Monthly Archive for November, 2008

Grumpy Young Lady’s School of Housewifery

Published on November 28, 2008 in Beloved, Fur Baby, Lazy Bitch and Married Life. 2 Comments

‘Sweetie, can you do me favour?’ asks Beloved over the phone.

‘What is it first?’ I ask in turn, somewhat crankily.

‘Can you iron 3 of my shirts for the bike show this weekend, the yellow ones?’

‘All right’ I huff, keeping firmly in mind the surprise mini-holiday Beloved is taking me on next week.

The shirts are pretty hard to iron so I sprayed them with a bit of water and stuck them in the dryer for a quick spin. When they came out they didn’t even need ironing! But since I had already got the iron, ironing board and coat-hangers out I couldn’t let them go to waste. So I put the shirts on the hangers, and left them hanging off the end of the ironing board.

‘Are they okay?’ I asked Beloved nonchalantly, as he packed them away.

‘Yup, they are great thanks’ he says with a kiss on the cheek.

Who is a good little housewife then? However, karma was swift in telling this lazy bitch not to get to cocky. After Beloved had left for the bike show I discovered our fur baby had a shit-covered poop hole. Do you know how hard it is to clean a dog’s bum by yourself, when he is big, hairy and unwilling?

When Scottie Dogs Attack

Published on November 26, 2008 in Fur Baby. 6 Comments

Cutest thing I have seen in a while. Beloved will have to watch out. Seems big, boofy ol’ airedales can handle lil dogs in a gentle(ish) manner. Bring on the daschoodle.

The End and Beginning of a Love Story in 5 Paragraphs

Published on November 25, 2008 in Beloved and Married Life. 1 Comment

Sometimes she can’t believe they are married. There was once upon a time where she didn’t think she would shower in that bathroom, awake to the same ceiling, hold his hand, ever again.

She would awake in a small town, 200 kilometres away to a crisp morning, full of magpies and a burgeoning sun. The freshness, the blue skies, weighed heavily upon her because she wasn’t with him. How odd it was to feel so alive and yet so dead.

Sadness was a part of her every day. But also hope because she knew this process well. She would be alone, growing in her solitude, learning and shedding. She would meet someone new even though she wouldn’t quite be over the last. But the last would fade until the new one grew over scars left. She revelled in her rawness, her wounds. How often did one get to feel such a range, run such a gauntlet?

Shunning contact with him, she went a whole summer. No secret slaking of an addiction, shameful , painful – seeing that ceiling again. She refused his confusion, cake-having , half-truths and romantic notions, though they both pined.

Saluting her 26^th year and months of non-contact she caved. And knew it was right. She sent the text, casual and cool. He received it. Initiated face to face contact, knowing that it would lead to where they are today, showering in that bathroom, awaking to the same ceiling, holding hands, forever again.

Carbs Are Not My Friend

Published on November 23, 2008 in Fighting the Fat, Lazy Bitch and Teaching. 2 Comments

It is one week till the exes wedding and have I lost 5 kilos? Nope. I wrote this post ages ago, which I suppose highlights that I just can’t get on top of this shit.

Sigh. I look like I am preggo and I have no poo baby to blame this time. Although I’ve got lots of other excuses, the best being the new-job-very-busy-no-time-to-prepare-overly-healthy-meals-and-in-dire-need-of-comfort-food-namely-popcorn-and-chocolate-croissants one.

To be honest with you, my official foray with the CSIRO Health and Well-Being Plan ended a while ago. Since then I have been bumbling along, going okay with the exercise, moderately healthy meals but, well, it’s the snacks and Friday night take-away that is doing me in.

So I have resolved to be back on CSIRO by Monday. Properly. Keenly. Virtuously. I set myself the question: ‘Can I go one week without falling off the wagon?’ But then I thought this may be the wrong approach because there are two options – yes or no, and I don’t need options. Perhaps I need to go about it a different way, like ‘I will go a week without stuffing my face full of unnecessary foods’ (but then I have to firmly define what foods are necessary. Chocolate fuels the brain does it not?)

I need to command myself rather than give a question. But I’m not good at commands. Giving – yes. Receiving – no. Just ask Beloved. And it’s hard to boss yourself around when you’ve had your first run in with a generally nice but overly gregarious year 9 emo girl. That happens and the foodstuffs start talking:

“Come on Bee, my buttery goodness will make you feel a whooooooole lot better about the fact that your head of department had to rescue you from a potential stand-off situation in your third week in the job, which went something like:

Miss Bee: Mr P is waiting for you next door, pack up your stuff, you can work with the year 12s.

Emo Chick: No. I’m no going

Miss Bee: I have given you three warnings, please go.

Emo Chick: No. You know I can’t not talk. I’m not going.

Miss Bee: I will ask you one more time…..

Friend of Emo Chick: Nah, Miss, I’ll go, it was me talking (which is utter bullshit)

Miss Bee: That is very noble but this is now about Emo Chick (I didn’t really call her that – just protecting the names of the innocent) disobeying a direct instruction.

Emo Chick: No, I’m not going. (By now her voice is shrill and loud with that distinct teenage whiney tone….we’ve all used it)

Miss Bee: (Turning a delightful shade of red, a sure sign of heightened emotion) I am really upset now Emo Chick (full teacher voice on at this point) You have had three chances and each……..

Mr P: (enters mid rant) Emo Chick, grab your stuff, come with me.

And up she jumps. It was humiliating for you. And that’s why you need to put me in the microwave at 75% power for 2 minutes and 20 seconds for maximum kernel cooking and no burning….now off you pop. Hah hah – pun intended…..ahem.”

In the face all of all this turmoil how do I say no to the tenuous grip on my sanity?

So as you can see I am pretty piss-weak in the discipline department (My own and student, obviously!!) I once thought I was disciplined but years later I realised that it wasn’t discipline – it was fear mixed with a healthy dose of natural ability. It was at uni that I realised that I had never been academically or physically disciplined. And it is woefully apparent now that my 17 year old metabolism has been lost to the ravages of time. Geez, imagine what would have become of me if I didn’t have an unholy fear of failure – I’d never have gone to uni and got this great career and ………hmmm, scratch that argument.

To cut a convoluted story short, no matter how piss-weak I claim to be, it’s game on for a fitter, healthier Bee on Monday.

Another Quick One

Published on November 19, 2008 in Can't be bothered categorising, Nostalgia and Pop Culture. 2 Comments

You don’t mind the short ones do you? I know they are the ones my mate Ducky prefers!

The first blog I ever came across was this one. I only happened upon it because I was attemping an extremely amateur googlewhack at the time. I put in keyboard and raclette and then spent the next hour or so at work toodling through the archives.

I am not so into this one anymore. She got a book deal and got married so her blog is not her main writing priority. But I am glad I was bored at work one day cause it has opened up a whole new world to me. Although that world seems to be predominantly American

Just a Quick One

Published on November 19, 2008 in Cranky/Dopey Bitch and Fighting the Fat. 4 Comments

All of us at Booty Camp are grown ups. We are all there to pursue our own fitness goals, working at our own levels. However there is one lady who cheats. She won’t run the full lap if she is gonna come last. She will pretend she has done the required amount of push-ups so she finishes when everyone else does. I just don’t get it and it shits me to tears. What is the freaking point? It is not a competition. It isn’t doing her any favours to fudge her own numbers. She isn’t so unfit that she is noticeably behind – hell, she beats me in running all the time.

But the fact that this ‘cheating’ riles me no end says more about me unfortunately. If it isn’t a competition in my own lil head why do I give a shit if she cheats herself? Why do I think ‘here we go’ when she opts out of something cos her back/hip/ankle ‘hurts’? I dunno – I guess its cos I am the slowest at boot camp. I know I am gonna come last – i resign myself, yet this fudging it/whiny cow rubs it in by not doing the ‘right’ thing. (I am also a stickler for following rules).

God. It is hard work being this anal retentive!

For All You Dog Lovers Out There (Non Dog People May Vomit)

Published on November 17, 2008 in Beloved and Fur Baby. 4 Comments

We have our little Theo and boy, do we adore the little bugger. He looks exactly like Rufus but by and by he is definitely his own doggy.

He loves picking things up in his mouth. I will take him for his walkies and his has to pick up most foreign objects that come across his path up in his mouth for a little carry. This was quite funny when he was about 4 months old - he would come across a large pizza box or a 2 metre long stick which he would drag around for a good 25 metres, ears flapping jauntily as if to say ‘Look what I got! Pretty cool huh?’

He is quite smart, but only on his own terms – he is not particularly eager to please. If you whistle, most dogs will look up straight away – they can’t help it. Theo sorta cocks an ear which quite obviously says ‘Once I have finished this I may get back to you’. I think he is part cat.

He will lie down to drink, licks walls, eats flies, occasionally chases his tail, sniffs lots of things, makes a weird snoofling noise in his nose/throat if he can smell something particularly good and my goodness what a groaner! When he is lying down he will make the loudest, longest groaning noises, like: ‘Oh. My. God. It is SUCH hard work being a dog – the walking and the sniffing and the eating and the being patted and the licking of genitals. I really can’t live life at this pace, someone PLEASE put me out of my misery!’ And he will do said drama-dog groan at least 5 times per nap.

He has escaped only twice. The first time was in the 3^rdweek we had him, through an impossibly small gap in the front fence. I ran out into the busy street in my sexy uggies and tracksuit pants calling him frantically. He was all ‘What? I was just checking out next door’. My stomach hurt for half an hour after that one. The next time, although much more dangerous, would have been funnier to witness. Said dog is quite a bit bigger and makes a run for it after Beloved got home, still in motorbike gear. Said Beloved would have made quite a vision hobbling down the street in his motorbike helmet after a happy-go-lucky Airedale running down the road, tongue hanging out the side of his mouth, going ‘Hello big green bus what excellent brakes you have! Hello Mr Rottweiler, how lovely to meet you….uh oh…..Hello daddy….I’m not in trouble am I?’

Like Rufus, Theo thinks he is human and wants to eat at the dinner table, sit on the lounge and sleep on the bed. (He cannot bring himself to jump into the car but if the bedroom door is left open, he is on our quite high bed, super quick smart with a pair of knickers or two to nibble on) One night we put him out before we went to bed and the next thing, this little furry teddy-bear face appeared at the kitchen window, his eye-brows saying ‘Let me in….please’ only to be distracted by a fluttering moth, which after a moment of chasing he caught and promptly spat out.

Theo seems to love his dad a bit more, even though it is mum who feeds and walks him. He isn’t particularly overly-protective of either of us but if we hug, guaranteed within 15 seconds of hug-alert going up there will be a doggy sitting between our feet, joining in. He will follow us both around the house, waiting patiently at whatever door we are behind.

Theo is also adored by his grandparents and aunty. He often goes to my dad’s house for what I call ‘Grandad Discipline’ – he is always so well behaved on walks for a good week after he has been on a walk with grandad.

Grandad loves Theo for all the obvious reasons but he also loves that he has reigned chaos over my neat and ordered life. Perfect garden? Someone digs holes and has eaten all the sprinklers. Clean floor? Someone has tracked muddy footprints the length of the house. Nap after work? No, doggy needs walkies.

But for all the cries of “Theo!/naughty/get down/don’t chew that/out/bloody sit/stop following me and can’t I hug your dad in peace?” we wouldn’t trade our stinkyfishface theopottamus babycakes sir fuzzybutt for the world. I can only hope that our future non-fur children will be as good-natured and loved.

Line Rage, Bladder Gerbils and Buddy

Published on November 14, 2008 in Can't be bothered categorising and Cranky/Dopey Bitch. 2 Comments

Bladder Gerbils

No matter if I wait till the last moment to pee before I leave the house, I will still need to wee when I get to the gym. As Boot Camp is run in a pseudo-military style, those who are late are ‘punished’. It doesn’t matter that I am first in line to get in the doors at 5:55am. As soon as I have stowed my bag, tinkled and filled my water bottle, even else is already out the front, knees-up jogging. I was regaling Beloved with my widdling woes after a long day, just having dinner with my family for my ma’s birthday, and a couple of alcoholic beverages.

‘It is not my fault,’ I whined ‘if I have bladder gerbils!’

Meaning I have the bladder of a gerbil – that is, tiny.

PS: Today I was determined, DETERMINED not to wee and be first out there. I would have been too, if the freaking lockers weren’t playing silly buggers and I have to stow my handbag at the front desk. Grrrr.

Line Rage

I had hip-hop last night. It is a beginner’s class, which I have been in for nearly 3 years now. It is not that I am crap at it, but it is just a really fun class and the teacher is awesome. She gives us quite complicated routines but her style of teaching makes sure everyone can do it. I am coordinated, with rhythm and a good memory but I am so inflexible there is nowhere else I can really go with dancing. Plus I don’t look ‘cool’. Like, I can do all the moves, I am not tripping over anybody but I just don’t have the attitude. Watching me dance is watching white girls with moderate dancing ability attempt hip-hop. Yo.

Anyhoo. Point is, in this class I get irrational line-range. The teacher says that we are all old enough for her not to have to put us into lines. I would bloody disagree. Even when she DOES put us into line these stupid arses either can’t understand the concept of ‘front line to the back’, so they are stepping into the line behind them instead of front. There are the limp bitches who don’t dance with enough ‘oomph’ so that in a move where everyone theoretically moves forward they are still in their spot, and I am on top of them. And we always end up with half lines. It drives me fucking insane! I have to take a chill pill cos fairly shortly I may be kicked out of the class for getting in some fat, bored housewives/too-cool-for school-16- year- old- so-why- the- hell- are- you -even- here’s? grill, in the vein of ‘Biatch if you don’t get out of my way so help me god I am going to yank your baggy crotched track-suit pants so far up your arse you will be able to floss with them from the inside.’

Buddy

My young, red-headed chiropractor calls me ‘buddy’. Do I drink beer with you? Have I got an internal set of testicles that only you have seen on my x-rays? Am I your waggy-tailed childhood companion who chases balls and also licks them? No? THEN DON’T CALL ME BUDDY!

Counter-Productive

Published on November 12, 2008 in Cranky/Dopey Bitch, Fighting the Fat and Lazy Bitch. 1 Comment

It is 9:23am. I got up at 4:50am so I could run around like an idiot for an hour and get yelled at because I couldn’t hold an assisted squat for a minute. I then had a shower at the gym, just in case I got called in to work. But by 7:20am I forgo the make-up cause it doesn’t look like I will be earning any cash today. I did the grocery shopping which was made up of an inordinate amount of dairy produce. Considering I believe I may be either lactose or gluten intolerant, this is very bad news for Beloved.

I am now at home, waiting for the Mersyndol to kick in so I can have a nap and perhaps my strained neck and sore lats will relax for a bit. I am SUPPOSED to be weeding and finding somewhere wicked cool to have my sister’s hens night.

And I just ate a Creme Caramel.

PS: When I am feeling chirpier I will tell you about bladder gerbils.

Bee and Her Double Standards

Published on November 10, 2008 in Beloved, Cranky/Dopey Bitch, Married Life and Queen Me. 2 Comments

‘Sweetie, I’m meeting XY for lunch’ I say….and then remember it might be polite to check with my Beloved if this is okay. ‘Is that cool?’

‘Yup, no problem. Have fun.’

‘So it’s totally fine?’

‘Yup.’

‘Doesn’t bother you?’

‘Nope’

‘Even though he used to be madly in love with me and wanted me to bear his children but I didn’t like him in that way?’

‘He’s smart enough not to try anything. I’d put him in a hole otherwise.’

‘Oh, okay.’

Let’s try this the other way around.

‘I bumped into XX today at lunch’ says my Beloved.

‘Oh, did you?’ I say nonchalantly, which also means: Who is she, how do you know her, does she have a boyfriend, does she have designs on you, why haven’t I heard of this female acquaintance before, is she hot, she better not be hot, she had damn better be uglier and stupider than me.

‘Yeah, she wants to catch up for coffee sometime.’

‘Is that riiiiiiight?’

‘Yup – you don’t mind do you?’

Ummm, is that a trick question?