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 |   A place where everybody can feel easily offended - my head! |
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I'm gathering quite a collection of blogs. "Invalid Item"  is a bit-of-a-rant. I've got a big gob, and it would be a shame not to use it. "Invalid Item" is just that. It's the product of the bits of me mentioned above  filtered through my subconscious."Invalid Item" dealing with all things to do with battling sexes, especially exes.Want to know something trivial or obscure? Not really bothered about whether it's right or wrong, as long as it's believable? ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** WELCOME TO THE HUMAN GOOGLE!  I may never have mastered the art of tying shoelaces, but I win every time I play Trivial Persuit. Friends place bets on how many people I can, unintentionally, upset on a night out. I am the place where boundless enthusiasm meets embarrassing arrogance. Important Information - Please Read I realise some folk do not get Satire. I love a little baffoonery and believe, rather like the jesters of old, you can say quite a lot more than kings when people think you are an idiot. If you are literal minded, best not read on. If you can tell your arse from your elbow, and recognise when an attack isn't an attack then please read:
Heck, even if you can't tell your appendages from one another, read it anyway: who am I to tell you what you can do and what to take from my writing?  The XGC rating is due to the unknown content of many minds - it may be fluffy bunnies or....not! YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED Welcome to my world! Acme  ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** http://twitter.com/acmetweet Skype me at acmetoo template thing-a-ma-bob: {c:green}Write{/c}: {c:green}Edit{/c}: {c:green}Kids{/c}: {c:green}Relationships{/c}: {c:green}Physical{/c}: {c:green}FFF{/c}: |
| So, I did. I wrote the Holding Pond newsletter editorial about the month of luuuurrrrvveee. I thought I ought to put my writing where my opinion is and write a romance. Goo-goo-gush-gush-slobber-slobber-kiss-kiss. Mmm. Not really me, is it? Two old people in a Nursing Home? Yeah, incontinence pads are pretty romantic:
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| I'm delighted to be tagged by Kay... I think the original list goes back to Jenn, but even though I remember reading and commenting on it, I have the memory of a gnat. I note both Jenn and Kay are good at making general comments that could point to anyone. I'm shit at subtle. Let's be honest, after an Acme list, you are going to know who you are, aren't you? Here are my honest, candid thoughts on the other FtLers. I am trying to be cunningly subtlish while I do so: 1. Your boobs are lovely. They are not weird. There are two of them, and that is a good number. They work in pairs. I like your blog because it's like you're chatting with me. 2. No matter how long I've been away from your blog, when I do return I find myself wanting to catch up with everything. Your colleagues fascinate me. 3. Even though I was a bit dubious about getting to know you again, because I take things like leaving the site personally, all your daft humour is still as wonderfully daft as ever. I just wish you'd get your arse in gear and catch up with those entries  4. I sit here an wonder what the fuck is so fucking interesting about fuck all... nope. I don't get it. If I had your life, I'd be as miserable as your blog makes me. 5.You poke and provoke and then moan about people's reactions. I don't get it. It's like "Hit me! Hit me! Fucking hit me . . . oww, you fucking hit me?" 6. I think I love you. You scare me a little. I read and get lost in your world, but you know I rarely comment. One day, when I grow up emotionally, I wanna be just like you. 7. 'cor! You're nuts  and I like it. Don't ever change. Discovering your blog was like discovering The Mighty Boosh or Black Books. 8. I tried really hard to find your blog interesting, because technically, you are one of the best writers I've come across, but your personal universe is so microscopic that I get tired of straining myself. I actually wince at the thought of going in. 9. I love it when you're grumpy. I get the feeling you're a kitten with the heart of a tiger. I bet you'd love a ball of wool. 10. I think sometimes you come across as condescending and arrogant, but then, who am I to talk? 11. You seem nice enough when you talk about your everyday life, but it's when people piss you off that your writing comes alive. Subsequently, I tend to pop into your blog, skim read for swear words, and if there isn't one in there I bugger off quick. 12. I never think to read your blog, but when I fall in there by accident I always tell myself off for not coming back more often. 13. Little gems of sense in a nonsensical world. 14. Yawn ... zzzz ....  ... why do you bother?15. I think you are smashing You see how extraordinary the ordinary is and always take time to comment like you care. I am a little intimidated by you, because you seem a bit-of-a-grown-up.16. What a fucking moaning minnie... purlease 17. Oh good heavens... give me a break from these whinging bastards who don't know when they've got it so good. Twat. 18. You're nice enough, but too damn sunshiney for me, sunshine. 19. You make me wee. Yes, the last one was for MaryLou who isn't in this round. And the spare was for someone else... (ooh, hark at me being all cards close to me chest ) |
| I am death. I mean, I actually am death. I love animals. Hubby gets really annoyed when the kids and I gang up on him and ask for ponies, parrots, monkeys, and puppy dogs. The thing is, no matter how much I love 'em, I can't help but kill 'em  Which is a little worrying because I still have two cats currently in my care  I'm making light of it, but I'm pretty upset. Upset and unfinished. My neighbour, M, had some bad news. His mother died and as she lives in Pakistan, he had to make arrangements to fly over there ASAP. He asked me to feed his fish. "Sure!" I said. How hard could it be? "Just a little food, every two days." He handed me the fish food and off he went. I fed them on Sunday, and then on Tuesday (two days ago), and nothing was amiss. Last night I went outside for a smoke and thought I heard someone running a nearby engine. I didn't think anything of it. This morning I went around the back of his yard to feed the fish, and found out where the engine sound was emanating from: something was broken with the pump/water system. The pond lay drained, the fish lay dead. Shit. "Are you sure they're dead?" This was the question of my previous neighbour who I phoned to find out where all the water had gone and how to turn off the pump and remove the bodies. "Yes. One of them has been partially eaten by something. There are bits of him everywhere. Unless they are zombie fish, they are dead... and smelly, even in cold weather." He proceeded to tell me how to shut everything down, but that the metal frame that covered the pond would need snipping with wire cutters to get to the corpses. I don't have wire cutters. I hung up, knocked on M's other neighbours door and asked if her husband was home. (I KNOW! Totally sexist use of the 'I can't do it -- I'm a woman!' card, but seriously, this was a slimy, corpsey, bits of dead fish job and I needed a bloke.) He wasn't in. She helpfully told me she would watch me from her window to make sure I didn't electrocute myself as I shut everything down, but we both sort of decided to leave the fish in situ until either of the following happen:  Their corpses get carried away by predators. Thus feeding those animals who need protein in winter Hubbys can get involved with bin bags, wire cutters and cast iron stomachs. A magical miracle occurs and the zombie fish reanimate I feel really bad for poor M. I've written him a note. It sounds rubbish. *sigh* Still, I've got the two cats at the vicarage that need feeding tonight... no, I am not going to take chunks of my previous charges down there |
| It surprises me how hard people can be on themselves. So, it was good to read Mood's entry for FtL and read, It helps, thinking of myself as a work in progress. It makes me feel like less of an idiot from day to day. I feel an idiot everyday. It's ace, because I never disappoint myself  I was fascinated with Mood's questions, and the possibility of a successful 'flub' so I had to do 'em :1. Turn off the sound on your computer. Turn on music you enjoy from some other source. Look at a clock and note the time. Then follow this link, http://www.freetetris.org, and play as many games of Tetris as it takes you to break 250,000 points. Look at a clock and note the time again. Step One: I don't have the sound on anyway, so I don't have to find the right buttons to push. Ace Step Two: I popped music on. That is a new source, as it's something I seldom do. I checked out Hubby's list because we're still having to share a computer and I found something called Despertar by a jazz band called Aisha Duo, and that seemed apt so I plopped it on. Why hubby likes jazz is beyond me. It sounds like they're just making it up as they go along... Step Three: (possible flub?) No. I don't have the necessary Gross Motor skills to play games of skill. How many minutes did it take you to break 250,000 points? Moot. 2. Think back on the two most major romantic relationships of your life. List the single worst offense you committed in each relationship, whether your partner knew about them or not. I've never done anything to sabotage a relationship or undermine it, but I have sabotaged my partner and undermined them  I'm such a bore/boar (each fits) Worst offence would have to be being unapologetically low maintenance. Give me a shag and a kind word and I'm as happy as Larry. It actually pisses people off. They want passionate flares of temper and such, and I just want an easy life. Outside of the bedroom I'm not demanding at all. All that he said/she said/ what does it all mean?/ prove your love! type stuff just floats over me.How would the outcome have been different if you had committed each offense in the opposite relationship? Weeell, in the one that failed, the fella ran off to become a door mat for a high maintenance chick who cheated on him all the time. So, I'm not sure my offence was that offensive  In my current relationship, I get looks of disappointment from a deeply romantic man who says I'm only a set of balls away from scratching myself in company... ouch 3. Imagine your mother, your boss and your significant other are staging an invasion of all your private spaces: your bedroom, closet, workspace, car and anywhere else you keep personal belongings. Before the invasion, you are given a paper bag and told you may fill it with anything you don't want discovered during the invasion. Everything else will be discovered and thoroughly examined by all three invaders, who may then interrogate you about any items of interest. As to the contents of the paper bag, you are given a choice: You must either destroy them permanently or hand them over to an objective stranger for safekeeping, with the knowledge that he will deliver them to your children when they turn twenty-five. What do you put in the paper bag, and which fate do you choose for its contents? Sadly, this will be a short answer. There would be sod all in the paper bag Why? Because all my toys are wonderfully fun and I'm not ashamed of them. All my teenage angst poetry was read years ago and my head didn't fall off or anything. I happily let it all hang out because I learned a long time ago that the authorities have never hung anyone for being terminally embarrassing to the their family, and since Ruth Ellis was the last female to be executed in Blighty, it's unlikely that anyone will come after me with a noose just because I've got a couple of grot mags under the bed.4. Due to a strange affliction, you are left unable to correspond in writing. You can still read the correspondences of others, but you are able to respond only one way: through music. Your friends, family members, coworkers and casual acquaintances are all aware of this affliction, and soon you develop a system: Any sentiment or information you would ordinarily express in writing, you express instead by choosing a representative piece of music. There are two catches. First, the music you choose may never have words. Second, you are limited to ten seconds of music per correspondence. Your resume, Christmas newsletter, blog entries and all emails must each be represented by wordless sound clips of ten seconds or less. Your best friend emails to ask about the current state of your sex life. With what ten-second clip of what piece of music do you respond to her inquiry? Zippidy Doo Dah (instrumental... with whistling) 5. You commit a heinous crime, and the judge, who evidently has otherworldly abilities, sentences you to one of two punishments: Either you must spend the rest of your life with absolutely no privacy (meaning the worst possible person will be watching every time you trip, have sex, poop, pick your nose, eat off the floor and dance in front of the mirror), or you must spend the rest of your life robbing your closest friends and acquaintances of their privacy (meaning at hourly intervals, you will be transported to various bathrooms, bedrooms and closets to watch other people do the same private things). Whichever punishment you choose, you cannot explain yourself to anyone else involved, and you are subject to the repercussions of either privacy invasion every time. Which two of your current relationships will suffer most from whichever punishment you choose? Well, I'm so darn self-centered that the worst punishment would be looking at others rather than contemplating my own navel, so TAKE A GANDER Erm, again, this is not a cop out, but everyone who knows me knows I let it all hang out, and it's only the fact that I work for a pretty big boss who knows all about the fig leaves of my life that, for the sake of the Mothers Union, I curb it a little. Therefore, only my working relationships with Parishioners would possibly suffer from them being too intimately aware of the Life and Loves of an Acme 6. While wandering around lost in the woods, you come upon an evil sex genie. Rather than granting you any wishes, he introduces you to the most grotesquely ugly, foul-smelling, repulsive person you've ever seen. The genie tells you that, for the next year, your sex life with the partner or partners of your choosing will be mirrored by the sex life you maintain with this disgusting stranger. In other words, anything you do to or with the stranger will be done to or with you, later, by your partner of choice, but nothing more. Over the year that ensues, what do you miss most about your old sex life? What would I miss? Everything, would be the answer, because I don't cheat. I would much rather be celibate (and believe ME that is more punishment than anything else on the planet) than cheat on the person I'm with. My six questions. The answers to any of them could make me look at a person differently, for sure, but only one could yield a really "wrong" answer. I could really probably earnestly lose feelings for someone who flubbed it. Maybe. |
| I never plan ahead for a blog entry. Even if I'm writing about a specific topic, I tend to research as soon as I think of it and blog as I go; that's why the site has a Private:For My Eyes Only option and an edit button. I had no idea what the heck I would blog about today. If you've been reading my blog, you'll know I've had a bit of a rant about a whole bunch of stuff recently, so I thought a slight detour might be the order of the day. I don't want to get down and personal. I don't want to provoke controversy. I don't want to pose questions and demand answers. I just wanna play. Snow's hit us hard here, and I started reminiscing about all the fab games I used to play as a kid. The old fart in me told the kids that there may not be any school tomorrow, but we had a lot of jobs and duties to attend to... I could have throttled myself. I don't want to do my duty I want to get my super-dooper shiny sledge out of the shed and play until I'm so cold I consider wetting myself for the temporary relief of the warmth. The kids are currently tucked up in bed having made a snowman with dad, while I was boring and chopped veggies in the kitchen. Well, tomorrow is another day. I'm getting my sledge out (one for the kids to shareand an extra special one of my own , and I'm going to do my chores the fun way: Feed the vicarage cats.We shall pretend we are arctic explorers and sled down the big hill to the vicarage. Once there we will not only feed the cats, but make gooy fat balls for the birds: lots of messy fun Stock up on provisions.I will then let the children take it in turns to pretend to be huskies. I'll whip them to the local convenience store for bread and milk, and when there I shall accidentally find a magic Ā£5 with a note from the Snow Fairy instructing us to buy treats too. It will also have a warning to watch out for sledge pirates. Take on the white knuckle ride that is 'the playing field's big hill'In order to escape the clutches of the eveeel sledge pirates we will make a small detour on the way home to the best sledging hill in the area. We will play until someone threatens to wet themselves. Then we shall go home for our treats, hot cocoa and tales of adventure. Sure, at some point I'll have to get some work done, do some cooking, clean the house etc., but I'll be buggered if I'm going to miss the best bits of the snow... or let 'dad' be the fun parent. |
| ~j is deceptively romantic. I would melt with a gooey look of awww on my face if someone wrote of me, I have met someone that I think I can love despite anything and that never manages to stop amazing me. Saying that, you might be further surprised to know that whilst I am now someone who no longer considers themselves to be romantic, I was once the epitome of romance. I think that nowadays I'm a bit of a Neanderthal. It's like I got the hubby, used his seed, procreated, built home/hearth, and get my oats when I want them, so I can lord it up and take his romantic sensibilities for granted. Wrong, I know. I should make more effort. Especially when I remember how wonderfully cheesy and successful in romance I was... I would buy single Gerbera (sp?) daisies, go up to a fella with one and hand it to him and tell him to give it to his girlfriend. "I realise she won't need to feel lucky, simply because she has you next to her, but I do like to guess how the 'he loves me, he loves me not' game pans out..." I'd walk off with a wink. He'd either feel good about himself for an afternoon (no bad thing for any ego), or dump her, and come running to me. Shit. I wasn't romantic after all, I was just a predatory Neanderthal. *gulps* I don't think I want to commit all my other campaigns to blogsville until I've had a chance to vet them first |
Couple of hugs and I'm soon back to normal (thank you, my lovely ladies ). I take a funny route though. I really needed a story, but hadn't got muse room to imagine one (kept imagining hateful things instead). So, I popped over to the interactives page. I haven't added a chapter to an interactive story since last year Now amended The ghosts of anger are satisfied, curled up in their mother's claws and sleeping like a suckled beast now soothed.
*floats off to do floaty things* |
...  I can't even be arsed swearing. Nana Lena continues to be victimised. This time, they managed to put her window through. My mum, still cancer-riddled and in pain, had to fight back tears of angry frustration as she chipped clods of earth from Nana's door and and sweep up broken glass. Nana phoned her, but she was out, so left a message along the lines of, 'I'm alright, and off to bed. Nothing to worry about.' Sure. She said when the window exploded she was so shook up that she forgot the number for the police. She got herself together though, phoned them and three hours later her window was boarded up and she went to bed. Apparently, she didn't get much sleep. But, honestly, how much time does a proud, independent, 92 year-old need to waste before they die, anyway? Good to see that she'll probably be hastened to her maker full of fear and horror for whatever the time she has left. Quality of life in her dotage was a silly thing to wish for. Bastards. I hope she comes back as a Ninja warrior vigilante... and it would help if she looked like Chuck Norris, but, obviously, it's not a requirement. I don't know what to do. She doesn't want to go into a home because, and I quote, "That's where all the old folk go to give up." She doesn't want to come and live with me because, and again I quote, "You would do me nuts in." And she's so feckin' lonely and feeling like a bother that it breaks my heart. The police have been ace about it. They've got a car outside the front of her house, although this has been happening at the rear. One of their officers is going to spend a few hours this evening with her, in case the culprits come back. I've no doubt they will at some future date, but the chances of them trying their arm after an evening of successful window smashing and when we have a snow front moving in are slim. See, that's half the worry for her: she's now waiting, waiting, waiting, for them to return and terrorise her. There's no respite for her. They can amuse themselves however they want, until whenever they want, and then resurface... if they want. My poor Nana won't see ever minute that they don't turn up as an escape, she'll see it as an extension of the torture already put upon her. Heck, she can't even make a cup of tea after twilight; she's scared the window light in the kitchen would attract them. Happy flippin' February. |
| The universe has to have a laugh, otherwise it would be far too depressing. Take freckles. No, please, take 'em. I remember being a kid and trying to scrub them off with a pan scourer. Why? Because once one person had pointed out my resemblance to the kid on the cover of MAD magazine, everyone else nodded emphatically along. Bastards. Then there was my University boo-boo... a crowded lecture hall, me trying to look knowledgeable, and pronouncing hyperbole as hyper-boil. That wasn't too bad, but I drew the line at the the lecturer laughing into his coffee and sharing his amusement of my prize example of the word in action. Twat. Then there was the time hubby took me to work with him. He had to drive a van from Manchester to London, deliver it, and then drive a different van back. He took me for company. He complained of being tired, so I told him my life story. He pulled into a lay-by and announced that I was sending him to sleep. He then slept. Knob. I only stayed with him for the next decade to bore him some more. All that said, the Universe is our friend. I know this, because when some horrid girls at camp bullied me I told them a ghost story that made one of them wet herself, and the other two ask to be assigned to a different dorm. Hurrah. I discovered I had an imagination. I'm sort of a human snotcicle, really -- one of the in-jokes of the cosmos. While I've never had my skirt tucked in my knickers, a split seam in my pants, or loo-roll dangling from my shoe, I like to think that I am all these things to other people  What can I say? It's a gift. |
| I don't know why I have an image of Pugsley Addams dressed as a turkey singing Eat me!... Anyhoo, the special one has spoken and asked a direct question, so I'll try to answer it here. Q. My question is this – What is your favourite thing to read in a blog? What makes you come back to read each entry as soon as it updates in your list? First of all, I best answer the second question: I don't. Maybe I don't know where the recently updated list is... *makes note to be more observant* Favourite thing to read in a blog. I like Emperor's New Clothes entries best. These are the ones which point a steady finger at the ordinary and show how extraordinary life truly is. zwisis's entries about Zimbabwe, Kay's entries about people's habits, Spidey's entries about the deli, MaryLou's entries about... well, let's be honest, the joy of a MaryLou entry is that going off on a tangent becomes a fun ride. And then there's femmedragon, possibly my favourite blogger of the bunch. I can hear her voice. Nuts, I know! But her narrative style sucks me right into her world. She already knows that I'm a lurking stalker in her blog, but often I don't leave comments. In this case it's usually because I read an entry, nod at the screen emphatically, wander off to make a coffee and come back and still don't know how to respond. I don't think she minds; she's wonderfully tolerant of my bad manners  The kind of blog entries that I just don't get are boyfriend ones. Sure, folk have a love life, and it's bloomin' intense, I'm sure, but I don't get it. I'm pretty shallow, really. I think the universe revolves around me, so I assume other people feel the same about themselves. Blog entries that muse about what kind of impact satellite players have on the blogers real life therefore don't make much sense to me. Gosh, that sounds bloody awful. But then, I am up my own arse. I often have a nagging suspicion that people have been put on the planet to play walk on parts in the Acme Show. Shit, I've obviously got bigger problems than blog preferences... Other blogs I like are current affairs blogs, article type blogs, and here at WDC I like the writing blogs like Dave Lane's. I have no idea what kind of blog I have... Sometimes, I think it's just a self-centered rant spot. Maybe I should review my blogging policy and try and write about stuff. See, my problem is that I type like I speak: with very little thought. Maybe I should think before I type? Might be less offensive.I'm sort of all over the place today. I get grumpy at nameless twats. My Nana Lena, 93 this year, still lives an independent life but she's shitting herself right now, because some kids are terrorising her in her home at night. They ring her bell, knock on the door, try the handle, shout through her letterbox, etc. I had to wipe hurled lumps of dirt off her door and windows today; they were having a really good time using her house as target practice last night. She cowered down with the lights off until they left. I took her out for some fresh air and to get away for a while. She's upset. Not about what's going on at her house, but about that man who threw his little girl off a bridge and killed her. The universe is full of arseholes. I thank God that all I have to moan about is not having five more minutes in bed of a morning. http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/asia-pacific/7857457.stm |
I like the one I have... although mother does have the uncanny knack of making me feel incredibly guilty just by giving me the I'm-just-a-bit-hurt-but-mostly-disappointed look. I hope I can cultivate it  I'm just a grumpy owd git. Hubby says my family's full of politics. It is. Just how something was said -- in what timbre and in what circumstances -- can have phone lines blinking between siblings quicker than phone calls from bunkers to heads of state. I usually just admit that I was in the wrong, even if I don't know the details, and most folk seem satisfied. I learned a long time ago that a well timed 'I'm sorry' can do wonders in the fight against family bickering. "The problem with sitting on the fence, dear," my mum once expounded during a peace-keeping 'I'm sorry' mission, "is that you get splinters up your arse." Beats the hell out of being persona non grata at family dos Mothers eh? Like the old funny goes: if it's not one thing, it's your mother. |
| I miss Douglas Adams. I don't miss Maths. Happy (belated) Birthday to Cappucine. I started thinking of the numbers that haunt me. At the moment I'm dozens... literally. I'm 36 this year. Three lots of 12. This is the third time I've seen the Year of the Ox. I'm also Taurean, so yes, I'm full of bull. Acme Jnr will be 12 this year. She's also a Taurean, born in the Year of the Ox. We lock horns already. I think someone will have an eye out before she's 24. 12 months in a year. 12 buns in a dozen -- unless they're a bakers dozen, of course. And my favouritest ever Sesame Street song: "One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twe-e-e-e-elve." http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=h-YcBVEnLT8 |
| 'Cor! You miss a few days int FtL and it feels like you'll never catch up I'd offer an excuse, but after reading Mighty Aphrodite's entry, I'd be kidding myself. I have to put up with excuses of all weird shapes and sizes at work. Here's a good one from yesterday: Acme: "Good afternoon, S. M***'s Church. How can I help you?" A Mum: "Eh? Oh. I want my baby done." Acme: "Done?1" A Mum: "Christened." Acme: "Baptism? Are you already attending church?" A Mum: "Eh?" Acme: "No worries. Come along to the office hour on Thursday nights and talk to one of the Wardens." A Mum: "What time?" Acme: "6:30pm" A Mum: "'til when?" Acme: "Erm, 7:30pm..." A Mum: "Damn." [silence] Acme: "Are you okay?" A Mum: "It's a bit inconvenient. Tyler has karate at 7:00pm." Acme: "Tell me about it! It's hard to juggle isn't it?" A Mum: "I just want my baby done." Acme: "erm, we have a naming ceremony if you want to forgo the whole religion thing?" A Mum: "No way! I want a proper Christening." Acme: "We have literature that you can pick up at the Office Hour regarding the commitment of Holy Baptism to help you with any questions you might have, and to arrange for one of the Church families to help you become familiar with the Masses -- when Tyler's not at Karate, of course." A Mum: [tuts, sighs and hangs up] Acme: [into empty phone] What to choose? A shot at getting your brown belt versus your eternal soul... bummer. You'd need the wisdom of Solomon to work that one out. My blargh at this woman has nothing to do with my thoughts on religion -- honest! I just get amazed at why someone would want a religious service if they didn't want the religion that goes along with it. Especially as our church recogises that its building is pretty, traditional, grand and a lovely place to hold non religious events alongside our Masses. The inclusion of a blessing and naming ceremony was introduced for those people who want to mark their child's naming with a special day and add a bit of pomp and circumstance to events, but not necessarily commit themselves to a full Christian upbringing. As for Tyler's mum? Well, the Office Hour is tomorrow, so we'll see... Footnotes |
| Aww, poor ole akierey. I loved being pregnant. It brought out the inner smiler in me. True, once it was over I was a quivering mess of hormones, but for years after I offered everyone I knew with fertility troubles (amazingly, quite a large number ) if they wanted to hire my womb. Everything made sense when I was pregnant. I didn't have to worry about crossing my legs in a lady-like manner (I just can't do it); I craved cereal for breakfast, instead of non-pregnant cravings for cold curry and pizza; I'd get a hankering for a spot of salad for lunch followed by a swift housecleaning session (poor hubby still considers it the most hygienic time in our lives.) I started my second pregnancy at 12st 12lb and weighed in at 40 weeks at exactly the same weight, eventually giving birth to a 7lb 3oz healthy bundle of lungs. Consequently, I was 10st before I knew where I was and looking fine (ace boobs when lactating ). I never seemed to have time to feel tired, because I was just so darn horny. My hair was in fab condition and my smile the brightest it's ever been (lack of fags, wine and coffee).Shit. Now, I'm broody. Not for a baby, but for pregnancy again. Anyone want to hire a womb? |
| Wow! Lookie what I found in my inbox today: ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** For once, I'm pretty much speechless... incredibly thankful but lost for words |
| Pia's like candy floss; the minute I think I have a substantial hold on her ideas, they dissolve... still sweet and tasty, though See, I was fine up to the Chinese masseuse It got me thinking about Self Intimidation... and quantum (everything comes back to quantum if you stick around my head long enough). I am a human ostrich (head in sand = cat in box). If I don't actually focus on something long enough, I can avoid it. I guess that avoids uncomfortable intimidation issues. Or, more realistically, comfortable limitation issues (erm, I like a lot of stuff right now so am not sure if intimidation of any kind is lurking in the background). I know what she means though, about blogging after someone like Spidey having the lead. I've got that pleasure to come with j on one side of me and Mood on the other! Flippin' heck! Talk about the finest bread sandwiching with a fish-paste filling. Take Robert Waltz  and his wonderfully twisted mind. I really don't think he realises how he panders to my psyche. I love things not being finished; especially Turn-a-rounds. Because while Brandiwynš¶  and I are finalists in a contest that hasn't ended, neither of us have won or lost. We both still have the potential to do both. And potential is a big word for me. I have never felt driven to achieve. All my school reports would bemoan my wasted potential. But I still attest it wasn't wasted; it was potent. I still get hubby, mum, and more recently, my kids, wishing that I would change my mind-set, but really, what is there to achieve? I'm happy. If the day comes when I'm not, then I'll think about changing things, setting goals, having ambitions, etc., etc., but until then, I see no reason to try and realise my potential beyond what I have already -- I have a lot! I do wonder why everyone else seems so worried by my lack of drive, and preference for cruise. Do they see my contentment and think I have settled? Sure I have! Is that wrong? Not for me. Is it a cop out? If so, of what? I can't believe I'm supposed to constantly strive for happiness, even when I have it. And that's the crux of the matter: right or wrong, driven or cruising, intimidating or ostriching, I'm bloody happy. I honestly look at my life with a great big grin and think, 'You jammy bastard, Acme -- you are one happy fecker.' So, here's my question to you. Are you happy? |
| Thanks for the trip down music alley, Spidey It sent me on a ramble down memory lane... Thirteen years old and I had a pop shrine. My walls were covered with backing paper that I painstakingly glued collages of poptastic events/people all over. That included cult cinema, a passion that hubby and I still share to this day (although the pop shrine has made way for magnolia paint). I got a boyfriend, older than I was, who was an electronic whizz-kid. He built his own guitar -- and I mean built. It had light switches in the place of regular ones; the fret board was liberated from a rubbish dump and stuck with wooden dowels and glue to a lump of oak dining table. A single pickup rode high, with a double humbucking pickup coil below. A whammy bar was cunningly added thanks to a bit of soldering with a dessert spoon, and the keys were, well, literally, keys! He was called Joe. I named him. Oh, and I stole him and dumped the boyfriend. I would use the family's old VHS video recorder to tape Top of The Pops and freeze frame the guitarists to learn chords. Consequently, I was buggered if they were miming, and when they weren't, I learned the fingering, but not the naming. For years if another guitarist asked what chords my songs were composed of they would get a list like this: "Go for a Norman (C) with a wiggly bit (G cap on the top string), and then beat the hell out of Betty (D)." The upside to this ignorance was when some cocky bloke, who thought girls shouldn't rock out unless they looked as dirty as Suzzie Quartro, would ponce about with some fret-wanking2 I would grab the next available guitar and blow his ego to smithereens. Oh, yes. Playing guitar wasn't about skill; it was about posturing. Now, for this story to continue, I need to tell you about Johnny Smith. Johnny Smith was my mate. He had girls dripping off him. Boys held him in great esteem. To me, he was a pal with a sense of taste. To him, I was probably the only high-school girl who didn't want to snog him, didn't giggle or faint when he passed by, and shared a passion for the same indie beats of the late 80s. Mum loved him. He was such a polite and sensible boy. This meant that I had the very unusual, but gratefully received, blessing for Manchester Gig-Land. I don't know if you know about Madchester, so forgive me if it seems like I'm telling you what you already know. Manchester was the center of the British music scene in the late 80s/ early 90s. We had Tony Wilson, the Hacienda, the International, Joy Division, the Smiths, the Stone Roses, the Charlatans, the Chamelons, Happy Mondays, and later Oasis. It was a gooooood time to be a ligger3 My delightfully straight Catholic mother would drop Johnny Smith and I off outside a venue, wipe the imaginary muck from my cheek that only mothers can see, and check that we would meet our ride home at midnight. We were the youngest people in these places, and they were like being in wonderland. The Ritz was an old converted ballroom, so when the crowd moshed, you could stand still and get bounced up and down with the sprung floor; the International (I and II) were smoke-filled dens of liberal iniquity, where you could spit on the band, if you so felt inclined; the Boardwalk was a little posher and chiled out (had a ragga/folksy edge), and the Roadhouse was up close and personal. Everybody's favourite was the Hacienda though; cold, clinical, and totally scene orientated, if you weren't cool enough, you didn't get in. Johnny was quite happy to look cool, look on and call it that. I wanted in. After all, hadn't Radiohead told the universe that Anyone Can Play Guitar? And I flippin' could. Ruby, little sis, and trendier than a bag of trendy things that no one sees coming, has always been the Ligging Queen; she's snogged most of the famous bands before they've become famous. Well, she thought I ought to get out more. When not going to a gig, all I did was sit in my room, listen to music, add to the pop shrine, and play guitar. By the time I was eighteen (legal drinking age in the UK) I hadn't ever been to a pub, gone to a nightclub, or hung out with my peers, unless they were at a gig/festival. She knew a cool dude. A cool dude with a band. They needed a guitarist. One of my exes was the current guitarist, and he had spoken highly of me too. Damn straight! He was a technical genius when it came to playing, but had no soul. The only thing that made me agree to a meeting with this Rob bloke who played rhythm guitar and ran the band, was to out-play the prat who cheated on me. I later found out that the only thing that made Rob consider some 'bird' in his band was that I might be a pretty distraction and target the young male demographic... he soon changed his mind when he came across an anorexic goth  Suffice to say, the first impressions didn't mean shit when I played. I might sound like I'm bragging, but remember, I'm pretty shit at most other things in life, so let me have this one, eh?  We played all the hotspots that Madchester could give, but always remained on the outside, looking in. I wouldn't swap it for all the tea in China. It was ace. I met hubby toward the end of my love affair with gigs and tours. He became my guitar tech, and I taught him all I knew. He joined his own band (as the keyboardist), and when that went by the wayside, we worked together on some ace stuff that is somewhere on the web (his movements are somewhat a mystery to me). But I did find one entry: http://www.foundmyself.com/gallery/displayimage.php?pos=-29736 Oh, and he's full of shit; it has nothing to do with Beethoven going deaf Footnotes |
| We can be any kind of colour Any kind of creed, Any kind of sex and weight; we're part of the same breed. We're still a pack of animals that can turn upon the weak. It's not easy being human -- we're shit, or so to speak. But occasionally we get it right, defend vulnerable ideals, And then we're more than human; We're evolutionary wheels. |
| Most folk will know that I'm a not-so-secret Geek. I have to adapt. I have to be pretty normalish for the sake of embarrassing hubby and kids. I try, I really do. I always keep my eyebrows plucked and wear clothes with a minimal amount of food spill (damn those humongous drip catching breasts ). I try not to be too surreal when I talk to folk. I've even been known to nod at the other school mums and not quip an amusing comment as they talk about Saturday nights and why minority groups of all shapes and sizes should be expunged from the planet. (Remember I have been beaten up before now for my biting wit, so it's a kind of defense mechanism; there's fight, flight, and not saying shite.) I kid you not when I say that these are the same mothers who arrive on a Monday morning desperate to know if anyone else saw them on Police, Camera, Action kicking the shit out of policemen outside a kebab house. Ah, the fame. So, I adapt. I'm a closet thinker. I daren't be myself. But then, we're all sorts of people for all sorts of people, aren't we? I haven't told hubby about my new muse, yet. Again, this is a self-preservation skill. I don't want to get divorced. He's off work with man flu, and just leaving the house now to go to the Art Gallery. My stomach flipped when he said, "Do you want to go with me?" I'm actually writing this blog with him popping in and out and I want to cover the screen with my hands, but that might look suspicious. Maybe I want him to see? He's stood behind me right now, reading a catalogue. I can't go to the Art Gallery because someone might recognise me and say, 'hi'. He might want to know how I know them, and as I haven't told him certain things yet (waiting for the right time), everything might tumble out of my mouth the wrong way No, I'm not doing anything dodgy, like having an affair or some other such heinous act. I've done something which is potentially much worse in Hubby's eyes: I've volunteered At the tail end of last year, the writing group that meets there in the library were given a commission. We had to visit the museum stores and choose artifacts for exhibition. The ones we chose would then need an official card writing (50word max) and the writers own artistic/personal interpretation of the item (50word max). Most of the group... no, ALL of the group, except me, chose the Social History Stores. I'm not the best with people, or the crap they throw away, unless several centuries have gone past; biscuit tins from the 70s don't float my boat. I chose my item for exhibition from the Natural History Stores. The Natural History Stores fired my imagination simply by getting to them. They are in a huge network of cellars beneath a massive Victorian building that once served as the town's library. There are such delicate objects down there that pest and temperature are controlled by a simple 'air-lock' routine of closing doors behind you before going further in... and down... It's a real warren and smells horrendous due to the preservatives used on some of the exhibits. Here are the dead, doe-eyed, does with young; the stuffed eagles on branches; rock samples, skeletons, fossils, pinned bugs, and, of course, the butterfly and moth collections. I hate moths. But it pays to know your enemy, so I was instantly repelled and attracted to the collections. The guy that ran the stores was really helpful and gave me loads of useful information including one of the best pieces of news I've ever heard: most moths are dormant in winter. Ace! I can leave the kitchen light on as I stand outside and smoke my head off. (Oh, yeah, I'm a bad person who is back on the baccy after a two year clean lung hiatus ).Apparently a lot of varieties don't breed or FLAP ABOUT below 16 degrees This fabulous news has made me more a fan of the winter months than I ever was before. Sure, there are winter moths, but not a lot of them Anyway, I loved my time down there so much I wanted to go back. I just ran out of excuses, so I went to see the curator and asked him if he needed any volunteers. He told me to email my details as he was sure he would need people late spring/early summer. I'm stoked! But I haven't told hubby yet; he wouldn't understand. I volunteer for quite a few community projects and he rolls his eyes and goes on about getting paid work instead. Sure, I understand that money is rather a handy thing, but I'd much rather have enough to live on with the work I do, than work solely for its accumulation. My argument is that while I'm volunteering I am not shopping. Therefore, I'm saving money I've just got to get my timing right, and joining him at the Gallery where the stores are located might not be the best idea... Oh, goody, he's going. I can be me again, while no one's looking... |
| What with all the cancer riddling our family history, I have to go for regular blood tests and scans (erm, a rather intimate one this Monday gone ). I don't mind them. I wheel out the chipper, Dunkirk Spirit and smile heartily at all the prodding and poking about. The last blood test in December made for a bit of a surreal pastiche of Tony Hancock's The Blood Donor sketch. I'm part of a medical research trial which allows me to be monitored for early onset of cancer. This means that the people doing the research send me the needles, rather than waste National Health Service money by using theirs. A pack containing a needle and two vacu-seal collection tubes is sent to me in the post, and I have to book an appointment with the nurse at my local surgery for her to take them. I then have under 72 hrs to ensure they are returned to the lab back in London. Okay, so it's not usually half an arm's worth, but it's still stuff that should be inside me instead of leaking out of me I took my DIY sample kit to the nurse and she had to call another nurse in; neither had ever seen this particular needle kit before. They got the instructions out and proceeded to puzzle over where section b integrated with section c. I amiably offered my two-penneth worth, "Try turning it around a bit and just shove it in." We all agreed that section h was missing, and that the whole needle rig was one of the shoddiest ever known to nursing (I don't know why I felt compelled to agree so vehemently, because I'm not even comfortable with paracetamol doses. Perhaps it was because my arm has rights and it had a vested interest in the conversation ). Anyway, she gripped the double ended needle firmly by its midsection (roughly enough rubber to grip between thumb and forefinger), and told me that it might hurt a bit. I wasn't to move because she didn't want to go out the other side of my vein. Oh, and to help her grip stop slipping, would I mind if she gripped my arm quite strongly. "Fine!" I lied. In it went, this elephant dart of a needle, and on she gripped: me and it. Two vials later of the prettiest burgundy blood, which Christopher Lee would be impressed by, and she let go. Her fingernail marks left white half-moons embedded between my freckles. What little blood I had left rushed to these areas with an affronted blush of indignance and then the other nurse exclaimed, "I found it! Section h is here under the paper work. Oh, it fits the needle great. We'll definitely have to use it next time." Next time. I'm so not looking forward to next time Still, I pooh-poohed any kind of hurt, kept my stiff upper lip firmly in place and laughed at the silliness of it all... I'm so bloody British at times it infuriates me. |
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