It may get hairy…

Archive for February, 2012

We all kick bum

Quick note, as I’m running around like an unlucky chicken:

We hit 2000 views yesterday!!

Yay! Ok, it’s not much in comparison to your average blog, but baring in mind my unstable blogging style, it’s freaking AWESOME!

Quick side note: Slash and the Handbag dog had a Mexican standoff last night. Slash sitting calmly on the steps, a meter away from Handbag dog, while Boggle-eyes goes bat-shit crazy, running loops and barking like mad. Each time he ventured to Slash, Slash took one threatening step towards him and he bolted….which is when Slash started to stalk him.

I’m so proud 🙂

Now back to being an unlucky chicken.

Slash vs the Handbag dog

This lasted a good 1.5 hours. The only time Slash moved, was to advance. So, so proud 🙂


The boggle-eyed handbag dog

I think I’d best admit that, without my psychotherapist and only wine, not vodka, in the evenings, I’ve resorted to blogging. I’m afraid you’d best get used to it. So, without further adieu, I present to you, my newest irk.*

Summary of my house/Guns**/living situation: I’m on a property with three flats facing a sea filled with disgusting dolphins. One is occupied by me (flat, not dolphin, don’t be gross), the other by a lovely old lady that can’t figure out the TV power button and the other by…. (dum…dum…dum…dum) the Caretakers.

Although nice enough, my problem thus far has been that, as some of you know, the owners specifically told me I’m not allowed to tell the caretakers that they’ve given permission for me to have cats – some sweaty, petty problem previously – until they return from their 3 month sojourn in Oz.

The first month of the Guns’ existence at my flat was filled with secrecy, taping down the curtains and generally being rather spy and secret like. Not surprisingly, they don’t trust me as far as they could throw me (it didn’t help matters when I told my friend ‘Be quiet about the Guns, they’re supposed to stay secret,’ within accidental earshot of them).

So now they return on Monday. Panic starts to well when the daughter arrives early. She’s come to set the place up for their arrival and stay an additional two weeks. She kindly brought with her the caretakers’ Chihuahua and her own motherf*cking large, male cat.

I’m not going to go into details about the cat, except to say: Who takes theircat on vacation with them and lets them roam? Highly unfair to territorial animals, if you ask me. Secondly, he’s twice the size of the Guns, about two years’ old and very, verynot-fixed. He’s got veritable bowling balls going on down there. I can see nothing but trouble coming my way, with 3 male cats at each others’ throats.

However, the handbag dog is just great. He’s actually smaller than my 6 month old cats. This dog is just plain arbitrary. I know that Chihuahuas are generally nasty looking animals, but this poor bugger takes it to a new level. I’m sure he’s thicker than a walnut, but he still has this very large, golf-ball pitted skull.

So, handbag dog skitters around the place, with his one eye way bigger than the other and perilously close to being cross-eyed. He then sees Axl and has a little chase. Good on him, not a single bark. Skitter, skitter, skitter, but it’s half-hearted. Axl puffs up into one big walking cactus, hisses and runs like a Shark out of Loftus.***

I manage to get him in, the handbag dog has all but skittered off, and I close the security gate. The back door is wide open, but the cats seem ignorant of this, so they perch at the security gate, waiting, watching. Well, Slash waits, Axl occasionally musters up the courage to have a peek (at nothing) and then shoots back behind the couch.

Finally, the big ol’ scary, boggle-eyed handbag dog skitters up to my security gate. Slash puffs up into a larger, sitting cactus. He doesn’t even bother to hiss, he knows he doesn’t have to. Handbag dog stops…pauses…and then dashes away.

Handbag dog = 0

The Guns = 1

Let’s hope this winning streak continues to the curious case of the mammoth cat.

  • *Not sure I can use this as a noun, but I’m going to anyway. Poetic license and all that crap.
    **The cats, Axl & Slash – read further blogs to find out more.
    ***Special reference for my cousin. Just cos they’re being made to wear pink, doesn’t mean the Bulls won’t kick the Sharks’ asses 🙂

    A morning made for Murphy

    Let me tell you about my morning:

    Got up at 5am, much to my disgust, with a raging thirst (possibly due to wine intake last night). Filled up my weigh-less Oros, as hardcore as I am, and went back to bed.

    Took a sip of Oros and promptly spilled the entire pint glass all over my bed.

    Continued sleeping on a towel, like a 8 year-old boy with mummy issues.

    Tried the waking thing again at 8 to find Vodacom had decided I’m unworthy of service and thus will give me no signal. Not even one bloody bar.

    Decide I need coffee a little earlier today, despite the fact I’m already sweating like an over-weight mule.

    Make myself a nice cup of coffee, with extra milk to ensure my ulcer doesn’t go all volcano-like on me, and sit down in front of my laptop.

    If you hadn’t guessed, it wasn’t working. The screen flickers on and off, Outlook ‘recovers from some blasted error’ and takes ages to load, random beeping suggests it’s about to die. The bugger’s around 4 years’ old now, well on it’s way out, but I’m self-employed. Money is some imaginary thing celebrities have.

    So I take a nice long chug off my coffee, to ease the stress of the blasted laptop.

    I narrowly miss the screen/keyboard with my projectile coffee, as I realise the milk that was perfectly fine, is now no longer.

    Long-life, my ass.

    Go to chuck coffee away, so I can make a fresh cup, with fresh milk and re-start the bloody day….only to smash last night’s wine glass in the process.

    Bear with me…

    Two posts in one day? I know, you’re ready to unfollow me, but bear with me. I’ve not started drinking yet and blogging quells my homicidal tendencies.

    Each of us has a quote, proverb or lesson that we’ve been taught, that, in contrast to the platitudes we’re faced with every day, actually stick with us and, perhaps, teach us something.

    I know many people would advise against posting this here, but I fully believe in transparency and, regardless, there’s no link from my site to here, only from here to my site, so I should be safe.

    My parents have taught me much, but one point stands out today above the rest.

    They taught me that when you run a business, you’ll come face-to-face with some downright nasty, rude people. I  have worse terms, but perhaps these base and simple words are more appropriate for the simpletons I’m referring to. People who send hateful, insulting and threatening emails in response to marketing or even quotations.

    You are bound to get an email with a gazillion exclamation marks, at least once a month.

    They taught me to not just expect this and accept it, but to realise that these people obviously are making little money themselves, as they have the time compose such a long and hate-filled email.

    Firstly, let’s realise that we’re all fighting for our own success, if someone’s taken the initiative, we’re not trying to send viruses your way, orinsist you buy our products, ignoring an email hurts no one, but responding in a vile, disgusting way does.

    They taught me to pity the people who have the time to compose such nonsense, as, not only are they deeply unhappy people, but they’re also people who have nothing else to do and are, quite possibly, without work.

    However, sometimes complaints are just so absurd that I struggle to respond. I have just received an email berating me for charging people for setting up Facebook & Twitter profiles for them, as they are already free services.

    Apparently, I’m merely trying to con old people out of their money, by getting them to do all the work and still charging them for what is already a free service. My services have absolutely nothing to do with Social Media Marketing, Corporate Marketing Strategies, Design, HTML, FMBL SEO, an understanding of user activity and preference and much more. I am merely conning people out of their money.

    So, dear readers, please send me money and I’ll send you the link where you can set up yourOwn Personal Facebook Profile and I’ll maybe walk you through the hard work…if I feel like it.

    So, the next time you want to bitch at a company, do so, but remember, there’s a good chance there’s actually a person behind that email address.

    Here’s hoping this doesn’t fall into the wrong lap, but if it does, I don’t suppose I’ll lose anything…


    The bottom of the bottle

    I’ve not been around lately, mainly because I have little to get off my chest (except the increasing pounds).

    [Note to self: do not spend your adolescence wishing for bigger boobs*, Murphy brings you bigger thighs, bigger stomach, and much bigger arms to match].

    Not that I’m not constantly dwelling on my made-up, over-thought, miniscule problems, but I’ve had my very own psychotherapist living down the road (emphasis on psycho ;)) This therapist falls under the category of ‘friend’ and brings fags and vodka to every consult. Thus, my problems are drowned out by the vodka and the gyre my house becomes once it’s imbibed.

    London, Bounds Green. My cousin and I finished 3 bottles of those bad boys and...I won't tell you what happened next. Hey, maybe this isn't a new solution?

    I once had an empty fridge, now it is filled with half-empty tonic bottles, the remnants of lemon and about three half-full bottles of Smirnoff at any given time.

    I have to say, although I’ve never been one to advocate drinking ones problems away, I’m quite keen on this solution for me. The answer lying at the bottom of the bottle doesn’t cause me much panic, I’m lucky enough to know it’s temporary and only social, so the only problem lies in the pit of my stomach. Well, duodenum to be exact – this is where my lovely ulcer lies.

    So, in short, and to not bother you with my problems, as they’ve ceased to be the centre of my universe, every time someone pisses me off, I’m in pass-my-shotgun mode, I have an argument, I want to kill a client, or I’m quite ready to throw myself off a bridge, I call my therapist. She runs down with voddie in one hand, a pack of smokes in the other (okay, to be fair, we take turns in getting the voddie & smokes) and we talk it out…then we sing it out and occasionally we cry it out. It’s all good.

    A few concerned citizens have expressed their worry that I’ll fall apart at the seams once she leaves….next week, but I have no fear of this. I’ll miss the chats, but there’ll always be my good friend, Smirnoff**



    *I do love a good footnote, but just reading a book by Karen Rose – ok, a bit Mills & Boonsy, but a great plot, lots of twists- and a cosmetic surgeon is given an engraved watch by his wife saying ‘Thanks for the mammories.’ It gave me a good giggle… I do hope I don’t have to explain the pun.

    **If anyone even thinks about reading this in a serious tone and offers me help for alcoholism which isn’t present, I’ll be forced to ram the humor down your narrow-minded throat (mixed metaphor allowed). Let’s read this in the way it was intended, okay? ***

    *** Taking the footnote to the extreme, this therapist has also gotten me into healthy eating and, god forbid, exercising, so, well, blah.

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