52 New Things: Week1.2. Okay so here is my second new thing this week. This will bring me up to date with everyone else.
Last night while we sat down to eat dinner; I put my pre-recorded episode of Ghost Whisperer on. While I’m addicted to this show and I watch it religiously, I have to put my hands in front of my eyes for most of it. When a ghost is first introduced into each episode, it is always creepy and the images are always flashing around. It would be fair to say that that I listen to the TV show rather than watch it.
“Why do you attempt watch this show if it scares you?” Justin asked as he piled butter into his mouth, justifying his butter intake by the small amount of baked potato he was shovelling in with it.
“I’m not scared, it’s just that the flashing images hurt my eyes and the ghosts are always scary… I mean dead looking.” Yeah, put that justification in your pie hole and chew it… once the butter melts that is.
“Really!?!? You know how you are doing that 52 new things blog? Why don’t you watch the full episode without covering your eyes or studying our wood floor? Bet you can’t do it!” You just know he wanted to witness my reaction of watching a full episode with my eyes glued to the screen. Some people’s idea of entertainment is just sick.
Not being one to whimper under pressure and let other’s win, last night with Justin as my witness (yes he sat there to make sure I didn’t cheat) I watched Ghost Whisperer with my eyes open the whole way through! I KNOW, GO ME! HIGH FIVE!
I’ll tell you something for nothing… if I ever do that again, it will be too soon. My poor little heart was beating like I was running a marathon and my palms were sweaty enough to lube a bicycle chain. Watching a scary show all the way through was on list of things to be done. I can now say that I’ve done it and such things don’t need to be visited again.
That show is hella creepy! I like the storyline and how Melinda is a kind person who helps others. The show really is a feel good show if you just listen too it rather than watch it. It promotes love and kindness. However I don’t like evil ghosts and ghosts with scary faces. Truth be told, I don’t like ghosts full stop! I don’t do scary, I never have and I never will. Its okay, I’ve come to terms with the fact I’m jumpy and likely to cry if you tell me the room I’m standing in is haunted. I’ve come to terms with the fact that I treat the program as if I was hearing it on the radio rather than watching it on TV. I’m content with my own imagination when it comes to things of the underworld and afterlife.
Later on that night after I turned off all the lights I had strategically turned on in the past hour, I climbed into bed and put Justin’s heavy sleeping arm around me. He stirred and held me tightly, “Scared you will have a nightmare?”
“NO! I’m just cold.” (Top tip: never show weakness)
“Don’t worry honey; I have Ghost Busters on speed dial.”
Listening to Justin’s giggles and feeling him bask in the glory of his own joke and self imposed manliness, I drifted off to sleep… to only be greeted by the inevitable nightmare of underground rooms and ghastly frights.
Friday, 15 January 2010
Tuesday, 12 January 2010
52 New Things
I cam across this idea from a blog that I follow. The author has teamed up with another blog to bring the world ’52 New Things.’ The idea is, every week you have to try something new. It doesn't matter what it is, but it must be something you’ve never done/eaten/sung/ran etc before. I think it sounds like fun! I really love the idea so I’m going to tag along for the ride.
Seeing as I’m one week behind in the game I’m going to write two ’52 New Things’ this week.
The first new thing I’ve tried this year was… mouse mat cleaning. I know, it sounds weird but there was some sort of method to my madness or at least that's the excuse I'm going to use. I figure that I touch my mouse everyday and the mat touches the mouse (obviously!) which gets covered in all sorts of germs and lovelies that are out to harm my fragile self. I've never cleaned a mouse mat before so I thought I would give it a go. I took my Medical Area Spray bottle and went to town on my mouse mat.
After spraying three squirts on my mouse mat I realised that liquids and mouse mat's don't mix very well and I should probably abort the mission at the first possible exit. Not only did the Medical Area Cleaner soak into the mouse mate and give off a hospital smell that still permeated the air 2hrs after I sprayed it, but it also dribbled out of the mat onto my desk. The cleaning liquid went into the mat clear and lightly misty… it came out brown and fast! It’s not enough to have Medical Cleaner running down your desk threatening your note book and named stationery, (yes named stationery… it made sense to put my name of my things in primary school and it still makes sense now) the brown concoction that stank like hospital mop water started to stick to my table top and no amount of napkin scrubbing was picking it up. All the bloody napkins seemed to be doing was moving a pool of brown liquid around my desk making it even stickier! True, I was using horrible scratchy paper napkins to try and soak it up but surely even the most terrible of napkins need some sort of absorbency level? I feel a consumer review coming on…
It's to the point that I'm giving up. I'm now left with a sticky desk and wet mouse mat that I can’t rest my wrist on for fear of the itchies setting in. In a word, my mouse mat is GROSS! Far worse now than what it started out as. I would like to share with the masses the following piece of advice; when deciding to clean your mouse mat with industrial strength cleaner, I would recommend you just throw the damn thing a away and get a new one!
It's to the point that I'm giving up. I'm now left with a sticky desk and wet mouse mat that I can’t rest my wrist on for fear of the itchies setting in. In a word, my mouse mat is GROSS! Far worse now than what it started out as. I would like to share with the masses the following piece of advice; when deciding to clean your mouse mat with industrial strength cleaner, I would recommend you just throw the damn thing a away and get a new one!
So my ’52 New Things,’ is off to shaky, dodgy smelling, sticky start but at least I’m giving it ago!
Monday, 11 January 2010
Book Review Jan: Murder in the Heartland
My new year’s resolution was to read more books based on true events. I plan to read one a month and review them. I’m kicking the year off with Murder in The Heartland by M. William Phelps.
The book brought to life the story of how a small town girl, Bobby Jo Stinnett, was brutally murdered when she was 8months pregnant with her first child. What makes this story even more heart churning is that the murderer, Lisa Montgomery, stole the unborn child from her dieing victim’s abdomen.
Straight off the bat; I was a tad disappointed by this book as it wasn’t what I was expecting. The book is less about the crime at hand and those directly involved but rather about Lisa Montgomery’s relatives and their opinions.
Reading the news articles around the story and hearing there was a true crime story written, I was itching to get inside the mind of someone who could commit such a heinous crime. I wanted to know what would drive a woman who has four children of her own to kill an expecting mother and kidnap her baby. It truly is the stuff of nightmares. However the author hasn’t touched on any of this and rather has delivered a story told through Lisa Montgomery’s ex-husbands eyes. The story rarely touches on the victims and the impact the crime had on them. Only the first third of the book is dedicated to the criminal act itself. I found most of the book to be filled with information about Lisa’s past. Several chapters are dedicated to retelling how she moved to several towns over the years and ripped her children from state to state. I’m guessing the author wanted to shares with us Lisa’s troubled past and give us incite into her mental state, I feel he missed the target of his objectives.
The book is written is a past/present layout. I usually don’t like this form of writing and I find it a cheap attempt at cliff hanging but the style seemed to work for this story. I feel the writer did this due to the lack of information that could be reported. At the time of writing, the case had not yet gone to trial.
I don’t feel the book adequately represented several key players. The views of the victims were void and the author admits that the family of Bobby Jo didn’t wish to speak with him. Lisa’s second husband, the one she was married too at the time of the events, didn’t wish to speak with the author either. I think the book would have come across a lot softer and sensitive to the victims if he had pursed some more lines of contact. It seems that only one Police office involved in the case came forward with information. He claims that he solved the case on his own and gave very little credit to other officers involved. I find it hard to believe that a small town sheriff had the power to rule over the FBI. I found his retelling to be very ‘Hollywood.’ At one point he goes into great detail about how he met the president.
Reading the book and knowing that the story is real and did happen, it makes you stop and think. It’s the type of book that you will put down after each chapter and really ponder about how the crime has impacted so many people. One point I would like to make about true crime stories; don’t be a nosey parker and start googling the story before you have finished the story. Let the author give his views before you do any research of your own. I made this mistake and found out the result of the trial before I finished the book, thus making the last few chapters very slow for me.
I would recommend this book to people who are interested in crime and policing. The book touches on details about how the killer was caught and the various techniques used. I don’t recommend this book to anyone expecting a child as it does play on your heart strings. With only one or two rough descriptions of the crime scene, the book is suitable for even the most weak bellied. All in all, I found the story interesting and an easy read.
Straight off the bat; I was a tad disappointed by this book as it wasn’t what I was expecting. The book is less about the crime at hand and those directly involved but rather about Lisa Montgomery’s relatives and their opinions.
Reading the news articles around the story and hearing there was a true crime story written, I was itching to get inside the mind of someone who could commit such a heinous crime. I wanted to know what would drive a woman who has four children of her own to kill an expecting mother and kidnap her baby. It truly is the stuff of nightmares. However the author hasn’t touched on any of this and rather has delivered a story told through Lisa Montgomery’s ex-husbands eyes. The story rarely touches on the victims and the impact the crime had on them. Only the first third of the book is dedicated to the criminal act itself. I found most of the book to be filled with information about Lisa’s past. Several chapters are dedicated to retelling how she moved to several towns over the years and ripped her children from state to state. I’m guessing the author wanted to shares with us Lisa’s troubled past and give us incite into her mental state, I feel he missed the target of his objectives.
The book is written is a past/present layout. I usually don’t like this form of writing and I find it a cheap attempt at cliff hanging but the style seemed to work for this story. I feel the writer did this due to the lack of information that could be reported. At the time of writing, the case had not yet gone to trial.
I don’t feel the book adequately represented several key players. The views of the victims were void and the author admits that the family of Bobby Jo didn’t wish to speak with him. Lisa’s second husband, the one she was married too at the time of the events, didn’t wish to speak with the author either. I think the book would have come across a lot softer and sensitive to the victims if he had pursed some more lines of contact. It seems that only one Police office involved in the case came forward with information. He claims that he solved the case on his own and gave very little credit to other officers involved. I find it hard to believe that a small town sheriff had the power to rule over the FBI. I found his retelling to be very ‘Hollywood.’ At one point he goes into great detail about how he met the president.
Reading the book and knowing that the story is real and did happen, it makes you stop and think. It’s the type of book that you will put down after each chapter and really ponder about how the crime has impacted so many people. One point I would like to make about true crime stories; don’t be a nosey parker and start googling the story before you have finished the story. Let the author give his views before you do any research of your own. I made this mistake and found out the result of the trial before I finished the book, thus making the last few chapters very slow for me.
I would recommend this book to people who are interested in crime and policing. The book touches on details about how the killer was caught and the various techniques used. I don’t recommend this book to anyone expecting a child as it does play on your heart strings. With only one or two rough descriptions of the crime scene, the book is suitable for even the most weak bellied. All in all, I found the story interesting and an easy read.
Thursday, 7 January 2010
The Big Bull
When you’re little, you don’t appreciate the little things like home cooked food and riding bikes around the clothesline. It’s the big things that get you going. When it came to 'days out' in the small costal town where I grew up, short of going to the beach you were left with only three other half decent places to head. Two nature parks, and one huge-fuck-off-giant Bull.
Today I want to share with you my many memories of Wauchope’s ‘the Big Bull.’ It truly was as ridiculous as it sounds. Even as I research it today, it really astonishes me that the trip to ‘the Big Bull’ every school holidays was a highlight worthy of first week back at school show and tell! First off, this 14metre tall, 22metre long monstrosity wasn’t even in the same town where we lived. You had to drive 40mins west into hick-land. When I say hick-land, I’m talking nothing but farmland and weird people. The town is called Wauchope (pronounced War-Hope.) The town consists of several drunks sharing three pubs and one main street. To give you an idea, the town is home to the train station that no other local community wanted. A roaring national train tears through on the hour every hour and it makes the ground shake. The town is such a shit hole that the station and the thunder line (as I used to call it) added value to local property! The town has three second hand stores, a hardware store and a public pool that I was never allowed to visit due to it being populated by rednecks in mix-matched bathing suits (if they’re wearing bathing suit as all.) So what put this town on the map? What else… an infamous farmer who was caught with his overalls around in ankles, having it off with Betty the cow... and of course the beloved ‘Big Bull.’
Today I want to share with you my many memories of Wauchope’s ‘the Big Bull.’ It truly was as ridiculous as it sounds. Even as I research it today, it really astonishes me that the trip to ‘the Big Bull’ every school holidays was a highlight worthy of first week back at school show and tell! First off, this 14metre tall, 22metre long monstrosity wasn’t even in the same town where we lived. You had to drive 40mins west into hick-land. When I say hick-land, I’m talking nothing but farmland and weird people. The town is called Wauchope (pronounced War-Hope.) The town consists of several drunks sharing three pubs and one main street. To give you an idea, the town is home to the train station that no other local community wanted. A roaring national train tears through on the hour every hour and it makes the ground shake. The town is such a shit hole that the station and the thunder line (as I used to call it) added value to local property! The town has three second hand stores, a hardware store and a public pool that I was never allowed to visit due to it being populated by rednecks in mix-matched bathing suits (if they’re wearing bathing suit as all.) So what put this town on the map? What else… an infamous farmer who was caught with his overalls around in ankles, having it off with Betty the cow... and of course the beloved ‘Big Bull.’
As you can see from the picture there isn’t much there. It truly is nothing more than a huge field with a huge bull and cow themed gift shop stuck in the middle of it. You could see it for miles! As you would come up the highway you could see it getting bigger and bigger, with that the excitement would grow and grow.
Entry was $2 and there were three floors within the bull to explore. Each floor contained a different era of farm memorabilia. Farmer Paul, (not the one who had sex with a cow or at least he wasn’t caught) the creator of the big bull was always on hand to answer any questions you may have had. He also drove a tractor around the paddock with a trailer filled with hay attached. All the kid would pile in this trailer and he would take us for a ride around the paddock while giving us a live commentary of what ever he fancied. When I say whatever he fancied, he’d tell us stories about what he watched on TV the night before, how the government was screwing the poor, why Tasmania shouldn’t be associated with Australia etc. It was farmer Paul who taught me what a communist was and how Nam was a waste of time. It was only several years later that I realised he wasn’t refereeing to Nambucca Heads. Farmer Paul even once came to my school to drum up some business and promote his ‘kids get in free this month’ special…. he wasn’t allowed to talk to us but rather just stand next to principle and wave while the principle told us about the special offer.
There were also live milking shows at ‘the Big Bull’ where one lucky person got picked out of the crowd to go up and titillate a lactating mammal. I can also trace back my fear of barnyard animals to ‘the Big Bull.’ There was an animal nursery filled with goats and various other smelly four legged creatures. Determined to get me in the pen with my paper bag of animal feed, mum would climb over and then be chased around by goats and lambs for 10mins, yelling, “Get away… look sweet heart it’s fun. GET AWAY!” It’s rather traumatizing watching a goat try and eat your mother’s jacket as she’s trying to convince you she’s having fun. I never got in the pen with the animals. Instead I would throw my paper bag of feed in the middle of the chicken-bird like things and watch the feathers fly as the goats would come stampeding over.
But while all this sounds like a hoot and fun for all ages, there was only one reason you went to ‘the Big Bull’ if you didn’t have kids or a cow fetish. ‘The big Bull’ had huge pair of (to scale) swinging testicles that squeaked in the wind due to them being so big and the hinge that connected them being so small. My mum wouldn’t let me stand underneath them for fear of castrated bull balls killing me.
But with all good things, ‘the Big Bull’ is no more. I found this article which I think sums up why it was pulled down… and also to prove that this post is not just a load of bollocks.
Wednesday, 23 December 2009
I've Gone all Mushy Inside (but i kind of like it)
I follow a blog by a lovely lady by the name of Ginny. You can find her here at Praying to Darwin. Give her a read, she keeps me clutching my ribs and I giggle till my little lungs can giggle no more. Put it this way, if you're a smoker, don't smoke while reading her blog. You may hurt yourself.
One of her recent posts, Maybe a Girl's Best friend. Just Not This Girl touched me. As you will read, Ginny’s post isn't about diamonds but rather, it’s about how her hero wouldn’t buy her a big flippin’ ten-ton-tessy necklace but rather give her something with some meaning. Her other half being the REAL Hero she needs.
I understand what she's hootin' on about first hand. While some of you look at your boyfriends and husbands and touch wood you will never see them hurt, I touch wood that I will never see mine hurt again. I don’t want to go into details but a couple of years back Justin took a bullet in the form of a size 10 Nike sneaker… to the head.
When you see your other half in a way that I saw Justin that night you realise that nothing really matters. You know what love really means when you’re rattling off their blood group, what their allergic too and an entire medical history rite down to his last dental check up. He can’t remember any of that night. I don’t think I would want him too, even if he could.
I would rather trade all the diamonds in the world than see him hurt like that again. I would rather us both be poor and just have each other than have the world but have no one to share it with.
So every year when he produces presents for me I always accept them with a huge smile and hug. To be honest, he could be giving me a clump of dirf decorated with dryer lint, little does he know that my big present every year is really just having him by my side and watching his eyes light up as I open my gifts. But please don’t tell him though, his ego is big enough already and I've really got my hear set on a slanket.
One of her recent posts, Maybe a Girl's Best friend. Just Not This Girl touched me. As you will read, Ginny’s post isn't about diamonds but rather, it’s about how her hero wouldn’t buy her a big flippin’ ten-ton-tessy necklace but rather give her something with some meaning. Her other half being the REAL Hero she needs.
I understand what she's hootin' on about first hand. While some of you look at your boyfriends and husbands and touch wood you will never see them hurt, I touch wood that I will never see mine hurt again. I don’t want to go into details but a couple of years back Justin took a bullet in the form of a size 10 Nike sneaker… to the head.
When you see your other half in a way that I saw Justin that night you realise that nothing really matters. You know what love really means when you’re rattling off their blood group, what their allergic too and an entire medical history rite down to his last dental check up. He can’t remember any of that night. I don’t think I would want him too, even if he could.
I would rather trade all the diamonds in the world than see him hurt like that again. I would rather us both be poor and just have each other than have the world but have no one to share it with.
So every year when he produces presents for me I always accept them with a huge smile and hug. To be honest, he could be giving me a clump of dirf decorated with dryer lint, little does he know that my big present every year is really just having him by my side and watching his eyes light up as I open my gifts. But please don’t tell him though, his ego is big enough already and I've really got my hear set on a slanket.
Sunday, 20 December 2009
I still want a Slanket!
A week ago I wrote this blog. On my list to santa, you will see that I noted down I wanted a Slanket. A slanket is a blanket with sleeves. Justin has been giving me grief about my slanket request. Personally, I think it's a damn good idea. Nothing worse than trying to drink a cup of tea and having a flight with the blanket in the process. And think of travelling. How much easier would it be to have a slanket on a plane instead of a static blanket that has covered many people before you.
However, while I think it's a great idea and I very much want one, it seems the world is against me and world rather make of fun of the idea.
Laugh all you want but I still want one. And when I get one, who will be the one laughing when you have cold arms?
Tuesday, 15 December 2009
What I Have to Deal With!
As some of you know, Justin plays guitar. In fact he just doesn’t play guitar he more lives, eats, dreams and most probably shits guitar. He loves it and frankly I count myself lucky to drift off to sleep most nights listening to music he has written just for me and only me.
However, while it all sounds so romantic, lovely and all the ladies out there are jealous, it gets bloody annoying when he plays the same song over and over again. Of late his torture of choice has been ‘I’m Yours.’ Great song the first time you hear it but after three months of the flipping thing you want to hunt down Jason Mraz and bash that wooden box with six strings over his head for ever writing it.
So to give you all a taste of what it’s like to live with Justin and his 6 guitars, watch this video about 10 times before you go to bed. Heaven help me if he ever had a protege like this!
And because this kid is so flippin' cute, watch this one too!
However, while it all sounds so romantic, lovely and all the ladies out there are jealous, it gets bloody annoying when he plays the same song over and over again. Of late his torture of choice has been ‘I’m Yours.’ Great song the first time you hear it but after three months of the flipping thing you want to hunt down Jason Mraz and bash that wooden box with six strings over his head for ever writing it.
So to give you all a taste of what it’s like to live with Justin and his 6 guitars, watch this video about 10 times before you go to bed. Heaven help me if he ever had a protege like this!
And because this kid is so flippin' cute, watch this one too!
How not to talk about sex with a teenager
Now it may not surprise you when I say I don't have the best relationship with my step father. I’m going to hold back from throwing insults and show a little respect. We never shared anything while I was growing up. Complete polar opposites but, there was one night when he put on the dad pants and made my inner girl scream with embarrassment and cringe at the awkwardness. That was the night we were both taken by surprise by an ‘adult scene’ in a movie.
When you're a 13 year old girl, sex scenes are extremely awkward to watch with any member of family. If I was to witness one with my mother now I probably make obscene comments until she blushed or walked out of the room. Back in the day I was quite content to pretend I didn't know what sex was. That was of course until that fateful night.
My mum had gone to bed. It must have been a Friday because I was allowed to stay up and watch the rest of the movie with my step father. Mum was quite liberal and let me watch M15 movies, it was no different from any other movie... or so she thought. As we sat there, the plot thickened. I must admit I don't actually remember the plot or what the movie was called but that’s not important for this story. What’s important is while I was munching on popcorn and sipping herbal tea, (no normal tea after 7pm due to the caffeine. If only she could see me now!) All of a sudden the main female character was taking her clothes off. Hmm, thinking quickly I looked away,
“Wow check out how interesting this piece of popcorn is?”
Yes things got that bad and we stooped to that level to try and avoid what was going on over on the TV.
I looked from my piece of interesting popcorn back to the TV. The main male character was looking at the female character like a lion that hasn't eaten in weeks and has just spied a zebra fresh from the watering hole. AHHHH my down played sexual education was diminishing before me. I knew what they’re doing, my step father knew what they’re doing but did he know that I knew? I guess not.
I squirmed, the step dad squirmed. Not exactly a bonding moment to seal our already fragile relationship! As the female character (with boobies out) mounted the male character in a sexual position that made my Barbie look amateur, my step dad turned to me with a bright red face and said, "she's just comforting him."
Not knowing whether to laugh, cry or run from the room and wash my eyes and ears outs with soap, I was mortified! Here is my step father, on a Friday night, in front of the telly, trying to give me ‘the talk.’ I racked my brains trying to find a witty comment, an excuse to leave the room but I was rendered speechless and frozen. All I could muster was a big fat, “Oh.”
I think he though the look of horror and shock was because I had no idea what was going in the movie. I guess he made the assumption that my mother had neglected to inform about the finer points of baby making. I was more than happy to let him believe that if it meant he wouldn’t make any more comments like, “Comforting him.” Trust me when I say this; that looked far from comfortable! I think ‘Oh’ did the trick though because he didn’t say anything back and he left the room to fill up the already full pop corn bowl. Too little, too late.
When you're a 13 year old girl, sex scenes are extremely awkward to watch with any member of family. If I was to witness one with my mother now I probably make obscene comments until she blushed or walked out of the room. Back in the day I was quite content to pretend I didn't know what sex was. That was of course until that fateful night.
My mum had gone to bed. It must have been a Friday because I was allowed to stay up and watch the rest of the movie with my step father. Mum was quite liberal and let me watch M15 movies, it was no different from any other movie... or so she thought. As we sat there, the plot thickened. I must admit I don't actually remember the plot or what the movie was called but that’s not important for this story. What’s important is while I was munching on popcorn and sipping herbal tea, (no normal tea after 7pm due to the caffeine. If only she could see me now!) All of a sudden the main female character was taking her clothes off. Hmm, thinking quickly I looked away,
“Wow check out how interesting this piece of popcorn is?”
Yes things got that bad and we stooped to that level to try and avoid what was going on over on the TV.
I looked from my piece of interesting popcorn back to the TV. The main male character was looking at the female character like a lion that hasn't eaten in weeks and has just spied a zebra fresh from the watering hole. AHHHH my down played sexual education was diminishing before me. I knew what they’re doing, my step father knew what they’re doing but did he know that I knew? I guess not.
I squirmed, the step dad squirmed. Not exactly a bonding moment to seal our already fragile relationship! As the female character (with boobies out) mounted the male character in a sexual position that made my Barbie look amateur, my step dad turned to me with a bright red face and said, "she's just comforting him."
Not knowing whether to laugh, cry or run from the room and wash my eyes and ears outs with soap, I was mortified! Here is my step father, on a Friday night, in front of the telly, trying to give me ‘the talk.’ I racked my brains trying to find a witty comment, an excuse to leave the room but I was rendered speechless and frozen. All I could muster was a big fat, “Oh.”
I think he though the look of horror and shock was because I had no idea what was going in the movie. I guess he made the assumption that my mother had neglected to inform about the finer points of baby making. I was more than happy to let him believe that if it meant he wouldn’t make any more comments like, “Comforting him.” Trust me when I say this; that looked far from comfortable! I think ‘Oh’ did the trick though because he didn’t say anything back and he left the room to fill up the already full pop corn bowl. Too little, too late.
Thursday, 10 December 2009
Dear Santa
Dear Santa,
It’s that time of year again when I write to you and try to justify my actions of the past 12months. Seeing as we’re both adults I don’t feel it’s necessary to beat around the bush. Unlike certain children, I don’t feel I need to draw you a nice picture to prove my intentions. I can’t draw. So let’s get down to business and discuss why I should be on the good list and how I should be rewarded.
I can’t lie like little kids. I’m not even going to pretend that I’ve helped out around the house and done something nice for someone everyday. Santa my man, you are all knowing and all seeing so it’s pointless to even pretend that I’ve tried. In my defence, can I just say that while I am shockingly disruptive, a professional procrastinator and all round story teller… I am actually a good person deep down. I can be caring when I fancy it and I try to do the best by others (unless I don’t like them very much.) When I laughed at the midgets wrestling on Jerry Springer a few months ago, I meant no offence to your elves in any way.
So let’s get down to business. May I please have something half decent? You know my boyfriend Justin? You must know him; he’s the one at the top of your good list with a halo around his head. As much as everyone loves him, he has no Christmas cheer. For Christmas may I please have a boyfriend who isn’t so suborn and just goes with the flow? If I want to dangle lights all out the place, I would like him to smile and say “good job! Our house looks like a cheap brothel and is completely uncoordinated but good job!” It’s just not Christmas unless we’re both wankered on Baily’s, wearing Santa hats and singing dodgy Christmas carols while dancing around the lounge. Also, I would love for him to understand the importance of wrapping everything and anything in wrapping paper… just so I can open it on Christmas morning. Could you please remind him that I left the wrapping paper, sticky tape and scissors on the kitten table? There are only 2 tags left but I’m sure he can pick some more up from the pound shop.
As for the gift department, you have yet to let me down. Just to ensure we are on the same page; here is a list of stuff I wouldn’t say no too:
- A head massager (manual or electric. You can pick these up cheap from boots.)
- A Christmas Song CD to play all day long. (must include Wham and Mariah)
- A dressing grown/ slanket (it’s a blanket with sleeves)
- The Sims 3 expansion pack.
- A kitten.
- Eurostar tickets for a weekend in Paris
- Some books, of the soppy lady variety
- Lily Allen, Michael Buble`, Lenka, Peter Andre or John Williamson Album (will settle for downloads as long as they are paid for and I can play them in the kitchen)
- A photo album with all the pictures from our adventures in it
- The lifestyle and culture channel package on Sky
- Christmas flowers delivered to work
- Some arcade games on the playstation (happy with downloads)
- Chocolate dipped strawberries (home made with Cadbury chocolate)
- Arrow Word, crossword book
- A princess outfit for Kitty-Minx (I know he’s a boy cat but he has no balls!)
To be honest Santa, apart from that one year when my brother was born and my presents where rather thin on the ground, you’ve done alright by me. I think if we can maintain at this current strong level of quality we shouldn’t fall out.
Till next year, you’re faithful, naughty, little one. ;)
Kell xx
Tuesday, 1 December 2009
It's a Girl! (or is it a boy?)
The other day I had to make a mad dash in the rain from Liverpool Street station to the taxi rank. While I stood under my umbrella waiting for a taxi, a woman joined the queue behind me. In toe, she had a small child which I would put at around 3 years old. Now this child left me with some serious questions.
I’m sorry, but if you have a little girl what on earth would possess you give her a mullet? No really, there is nothing funny or cool about a three year old girl with a shiny mullet for a haircut. In fact there is nothing cool about a 12 year old girl with a mullet but at least she has the voice to fight back. Should the 12 year old roll over and accept her mullet, then laughing at her is fair game. But a three year old, how is that remotely fare. Further more, should you have a son (with a mullet,) why would you put him a dress? It really does confuse things, even for open minded people like me!
If you haven’t figured it out yet, this child looked like a boy, had a mullet but yet was wearing a red dress thingy with trousers underneath. I don’t condone laughing at helpless children but what the heck? I mean surely this is a case for child services… or the fashion police!
I looked down and smiled at the little shim (she/him) and also gave it a little wave. The child gave me a big grin back and waved. Thinking that this could be my chance to find out what gender it was so I could either laugh at the hair cut or attire, I asked, “What’s your name?”
The little shim hid behind its mother’s leg and I heard a small voice say, “Charlie.” Well smack me over the head with a baseball bat and give the shim a biscuit, it has a unisex name to match the gender confused get-up.
If I’m confused what must that poor child think? I’m a boy but mum wanted a girl bad enough that she makes me wear dresses OR, I’m a girl… with a mullet, my life is over. The parents should be shot either way.
A taxi finally arrived and due to the rain, I offered it too the shim and its mother. Freak show or not, it’s still a small child in the rain and freak shows can catch a cold too you know!
I’m sorry, but if you have a little girl what on earth would possess you give her a mullet? No really, there is nothing funny or cool about a three year old girl with a shiny mullet for a haircut. In fact there is nothing cool about a 12 year old girl with a mullet but at least she has the voice to fight back. Should the 12 year old roll over and accept her mullet, then laughing at her is fair game. But a three year old, how is that remotely fare. Further more, should you have a son (with a mullet,) why would you put him a dress? It really does confuse things, even for open minded people like me!
If you haven’t figured it out yet, this child looked like a boy, had a mullet but yet was wearing a red dress thingy with trousers underneath. I don’t condone laughing at helpless children but what the heck? I mean surely this is a case for child services… or the fashion police!
I looked down and smiled at the little shim (she/him) and also gave it a little wave. The child gave me a big grin back and waved. Thinking that this could be my chance to find out what gender it was so I could either laugh at the hair cut or attire, I asked, “What’s your name?”
The little shim hid behind its mother’s leg and I heard a small voice say, “Charlie.” Well smack me over the head with a baseball bat and give the shim a biscuit, it has a unisex name to match the gender confused get-up.
If I’m confused what must that poor child think? I’m a boy but mum wanted a girl bad enough that she makes me wear dresses OR, I’m a girl… with a mullet, my life is over. The parents should be shot either way.
A taxi finally arrived and due to the rain, I offered it too the shim and its mother. Freak show or not, it’s still a small child in the rain and freak shows can catch a cold too you know!
Thursday, 26 November 2009
Quote of the Day
It seems London is burning… AGAIN! Last night a fire struck a housing estate in Peckham. Low and behold it's all over the London news this morning (the story that is.) So far reports are saying there are no fatalities, which is a good thing. It seems the fire is being dubbed "The Great Fire on London 2009". How a fire can be great, I'll never know!
But what I really loved about this article in particular was the quote from one of the residents. Lucy Pope whoever you are, you have won my quote of the day competition (which I just invented.)
“People are scared, they are standing in bus shelters and there are babies who have been woken up.”
Babies who have been woken up! OMG this is a real tragedy of epic proportions!!!
Also in other news that is completely unrelated to the fire in Peckham or babies being woken up by concerned parents who thought a woken baby is better than a burnt baby. (Although Lucy would beg to differ…)
I would like to send out a big HAPPY BIRTHDAY to one of the most important people in my life. Words will never be enough to express who much you mean to me. Happy Birthday Kelton! I feel the same way about you as a fat kid feels about cake. xx
But what I really loved about this article in particular was the quote from one of the residents. Lucy Pope whoever you are, you have won my quote of the day competition (which I just invented.)
“People are scared, they are standing in bus shelters and there are babies who have been woken up.”
Babies who have been woken up! OMG this is a real tragedy of epic proportions!!!
Also in other news that is completely unrelated to the fire in Peckham or babies being woken up by concerned parents who thought a woken baby is better than a burnt baby. (Although Lucy would beg to differ…)
I would like to send out a big HAPPY BIRTHDAY to one of the most important people in my life. Words will never be enough to express who much you mean to me. Happy Birthday Kelton! I feel the same way about you as a fat kid feels about cake. xx
Wednesday, 25 November 2009
Anywhere is... ie, NOT HERE!
I really need to vent. I’m not going to go into details as to why I need to vent but trust me when I say this; if I don’t vent soon, someone and most probably someone who doesn’t deserve it, will become the helpless victim of an obscene amount of verbal abuse.
When my brother was born, my step father’s mother came and stayed with us while mum was in hospital. Before mum went away for the longest 4 days of my life, she bought me an Enya CD and told me to play it every time the evil cow wound me up. Not that I have a problem with controlling my temper, more that my mum knew if I got to breaking point, I was more than capable of slipping a little something in her tea and tying her to a chair for the remainder of her stay.
So today while I stomp my feet, pull my hair, have a cry and all in all, throw my toys out of the cot, I would like to share with you a song that seems to calm me down and take me to a place where nothing really matters. Please enjoy this video of Enya’s Anywhere Is.
When my brother was born, my step father’s mother came and stayed with us while mum was in hospital. Before mum went away for the longest 4 days of my life, she bought me an Enya CD and told me to play it every time the evil cow wound me up. Not that I have a problem with controlling my temper, more that my mum knew if I got to breaking point, I was more than capable of slipping a little something in her tea and tying her to a chair for the remainder of her stay.
So today while I stomp my feet, pull my hair, have a cry and all in all, throw my toys out of the cot, I would like to share with you a song that seems to calm me down and take me to a place where nothing really matters. Please enjoy this video of Enya’s Anywhere Is.
Saturday, 21 November 2009
She wrote a song... For You!
Does anyone have Simon Cowell's number? I think I have just found the next Whitney Huston!
Tuesday, 10 November 2009
Investment Banking: It’s a bit like Lego
The other night at the pub I got a very interesting lesson in the art of Investment Banking. I thought I would share it with you.
Investment Banking is like Lego. In a Lego set you have 5 or 6 different colours and lots of different size blocks made out of those colours. Each of those colours represents a product and each different sized block within that colour represents… something else. I can’t remember what he said; I think Girls Aloud came on so I stopped to have a bit of a dance.
But anyway, so you have all these different blocks made out of different colors that can be rearranged into a magnitude of different things. But the fundamentals of all structures are the same… just constructed in different ways.
On Friday night, while nursing not one but two glasses of wine I found this analogy fascinating. So on Saturday morning after my trip to KFC I figured I would try and expand on what was explained to me. This is what I came up with.
The world economy is like a Lego village, you have the town part and the houses/suburb part. The economic down turn is when you’ve run out of blocks. All construction stops and all the Lego Men loose their jobs. Mum won’t buy you more blocks and feed a false village, so you have no choice but to evict your Lego men and make them all live together in a small one bedroom flat on the wrong side of the village. You use the blocks from their now empty houses to expand the town. This is called 'Repossession' and 'Public Sector Spending'.
Now all of this could have been avoided. The Lego village was working just dandy until the neighbour came over to the play. The motto to the story is quite a simple one. Don’t let your children, who are the master craftsman of such a complex system, play with kids called Gordon.
Investment Banking is like Lego. In a Lego set you have 5 or 6 different colours and lots of different size blocks made out of those colours. Each of those colours represents a product and each different sized block within that colour represents… something else. I can’t remember what he said; I think Girls Aloud came on so I stopped to have a bit of a dance.
But anyway, so you have all these different blocks made out of different colors that can be rearranged into a magnitude of different things. But the fundamentals of all structures are the same… just constructed in different ways.
On Friday night, while nursing not one but two glasses of wine I found this analogy fascinating. So on Saturday morning after my trip to KFC I figured I would try and expand on what was explained to me. This is what I came up with.
The world economy is like a Lego village, you have the town part and the houses/suburb part. The economic down turn is when you’ve run out of blocks. All construction stops and all the Lego Men loose their jobs. Mum won’t buy you more blocks and feed a false village, so you have no choice but to evict your Lego men and make them all live together in a small one bedroom flat on the wrong side of the village. You use the blocks from their now empty houses to expand the town. This is called 'Repossession' and 'Public Sector Spending'.
Now all of this could have been avoided. The Lego village was working just dandy until the neighbour came over to the play. The motto to the story is quite a simple one. Don’t let your children, who are the master craftsman of such a complex system, play with kids called Gordon.
Sunday, 8 November 2009
It's Friday mum.. Get your boobs out!
Mum and I e-mail each other and occasionally she’ll remind me of things that make me very home sick. The Friday Song is one of these things.
When I was growing up and living in a small dead-end coastal town, every Friday morning the local radio station would play a song called the Friday Song. It’s a good ol’ wholesome family tune to get you in the weekend spirit. Every Friday I would wake up at the crack of dawn to listen to the song. I would sing along while dancing around the kitchen table. My grandparents used to live down the road from us. Naturally they listened to the song too. Still to this day, when I go home and see my Grandparents I force myself out of bed on Friday mornings just so I can sit at the kitchen table with my porridge and sing along until my granddad yells at me for being too cheery, too early.
I had told Justin about this song and how I longed to be able to hear it over here on Friday mornings. So he suggested I e-mail the station and ask them for a copy. SO I DID!
The response I got was not quite what I was expecting. Let’s just say the song attached wasn’t the wholesome family song I remembered.
I responded with this:
Hi there
Many thanks for the song, however I think you're attached the wrong one.
As much as this song gave me and my South African boyfriend a laugh and truly made our day, it is not "The Friday" song. My boyfriend is now wondering what mothers are like in Australia. I assured him that most mothers do not drink themselves into sin and get there boobs out while weeing in the gutter. You’ve given the poor boy high expectations that my mother could never live up too.
Please may I have the Friday song? Although maybe you should start playing “Ma with her boobs out,” on a Friday morning. I know it would make my granddad smile while eating his porridge.
Let it be known that "ma with her boobs out" is now stored on my ipod for future enjoyment.
Guess you made a bit of a tits up there (excuse the pun BUT I COULDN'T resist!)
Needless to say once I had received the correct song and played it to Justin, the first thing he said was, “Play the boobs one again!
Friday Song or is this the Friday Song?
When I was growing up and living in a small dead-end coastal town, every Friday morning the local radio station would play a song called the Friday Song. It’s a good ol’ wholesome family tune to get you in the weekend spirit. Every Friday I would wake up at the crack of dawn to listen to the song. I would sing along while dancing around the kitchen table. My grandparents used to live down the road from us. Naturally they listened to the song too. Still to this day, when I go home and see my Grandparents I force myself out of bed on Friday mornings just so I can sit at the kitchen table with my porridge and sing along until my granddad yells at me for being too cheery, too early.
I had told Justin about this song and how I longed to be able to hear it over here on Friday mornings. So he suggested I e-mail the station and ask them for a copy. SO I DID!
The response I got was not quite what I was expecting. Let’s just say the song attached wasn’t the wholesome family song I remembered.
I responded with this:
Hi there
Many thanks for the song, however I think you're attached the wrong one.
As much as this song gave me and my South African boyfriend a laugh and truly made our day, it is not "The Friday" song. My boyfriend is now wondering what mothers are like in Australia. I assured him that most mothers do not drink themselves into sin and get there boobs out while weeing in the gutter. You’ve given the poor boy high expectations that my mother could never live up too.
Please may I have the Friday song? Although maybe you should start playing “Ma with her boobs out,” on a Friday morning. I know it would make my granddad smile while eating his porridge.
Let it be known that "ma with her boobs out" is now stored on my ipod for future enjoyment.
Guess you made a bit of a tits up there (excuse the pun BUT I COULDN'T resist!)
Needless to say once I had received the correct song and played it to Justin, the first thing he said was, “Play the boobs one again!
Friday Song or is this the Friday Song?
Thursday, 5 November 2009
How to: Open a bottle of wine... in style!
Now we all know that youtube is full of people showing us “How to do” things. Between the makeup artists, chefs, shirt folders and everything else, it’s very easy to become lost and complacent. But some people on youtube really can teach you something that could one day come in handy.
Straight from land WTF, give the man a round of applause!
Wednesday, 4 November 2009
City Girl
‘City Girl’ is a title given to the women who work in the financial sector, us young ladies who work our butts off in an often sexist work place. ‘City Girl’ was once a badge that I wore with pride. Once upon a time, to say you were a 'City Girl' it meant that you were strong, capable and ready to fight. There is no point lying about it or tip toeing around the subject. To be a female in the financial industry, regardless of the role you play, you need to grow a pair to survive.
But it seems the term is being thrown around like a loose cannon these days and instead of being associated with head strong women, it’s being associated with airheads of the materialistic variety. It really winds me up that females are not taken seriously. Here is the city is a great example of this. This website is one of the most widely read amongst the city folk and yet it publishes articles like this. A City Girl’s Wish List. How is this article remotely related to the market or what’s going on in the world? Why is such dribble like this on a website that everyone reads? Now I’m not saying that it’s all about burning our bras and dressing like frumps. It’s more the fact that this website seems to advertise that women in the city are nothing more than materialistic sex symbols that float around the office to appease the wondering eye. If I read ‘Sexed-up-secretary’ or anything remotely like it one more time, please don’t hold me accountable for my actions.
This article really upset me. I don’t want this label or to be affiliated with it in any way. Yes I like the nice things in life but Friday afternoon treats? WHO DOES THAT? I don’t like the way this 'City Girl' brags about her shopping conquests and puts women who work in other industries down. I don’t own an emerald ring from Tiffany, I don’t know who Les Nereides is, nor do I waste my money on a purse every week. I can tell you what I do have though; I have no debt, no guilt, lovely bi-annual holidays, a trip to Selfridges once every couple of months and to top it all off I have confidence. I know that I will never drop to that level and become the materialistic airhead. I also believe that maybe (just maybe) if I stick to my guns on this one, my brains will pull me through as opposed to a low cut top and 6inch heels. It’s called self respect City Girl, you should give it a try some time.
But it seems the term is being thrown around like a loose cannon these days and instead of being associated with head strong women, it’s being associated with airheads of the materialistic variety. It really winds me up that females are not taken seriously. Here is the city is a great example of this. This website is one of the most widely read amongst the city folk and yet it publishes articles like this. A City Girl’s Wish List. How is this article remotely related to the market or what’s going on in the world? Why is such dribble like this on a website that everyone reads? Now I’m not saying that it’s all about burning our bras and dressing like frumps. It’s more the fact that this website seems to advertise that women in the city are nothing more than materialistic sex symbols that float around the office to appease the wondering eye. If I read ‘Sexed-up-secretary’ or anything remotely like it one more time, please don’t hold me accountable for my actions.
This article really upset me. I don’t want this label or to be affiliated with it in any way. Yes I like the nice things in life but Friday afternoon treats? WHO DOES THAT? I don’t like the way this 'City Girl' brags about her shopping conquests and puts women who work in other industries down. I don’t own an emerald ring from Tiffany, I don’t know who Les Nereides is, nor do I waste my money on a purse every week. I can tell you what I do have though; I have no debt, no guilt, lovely bi-annual holidays, a trip to Selfridges once every couple of months and to top it all off I have confidence. I know that I will never drop to that level and become the materialistic airhead. I also believe that maybe (just maybe) if I stick to my guns on this one, my brains will pull me through as opposed to a low cut top and 6inch heels. It’s called self respect City Girl, you should give it a try some time.
Monday, 26 October 2009
Industrial Slip ‘n’ Slide
It’s amazing how you forget things completely until something triggers it. I recently became friends with an old neighbor on Crackbook.
Now while this was fun, again it grew boring, so we entered phase 3. Soap yourself up with shampoo first for maximum speed. We three elder children tried it first and for quite some time this was the only entertainment we needed. Even our parents would come out and watch the spectacle of three kids, 2 of which were teenagers, throwing themselves down a hill at full speed covered head to toe in shampoo. Yes, it truly was as ridiculous as it sounds but boy was it fun! If you took a run up you would slide the whole the tarp, hit the grass and keep going. If you hit that tarp too fast, the only thing stopping you at the end of the grass was the gutter and then tarred road.
Thursday, 8 October 2009
Save a Polar Bear... Kill a bottle!
For the first time in my working days I have come across a passive-aggressive note in the office that I didn’t write. (I’m a little jealous they beat me too it.)
Wednesday, 7 October 2009
McDonalds Gets a B*tch-slap
Sometimes when I'm having a bad I just want to eat pancakes. Should you prevent me from eating such pancakes, be prepared for something along these lines:
Dear Mr. McDonalds,
This morning I visited your store on London Wall. I ordered Pancakes with Syrup. I’m used waiting a little while for pancakes as I know these are prepared fresh. For some reason this morning, I had to wait over 10mins for my order.
When my order finally arrived, the pancakes where rock hard and stone cold. I checked inside my brownbag to find I had been given no butter and no syrup. Just pancakes with a knife and folk. When I asked for some butter and syrup, the cashier handed me butter and told me they had run out of Syrup! I was not informed of this before I paid and was made to wait 10minutes. I find it bemusing that I can be sold Pancakes with Syrup and yet somehow end up with only pancakes. The cashier then said she would get someone to go check if they had any in stock. How you can have breakfast on but have no syrup close to hand is beyond me.
If the Pancakes weren't already cold enough, they were uneatable by the time someone fetched the syrup from 'down stairs'.
The service level was appalling, the wait time was extremely unsatisfactory and the level of food I was given was nothing short of disgusting. I have not only wasted my time but also over £2 on food that I had to throw away.
I look forward to your timely response.
(5 days later, I get this responce)
Dear Miss Lawrence
Thank you for contacting us about your visit to the London Wall restaurant.
I was very sorry to learn of the series of events that you experienced on this occasion and from your comments I can fully understand your disappointment and dissatisfaction felt at the time. Please accept my sincere apologies.
As a company we aim to provide 100% customer satisfaction and high standards of quality, service and cleanliness at all times. I regret this has not been your experience.
Your comments are taken seriously by us and have been passed to the management team at London Wall. The details of your complaint will be used as part of their assessment of the restaurant's performance and procedures. These ongoing reviews help to identify any areas
needing improvement within the restaurant.
You are clearly a regular and loyal customer and we thank you for your custom.
To make amends for your spoilt visit I have sent a voucher to put towards a future meal with our compliments. I trust this is well received. (£5!!)
Again, thank you for taking the time and trouble to contact us.
Regards
Dear Mr. McDonalds,
This morning I visited your store on London Wall. I ordered Pancakes with Syrup. I’m used waiting a little while for pancakes as I know these are prepared fresh. For some reason this morning, I had to wait over 10mins for my order.
When my order finally arrived, the pancakes where rock hard and stone cold. I checked inside my brownbag to find I had been given no butter and no syrup. Just pancakes with a knife and folk. When I asked for some butter and syrup, the cashier handed me butter and told me they had run out of Syrup! I was not informed of this before I paid and was made to wait 10minutes. I find it bemusing that I can be sold Pancakes with Syrup and yet somehow end up with only pancakes. The cashier then said she would get someone to go check if they had any in stock. How you can have breakfast on but have no syrup close to hand is beyond me.
If the Pancakes weren't already cold enough, they were uneatable by the time someone fetched the syrup from 'down stairs'.
The service level was appalling, the wait time was extremely unsatisfactory and the level of food I was given was nothing short of disgusting. I have not only wasted my time but also over £2 on food that I had to throw away.
I look forward to your timely response.
(5 days later, I get this responce)
Dear Miss Lawrence
Thank you for contacting us about your visit to the London Wall restaurant.
I was very sorry to learn of the series of events that you experienced on this occasion and from your comments I can fully understand your disappointment and dissatisfaction felt at the time. Please accept my sincere apologies.
As a company we aim to provide 100% customer satisfaction and high standards of quality, service and cleanliness at all times. I regret this has not been your experience.
Your comments are taken seriously by us and have been passed to the management team at London Wall. The details of your complaint will be used as part of their assessment of the restaurant's performance and procedures. These ongoing reviews help to identify any areas
needing improvement within the restaurant.
You are clearly a regular and loyal customer and we thank you for your custom.
To make amends for your spoilt visit I have sent a voucher to put towards a future meal with our compliments. I trust this is well received. (£5!!)
Again, thank you for taking the time and trouble to contact us.
Regards
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