It may get hairy…

Archive for October, 2011

“This is not America”*

In other words, at the risk of offending, this is not a cat blog.

I recently saw a graph that showed that no matter how smart, funny or wicked you may be, a cat eating a hamburger beats you.

The epidemic of cat pictures has become more than viral, and alongside, man seems to be losing his grip on grammar.

That aside, I recently posted two pieces on my soon-to-arrive kittens. As per usual, I posted these on StumbleUpon, but in my haste, wasn’t diligent in my ‘tagging’ and tagged them merely under ‘blog,’ ‘mammoth,’ ‘babies’ and ‘cats.’

I retain hope that the result was due to the ‘babies’ tag, as it certainly wasn’t due to the ‘blog’ or ‘mammoth’ tags, but I’m enough of a realist to know I’m bullshitting myself. It was the ‘cats’ tag.

If you haven’t already guessed, my usual StumbleUpon referral amount is roughly 12 hits, at its peak it hit 37 – my ‘cats’ tag result? 79.

This upsets me. I love cats, don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t be bringing in my little rockstars if not, but our obsession with cats and the ridiculous statements that go along with them has gone too far.

So, for those that need to know (perhaps my StumbleUpon referrals): This is not a blog about cats and if I disappoint, sorry. It is a blog that can’t make up its mind whether it’s private or not. Some of my friends use their blogs as a personal and private place to vent their innermost feelings, with total anonymity. Some prefer to write always for an audience. I’m stuck in the middle trying to decide what to do.

To be honest, most of my posts are merely there due to the fact that I cannot think about anything but that subject until I write it down. So for now, it’ll just have to do.

*Insult not intended. When I went to write ‘this is not a cat blog’,’ “This is not America” started playing in my head.

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Quick kitten update

They’re mine!!! All mine [please insert demonic laugh here].

Right, jokes aside, I called the lady. Everyone else wants to separate the cats and/or have homicidal dogs, so they’re all out, except for me. I’m visiting them on Friday for the first time. I move in to the new place on Monday and will then start scoping it out, to see when I can sneak two little kittens in, without anyone noticing.

Technically, I’m not allowed to move them in until the 26th – Dogs. However, the dogs move out then, so they are allowing me cats after that date. My logic is that kittens need to stay inside for the first few weeks anyhow. I do hope I don’t get into trouble or disappoint the lovely landlords (who live in Joburg) if anyone finds out.

Logically, I think two weeks is appropriate, but I’d prefer to have them earlier. Thoughts?

Can’t think, can’t think, can’t think

So today poses interesting quandaries.

New home front view (beach view to the left, more sea view to the right...the only place you can't see sea, is if you turn around to look at the house). No Infernal.

I spent yesterday in the midst of a deep depression, but I believe that sometimes you must hit the bottom in order to rise up, regardless of how cliché that may sound.

This morning I wake up and start to organise. My friend has forgiven me. I’m not sure how, but she has forgiven me for letting her down so horribly; Infernal has been informed that I will be moving for financial reasons, which, despite have a slightly false inference, is the truth; and my new landlords know I will be moving in Monday, providing my new neighbour also moves in. Synchronised moving and all

Beautiful view, but you have to actually leave the house to see it. Plus, Infernal is there. Need I say more?

that – long story, I shan’t bore you.

So, with all that on my plate, I set about trying to make more money. It is needed, and rather desperately, as I’ve explained previously. After having sent an exhorbitant amount of emails, I felt myself whistfully wondering after kittens.

I’ve been keeping track of shelters and adverts for awhile now. Part on the look out for Shadow and partly because those little faces warm my heart. There has been no hiding the fact that, regardless of my getting Fluffy back, I will need company and will want a cat (or plural) in my house. I have no intention of replacing Fluffy. No one could. She is beautiful. She is mine and she will always be. I’ve posted my own ‘missing’ adverts and will always hope someone finds her, but I think I must put the hatred and sorrow behind me now. It hurts too much and nothing I do is getting me any closer to finding her. I will always hope though and nearby shelters have been informed of her.

So, off I go trolling the sites for kittens or cats and I came across these two. Their foster mum works in a vet and, thus, they’ve been checked and offer cheap sterilisation at a later date, but that’s not why I loved them. Look at their faces!!

Kittens! Need I say more? Who could part these two? Apparently a few people want to.

They are beautiful. They’re desperate to stay together, well their foster mum thinks they’re very ‘tight’ and shouldn’t be separated – I agree. I can offer them a home together and so much love, I just may smother them, but not for two weeks. I contacted the lady, in my proactive state. Told her about my situation and how I must wait two weeks. Apparently, I’m the best prospect so far, as everyone wanted to separate them. She said she hasn’t a problem waiting two weeks. I don’t want the kittens to be at a loss, so I told her that if a better prospect comes along, I understand, but please just inform me. Now I sit here wondering, after ending the call only moments ago, what if? What if someone takes them? What if she decides to keep them? Should I call back? Should I go and visit so she can see I’m serious? What if…

So, now I can’t think. Stuck in whirl of ‘what ifs’ disguised as kittens.

Monday morning moan

I need a quick vent before I go about making money and making my life worth something.

We all get affected by what others say and, perhaps my biggest flaw, I am often floored by something as trivial as a condescending comment. I take what others say way too personally and it quite often ruins my day and even my week (depending on the severity of the comment). I try my hardest not to act this way, but often can’t see past my own interpretation of said comment.

I do try hard and put my utmost into not being a sensitive little tart, so what I’d like to ask others is: “Please make an effort not to be a prick. If you’re not severely affected by what I say or what I do, if someone’s not going to die if you don’t figuratively rip my head off, if your life will continue to move on the way it did prior to my actions or words…then TRY NOT BE A PRICK.” You may not mean the venom that you spit my way and you may not personally despise me for what I say or do – if that’s the case, realise that when you act like that, I start to despise you.

Okes, if your life doesn’t depend on it and you won’t hate me forever for what I say or do, give calm, objective criticism if asked. Don’t go off like a pmsing bull, because I assure you. I can do worse.

Free charging bull phone wallpaper by thejojo
(Side note: angry venomous statuses [hideous plural] have a similar effect. Calm, objective criticism is at least listened to. If you status includes over three exclamation marks, I will either ignore it or instantly be offended by your implied anger. This is the internet. We don’t shout. We type. Grow a pair and start to act like an adult.)

Bad, bad friend

I have to let a very good friend down and I’m not quite sure how to go about it.

I’ve made promises, or rather almost promises, to people in the past and have had to break them, as we all have. It makes me feel yucky and particularly horrible, but this one stands out above the rest.

I’ll start with my excuses first; get them out the way. I’m starting a business. There, that’s pretty much it. I have no cash. I have enough to get through the month, which is pretty f’ing fantastic if you think about it. Most starter-uppers can’t get past the first few months without capital and I have none, but my sales have soared me past them. Which means, after expenses, I literally have around R500 for food. Most wouldn’t be able to live off that, but to that I say ‘piffle!’ I’ve lived off of plenty less. However, it does mean I won’t be able to make it to Joburg for a very important day of a very important friend of mine (screw the grammar).

I haven’t promised, but I have told her I will do everything in my power to be there for her and she was beyond grateful. Now, I must tell her I can’t. I have supported her in this goal for years and even did the stupid 94.7 Christmas wish to try and get her there quicker. Now, I must break her heart on the very day that we have both longed for. In all reality, I won’t break her heart and probably won’t ruin her day, but nonetheless, she will be sad…very, very sad. And it will be my fault.

And she’s pregnant.

So tell me, how do you break a pregnant woman’s heart? Especially when that heart means so much to you?

Drunken woes and toilet bowls

Right, so this is a far from pleasant blog, as the heading tells you.

So, this weekend I popped off to Margate with my lovely mother and grandfather. We behaved ourselves for a full day, until Saturday, when I was asked to be the sacrificial Designated Dave and off I drove my elders to the pub, so they could get sloshed.

Sunday was my turn.

I’m going to skip ahead quickly – mainly because the banal details of how I ended up hugging the toilet bowl, eyes streaming and fully believing parts of my stomach were swirling around in the (…well… I won’t gross you out, but you get it), are pointless.

Lesson learnt 1: Don’t go drinking with a 19 year old.

Not only can they out do you, but they’re smart enough not to try. They remain pretty. You don’t. Although, to be honest, she was an absolute ball.

Lesson learnt 2: Do not try to convince some brauns-no-brain plonker that religious arguments are pointless.

Just shut up. They won’t stop. Ever….

Lesson learnt 3 (and most importantly): Do not drink blue shooters on an ulcer.

Why it takes two mind-numbing lessons to teach me this, I haven’t the foggiest. The last time I got plastered, was through some other blue, toxic nonsense that led to loose morals and stomach contents.

It took a week for me to recover. Not fully, as for over a month I struggled to eat anything – the consequence of pouring neat alcohol onto a gaping hole in your innards.

This time it was bubblegum tequila. I hate bubblegum. I hate tequila, so how I had so much, god only knows.

There is no hyperbole when I say I thought I lost chunks of my stomach lining. The pain was so intense that I barely believed I was alive. Long after any alcohol had left my system in the projectile sort of way, I still lay sprawled over the bowl, calling God on the Great White Telephone.

Sleep-induced delirium didn’t help me. How sleep came (and so deeply!) in my state floors me, but every time the spasms passed, I slipped back, which means that the pain took on strange and gnarly contours, becoming a real and living thing, rather than a symptom.

I eventually stopped, well, mostly and heedless of my appearance managed to pack, climb into the car and snooze myself back into normalcy.

My pain was noticed during the night – others knew of my ulcer and realised that this wasn’t any hangover, but rather a horrible situation, triggered by bloody blue shooters.

And yet, come morning, the jokes ensued. I know I should have expected them, but I wonder why, when the world knows of your affliction (ulcer, not alcoholism), does it all become moot, when triggered by booze?

So. Moral of the story – do not drink blue shooters on an almost healed ulcer.

PS. My friend recently posted a rather personal blog on the effects of over-thinking – ‘Why didn’t I do this?’ ‘Why did I say that?’ ‘Why didn’t I stick up for myself‘ etc etc…we all know the feeling. I’d tag her in this, but I believe her blog to be very personal, so won’t, but now I’m afflicted with the same bloody disease. Pre-puke, I was rather happy and very friendly. I’m a loving drunk – everyone is beautiful and I give much needed advice (not!) to the young’uns and know better than everyone else. I try to fix fights, hug and touch everyone (usually, in the normal platonic way) and am just amicable. So, post-puke I find myself wondering – Why did I do that? Why did I confront the idiot in my nice and amicable way? Did he take it the wrong way when I touched his arm? I’d rather return to mid-puke than have anything with that lunk of dumb.

There are few things worse than drunken woes and toilet bowls. 😦

Menacing minions and their masters

There are few times I sit down to write a post merely to let the frustration loose. This is one of those times.

I’m stuck waiting. Waiting for people who accuse me of wasting time to get back to my urgent emails and phone calls. Waiting for people to realise that it is not me who failed (although, I’ll readily agree when it is), but the sheer incompetence of their staff. Waiting for my fragile psyche to stop taking what everybody says personally.

Caught between the struggle of a power-hungry minion and a frustrated superior (not mine, the minion’s), I find myself hurled between inferences so degrading, they may well have hurt less had they been straight forward insults. A child let loose on her mother’s jewelry proudly wears the haughty look of ownership and barks orders to slaves that are not hers, sending them back and forth for dubious reasons. “I want a peanut butter sandwich, no jam, no ham….no a three course meal.” This equals the situation I find myself in. Wondering if the child’s actions would be known to the mother, if she actually read the various emails that slew across the interface (yeah…yeah…mixed metaphor – bugger off).

Finally, filled with frustration, the mother walks in to find her room buttered with sandwiches of all sorts, jewelry littered everywhere and screams curses at the child and the slave alike.

I, the slave, slink into the darkness, waiting for confirmation that I can do what I was originally ordered to do – confirmation that should have come weeks before. I writhe with anger at the inferences, strive not let loose my need to prove the fact that I am not, in fact, incompetent.

It is rather difficult, when left in a situation like this, to realise that the only way forward is professional.

And not to set scorpions in the shoes of your betrayer.

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