreathed face rose like a guppy's from the gloom I felt disgust, and bowel clenching fury. Why did you goggle at me? Your beady little eyes fixed upon me as if seeing the world for the first time, but surely, with your driving skills, this must happen all the time. And your Paddington Bear hard stare? My God, I swear, I was so scared, no, really.

Thank the unlucky star that shone down on your unfortunate birth that I didn't just ram the back of your precious motor. Believe me, I was imagining doing it, and it was good.
Next time I see you, all bets are off, sucker!

Thanks. I feel better now.

Today, the following exchange took place:

Me: Sorry for being so grumpy. I'm probably just a bit hormonal.

Sidekick: ........You think?

Me: WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT SUPPOSED TO MEAN?!

Then I ruined a perfectly good and workable strop by sniggering to myself. Dern it, I was 21 to 13 spats and pulling away too.*

*Gratuitous Princess Bride reference

Delusions of Terror

As usual, I was wasting time skipping merrily amongst the Blogger blogs when I was brought up short by this statement pasted right across the top of the page. Weird:

"Note from the paranoid author of this blog: Due to my increasing (though variable degrees of) paranoia, please refrain from linking to this blog. This is not due to any misconceptions of superiority (even though I may be better than you or anyone else out there), but only to a severe dread of being discovered by my friends or family. If you are my friends or family, please stop reading this blog. If you cannot stop, please do not ever let me know that you know about this blog. If you have to let me know, hypnotize me first, and then make me forget what you tell me. Otherwise, read on."

It was all I could do not to link to this blog just to be contrary. Not sure what that says about me, but it can't be good.
The worst thing is that now I can't find the page again in order to check for salacious and dirty reading matter, although I can reveal that the current post contained......a recipe for........SOUP.

Nasty little munchkin.

I Hear Dead People

I am not entirely convinced that I achieve full consciousness until quite late on in the day. Generally, I stumble around in a fog for several hours before the world around me resolves itself into a comprehensible whole. Mostly this does me little harm, although I have attempted to make coffee by adding fizzy water from the fridge to sugar and coffee granules. The major difficulty is that anyone who talks to me before, say, 10am seems to be uttering prophecies, or speaking in tongues. Things I have misheard this week:

"Fargle, the Binman cometh!" ("Remember, I'm playing badminton tonight.")

"Mixmag, has the cat gone?" ("Did you feed the cat?")

"Give it to Ahab, he'll return the pox forthwith." ("Give me the number, I'll fax it.")

I see two possibilities:

1. I am channeling some long dead seer
2. I need my ears cleaned

Procrastination

"I love deadlines. I like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by."
Douglas Adams

It's amazing just how long I can put off doing something. My approach tends towards leaving it until it is a) too bloody late by a long shot or b) pointless. I now believe myself to actually be incapable of just getting on and finishing it. It is for this very reason that it took me four and a half years to finish a three year university degree. Do I need to explain that playing Zelda on my Un-intendo 64 was infinitely more necessary to me than completing a 4000 word essay on the political effects of the printing press? Or that discussing porn in the pub was more interesting than dissecting the history of the romantic novel (providing a comprehensive list of all references)? Or that seeing Rolf Harris in concert was more vital than revising? Actually, I never went to that concert, stayed home "to revise", but instead had a two hour bath and watched a documentary on the SAS. Bloody typical.

Even right at this moment, I am completely failing to tidy the bedroom in any way. Look at me. I'm still not moving, despite the fact that it would really make Sidekick happy if I would just have at it.

The point to all this is how enjoyable procrastination can be. Every now and then, if you just can't be arsed, let it go. After years of practice I can take not being arsed-ness to a whole new level of slothful inadequacy. It's my art.

Suppose I'll go put some clothes away and hoover. But first I need to read this book I got yesterday, smoke a few and then perhaps a face mask? So many fabulous ways to waste time, so little excitement in the things I should do.

In other news: today I consistently typed "pumpls" instead of "pumps" and "chimney bresty" instead of "chimney breast". I feel sure my brain is doing this on purpose, with the sole intention of preventing death by complete boredom. Is sniggering a sackable offense?
Pumpls. I like it. *Snigger*

Special Offer

For sale: One set of *magic bathroom scales*.


White, reasonable condition, traditional style, measures weight from 0 to 18 stone. Would grace any bathroom, or why not keep them in the bedroom, making it easy to weigh yourself straight after waking?


Special features:
Wipe clean plastic coating Easy read dial Automatically weighs you at 3 stone less than you actually weigh. *


I'll take offers. I'd been weighing myself and thinking "Wow! It's great how I'm losing weight and not dieting or nuthin'. Damn that's good. Funny how I don't look any different, though....". Maybe I'll post them on E-Bay under "supernatural".


*May, on reflection, be broken.

Go snowboarding in Scotland. Follow these simple steps for sporting adventure.

Notice snow falling at a time when you can actually use it, ie during your week off.Decide to have one last hurrah before snow is off the menu until December.Check status of The Lecht.

Make plans to leave early, carefully pulling out all the necessary kit from it's hibernation space in the cupboard. Don't forget your hat, gloves, snowboard, etc.

Rise at the ass crack of dawn, or in my case, force someone else to rise by the time honoured method of pulling the duvet off them.Discover that the road to the Lecht is closed. Due to snow, naturally.Go back to sleep.And reeeelaaaax. You have just experienced the best that Scotland has to offer for winter sports!*

*in April, mind.