It may get hairy…

Archive for September, 2011

Some kick-ass reading

This post may be of relevance to no one but myself, but I must say, today I am awesome. I am also buggered, for the same reason.

I read an entire novel last night, after returning from work…late.

I like to classify myself as a bit of an English boff. I don’t compare to some of the great minds I studied English with in our Honours’ year, but I do like the classics and love to get my nose stuck into something obscure and intellectual. I read Rushdie for fun, Fowles for insight (please read The Magus. It is one of those novels that may actually change your life…and simultaneously make you doubt the loyalty of your toenails) and I love a bit of Shakespeare when the moment’s right, but I also revel in my cheesy crime and horror novels.

I loved reading as a child, but my passion came when, as a ten-year old, I picked up my first Stephen King: The Tommyknockers (unbeknownst to my mother). A mediocre novel at best, and by far not his best work, but it served to tell a little, rather odd, girl that she was not all that different from others. I was awed by the fact that the characters’ minds seemed to work similarly to mine (that they would suddenly ponder the state of their laundry, whilst aliens attacked, incessantly probing their minds). This was, of course, before they thought of nothing but nursery rhymes and building walls (King is outstanding. He is also strange. And I fully believe he stole the walls thing from Churchill).

Last night, after returning from work at 7.30, I wanted nothing more than to enjoy a glass of  Merlot, whilst reading a chapter or 8 of a new Harlan Coben before I went to bed. His writing style is particularly cheesy, which says nothing of mine, as I felt as I were reading my own work for the first few pages. At around 9pm, I realised that I may have gotten myself into a problem. I couldn’t very well put down a book, when it was about to reveal the ‘who dunnit’ (excuse the vernacular)? At 9.30, a new problem revealed itself – what if there were no ‘who dunnit, ‘ as nobody had, actually, done it?

It wasn’t until midnight that I finally turned the last page, thoroughly pleased with the ending and hit the pillow.

Now, this would not be a problem for a large majority of people, as midnight is not a particularly awful time to hit the sack. For an insomniac, however, it’s a bad, bad idea.

I fell asleep at 2am, filled with thoughts of run away pedophiles and blog writing.

Thus, I am buggered. But I am awesome. I read an entire novel in only a few short hours 😉

*A slight hindsight note: I doubt that I seriously pondered the state of laundry as a ten-year old, but you get the drift. Additionally, this is the second time I have written this blog, as dear HTML decided to hate me and, instead of saving a draft, it published a version I had written an hour previously. A start to a particularly crappy day, that has gotten progressively worse. This second post is much crappier. Apologies. On a last note: anyone who has time, please see if  you have any problems subscribing to my business blog, as I’ve heard there are issues with some and not with others. Don’t worry, you’ll get to unsubscribe if you want. It’s not a spam scam, I’m desperately trying to fix a blog prob – http://sayssez.com/business-blog/ – click the panda.


Infernal can go to hell

I have learnt the error of my ways – never again shall I say “well, it couldn’t get worse.”

Infernal has brought in motorcycle wielding residents.

Not just any bikers, I may add. I’ve never had a problem with the biker community, I find them fun, loud, fellow ale-downers and, on occasion, rather hot.

But these bikers…these are the type that believe the volume of their revving is directly proportionate to size of certain appendages.

I am not happy.

They’re not even hot.

And one’s a Vespa – need I say more?

Update: Dear Mr From a Lesbian – I Hate You.

Quick update: I called Mr From a Lesbian again.

He answered, as he was obviously caught off-guard (I woke him up).

I waited, asked neutral greeting questions, until I could prove his signal was fine. When he realised who it was, he started lying.

Blatantly umming and ahhing – saying my cat is missing (for ages, he says), when I ask him for details on how long, I get a week. Then I ask him how his Gran’s dealt with it – he stumbles. She’s obviously not with his gran – he’d forgotten he’d told me that.

I kind of lost my temper with him. He was lying. I don’t think he has her anymore. If I were to bet on anything, I’d say he gave her away or abandoned her when he moved to Durbs. I told him to tell me when I call to get his Gran’s number. He said tonight.

He won’t answer, but hey, I’ll still call. Again and again and again. I probably shouldn’t have lost my temper, but I can’t help it. And I truly believe now that he doesn’t have her 😦

PS. If you subscribe to my blog, never fear, these melodramatic updates won’t continue. I promise to perk up and vent about normal stuff, like Infernal. In fact, I have one such vent ready. Oh and the elephant (not mammoth) is the subscribe button. I’ll beg for you to subscribe at a later date, when I haven’t a heavy heart and anger churning in my soul.

Dear From a Lesbian, I want my cat back.

I’ve recently returned from the UK and I can easily say that one of the hardest things I’ve had to do  is leave my cats behind.

I left nigh on 2 years ago, my old (not-so-wise) 16 year old and a young (absolutely bonkers) 2 year old with a lovely woman and her wayward fiancé , who agreed to foster them for this time, whilst I paid them. I managed, almost successfully to turn off my emotional switch and only occasionally find myself huddled in a corner, bawling guilt-stricken tears and banging my head against a sadly not padded wall. A moment like this struck, as a week before I left, the woman announced that her fiancé was indeed wayward and had run off… with my cats.

Eventually I tracked down the poofy haired, joint toking thief and we agreed to stick to the initial plan. Except…he didn’t. He didn’t answer my calls, he sent one email (a week after I landed) with a lovely picture of my beauties, but that was it. I was stuck in Ireland at one time, stalking him online and calling all but his mother (only for lack of finding her details) to find out what was happening with my surrogate-children. The man was beyond useless. I eventually heard from him…on Facebook…by way of a very sensitive message telling me my 16 year old had died: “Sorry, girl, she’s dead.” That’s it. It wasn’t much of a surprise, considering she’d made it to 16, but one expects a modicum of decency. I let this slide by, as it turns out she’d died on his bed, whilst he was sleeping – implying he was taking care of them in some way.

Skip to my return [insert months upon months of incessant missed calls and no emails – a total lack of correspondence] – I call up my little friend, who answers…when I call from a number that wasn’t mine. I explain that soon I’ll have a place where I can accommodate a cat, but not for a month and is he OK with me taking her back, as I realise 2 years is a long time and he may be attached. He agreed to everything.

Now here is where I must take blame. I didn’t call. In fact, I avoided him. I couldn’t find a place that would allow cats and my work sucked rather large donkey balls, so I didn’t want to commit to somewhere, when I wasn’t sure where I’d be working, so I stayed on at the wonderful home I had (but which didn’t allow cats). I tried to call him a few times, to explain, but I got no answer. I didn’t push it, as I found myself nudging towards the seriously un-padded walls with each call. My guilt was eating me up, but my avoidance was doing a good job at saving my skin. Skip again to me moving to the coast, 3 months after my return (yes! I know, my bad, but I had called him, incessantly).

Fluffy, aka Shadow.

Many, many calls from my number failed, but I finally got him, by calling from my beloved mother’s phone. He agreed that I could pick up Shadow, who was incidentally not with him, but his Grandmother, in Harrismith (roughly 3 hours away). I was to pick her up at the end of August. Two weeks before this, I start calling. No answer. I try my Mother’s phone, no answer and eventually stretch to my Dad’s phone – Answer!! Although, coincidentally, the poor sod couldn’t hear me once he got past my name… I have now sent him Facebook messages, sms’s and repeated texts. My patience has worn thin.

This is why I ask you today to forward this to as many of your friends as you can (no, not to punt my blog, it’s pretty pathetic and my ‘make money’ button will probably only result in slightly disgusting overtures), in order to catch this slimy cretin and GET MY CAT BACK!

For legal reasons I can’t name him (and if I can’t describe him either, don’t tell me, I don’t want to know), so, this is how it goes:

  • He was Benoni based – out in the bundus, with a lovely fiancé called Danè, until he abandoned her and run off with some floozy – like he ran off with my cat.
  • He’s now based in Durban (North, I believe)
  • He’s young(ish), around 24/25 now, I’d say.
  • He’s from a small town, I think Klerksdorp, but not sure.
  • Here’s the kicker – his surname is a literal Afrikaans translation of “From Lesbian” – please stretch the last word to all forms of creativity, I’m not above defamation, if it helps me find my cat (although, many of my friends are lesbian, so defamation is definitely NOT intended).
  • His first name may rhyme with ‘Dark’ and be of a French origin…it may also be the first name of a Springbok rugby player whose surname is Fourie, although spelt differently.
  • He had very poofy, curly hair, with striking blue eyes, until he recently shaved it all off, mercenary style and his eyes now resemble something Attila the Hun would fear.
  • He sounds incredibly, utterly stupid, but is obviously smart enough not to answer a phone.
  • Oooh, and I believe he’s working in some form of work shop.

Any help in spreading the word would be greatly appreciated. It probably won’t work, but I’m pissed. I’ve had enough and I will try anything at this point.

Sunday Morning Sweeping

My mind has the uncanny ability to conjure up reasons that make little logic, but invariably lead to me doing what it was I wanted to do in the first place, sans the guilt. It tends to focus these efforts on the aforementioned failure at quitting and my morning lie-ins. Some people rise from slumber, fresh-faced, with their hair slicked back, stretching as if they’d swallowed a mattress commercial. I am not one of those people.

If left to my own devices, I sleep at 3am and wake at noon, but, surprisingly, people find business calls past midnight a tad annoying, and so I’m forced to rise before 8. I’ve recently moved to the coast, where rising post-6am is some unspoken crime that lobs you towards the slackers and hippies that roam our shores. As a proud slacker and hippy, I have no qualms freely admitting a 7am wake up (along with the aid of 6 alarms) and so the eerily chipper morning workforce hasn’t yet impeded my routine.

That was until the sweeping…

My alarm starts a full two hours before I plan to rise. Simultaneously, the reasons I should stay in bed longer than planned start to surface.  Now, these reasons are far less logical than the quitting quitting reasons – these require a slumber-ridden, sleepy state that only needs a nod to agree. Stupid reasons, such as, I won’t shower – five more minutes’ sleep. Five minutes later: I won’t have breakfast, I’m not hungry anyway. I can add on another five minutes…. I won’t have coffee and so and so forth, until the reasons become nonsensical, such as, I may miss my webinar, but it would be so unprofessional to yawn mid-speech. I must sleep more.

So, you can see why my subconscious mind would find complaint in being jarred awake by various, unintelligible noises.

It started with the gossip sessions. The infernal landlord leisurely rolls up at 8:45am, whilst his workforce starts at six, resulting in a gossip session under my house. Infernal’s claim to fame is that he owned land at the tender age of 19; to me, this merely highlights the fact that the man doesn’t drink, smoke or swear (the latter not affecting his income, but points to an unfortunate personality type that seems to know better than us vice-ridden felons).

To put this in context: I live in a log cabin by the sea, with 180 degree breaker view… and it’s Hell. Pure Hell. Infernal, himself, obviously missed the dictionary entry of ‘sound-proofing’ and simply plopped a cardboard box on stilts, resulting in the morning’s gossip session under the stilts sounding as if it occurs in my living room. The steel-selling neighbour’s truck routinely reverses through my bedroom and my bathroom routine keeps time for the complex-dwellers.

Each noise raises me further and further from slumber, rendering my excuses moot and the stress of the day ahead more imminent. White, hot rage starts to sink in – with over an hour left to sleep, the cretins invade my privacy. I feel angry. I feel violated. I feel…homicidal. And then the sweeping starts. Why Infernal forces them to sweep the driveway daily is beyond me, as, almost as if by my bedside, the scratching, scouring sound drills through my pillow-covered ears and awakens a new level of fury. The duvet begins to mimic the knot in my chest, as I writhe stretches the mattress-commercials can only dream of. Stretches fail to release the tension and I’m forced to dwell in a murderous rage, fantasizing various ways to bestow justice.

If Infernal had even the slightest inference into the various fantastical circumstances he and the broom share, he would truly treat each day as it if were his last.  The broom has been shoved so far up figurative holes that Infernal has cried sawdust; he has been swatted with the broom, as if a red-headed stepchild (I have no evil stepmother/father, so I do not fall into this category), he has had the broom broken over his cretin-like head and he’s been locked in dark cellars, forced to listen to the nails-on-chalkboard screech of the broom for the rest of eternity.

All this lies dormant in me, as I pass him each morning – smile plastered on my face as if make-up upon a ghostly doll. Perhaps I should send him my medical bills for the ulcer he’s so kindly contributed to.

Belch smoke from the seven orifices of the head*

I need a vice. Having been dosed up with double antibiotics, I can’t drink for a week. This wouldn’t usually prove insurmountable, as smoking tends to keep me going, however I’m in the midst of the infamous quitting. It seems as though my body relies on some infernal vice to forcefully relax. After a hard day at work, I can’t grab a glass of Merlot and watch the waves break, nor can I inhale burning ash and watch the smoke pollute the sky. I have tried a stream of curses at my radio and random highway drivers (my other vice), but this holds no release. I am now stuck.

I’m not one of those smokers who suffers from physical addiction – I don’t get raging headaches that leave me blinded or bed-ridden, I don’t subconsciously fake emphysema and bark coughs reminiscent of backfiring Harleys, nor do I fly off the handle at less frequent intervals than usual. I’m one of the ‘lucky’ ones who can go hours, weeks, even months without smoking and not miss it – as long as the consequences of me smoking outweigh the intermittent bliss it brings. Should it not, however, my mind turns against me like a ring-side boxing coach, urging me on to grab the next coffin nail. It starts as I wearily reverse out the gates at work: I can’t drink. What will I do when I get home? I’ll smoke…I can’t smoke!! How will I relax? What am I supposed to do, sit on the porch and stare at a black wall of nothing? Do I do yoga (no…my big toe is still cramping, better not to). My mind then starts to realise – I don’t need to smoke, I want to. Surely this is reason enough to smoke? If I am strong enough to go a day without smoking, I must be able to reward myself with a nicotine refill?

The realisation that I’m on my way to smoking sparks a panic in me – I’m giving in! – thrusting thoughts of critical non-smokers into my head: Smoking looks dis-gust-ing! A smoker’s breath always smells! There’s nothing worse than the stench of stale smoke….on and on it goes until my head screams “Screw ‘em! Those non-smokers don’t have the right to tell me what to do! I am independent. I am a woman. I am strong!”

And so I smoke.

Quote:

“As an example to others, and not that I care for moderation myself, it has always been my rule never to smoke when asleep, and never to refrain from smoking when awake.” Mark Twain

*Apparently a phrase of Chinese origin, meaning to be furious. I just like belching.

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