It may get hairy…

Posts tagged ‘cretin’

SEO mal

For those that follow the nostril, I just wrote a hugely long post, published it and Voila! WordPress deleted it, which is why you received an empty email from Up a Mammoth’s Nostril.

I’m not a happy chappy and therefore will leave reposting SEO Mal until later, after at least another 10 cups of coffee.

I might add that I’ve had no sleep, not enough coffee and sitting in 94% humidity.

Grumble.

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A new religion: F*ck ’em!

I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about this post. There is so much I want to say, so much I shouldn’t say and so much that could spark a riot. I wrote this long, condemning post yesterday, which amounted to merely puking out all my thoughts and would’ve frightened even the hardiest reader away – hence, it has been deleted. So, hopefully this summary will achieve my goals and not frighten away my Constant Readers (stolen from S. King).

The Low Down:

My mum had brain surgery twelve days ago. Prior to surgery, she had the highest pain the world (on average, there is a 70% suicide rate in Trigeminal Neuralgia sufferers), which after surgery revealed itself to be double what other sufferers feel. Instead of merely a blood vessel touching a nerve in her brain, it was a blood vessel and an artery. The surgery was unbelievably successful. Instead of being a 5 hour operation, as expected, it was 3.5hours. My mum’s recovery has been remarkable. Twelves days later, she’s walking and talking. She gets dizzy, nauseous and gets severe headaches (akin to a migraine) when she does too much and often can’t stay awake more than two hours, but this is all par for the course. Doctors have told her that with brain surgery, Day 10 is the equivalent of only Day 2 after a Tonsillectomy. It takes awhile, but Mum’s doing better than most and with her hair down, you can’t even see the scar.

However, it’s brain surgery, it’s a mother-f*cking big deal.

*Which is why I fail to understand the total lack of common sense that people have adopted after and during the operation.

Side note, before I get all fumey and mad: Some people, mostly totally unexpected, have been amazing. My mum’s biokinetist has lent his support, her best friends, people she’s met briefly at organisation meetings actually came to visit her in hospital. A close friend of my mum’s and her daughter, who I barely knew before this, have been incredibly supportive and understanding. My best friends. My best friend’s fiancé. Family friends who understood enough to lend their care and support, without expecting anything or smothering my mother or my father and I. The support has been incredible and, for the most part, unexpected.

**Which brings me back to my vent: a lot of the support that was expected, failed to show up. In fact, in some cases, severely hindered my mother’s recuperation…and my sanity. We have had some wonderful cases. Starting weeks before my mother went in, with messages from her friends telling me that they didn’t know how they would cope if something went wrong and she didn’t survive. People, who are merely friends, expecting me, the daughter, to provide them with comfort. Here I was, merely completing task, by task. Trying my hardest not to think about what’s coming. Blocking it out almost entirely and SUCCEEDING, until I receive messages like this, which left me crumbling two days before Mum went in. A close friend of mine recently lost her mother and I was astounded when she told me that people who weren’t family, expected her to comfort them. I’ve now seen this first hand, albeit on a much less extreme basis.

Before I bore the hell out of you, I’ll sum it up. We’ve had people who’ve expected us to run errands for them, so they could visit my mother. One particular fool is still lucky to be alive, after hurting my mother and nearly setting her back, with too much physical affection…in the Neurosurgical ward. Seriously? What fucking planet do you live on? You don’t hurt someone fresh out of brain surgery, and…when they tell you it hurts, you STOP! For the most part, people just haven’t thought and weren’t malicious. We’ve had one person start a fight the day my mum went into hospital, but that’s neither here nor there. I’ve been called a nag for fussing, but you watch your mother puke (okay, I didn’t actually see that, but they told me) after taking her first steps, or see her in pain and so nauseous she can’t sleep (regardless how tired and weak she felt) after having a few visitors – you’d be a nag too.

So, after all this, my father and I learnt something in what was probably the most terrifying moment of our lives (waiting for 3.5hours in the Neurosurgical waiting room, whilst my mum had her skull drilled open and her brain fiddled with):

Sometimes, it’s okay for it to be about you. Sometimes, it’s about you and your family and no one else matters.

This was and still is (until the day she is fully recovered) about Mum. Now that she’s recuperating, we can allow ourselves to feel the anger we have towards these people for imposing their silly nonsense on our lives. After all, it was the most difficult moment of our lives. So now, it’s alright for it to be about us just a little and about Mum a lot.

So, with this in mind, we have started a new religion. A new way to dealing with problems and people:

Fuck ’em!

*Apologies for starting with a conjunction – Poetic License.

**As above

Animal abuse is punishable

So I’ve been told I should blog about what’s happened. If anything, just to feel better and in part to publicly accuse a man guilty of animal neglect, which amounts to abuse.

I’m not sure what to write, to be honest. So, instead of stuffing meaningless words into a post, for once I’ll just tell you the facts as I know them.

To protect myself legally, although I’m not sure if it helps, these facts are hearsay. I haven’t any proof other than emails I received from people who benefit in no way from lying to me. Thus, I believe them.

Today I was informed that we don’t know how Shadow is or whether or not she was put down. We will never know.

It turns out that Jacques van Dyk took Shadow, a beautiful, healthy 4 year old cat when he broke up with his fiancé. He prohibited her from taking the cats, which included her own Persians and Shadow. By this stage, Niblet had passed away a happy cat  (for that I am forever indebted to his fiancé).

From what I understand, the fiancé kept in touch with their landlady in order to check upon the cats. Up until she received a call from the landlady, the cats were healthy. The call was to find out whether the fiancé knew where Jacques was, as he had apparently packed up and left in the middle of the night.

Leaving all the cats locked in the house with no food.

The cats were alive and alright when the landlady found them. The fiancé asked that the landlady wait until she got there, to take the cats somewhere safe. The landlady didn’t wait and took Shadow and the rest of the cats to the SPCA.

From what I understand, this was well over a year go.

The bastard has been lying to me for well over a year. In hindsight, I knew he didn’t have her, but the audacity it took to agree to let me pick her up only a few months ago, is unforgivable.

The neglect of animals who are in your care is unforgivable.

Abandoning them, locking them up in a house and leaving them with no food is abuse and is punishable.

I shall be laying a claim of theft at the police station and shall take all email evidence (including emails and texts from Jacques proving that he had the animals at one stage and his subsequent lies after the fact) to animal rights organisations and the like. The police will also be informed the abuse.

This may not help, but hopefully it will help to scare him into taking care of animals that are in his possession and implied protection.

I am guilt-ridden and heart-broken and so will stop now. I hate myself for leaving her with him and wish I could take it back. If I hadn’t had abandoned my animals with strangers, this would never have happened.

For those who don’t know the story thus far:

Post 1,

Post 2

Post 3

He had the nerve to tell me he was heart-broken.

 

 

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. 😦

‘The Taming of the Shrew’

Please excuse the decidedly corny title, but we found a shrew in the pool today, still alive, and the title seemed appropriate, especially since I seem to trying to tame everything else in my life.

I’m already at work. This is never a good sign of the day to come. I’m here because some particularly noisy cretins decided to have a gossip session…underneath my cardboard box (I live on the ‘first’ floor, in essence, but the ‘ground’ floor remains a husk, waiting to be made into an apartment).

Along with the sweeping, these little gossip sessions have become part of my daily grumbles, but this morning I would have none of it. I stormed to my window and yelled, ever so nicely, to shut the [insert expletive here] up, as it’s 6.30am.

There was barely an ebb in the flow of conversation. Either they have particularly bad hearing, or really couldn’t give a flying beep at a rolling doughnut (please excuse the Stephen King plagiarism). So, in my fit of near rage, I hurried to find some clothes, gave up and decided see-through pyjama bottoms would have to do. Until I happened to glance in the mirror and nearly reeled myself through the bedroom window. I’d forgotten about my swim yesterday and, whilst I had washed the chlorine out of everything else, I’d not done my hair. I had about a half a dozen cork screws framing my face, smeared mascara, see-through polka dot pjs and a set of matching luggage under my eyes, big enough to have bought at Harrods. By the time I had managed to get over my shock, wipe away a bit of the masses of masacara and find the ever illusive bra, I was out of energy…and had summoned up enough logic to realise that accosting two unknown men, with no one else around, wasn’t perhaps my best idea ever.

So I sat down to compose a particularly nasty text to Infernal. Sadly, it turned out to not be so nasty, but I did elude to the sweeping and asked him (nicely…I just can’t stop asking nicely!) to please get his ‘guys’ to keep it down pre-8am, as I had once again been woken up by their gossip session. The text was long, but no more than double the average length. I hit ‘send’ and immediately felt relief.

Until the ‘ping’ came, informing me the message wasn’t sent. Apparently, my phone believes that having enough airtime for 4-5 texts, you aren’t allowed to send any. It keeps blocking me at R5. At R5, I am allowed to go onto Facebook, Twitter and even Google+, but God (title cased only out of respect for others) forbid I try to send a text. I try again. It fails. Does anyone else see a sneaky hate spiral coming on?

I now can’t wait. I get dressed, hurriedly grabbing whatever I can find (I end up looking like a monochromatic witch) and drive off to work.

I get here, load airtime and wait. I want the perfect moment to surprise Infernal with my particularly not-nasty text.

My first cup of coffee arrives. It has no sugar. I could weep.

PS. To quote Benoni Goose, I’m not overly fond of being stalked, or people lurking about on my blog, so please subscribe (email link to the right, or click the elephant, not the mammoth). I don’t do a whole lot of posting, so you become victim of a spam-attack.

On that note, I still have no idea what to do about Mr From a Lesbian. Can I lay a charge of theft, if he’s told me she’s missing? Do I give up? Do I harass him? Please help me out guys. I’m lost and a bundle of emo nerves.

The terrible text

So Mr From a Lesbian texted me this morning (sms for the saffas). I find some black humour in the fact that when he texted, I was in the midst of a made-up scenario that included me in ninja-wear, him in agony and whole bunch of surveillance equipment (which I had used to track the sneaky bugger down…and find proof that he has my cat).

Said text:

“hey girl im so sorry about sadow. f*king hart broken after all this time.”

This was after many texts and calls from me, begging for him to call me back with his Gran’s number, so I could contact her and find out more, which he’d promised to send. I hadn’t heard back from him until this morning. I wonder if he read this blog (he’s on my FB list after all) and knows it’s been suggested I take legal action… I doubt it though.

After my attack of the short fuse, I know he’s more wary of me, so perhaps that’s why he contacted.

But why don’t I believe him? I would much rather believe him, than have this sinking doubt that keeps me up at nights….and not to mention the rage. It ebbs and flows and I resemble a melodramatic schizo.

I joke, but it’s not funny. So I responded, in a rather curt way, asking for his Gran’s number again, so I could contact the nearest shelters. His response was:

“You think i hvnt done that…and sorry I cnt give her extra stress.hope you understand. ill find her” (please note, the cretin’s spelling, not mine).

He won’t find her. He’s lying. Even if I were to take all my emotions out of the equation, logic says he’s so far from the truth it no longer has meaning – there are too many variances. I’ve never been good with logic, it fails me almost daily, but this time, I’m certain.

Firstly, he moves to Durban, apparently has two places, one with the cat, one that’s not pet-friendly. Then, the cat’s in Harrismith with his Gran. I can pick the cat up first of September. He then refuses to answer my repeated calls. Eventually, nearly a month later, he tells me she’s been missing for ages….then tells me missing for a week. Then somehow forgets he told me she’s at his Gran’s. And now he won’t give me said Gran’s number, so I can call the shelters around there.

Am I wrong, or does this not add up? (I’m not so good at maths either).

 

Side note: for those that don’t know the story, 1st post and 2nd post.

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