Saturday, December 30, 2006

The Bitch is Back. Again.

My Husband's Peculiar Aristocratic Title is:
His Highness Mr Z the Sonorous of Goosnargh on the Carpet
Get your Peculiar Aristocratic Title

I assume "Goosnargh" is Middle English for "stinky, wet, dog towels."

Monday, December 25, 2006

Naked old ladies?

Okay, not to detract from Miss C's GOB Christmas card, dear Lord if you haven't seen it you absolutely must, it's a hoot in a half, just what I needed this Christmas for sure, (thank you C!) I especially liked it when she was screaming like a banshee while licking and making ready her Christmas cards...heh heh, her upper lip sort of vibrates...squeeeeeeeee!

but, I've been a little under the weather and haven't been able to get out so when I've not been whining, or participating in a drug induced sleep I've been on this machine even more so than usual and I happened to go into our STATS meter thingy here, and OH DEAR LORD, you will NOT believe one of the searches that led some unsuspecting weirdo, cuckoo, cornflake, perverto to our site.

Are you ready for this?

Google search words: NAKED OLD LADIES. (The bastard.)

Are we up to it girls? Will we be taking our clothes off as part of our New Years post? A little full Monty for all the cuckoo clocks out there?

I know it's been done but we could do a naked calendar for charity.

Okay, maybe not. heh.

GOB Christmas Card

(click on image)

Sunday, December 24, 2006

Naked and confused, what else is new?

This is one grumpy old bitch who owes her family an apology, maybe?

There I’ve said it, no need to fear it anymore, right?

Ya see? I have this prevailing feeling of doom right about now, and I’m not sure what to make of it, so I figure I’ll just type my way through it.
Some things are scaring me, I woke with a start, fevered, sweating on the couch and I thought that the day was already new, and it was time to take my medicine. But it’s not, it’s 12:53 am, and I have this general, invasive, overwhelming feeling of doom.

I have the urge to urinate, but I just did, and it didn’t prove very fruitful, oh I went, but feel like I need to go more, I fear it but want it too. Fear the pain of it, the feeling of nausea and infected radiation that is caused when the poison in one’s system is not being flushed thou rally, properly, and it leaves the body pulsating with pain and longing all the way into the palms of the hands and other extremities too. The bodies reverberated longing to rid itself of poison. (Too many antibiotics killing off the good germs too I‘m thinking.)

I tell myself it just takes time. Time for the medicine to kick in, time for the massive amounts of water that I have been drinking to be absorbed and start doing their job of flushing. Time for my body to heal. And yet I fear the time, because with every moment that passes I think that something even more fluky may be happening inside of my body, and nothing can be done, until after Christmas to stop it.

That’s it, I don’t trust my body anymore. Today is the day before Christmas and I don’t trust my body to take care of it’s functioning anymore.

And today I couldn’t run hiding anywhere to get away from them, them, who I ruined Christmas for. Still a runner. “She’s a runner Logan, kill her.” (Aka had Mouse this year for the 23rd and the 24th so our Christmas was happening on the 23rd.)

They all look to me, the matriarch, to make Christmas happen, I think, anyway.

Them, they, my family. Yeah, them, I made them uncomfortable because I am sick, scared and not making Christmas.

Yeah, there’s them. I‘m ashamed because I couldn’t pretend that I felt fine, I’d let it go too far for that, I couldn’t put on a mature happy face and sing tra la f-ing la, all is right with the world, and I‘ll just reverberate in pain and silence so as not to make you feel uncomfortable on this special day.

I tried, I couldn’t. I couldn’t seem to remove myself from being the one who makes everyone’s Christmas, Christmas, either.

But why the hell not? Why couldn’t I be sick at Christmas? Am I that irreplaceable? (That’s me, always the drama queen.) Or at least if it ever happens again, could you guys please ignore me and let me snivel in peace, like a sick dog wrapped up in a blanket over by the fire where it’s warm? Free to lick, snap and whine at myself.

Specifically I think it was the questions that got me, though who can be sure?

Why couldn’t you let me cry here without asking me questions?

Questions that I couldn’t answer, like,

“Are we going to eat dinner or what, and if so, when are you going to cook it?” (Um, hey, remember me? I had the oral surgery with you last week, and yeah, you feel better, you’re twenty four, I’m a hundred and I’m still pretty messed up from all of that, and hungry? Honey I’m hungrier than a shit house rat right about now, feel free to make yourself and ME a bowl of soup, I would be most grateful and appreciative…) But instead of saying that I felt guilty and I cried, and you felt guilty and you told yourself that I suck, and I probably do, but not all of the time, and neither do you.

And I understand, you see I would have loved to make dinner for you today, and to make things special for you, but today I just couldn’t.

Today I was hurting and sick and I couldn’t hide it today. And today you wanted to make a special day for your little one and you needed me to help you do that. I’m sorry, and I know you are too, because I know you to your core.


“Where are your keys to your truck mom?” (I mean really, did you look at me? I’d have been hard pressed to find my ass with both hands right then, and you were asking me to find the keys to my truck? Hell, I couldn’t even remember the last time I drove my truck, oh wait it was yesterday when I drove myself eighty miles to get my damned tooth packed so I could stop crying long enough to, I don’t know, maybe take a breath of air without excruciating pain. I am such a martyr sometimes and I really hate that!) So again, instead of saying, “Please don’t expect me to get up and find anything for you right now, even if it is mine, even if I am the one who last had it, even if period. I can’t handle finding anything right now.” Yeah, instead I cried and shook and embarrassed myself with my poor behavior, I do that when I’m sick.


“Where’s the receipt to this thing a ma jiggy that you got me that I don’t really want and intend to return?”(See above…) But, instead of saying the above, I scrounged around finding my billfold, then scrounged around inside it looking for the receipt that I have somehow lost, and I cried, again because I couldn’t find the damned thing and now you are going to have to take a store credit instead of cash, boo f-ing hoo. (I also get a little sarcastic when I’m sick.)

Oh and,

“We know you’re sick, will you just lighten up and give us a break already? Stop crying for God’s sake, you’re freaking us out, and making Christmas a royal suck fest.”

When I know in your heart you were thinking, “We don‘t know how to make you feel better momma; we just don‘t know how to make the pain go away for you, so please stop being visibly sick, okay? It hurts us to see you hurt. ” (I tried, really I did, and I know my maturity level right about then was as close to null as it gets, I do that when I’ve been feeling sick for awhile, I revert back to the age of four, and I’m not pleasant to be around. I’m sorry.)

And there’s the question posed, and assurance given from a small child who happened to follow me into the bathroom, that I wouldn’t have missed for the world, except for not letting myself be seen in that way, maybe,

“Nanny, you alright? We will get you medicine little buddy, we will make you better, you’ll see, you’ll be feeling better soon.” All said to me as she rubbed my face while I awkwardly sat on the toilet stool. God/Goddess
bless small children…

And there’s the deep caring and love from one sister to another when Becky called me to see if she needed to come down here and take care of me, I’m guessing her boy had told her he overheard me crying when he was talking to Samps earlier on the phone, and she let me cry to her ad nauseum while she chanted soothing things to reassure me and told me she loved me.

Then there were the things that just happen in any family, sure they do, right?

Like little George opening her mommas one special gift, unbeknownst to everyone, a small pair of diamond earrings, and giving them to the dog.

“What the hell has Moses got mom? It looks sort of sparkly, um in a small box, or what was a small box…?” Whoops, Merry Christmas Anny, I’m sure if you follow that dog around for a couple of days, you know checking his excrement, you just might find that other earring…no need to thank me, merry Christmas hon….

And the Christmas clothes that I ordered for the kids guaranteed to be in on the 21st, still not here, so the meager amount of shopping that my money could afford, and that I actually felt like doing, looks even more pitiful, for lack of those ding danged clothes to show up.

In honesty though, I did the best that I could.

For real, not all that I would have liked to do, but the best that I could do in the situation given. And my behavior? Sucky at best, but the best that I could muster today, I’m afraid.

They will forgive me, that’s what families do, we forgive each other because we know each other deep down, where it’s important, and we love each other because of what we know, and sometimes despite of what we know, you know?

For gifts this year, I had already told the older two that I was not going into massive credit card debt, and they agreed, neither were they, so this is how it played out.

My older two, each got one item that they needed and couldn’t afford to buy themselves, a good pair of shoes and a warm quilt. One item that was special and they would never have been able to justify buying for themselves, an mp 3 player, and what was a small pair of diamond earrings, heh. A few items of clothing--please let them arrive before new years--and some smelly good stuff, because, like their momma, they too have a smell chemistry thing going on.

Little Samps, he’s getting one of those ridiculously over priced 360 x box machines, because all he asked for was an old x box machine so he and his brother could trade games, and of course you
CAN’T find one of THEM to be bought. I thought about getting him a Ps, something or other, it was only 130 dollars, but then we’d have to buy all new games, gads!

He did mention that he would love to have world of war craft if Santa couldn’t find an old x box, so aka got him that. I think Samps will probably pass out completely from the sheer surprise of all of that gaming fun, and I’ll just make that credit card payment and not worry about it, I’m thinking of it as an investment in his hand and eye coordination, and damn it it’s Christmas…

(I had put aside some money for Christmas this year from my career ladder moneys that I get at the end of the summer for the extra work that I do tutoring and making signs and stuff during the school year, but when dad got sick most of that was spent going back and forth to take care of him. I don’t begrudge that one bit and I am thankful that I had it to fall back on for sure, but it sort of set me short for Christmas, you know? Sure you know, all of us feel the financial pinch around this time of year. Sure we do, and we do the best we can and we go on from there.)

The little ones, were tickled with their gifts, they always are. A new baby doll for Georgie and an Elafun game, and a John Deer collectable tractor, and an incredible edible for Mousey, that was named something else, but I can’t remember. Oh, and some clothes too, not here yet, ding danged old Navy, you suck balls at Christmas time for telling me they would be here guaranteed…

So really despite my feeling like a heap of dung that has been ever so slightly set a fire in order that I might not offend anyone with my odious aroma, after writing this diatribe on being sick at Christmas, I feel relieved, the feeling of doom has lifted and I just went to the bathroom and oh my God/Goddess I was able to go without pulsating and withering, and yes Virginia, there really is a Santa Clause….

Why did I write this incredibly unattractive post? I’m not sure really, maybe I just felt like I should stand here naked in front of everyone in all of my shame so that I could be really thankful for all that I have, because despite how things may seem sometimes I really do have so much to be thankful for.

Maybe I wanted some sympathy? Probably, but most likely not too much because I feel so much better now.

And maybe, just maybe I wondered if you have ever felt this way yourself, you know, felt like if you don’t do it, it wont get done, and sometimes I want to run from the responsibility of making everything better for the people who I love, and just wallow in my own dysfunction.

You too?

I don’t know. I’m not even sure that this makes sense.

So now I just have to apologize to my family for being a grumpy old sick bitch yesterday and move forward towards the light, it IS a new day, almost now.

Friday, December 22, 2006

Office Scrooges

Think your boss is cheap? Slate Magazine asked its readers to submit reports of horrible office Christmas parties, gifts, and bonuses. Of nearly 200 tales, they’ve chosen The Corporate Scrooge Contest Results. From the story:

A former employee of the firm that produces the Great Dickens Christmas Fair in San Francisco reports that the company departed from its tradition of giving modest cash bonuses and instead gave out white painters' caps with the words "Bah Humbug" stenciled in red.

Sometimes, unemployment doesn't seem all that bad. But I’ve had my share of weird and grinchy Christmas office fiascos in years past. Most radio stations for whom I have worked didn’t give out any bonuses or gifts, and very few had a Christmas party, besides the standard potluck the disc jockeys put together while we worked on Christmas Day. Often, listeners would send homemade goodies, but we had to be careful who to trust since listeners who were that fanatic were usually pretty strange people.

One year, we got a gift from the boss- a small box of chocolate covered almonds. Nice, but the expiration date had passed. Those were gifts originally purchased to give to advertising clients, but they couldn’t give away expired candy now, could they? At least not to anyone they cared about.

Then there was that one terrible year. Management came up with this wonderful plan that most disc jockeys could take Thanksgiving, Christmas Day, or New Year’s day off. The three summer holidays were included, too. The catch was that one of us would have to volunteer to work all day alone on one holiday per year. See, this way, the company wouldn’t have to expend any extra funds to cover our days off. This seemed like a workable plan until Christmas Eve, when they fired an announcer. Who happened to be the deejay who had volunteered to work Christmas Day. Rethinking the plan, management decided all four radio stations in our company could run on automation, with a manager on call for emergencies. Said manager wouldn’t know what to do if something went wrong, but he’d be responsible for monitoring and calling some disc jockey if there was a problem. Oh goody.

However, we didn’t have any Christmas music recorded to computer for an automated program. We’d been playing all our Christmas songs manually off CD for a month. Looks like someone would have to record enough to cover all stations in a hurry. And that person happened to be the one who was on duty alone the afternoon of Christmas Eve.... me. So I worked a couple hours past my normal quitting time on Christmas Eve desperately recording all kinds of Christmas music for an oldies station, a pop station, and a country station, plus running live shows simultaneously on two of those stations.

In the middle of all this frenzy, the station owner calls me to complain that the live shows were not up to snuff. He said if I couldn’t do the job, he’d find someone who could. I said great, I could use the help.

Maybe he’s found someone like that by now, but I doubt it.

Merry Christmas!

PS, what’s the worst Christmas party, gift, or bonus you ever received from your job? I’d like to hear your stories!

PPS for something way more heartwarming, watch Its A Wonderful Life today at my site.

Tuesday, December 19, 2006

Cooking Fats

Okay, okay so I'm not really here. I am off dealing with things in the real world, resting up, clearing the decks (deck, singular; its a bungalow).


Except for two weeks of cooking fats. If they werent cooking they were creating, loudly, to establish when it might be their turn. Over the last few days our adopted trollope 'fat' and her shyly chosen beau have been regularly 'cooking' at all times of the day and night, on the front room carpet.

Across homework, school shoes and the hoover cable.
In front of the childrens' television.
In front of the stunned guinea pigs.
In front of my ten and twelve year olds who insisted on finding the camera to produce proof, thus:

Photobucket - Video and Image Hosting

Yes I've heard the rumours about the feline penis; all that stuff about backward spikes or the like. I must admit neither I nor my giggling children saw any on this particular male's conical accoutrements when he decided to stick one leg in the air and give them a quick spruce mid-courtship.

The problem is that all the toms around here seem to have impeccable manners, so that our young hussy is rolling and roiling like some hypnotised starlet until her beau gets down to business, then promptly changing her mind like a librarian with PMT and a large knife.

After every good start there is about thirty seconds of hope and heaving enthusiasm before she decides it hurts too much, twists from his grasp and takes chunks out of his face. Said tom will promptly back off, and stare at her admiringly and patiently as if she were some goddess, waiting for the next chance to be allowed to bite the back of her neck. Poor, pitiful boys, they are. After 14 days then, she is still not pregnant, ergo her body is still giving off the 'come-hither' like some sort of radar signal and the peace is still not restored.

There are, it seems, only so many days that a sensible tom can take this abuse whilst camping out without food or water, so the two best offers have departed, at last. I have no idea whether they limped home to nurse wounded pride and equally wounded flesh, or whether they have simply gone up the road to the latest siren call. I suppose that somewhere, some tom is a serial shagger who only turns up at his real home for food, before barrelling back out of the door.

Mercifully, for the moment, there is only one offer left, one that she has already steadfastly avoided by balancing precariously on the top of the compost bin for hours at an end (or anything small enough to stop him getting on a level). It seems he is very local and pops back home over the fence for his tea and then, like Monty Python's Spanish Inquisition, tries (again and again) for the element of surprise. At one point I saw him sunning himself atop the guinea pig cages, with her, wild eyed and worried, backed in under the wheelbarrow, in the wet grass.

He has a lovely singing voice and almost speaks. He reminds me of Leeloo in The Fifth Element, that moment when she first falls from the sky into Korben's taxi and learns to say "Pah-lee-azz", all teary eyed and desperate. Piercing, that's the word.

Its amazing, but somehow what's adorable at 3 in the afternoon takes on a whole different mood at 3 am.

At least he hasn't made it indoors yet, unlike the other two. At least he hasn't got to third base and suffered the physical and mental scars involved in our Milly's displeasure.

At least we don't face the twice nightly sound of cats screaming and everything being knocked off the table or window ledge.

He's just sitting there, singing.
And singing.

And..... and if anyone knows how to board up a cat flap in an external upvc door?

Anyone? *whimper*

Sunday, December 17, 2006

Help, I've Lost My Inner GOB!

I've noticed that while it's still possible to become grumpy and bitchy, it's getting more and more difficult to maintain this state. For me, that is. I'm thinking of starting a spin-off blog and calling it "Bland Resignation." I mean, what fun is a woman who can't maintain a state of agitation for longer than fifteen seconds?

I've tried everything. Jet lag has had no negative effect on my mood. Abstaining from caffeine long enough to acquire a blinding headache failed to bring on the usual piss and vinegar. Even quitting ciggies didn't help me to snap out of this dreadfully sweet, generally accepting, cream-puffy state, so I started smoking again. My period is due in a week -- I should be shooting first and asking questions later.

Even yesterday, when Mr Z had is panties all in a twist over his ex, because she'd essentially treated him like a doormat again (and he allowed it again), and he tried to take it out on me by whining and sniping and being generally disagreeable, I was unreactive -- completely unphased. He had spoken to me in a way that used to be good for at least a three-day bitchy resentment bender, and all I could cough up for him was a simple: Hey, let's remember I'm not the enemy here. Change your tone if you need to speak to me, or kindly shut up. And then I continued loading the dishwasher, feeling happy as a clam, as if I had found my true life's purpose.

What the fuck is that?

Could it be hormonal? I can't possible be lacking in testosterone, as that nasty little whisker that sprouts from a slightly protruding mole on my otherwise divinely perfect chin, has grown back five days after I last plucked it. Could some other hormone be involved?

Will my bitch ever come back?

What the hell is the matter with me?

Riffin on Rosie

Have you noticed that the people who have the biggest problem with “political correctness” are white? PC was coined as a derogatory term on par with “thought police” and “language nazis”. Its terrible when you have to stop and think before you speak! Its so awful that the right to make fun of everyone else is being infringed upon! Oh my goodness, do you really expect me to become aware of how the other three-quarters of the world feels?

Newsflash: If "PC" is the worst thing anyone has ever called you, you are white. By now, I’m sure you have seen clips of Rosie O’Donnell imitating a Chinese newscast on the TV show The View.

When you are the only Asian kid in the third grade, you’ve heard this quite a bit already, along with the stretched eye thing, and the joke begins to sound like this.

OK, you can link through the YouTube logo on the lower right and see the comments attached to this (and the other) videos. Its really easy pick out the ones that were left by white people.

“What she said wasn’t racist at all”

“clearly no malice intended”

“In China, that is how they talk.”

“if u cant take a joke then don't.”

“People need to stop being so sensitive over EVERYTHING.”

These reactions were found all over the Blogosphere, too. Here’s a summary of them. Mostly they come down to “Hey, if her intentions are good, its OK.” Which means that the effect these words have on their target is completely discounted, unimportant, ignored. Which is how those words make people feel. Real people. People who for so long have been afraid to say anything about it. Little children.

Rosie’s apology was "I'm sorry for those people who felt hurt," which is an expression of sympathy, not an apology. Thats something I could say, because, yes, I am sorry for those people who got hurt. And all the children who ever got hurt by being singled out on the playground because of their race, or religion, or family status, or disability, or gender orientation.

Ha! There are two Asian women in the audience, and they thought it was funny! I guess that means its OK! Even though they went out of their way to get tickets to The View weeks ago, they must represent all Asians! And all minorities! And all people who care about Asians and other minorities!

It all comes down to putting yourself in another person’s place. Walk a mile in their moccasins. Thats the main reason I am looking for a job in an urban area, so my kids can learn how to deal with racism from people who have really been there, because what I know of it is a pale imitation. Meanwhile, I’m learning how difficult it really is to put myself in someone else’s shoes. But I’m trying.

Monday, December 11, 2006

potatoes and string

Can we talk about Post Offices? They're a Grumpy Old Bitch topic, aren't they? As we cluster around the slightly odd smelling counter at the back of the dimly lit shop, next to the bag of potatoes and the string, waiting in the queue to collect our old age pension we should be able to get a discussion going about this.

Personally, I think we should shut them all.

Who are these rural people, these elderly people, these people without cars in marginal communities who think they are REAL members of society?

Who the hell do they think they are?

They're not important.

What's important is money.

Is youth.

Is whether you'll vote for someone in a smart suit.

Is power.

What's important is towns.

Rural communities are irrelevant. Not enough population to be worth courting for votes. People earning below the National Average Wage are insignificiant. They contribute to society hardly at all. Why the hell should they expect their life to be subsidised if they can't afford a car, or a courier for their parcels?

So what if they live miles away from a town with a bank to withdraw their money? Fuck 'em, that's what I say! Their voice isn't even worth listening to.

What we need is more centralisation. We need to preserve the countryside and villages in aspic. It's no co-incidence that local people can't afford houses in villages - if they weren't lazy SOBs, they'd get off their arses and get real, high paying jobs. In the meantime, we can herd them in to council estates on the edges of rural towns and they'll just have to make the best of it.

Those pretty village houses should be lived in by REAL people. People with 4x4s and REAL jobs, in advertising, the media and politics. They don't need services in the villages - they'll shop at Sainsbury's and Tesco's on the way home from work or on a Friday before they leave their little Pied a Terre in town on the way down to the cottage.

Post Offices, rural shops and services. Waste of space.

Close them down. All of them.

Sunday, December 10, 2006

(Blogger finally let me finish this long windy passage.) Picken' Rocks, Wild Woman, Witches and Other Folk Lore In My Head

My dad, he gave me a broken Nordic Track over thanksgiving break, if that's even what it's called, it's most likely a knock off of some kind, a left over from one of his wives, she took it with her when she left my dad, along with everything else that wasn't tied down or attached to his house in some way, then when she broke it, she brought it back and left it in his basement. An old broken treadmill, just what every basement needs.

(My man, he spent about two weeks tinkering with the broken treadmill, it works right as rain now, my dad had a hunch that the man could get it to workin', and he's not of a mind to throw things away that can be fixed, or to keep things he has no mind to use. He's taught me so much in this life, even with few words.)

Now I'm not sayin' she was a bad person, just that she needed things, and my dad, not so much, no. Everything THING that my dad has, apart from his house, truck and classic car, a thirty year old Riviera that he just can't seem to let go of, could be stored in a fifteen by eight foot storage facility.

For real, he has a bed and dresser, he has a kitchen table and chairs, he has a sofa, small chair and TV--that takes like twenty minutes to warm up since he blew out the Instamatic setting on it fifteen years ago, but, well, he's a patient man--he has a coffee table and two end tables, he has a beautiful old library table, he bought a spare bed for me and mine, for when we come to visit. He has a collection of light houses, six in all, and three mirrors on his walls. He has a few towels, pans, washer and dryer, radio, and his clothes.

He had an expensive sweeper--dad's kind of a freak about cleanliness--but crazy lady took that with her while he was laid up in the hospital.

Not many people can list all of their worldly possessions in two paragraphs, my dad can. He's never been into things. He likes his home sparsely furnished and clean. He likes his life clean, uncomplicated by things, and sometimes people too.

Why am I listing all of his shit? I'll tell ya, lately, since he's been sick, every time I go to visit him he tries to give me some of his things, and it's really beginning to wear on me, because I know, that he knows that he doesn't HAVE much longer.

Oh hell, okay, so nobody really knows how long they have, but it's almost like he's trying to prepare me, trying to force me to face it, accept it, and be alright with it. He's trying to wake up in me the wild woman who snuffles and smells the air, who knows and accepts that we are born, we live and we die. (WTH? I published this thing twice and it's not finished...)

But I don't want to face it, think about it, see it, or smell it even. I turn off my inner voice; I refuse to hear/see. I play in my land of make believe where my dad is always strong, always good, and always there for me if I need him, not that I would actually call him if I needed him, but I could, you know? Yes, I could.

And so, what if, what if every time I go to see him he stopped giving me things? He stopped giving me broken treadmills and little boxes of trinkets that he purchased via readers digest, wrapped in old news paper, clutter he never really wanted but bought for some woman who happened to leave it behind? What if, would he be lasting longer then?

Please stop dad, please stop giving me things, I can't face what it eventually means. Please. He was, is, my safety net. He was, is my connection to what is good and right in this world. He is my half of the world that wasn't messed up. I am not willing to let that go.

I can't.

That easy smile, that uncomplicated, gentle nature, that unspoken comfort and knowing that exists there, between us, we who have very little words to communicate to each other, but me, who knows he was sent here to this place to see to it that I came out alright. To see to me.

My safety net, my refuge, my human who taught me to cope. Not directly mind you, that would have required words, but by his actions, by his presence, by his wisdom and few words.

Snooks, maybe you just need to pick a few rocks, turn it over in your mind, I could tell you what to do, but it wouldn't be the same. You're strong, you're a good soul, go pick some rocks and make it better. I know you can.

Something happened to me when I would begin to bend to pick those rocks, I would smell the earth, smell the air, pick a rock, toss it in the bucket and begin to hear the right voice in my own head. Faintly at first but , with every muscle that moved, the voice within me grew stronger, until I could hear what was right, and would know what I needed to do.

I can't lose that connection, even now, but in listening to that voice I know, I must face what I know to be true.

There is a wild woman in all of us, she lives and breathes depending on how we feed her. She is NOT always nice, she is NOT always compliant, she is NOT always awake, but she is there when we need her, and even there when we refuse to hear her, waiting until we feed her, until we listen to her, or let her speak, until we realize that she is the only one who can save us,

and he gave me that.

He gently saw to it that I knew she was there, and now he is forcing me to call on her to see what I must accept.

And I am fighting her.

We all fight her, we push her down and away when she tells us that we are in danger of losing someone, or being hurt, or both. We tell ourselves that that feeling we have is irrational, and sometimes it is if your cyclothymic like me, but sometimes it's the wild woman telling us to trust our instincts, trust what is innate, trust what we know in our soul to be true.

I'm still looking for that balance, that balance that allows me to nurture her and accept the things I cannot change, to accept this life as it is, the dark and the light, just as the mother wolf instinctively accepts what is, and goes on in this life, and to change the things I can.

I'm grappling, I'm fighting because I know that to deny her is to deny myself, to lose her would be to lose what he gave me; myself, completely and yet to keep her I must face losing him.

So, as usual, I am a fruit loop, without the milk today, yet soggy from the tears that pour from my psyche.

This forum is a place called grumpy old bitches, and I fit that description when I allow my inner voice to be heard; and when I listen to my inner voice. You see when I really listen to that voice I hear about a lot of things in this life that call to be changed, and I hear things that call for resigned acceptance.

It is in separating the two that we as human creatures shine and change the things that need to be changing, and accept that things that we must.

Do I believe that grumpy old bitches is a negative connotation? Oh hell no. See if there's one thing I've learned, that I often forget though, is that we all need to head that voice within us, it is the gnarling, flesh eating, raw, instinctual catalyst that brings about great change, and forces us to accept what cannot be changed and IT knows the difference.

I fight to embrace the wild woman; witch; grumpy old bitch within me, and I live to smell another day, even though I know I must let him go, or I bury her entirely, risk losing myself and what he gave me.

Saturday, December 09, 2006


My kid is in preschool. Couple of weeks ago, we got a red envelope with a birthday party invitation from one of her classmates. It has caused me a ridiculous amount of angst and worry. Ridiculous.

My first thought was that the (clearly insane) parents had obviously invited all 19 kids to the party. We have never had a play date with the kid; she's almost a year older than HM and they do not seem to play together more than any other kids when I see them after school. It simply did not occur to me that this child-- a perfectly OK kid with genuinely lovely parents-- would have chosen my child specially.

This is not to say that I do not think my child is likable. In fact, I think she is fabulous and wonderful company and by far the only kid I want to spend any extended time with. I know she is lovely, for sure. Still, it would never occur to me that she would be invited to a party unless it was a particularly close friend or the whole class was invited.

On the day we got the invite, I was ridiculously unsure about what to do. A good friend came over to pick up her child (X)-- who is in the same class-- and I wondered if I should mention it. I did, sort of obliquely, and I was so relieved that her kid was invited too. I was so glad I didn't have to make it a secret between the girls, which would have been ghastly. Of course, I only mentioned it because I assumed that the whole class was invited. X's mom was not at all sure that everyone was invited. At that point, it hadn't even occurred to me that they might not have invited everyone.

Am I thinking about this too much yet? Can you imagine what a mess I was in jr high? Feel free to begin mocking me now. As if you haven't already.

A few days later I was shopping with X's mom and another mom (B) while the kids were at school. In order to entirely avoid mentioning the kid's name, in case B's kid wasn't invited, I found myself saying things like:
"oh, I need to buy a present for, um, a princess party this weekend. This would be perfect!"

I expected B to chime in that they were going, too, but she didn't. I was puzzled. Her kid seems much more likely to be popular than my kid does. Or is it that B seems more likely to be popular than I do?

Am I going to worry like this the whole time my kid is in school? I think DH would smother me with a pillow if he knew I was thinking things like this, and really, who could blame him?

Then Friday evening, another mom called to see if we could get our kids together Saturday. I said we could, in the morning, because we had a birthday party to go to in the afternoon. Again, no snap of recognition from the other parent. Again, I was surprised. And glad I was remembering not to mention names.

I feel completely awkward and uncomfortable in these situations. I feel embarrassingly pleased that my kid got picked, but also I feel very self-conscious about it.

To say that I feel like a freak for even thinking about it this much is a bit of an understatement, but here I am, sort of wondering if it means anything that my kid got invited when someone else's kid didn't. It turned out to be a small party (I told you she had sensible parents) and HM and X were in fact the only kids from the class invited.

I can't imagine that other parents give a damn if their kids are invited, and here I am thinking about it all the time, being half proud that my kid was chosen and sort of feeling like it means something, which it does not. It's just that it would have meant a lot to me as a kid, once I was old enough to understand that not everyone gets invited. Which my kid is not. Old enough, I mean.

I need to get over this. I can't relive my childhood angst about being chosen-- or not-- every time one of my kid's classmates has a birthday. Right?

And don't get me started on what I was like when HM and I were discussing who would be invited to her party. I was a wreck over that, too.

I am pathetic, aren't I? You can tell me the truth.

Friday, December 08, 2006

Uphill both ways!

I am turning into my father. I now understand his impatience with clueless spoiled kids.

My two daughters were snuggled under the covers this morning on the sofabed watching a DVD of cartoons. The same cartoons I watched when I was a kid. One kid starts to complain that she didn’t want to watch this cartoon, and her remote control doesn’t work. Mind you, this was only her remote control. Her sister, less than three feet away, had another just like it.

“You know, when I was a kid, we didn’t have DVDs, or VCRs even.”

You didn’t watch any cartoons? they asked.

“Yes, we did, we watched these same cartoons. Those are about 70 years old. But we watched them on broadcast TV. We couldn’t pick which one we watched. The TV station played them, and we watched.”

So you didn’t have a remote control? You couldn’t switch them?

“No, we didn’t have any remote control! We got up and walked to the TV set* and changed the channel! We only had two channels, so you had a choice of whatever one was showing, or the other. When the weather was good.”

You couldn’t pick out which cartoon you wanted?

“Duh, haven’t you been listening to me? No. And you could only watch cartoons right after school. Or on Saturday morning. Thats all.”

Wow! Did they have fireplaces back then?

I had to laugh. “I’m not that old! But no, my family didn’t have one. We just had to freeze to death.”

Was I like that when I was a kid? Did I take our two TV channels and phonograph for granted? I would ask my mother, but I know what she’d say....

“Oh I don’t remember, that was so long ago!”

Thanks, Mom.

*Uphill both ways.

Thursday, December 07, 2006


Dear God

I need a job. No not any job, something dignified and easy and purpose built, thats going to land in my lap and involve just being me, and lots of cash.
I need it so that I can buy half the beauty treatments that city women of my age shell out for - less than a tenth of whats been done to Madonna and the like over the years, I would guess. I don't even want a personal trainer, honestly.
Just a little bit of underpinning.
A little shoring up.
A teensy refurb.
A miracle or two, especially around the eyes.
See, I need these things because its winter and I've gone pale and the lines and shadows are more pronounced and I'm getting older and it shows. I need them because I look in the mirror and I see Dali's clocks. It feels like its too late. It feels like I blew it good and proper when I wasnt even looking. Probably when I was separating warring kids, or clearing up cat vomit, or somesuch.

Please don't make me look at my time so far and judge which bits were a waste.

Dear God,
I just need a temporary life. Just enough of one to pay for what it takes to fool myself that I've still got plenty of time to go find a real one.

Oh Shit.

Redneck Advent Calendar

Lizard had some problems finding an advent calendar for her child. No such problems for rednecks like me!

One Pair of Scissors, Two Sets of Keys, and a Uterus Transplant Please

I did not lose the car keys; however, they do seem to have disappeared, and they seem to have disappeared some time while I was responsible for them. On Friday, after leaving Mr Z at the airport, I got into the driver's seat, and sometime between the moment I got into the driver's seat and the time he returned on Sunday, the keys, his set of keys, the set of keys that includes the key that unlocks his office door, just vanished.

I don't lose things. There's a very good reason why I don't lose things, too. I don't lose things because not losing things allows me to assume an air of superiority when Mr Z loses something. He loses things on a daily basis. I never lose things. Ever.

Mr. Z has learned, over the years, that nothing gets my eyeballs rolling and my ears smoking like the phrase, "Have you seen my __________?" Perhaps if he were organized, and only lost an item occasionally, I wouldn't get so steamed; but, it's a daily occurrence.

Yesterday he lost the scissors. Mr Z was wrapping a Christmas gift on the kitchen counter (it was not a gift for me). The scissors were on the counter, inches from his right hand, in plain view, and he says, "Oh, I need scissors. Have you seen the scissors?" I handed him the scissors. Our eyes met. I gave him The Look. I said, "Are you ready for the tape, because the tape's just as difficult to find, and I really should be starting dinner soon."

This morning, while I was trying to avoid getting out of bed (not because I'm depressed, but because if I stay in bed I won't be tempted to nip out back for a cigarette, so staying in bed has become a big part of my smoking cessation plan. Really, I'm not depressed), Mr Z came in, clearly exasperated, because he couldn't find the second set of car keys and he was already five minutes late for taking Beanpole to school.

He was using a tone. The tone seemed to imply that if I hadn't "lost" the first set of keys (I did not lose them; they disappeared. How can he not know the difference?), he would not have lost the second set of keys. The truth is, he had already lost the second set of keys, back when the second set of keys was the first set. I found the first set one day while doing laundry. I pocketed the new second set without telling him, thinking it would make him more careful with what he should have believed to be the only set of keys. I was warm, and dozy, and naked under the comforter, and he was using a tone that implied that since I caused this sudden outbreak of losing keys, I should get my lazy ass out of bed and help him search.

I said, "Either lose the tone, or I'm not getting up."

While he was in his closet looking through the pockets of yesterday's trousers (why don't men wear their pants more than once before laundering them? He's not digging ditches or cleaning sewers; he's sitting behind a desk, so why can't he wear his trousers two or three times before laundering them? Isn't that why underwear was invented?), I lept out of bed and grabbed the Top Secret Third Key. It's a valet key that only operates the ignition and the door lock. It's useless for the trunk. If the valet wants to steal something from the trunk, he pretty much has to drive off with the entire car. Anyway, naked and glaring, I held out the valet key and told him, "If you lose this, I will kill you."

The former Mrs Mr Z had the same problem with Mr Z losing things. She claims that the uterus is actually a homing device, capable of finding all manner of lost objects. While I did not lose the keys, I can't seem to find them, either set, which leads me to believe I need a uterus transplant.

What I did this evening (or, why I am grumpy today)

Back story: yesterday, I went to get my 4 year old (hereafter known as HM) from her friend's house. The friend had a package that had arrived, probably for her very recent birthday. Her mother was, sensibly, trying to keep her from opening it while we were there.

The girls discovered it and wanted to open it (of course) and we moms (idiots, both) said OK. It contained not a birthday present, but an advent calendar. You know, the kind with 24 little doors and a chocolate treat behind each one. They opened four doors, each of us ate a piece of (extremely waxy) chocolate. All was OK.

HM said she wanted a calendar, just like her friend. We were headed to a store that usually has them, so I said we'd look. Of course, it being December 5, they were out already. HM was sad, and asked if we could find her one somewhere else. I told her I'd look the next day.

This evening:

I get home from work just before 7 pm. First thing she asks me is "did you find one for me, just like X's?" No, I say, I looked (um... I forgot.. but she doesn't need to know that) but I couldn't find one. She is heartbroken. Really and truly heartbroken. Not her usual 4-year-old-drama-queen sort of heartbroken, but achingly sad. Tears slowly leaking from her eyes. Just sad sad sad.

I had some other errands I wanted to run, so I told her that after she went to bed, I'd go on a hunt. She was clearly insanely tired and almost falling asleep at 7, so I thought I'd get her down early (around 8) and would head out to do some no-crowds, all alone, shopping.

She keeps leaking tears. She is quiet and sad and occasionally just sort of leaks a tear or two and asks me to find her a calendar like her friend's. I finally agree to leave before she is asleep, leaving her father to put her to bed.

[insert ominous music here]

I leave at about 8:15. Fill gas tank. Try craft store, no luck. Get to mall. Target is open until 11, other stores close at 9. It is 8:47. Head to Cost Plus. Look everywhere, finally ask actual store employee. No, he says, we sold our last one last night.

Target. They have some strange thing that claims to be an advent garland. I have no idea what that is, but it contains chocolate and has the numbers 1-24 on it, so I decide that I will buy it (for the outrageous sum of $9.99). If need be, I will fit the front with a piece of cardboard, I will cut doors, I will stick on decoratey-things I can cut from magazines and Christmas wrapping paper. She will never see the difference.

Clearly, by this time I am getting delusional.

As I am getting to my car, my cell phone rings. It is DH calling. I think: "he had best be calling to tell me that she is asleep, because she was insanely tired at 8 pm and it is now 9:30."

He is not calling to tell me that. He is calling to tell me that she is still awake, and to see how I am doing on this lunatic quest. HM gets on the phone and asks if I have found anything. Thinking that the looney craft idea just might not work out, I tell her I have not. I tell her she should be asleep. I tell her to go to sleep. She says OK. I tell DH that she should have been asleep an hour ago, at least. He says he tried, but (and I quote) "she is keeping me awake." I hang up and imagine ways to kill DH in his sleep.

I head to a local store called Fred Meyer. They have everything--- sort of like Wal Mart, maybe, but without the slave labor and driving all other local businesses out of town. They do not, however, have any more advent calendars. As I am leaving, I see Walgreens across the street. Walgreens is still open, and they have a lot of Christmas stuff. I head to Walgreens. I walk every aisle of Christmas stuff and I am about to give up when I see, on the top shelf, a box of advent calendars. Right size. Right kind of doors. Picture of Santa. $1.99.

I am in love with Walgreens. I hand them the last $2 in my wallet and head home.

Walk in front door. Put down bags. Pee (which I have needed to do for at least 3 stores). Then I hear HM call to me, asking if I found it.

Holy crap. At this point, it is after 10 pm and she is still awake. I go upstairs to find her (no surprise) in bed with her father. Which is how she can be keeping him awake, as he sees it.

I tell her that I will show her the damned calendar in her room. She runs to her room. I let her open one window. I do not let her eat the chocolate. I tell her to go to sleep. She says she will try.

DH says that he tried everything: reading to her, lying down with her, yelling at her. Nothing worked. I tell him that it isn't all that difficult, and that he had best start to figure out how to get her to go to sleep (a task I can accomplish in less than 10 minutes most every night). He is miffed. I am livid. HM is still awake, asking for a story.

I read her half a story, then tell her I am done and she needs to go to sleep. 10 minutes later, she calls out that she needs to pee. Down to the toilet, then back up. 5 minutes after that I sneeze and she calls out "bless you!" and I think that I just might scream. DH is, of course, fast asleep at this point.

At least the chocolate in the advent garland isn't too waxy. Not too waxy at all.

Monday, December 04, 2006

What You Should Know About Canada

This is in honour of Sidhe, (because her local moose have been lurking and are obviously planning something).

Its also rather ancient.

Its also proof that I can sit on an old funny for years, but then so is the state of my marriage.


These questions about Canada were posted on an International Tourism Website. ...............

Q: I have never seen it warm on Canadian TV, so how do the plants grow? (UK)
A: We import all plants fully grown and then just sit around and watch them die.

Q: Will I be able to see Polar Bears in the street? (USA)
A: Depends how much you've been drinking.

Q: I want to walk from Vancouver to Toronto - can I follow the railroad tracks? (Sweden)
A: Sure, it's only Four thousand miles, take lots of water. . .

Q: Is it safe to run around in the bushes in Canada? (Sweden)
A: So its true what they say about Swedes.

Q: It is imperative that I find the names and addresses of places to contact for a stuffed Beaver. (Italy)
A: Let's not touch this one.

Q: Are there any ATMs (cash machines) in Canada? Can you send me a list of them in Toronto, Vancouver, Edmonton and Halifax? (UK)
A: What did your last slave die of?

Q: Can you give me some information about hippo racing in Canada? (USA)
A: A-fri-ca is the big triangle shaped continent south of Europe. Ca-na-da is that big country to your North . . . oh forget it. Sure, the hippo racing is every Tuesday night in Calgary. Come naked.

Q: Which direction is North in Canada? (USA)
A: Face south and then turn 90 degrees. Contact us when you get here and we'll send the rest of the directions.

Q: Can I bring cutlery into Canada? (UK)
A: Why? Just use your fingers like we do.

Q: Can you send me the Vienna Boys' Choir schedule? (USA)
A: Aus-tri-a is that quaint little country bordering Ger-man-y, which is... oh forget it. Sure, the Vienna Boys Choir plays every Tuesday night in Vancouver and in Calgary, straight after the hippo races. Come naked.

Q: Do you have perfume in Canada? (Germany)
A: No, WE don't stink.

Q: I have developed a new product that is the fountain of youth. Can you tell me where I can sell it in Canada? (USA)
A: Anywhere significant numbers of Americans gather.

Q: Can I wear high heels in Canada? (UK)
A: You are an American politician, right?

Q: Can you tell me the regions on British Columbia where the female population is smaller than the male population? (Italy)
A: Yes, gay nightclubs.

Q: Do you celebrate Thanksgiving in Canada? (USA)
A: Only at Thanksgiving.

Q: Are there supermarkets in Toronto and is milk available all year round?(Germany)
A: No, we are a peaceful civilization of Vegan hunter/gatherers. Milk is illegal.

Q: Please send a list of all doctors in Canada who can dispense rattlesnake serum. (USA)
A: All Canadian rattle snakes are perfectly harmless, and can be safely handled and make good pets.

Q: I have a question about a famous animal in Canada, but I forget its name. It's a kind of big horse with horns.(USA)
A: It's called a Moose. They are tall and very violent, eating the brains of anyone walking close to them. You can scare them off by spraying yourself with human urine before you go out walking.

Q: I was in Canada in 1969 on R+R, and I want to contact the girl I dated while I was staying in Surrey, BC. Can you help? (USA)
A: Yes, and you will still have to pay her by the hour.

Q: Will I be able to speak English most places I go? (USA)
A: Yes, but you will have to learn it first.

Sunday, December 03, 2006

On the Road to a Happy Hysterectomy

You want to know what grinds my gears, chaps my ass, and burns my britches? Watch out, this grumpy old bitch is going to blow.

I had to go and see a psychiatrist and a counselor to stay off work for an extra three weeks while my hormones leveled out (via Hormone Replacement Therapy HRT) after a complete hysterectomy. I was experiencing, panic attacks, hot flashes, night sweats, sleeping problems, lack of libido, mood changes, diarrhea, and memory problems. I would forget words. While conversing, it was like playing charades trying to get the other person to figure out what word I was trying to convey. How frustrating!

No, it wasn't a medical disability, it was considered a mental one. My male gynecologist came to that conclusion. You see, after a hysterectomy, it is common that a women can experience depression. He went on to explain to me how I may wonder why I'm feeling this way when I have nothing to be depressed about. Then he went where he shouldn't have. He wanted to prescribe me antidepressants. He started describing to me how the brain works and what a chemical imbalance is.

I stopped him dead in his tracks. I told him, “I studied Psychology in college. I know what a chemical imbalance is. I don't think removing your ovaries causes a chemical imbalance in your brain.” I asked, “Don't you think it could be a hormonal imbalance instead, that maybe I have been thrust into menopause at an overwhelming and alarming rate of speed?” Honestly, he acted as if he didn't know what I was talking about. He said he didn't specialize in hormones. Wouldn't you think a gynecologist would know a little about the subject? I felt as if had been thrown back into time and Freud was diagnosing me with hysteria.

Besides antidepressants, gynecologists also have prescribed Premarin and Provera. These are synthetic hormones that are a sad substitution at best. Provera is a synthetic progesterone and it is not nearly as safe as natural progesterone. Premarin is derived from pregnant mares urine, hence the name. Ladies, we should be sick of this horse piss!

At my insistence he referred me to an endocrinologist. He prescribed bioidentical hormones, which is truly hormone replacement therapy. Bioidentical hormones have the exact molecular structure of the hormones a woman produces naturally. In other words these hormones are no different from what a woman makes from age 12-51. Bioidentical hormones are more effective at eliminating symptoms of menopause and are likely safer as well. In this day and age it is shocking that doctors would rather prescribe horse hormones instead of the hormones a woman's body is familiar with. Just say no to horse piss. (Imagine hearing a horse whinny here.)

My endocrinologist obtained blood levels to see what my baseline hormone levels were. An individual blend of hormones (estrogen, progesterone, and testosterone) were prescribed and were filled at a compounding pharmacy. It comes in a cream form that I rub onto my inner wrists. (You know, like perfume.) This allows the hormones to be absorbed directly into my bloodstream at a slow rate. This reduces fewer peaks and valleys of hormone levels. Much more normal than pill form which has to absorbed by the stomach and taken directly to the liver.

I noticed subtle changes within 3 days and significant changes at two weeks. It has been three weeks now. My panic attacks are almost nonexistent. My libido has returned, no night sweats, no sleeping problems, and I have much more energy. I have an occasional hot flash, some memory problems, and I'm still moody. But hey, I've always been moody. I mean, come on, I'm a grumpy old bitch.

I will go back to my endocrinologist in two days and we will tweak what ever we need to according to my current blood levels. Not everyone is a candidate for HRT due to current medical problems. I strongly suggest this alternative to be considered by all woman who are experiencing what I have. If you experiencing these problems due to a hysterectomy or even menopause and your gyno is jerking you around, seek an endocrinologist's opinion. I can't even tell you how much I feel like my old self again. It's wonderful!

Just a couple of things

Cataclysmic warning=I'm dangerous.

If one more kid so much as utters the words douche and bag in the same sentence in reference to another kid, while within a fifteen foot radius of my head, well, I think I’ll run right out and buy a REAL douche bag, load it all up with vinegar and water, take it to school and just start hosing kids down with it in the hallways.

Douche bags.

If one more kid leaves the airbrush full of paint, the cabinets loaded with paint, the lids off the paint, the paintbrushes in the sink, pencil shavings on the floor, clay unwrapped, water buckets un dumped, well I’m going to bust them down to using nothing but crayons. So there.


If one more kid in my intensive drawing class, looks at me and whines these four words, “Buuuuutttt, I can’t draw.” I’m going to look them square in the eyes and say, “Then why the HELL did YOU take an ADVANCED drawing class?

You read the class description, it said,

Advanced drawing: This class is intended for students who are extremely interested in art and want to FURTHER their drawing SKILLS.”

It did not say, “Take this class if Ms. P is the only teacher on the faculty who can put up with your sorry, no trying, delinquent ass!”

And, it did not say, “Take this class if you can't draw a straight line with a ruler."

(Although at this point I wouldn’t mind kids who at least WANTED to learn to draw, THEY might be willing to put forth some kind of effort!)

Just do the damned drawing, struggle through it, I did, hell nobody can learn to draw for you, and it takes practice to draw proficiently, and there aint no frappin’ amount of whining going to get you to proficient.

Jeeze o peety weety.

And NO I will NOT draw it for you, I FRAPPIN’ KNOW I CAN DRAW!

Lazy butts.

Oh here’s another winner for ya, If one more kid shows me his/her paper and asks the question, “Is this good enough?” I’m going to say, “Well, that depends on what you intend to do with it,

line a bird cage? Maybe.

Look kid, if you have to ask whether it is good enough, chances are, it isn’t, and you know it. Chances are it’s just plain ol’ crap and you’re just trying to see if I’ll let you get by with turning in a piece of plain ol’ of crap.

Am I right, or am I right?”

Just enough to get bys.

And you, drummer boy, yeah you, if you so much as drum another finger, paintbrush, pencil, or any other thing that you can manage to create a rum pa pum pum sound with, I am breaking what ever it is that you are drumming in half, and then I’m going shove it right up your pimply A-hole.

Drummer than dirt.

Thank you grown ups very much for your time,

and you kids....yeah, you're right I am a grumpy old bitch lately.

Merry freakin Christmas.

Saturday, December 02, 2006

Words that make me puke

Ever heard of health, or 'healthy'?

Me too.

So what the fuck is all this with 'wellness' and 'healthful'?


Maybe they are real words in America although God knows why, but here in the UK they are pointless flim-flam. Oh they might convey a meaning, but then so did Slithy Toves after C S Lewis was done with them. I mean to say, I could go for a bit of gimbling myself, when the temperature's right. Who needs a borogrove?

If anyone knows the difference between healthful and healthy, please tell me because I don't get it and now the former makes me shudder every time I hear it. Thats just the way it is.

But it gets worse.

You'd imagine that 'wellness' meant 'health', wouldn't you?

Not exactly so.

At least it does in the general way of things, but not in the specifics. Legally, technically, 'wellness' is not equated to health.

This is why people (say, for arguments' sake, Herbalife reps) can accost you at, ooh, lets see, your daughter's School Christmas fair and pester to be able to give you a 'Wellness Check'.
In other words, people who would be in serious trouble for giving you an unqualified, uninsured health check can legally 'give' you this other thing instead.

They don't even get hauled up for misleading people into buying vitamins, although many must wrongly assume that wellness = health and I imagine that many reps bank on just that.

For 'wellness' I no longer simply cringe at the word, but also at the potential to hear it. In the same way that refusing to look at a cat will have said feline approach you double fast, so I find that blanching to a greeny grey at the sight of a 'wellness' salesperson will have them hone in on you as a sure thing faster than you can say "Oh shit".

It's hell. You know those people you hear about but never see, who supposedly lost the plot in the middle of the local supermarket and went from mild mannered nobody to straightjacket customer? One day;......... one day someone is going to smilingly suggest I purchase the latest health drink - donkey urine and dolphin snot, say, and it wont matter to me one jot that they are off their tree. If they try, however, to tell me it would have a healthful effect on my wellness, I may very well end up rocking in some padded corner for years and years to come. As to their survival rate; I don't pretend to make any guarantees.

Friday, December 01, 2006

just testing

yip yap yup doobledy dooblie doo
garumph tinka bumph tinky doo
winkle wonkle flip flop