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.)
Tuesday, 12 June 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, 5 June 2007
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.
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.
Friday, 25 May 2007
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
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
Wednesday, 23 May 2007
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.
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
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
Friday, 18 May 2007
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.
"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.
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