It may get hairy…

Posts tagged ‘alcohol’

And so I’m back*

It’s been a while since we’ve chatted.

A lot has happened since the days of The Diet, some good, some bad…some stupid, some funny (quite often both). So here goes:

I dieted. I lost next to nothing. I stopped dieting, ate what I wanted to and attended a wedding. My Grandfather got married. He cried through the ceremony with happiness. She laughed with joy (the thing, not a person). My parents split up. I learnt that laptops apparently don’t like red wine. I learnt that when one spills red wine on one’s laptop, one shouldn’t use a hair dryer. I learnt that hair driers melt laptop keys.

I laughed with people and at people. People laughed at me (quite notably the computer store clerks). People laughed with me, but perhaps not as much. I cried. A lot. I started the Soup & Yogurt diet. I learnt that the  Soup & Yogurt diet no longer works. I borrowed my Mum’s treadmill. I ran. I ran some more. My face got fat. I visited Hole in the Wall (wow). I started the Eating for your Blood Type diet. My fridge broke. I ate lots of ‘cold’, but not cold meat. I saved and I saved. I lost all email access (sorry). My business boomed  (bloody Murphy). I hired a freelancer. A freelancer saved my not so tiny bum. I bought my very own sexy laptop. I saved for a laptop all on my tod (through connections). I was sad. A lot. And then I decided to be happy.

In summary: Like many people, my life is series of Mr Bean** moments. My laptop arrived today and I decided I just had to visit my blog again to tell you all about this rather strange period. Of course, I can’t do that without wine, so there’s a glass of wine, in a shoe box, far, far away from my new laptop (but within arm’s reach).

I woke up this morning and despite the nagging feeling that yet again, something would go wrong, I decided to be happy. It’s both easier and harder than it seems. Things did go wrong, but I managed. While running back and forth in Woolies checking out ingredients and getting an audience, I saw flowers. Flowers make me happy. I’ve had a great work month, but alas, work and cash flow seem to misunderstand each other, so while I’m swimming in clients, I can’t afford to buy flowers. So I bought them.

I’ll be dining on more cold sausages in a sealed container tonight (no fridge, remember), but hey, I have flowers. I’m not sure how long I’ll keep them alive, or allow them to make me happy, but I hope each and every one of you finds a ‘flower’ today 🙂

That’s my corny bit, now I’m going to get plastered.

*Admit it, you sang the song. 

** I even have a teddy – 

Ode to a Dieter

Don’t

Here endeth my ode.

Right, you’re aware that of late I’ve been a ‘slug?’ So it turns out [cue drum-roll please], there is a reason that I have been so slug-like.

And it’s all my bleeding fault.

You’ll have noted from my previous post that woe be to those that mention ‘exercise,’ ‘diet tips,’ their own elixir of twigdom that made them slightly less fat than they were before and/or any other suggestion for weight-loss. This isn’t because I didn’t want to do the hard work involved in losing weight, it’s because I’d f**king tried it already.

Honestly, I jogged, I yoga’d, I callen… (whatever the hell you call it)’d, I cut out carbs, I did the Atikins diet, I ate healthily (according to my food-technologist Grandfather), I followed the soup & yogurt diet… I did it all.

And I gained.

Honestly, how do you live off of only liquids and still gain weight? I managed it.

Eventually, the slug slithered off to the doctor. He held no insights, as my slug bloods came back proving that I was a veritable human. He weighed me.

Before I go on, please note, in past years, I’ve shed as many tears as a statue of the Virgin Mary (here our similarities stop). The result of my weigh-in showed that I had gained an enormous 10kg….in one month.

I couldn’t camp out in the middle of McDonalds and gain that amount of weight.

I burst into tears in this strange doctor’s office. So, off I pop to the dietician, thinking that this is surely it. The end of the road. The doctor says there’s nothing wrong with me and the dietician will tell me to live the life of a squirrel…and I’ll still not lose weight.

Firstly, she took one look at what I was eating and dropped her pen.

My problem: starvation. I’ve been on diets for well over a year and have cut out almost all carbs. My body decided to go into ‘survival’ mode, kicked up my insulin and squirreled away (ooh look, another squirrel) the fat into my tummy, thighs, arms and even my chin…just in case.

The solution: Eat bread.

Well, not exactly that, but I have to eat sh*t loads of specific carbs, to get my body back in order. Seed bread, not white, but lots. Oily fish (puke, but I’ll do it) and other stuff like BAKED BEANS (f**k yeah!).

This is heaven. She actually has ‘sandwiches’ in my diet plan. Sandwiches??? It’s like cake to other fat people. I love my carbs so much and I haven’t had any for so long.

The Disadvantages:

The only thing I shall miss is cheese. I’m not allowed cheddar, but am allowed mozzarella.

Can someone please tell me the point of mozzarella? I’m determined to prove that it’s not a food, but merely some form of edible rubber whose sole purpose is to keep the pizza topping from falling off.

The Advantages:

I can eat bread AND have booze! Granted, only 1-2 glasses of wine for three nights a week, the rest is a no go and no, I’m not allowed to accumulate my ‘units.’

Conclusion

I ate according to the guidelines yesterday. I nearly puked I ate so much, but I scoffed it all down. Lo’ and behold, I actually slept! I also find myself in control of my emotions. On a sad note, my dog, Mathilda, had to be put down this morning. In the last few months, I would have been inconsolable, unable to deal with her parting and unable to help my parents as a result. After eating well yesterday, I’m in control of my emotions. I shed my tears when I came home, but only a little and I helped my parents through their grief.

I have once again found my ‘off-switch.’

To my fellow dieters, I bid you farewell.

Go forth and gorge

‘appy but ‘ectic post

Hello all 🙂

Finally, the time has come for a happy post.

Today I shall be the headless chicken, but all in aid of a drunken cause. Today we prepare to don our Splash Fen hats and hit the road. My mate and I shall be working there from Wednesday, so naturally we’ll arrive on Tuesday, to ensure our pickled livers stay pickled.

It’s been a whole bloody decade since I last went to Splashy. It was there that I met a naked old man, with a multi-coloured dog (spray-painted, poor bugger), swimming in a river. The quintessential Splashy story.

Me @ the last festival I went to (Download, 2010), what makes you think I wasn't exactly sober?

Today, I must run to the shops to buy buckets of cat food, to support my monsters while I’m away. Although we’re doing the supplies trip tomorrow, my personal supplies shall be bought today, like batteries (for my camera, you dirty bastards) and headache tablets (pretty sure I don’t want to be doped up on  my morphine pills when there, so Panado is a must).

In addition, I have to send off emails to various clients, explaining where I am (a work expo, obviously), chase for money, do all the work that needs to be done this week in one day and clean my bloody house.

How all this will happen, Darwin knows, but I’ll manage. Perhaps the house cleaning will fall short once again.

So, from now on, do not expect coherent posts…in fact, if anyone sees me about to post anything from my phone, take it. Quickly.

We’re doing Splashy in comfort (out of necessity and a lack of camping gear) – we’re taking a freaking sleeper couch 😀 Yup, that’s right. It’s an old foam mattress that flops into a couch and squishes into the back of a car. It takes some pushing, and you’d do yourself a favour to put the handbrake on first, especially when facing a downhill, as I accidentally found out a while back. It’s alright, I James Bond’d that bitch, chasing it down the hill and flying into the driver’s seat 🙂

I have my hat for sun and my docs for rain, what more could we need? If you need me after Thursday morning, I shall be passed out somewhere, hopefully on my sleeper couch, if not, please move me into the shade. I burn.

 

Before I disappear and on a side note:  I seem to have received a lot of calls/messages about my previous post, which I found interesting. Perhaps it was because people wanted to cement the fact that they’re my friends (and perhaps that the post wasn’t aimed at them), which I find rather sweet and thank everyone. I think the post before was more melancholy, but either way, I wanted to let the world know that although I’m disappointed in the people targeted in my previous post, I’m not wallowing in a vat of self-pity. The only time it crosses my mind is when I’m not busy and/or get some form of reminder, however, this does not ruin my day. So you haven’t any reason to fret – although I really appreciate the support and kindness.

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.

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.

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. 😦

Religious fervour or blog bust?

My landlord’s mother is no longer speaking to me.

Don’t get me wrong, this doesn’t faze me in the slightest – the woman’s a nuisance. Religious fanatic is practically tattooed on her forehead and I may as well have torn my clothes off and donned my favourite tutu when I told her I wasn’t religious.

I’ve nothing against religious people. In fact, I envy them, it must be quite comforting to have religion to lead the way.

But leave me to my vices.

She has the hard-lined face of a former alcoholic and the straight-backed stance of the ‘reformed.’ She instantly puts me on edge. And hides in the shadows of the braai area, waiting to pounce the moment I leave my cardboard box.

Now, I’ve tried to come up with reasons why she would be ignoring me. She obviously thinks this is some form of cruel torture, rather than blessed relief, but I want to know why.

Firstly, she could have read this blog, where I tittle on about Infernal and his OCD ways (Side Note: watched him brush down the outside chairs in such a panic yesterday…what a [insert expletive here], but it was fun to watch). I think I may have mentioned his psychotic stalker of mother and her religious fervour on here too. But no…the chances are slim. When I told her son what I do for a living I got: “Oh, like as in computers?” – it seems to be a family failing.

Secondly, she would have, without doubt, heard my inane and blasphemous curse the other day, as her stalker like son (this isn’t Infernal, by the way, it’s his scarily quiet brother) gave me the fright of my life.

He hovers on the balcony, like some antithetical Juliette and waits until I’ve exited the car and about to walk away, before uttering a quiet, monotone “Hellooo.”  Now, tell me that’s not freaky? I can’t shower. I keep seeing Psycho scenes.

But then I realised: I often don’t come home.

No doubt she’s already decided how I paid for my car and imagined lude, late night shifts with a Russian drug runner. I leave for work at roughly 7.30am and don’t come back until either late at night (much later than normal working hours) or lunch time the following day. What else could I be doing? I mean, let’s face it, we all know that’s what redheads do, right? 😉

I can just see her, monitoring my every move. Watching me arrive in the same clothes the following day, dog-tired and jumping at her sociopath of a son.

But I will never tell her of my secret, midnight rendezvous with….the internet.

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