Sunday, 27 April 2014

Cat vs Traffic

Sun is setting, roast potatoes (and in my case, a post Sunday dinner "snack" of double cheeseburger, shit ton of Pringles and a dayglo orange smoothie) are settling, and Monday is slowly creeping over the horizon like an unsavory neighbour... Another week is done and dusted.  And I have pretty much naff all to report. Nothing exciting has happened to me whatsoever.  Zilch.  Sorry, guys!

But I'll tell you who has had an eventful one.  My cat.  Walter decided that his life needed shaking up a little.  He needed a bit of excitement because his owners have done nothing but stare vacantly into the glowy box in the corner of the living room all week.  So he went to get himself some of that adrenaline he'd heard so much about (on Rude Tube, probably) going out and picking a fight with a car.

Nope, that wasn't a typo for "cat". It was an actual car. Friday night, he returned from one of his jaunts (run up tree, run down tree, stare at neighbour cat, hide in shed, come out of shed, meow at door til let back in), spouting blood from every facial orifice and wearing a distinct "you weren't there, man!" expression with his one open eye.  He was barely moving and appeared to be in shock.  Also,  I've learned this weekend that blood on a white animal is much more alarming than any on one of a darker colour.  Seeing him like that was freaking terrifying! Like he'd covered himself in ketchup for the crack of it, just to distract us from the tv. Asshole.

Anyhow, the vet wasn't due to open til the next morning, and he appeared to be more shaken up than actually broken, so we couldn't do anything bar go to bed and wait and see what Saturday morning brought us. 

Because my family's cat thinks he's a Rottweiler and often comes home with chunks of ear and face missing all, "no biggie, you should see the other guy!", I wasn't too worried - assumed he'd just done a few rounds with that angry looking, chunky, vaguely cat shaped black beast that sits in our garden like he owns it (suspect is head of Birchgrove Kitty Mafia - I wouldn't mess with him, and I'm a fully grown human) and lost, for he is a fluffy lump who may or may not be made of marshmallows (and apparently ketchup).

A, however, hasn't shared a house with a cat since he was a kid and was much more concerned.  So concerned, in fact, that he allowed Princess Walter to sleep on his side of the bed.  How sweet.  At least that's what I thought until I woke up at 3am, hanging by my fingernails to the end of that bed because naturally, A now needed somewhere to sleep himself. Which was my side of the bed.  Needless to say, I was hardly guffing happiness and light the next morning.

Walter was still a snoozing bag of self pity and scabs, so away to the vet he went.  Vet diagnosed his condition as "car to the face"as opposed to kitty mafia related trauma as I'd suspected (he was also diagnosed with slight constipation - way to kick a cat while he's down) and sent him packing with a big old needleful of antibiotics.   Walt was listless and refused to eat for most of the day.  Only then did I start to panic.  Obviously, any person or pet is fine if they are missing a limb, bleeding from every available hole or talking in tongues...but NOT EATING?! That can only be a symptom of something fatal.

Long story short, several hours later, our battered hero emerged from an all-day slumber, had a MASSIVE..uhh...toilet break...and ate everything in site including my left leg and A's face and all of the furniture, so all is well again.  All that's left on Walter now is a pretty badass black eye, some scabs and a bubble of air atop his head (vet diagnosis: probably normal, but nevertheless yucky) that makes a disgusting noise like someone being slapped in the face with several fish every time he shakes his head.  That's it.

Moral of this week's story?  If you ever get hit by a car, just nap it off, do a poo and have a large sandwich.  You'll be back to waiting by the fridge for ham snacks and getting in the way of any and all productive household activity in no time.

"Chicks dig scabs"

Sunday, 20 April 2014

Suitable Activities For 5am

I've just experienced a chain of events that have lead to my being wide awake at 5am - an hour I never see unless I've got a plane to catch (rare). Said chain was started by a phonecall from resident boy companion from a kebab shop up the road, requesting my driving services.

 I was told there'd be pizza in it for me.

Ass-crack-of-dawn pizza is the best kind of pizza, and I'm happy to say that two slices have been demolished in bed so far with more to follow.  I have tomato purée on my face as we speak.  Glorious.

Trouble is, I'm now wide awake, and it's so close to actual daytime that I can't see much point in going back to bed.  Resident boy is snoring peacefully on the bathroom floor and being guarded by the ever faithful resident cat, or at least being watched curiously because he's never seen either of the humans sleep in the mysterious white room where all the water comes from before:

"Human, is you okay down there?!"

Anyway, I'm not quite sure what to do with myself. 5am is one of those weird times where you can't really get up and do something productive because the sun's not up, and that's just plain wrong.  Plus, I can't stray too far from the bed just in case my body realises what time it actually is and sends me into a sudden mini coma.

Based on my scant experiences of being up and about at this strange and ungodly hour - usually instances where I've been ill, or simply not gone to bed (i.e any time when I was still a student and didn't require naps to get me through a whole day.  Actually, that's a lie.  I've always been an ardent fan of naps.  The thug life is a sleepy one), I've compiled a short list of things that are acceptable to do at this not-quite-day-but-not-quite-night time:

1.  Wander expressionless around the house with a mug of tea in one hand, picking up objects and putting them down with the other.

2.  Watch sitcoms that last no longer than 20mins (American ones, then) just incase you doze off unexpectedly.  I recommend Modern Family.

3. Document that fact that you are up at 5am on the internet because  you are so rare and special for being up at this time, and everybody'll want to hear about it.

4.  Absentmindedly stroke the cat until you realise that you've been petting your dressing gown for fifteen minutes while the cat sits apart, judging you.

5.  Think of all the awesome extra stuff you're going to be able to do with your day now that it has a few extra hours in it... until you inevitably crash out and hate yourself for making such a stupid decision to stay awake.  Idiot.

6.  Stare at the same page of a book until the words start to go all swimmy.

7. Contemplate upgrading to coffee from the tea so that your picking up and putting down of household objects can be, if not less pointless, at least more aggressive.

8.  Flick through all your Facebook photos and get all weird and emotional about how much you love your friends because you've had 3 hours' sleep, and you just, like, love them so much! Something in my eye...

9. Contemplate moving your boyfriend so that you can use your own bathroom facilities.  

10. Fail spectacularly at moving aforementioned boyfriend as you have no upper body strength.  Instead throw a blanket over him and let cat sleep on his side of bed.

11. Absentmindedly stroke cat and glare at street lights in window to catch the exact second they flick off so you can get up and get shit done.

Hope you all had a happy Easter and that Jesus brought you lots of chocolate eggs!

 It's now quarter to six, and I think I see daylight coming!

[falls into a deep sleep]

Tuesday, 8 April 2014

On Boy Bums & Moon Faces: A Post About Body Image


...Never let me do that again.  I can't pull it off.  Some goes for "Yo". Much as I want to be, I am not Jesse Pinkman....  Bitch. Let me start again.

Hiiii!  You smell lovely today!  I like what you've done with your hair.  Very interesting.  Did you do it on purpsose?  Oh, what have I been up to?  Just winning the star letter prize for Women's Running Magazine!  

I subscribe to and devour the magazine every month, so I thought I'd write in and kiss some ass, because I'm a creep and wanted to show my gratitude  (apparently they don't accept locks of hair bound with your own knicker elastic.  Just letters.  Weird, huh?).  I nearly fell over when they emailed me to say that my name was going to go into their magazine and that I'd be getting free trainers for it - New Balance W870WB3 trainers, I'll have you know.  Observe my awesome modelling skills (and poor hoovering skills):

I had a day off today and decided to take these neon puppies for a spin.  Reaction to them inconclusive as I stupidly ran for four miles and had to walk/limp back another four because I had hurty feet and knees.  Yes, that is the medical term for it.  Chose at the time to blame the beautiful, glowy shoes, but in hindsight probably should've stuck to a shorter distance on my first jaunt in them.  Plank.

Anyhoo, forgetting for a moment my total lack of common sense, I wanted to write about body image tonight.  Butt kissy and saccharine as my letter was, it's how I really feel messages in the media should be.  

Growing up, I've had some screwy-as-fuck ideas about how I look, or how I expected I should look.  It's only recently, and mostly through running that I've started to come to terms with the fact that everyone thinks irrationally about the way they look at least from time to time, and that appearance doesn't matter anywhere near as much as your mental and emotional wellbeing.  I find that how I feel about myself totally depends on internal stuff like whether or not I'm tripping balls on endorphins after a good lollop in my stretchy pants. My self image rarely depends on things like whether my fringe is doing what I want it to do at the time (clue: it never is).

Seeing as people seemed to respond well in my last post to the fact that I often pee'd my pants as a kid, I've taken it upon myself to further embarrass myself for your amusement this week by compiling a list of the absurd things I thought about my physical self whilst growing up.  Here goes:

1.  The Chins:  At around age 10, I convinced myself I had a HUGE double chin -  I saw myself as some kind of hideous toad/child hybrid. My mother dearest, instead of informing me that I was ridiculous, and even if I did have a double chin that I should give no further shits about it, thought it'd be funny to tell me I could fix it by doing "chin stretches".  Cue at least a month of giving myself lockjaw by gurning in front of a mirror and sticking my bottom teeth as far out as I could. Must've looked like I was constantly on a come down from ecstasy/similar gurn-inducing drug.  Suspect this is why I still chomp in my sleep.  Because of the stretching.  Not ecstasy before bedtime.  My dreams are fucked up enough as it is.

2.  Moon face:  Also convinced self that my features were to small for my massive, egg-like face and that my eyes, nose and mouth all converged together in the middle of it like they were conspiring against my ears.

3. In my eyes, my belly button sat too low on my midriff. I don't recall why this was of any importance, but it the time, it was pressing that I figure out how to change it.  Note: I was unsuccessful at sussing out how one moves one's belly button, so it remains in the same place to this day.  Under my ribcage and above my trousers. The shame of it!

4.  Boy Bum:  Back when baggy jeans were all the rage - the ones where the big ass wallet chains hung from your pockets (and those pockets were deep enough to transport entire baguettes inside them), I was told at a house party by a boy that my jeans made me look like I had a boy's backside.  In all fairness, they did. But, being drunk on alcopops and hormones, I decided that it wasn't the jeans and that my arse was irretrievably, unforgivably mannish.  I took the throwaway comment as being 100% a major failing on my part, when I should actually have dumped my drink on that insensitive little shit's head. Not that I'm bitter. Honest, I'm not.  Bastard.

5. In my early teens, I got a little obsessed about my posture, because I'd "learned" that my shyness at school had something to do with the way I held myself.... It's what the magazines were telling my anyway. Good posture = instant social ability and oodles of confidence.  Obvs.  So, I went about correcting my apparently Quasimodo-esque stoop by shuffling to the bus stop looking like I had an ironing board stuffed up my jumper and a large candle up my bottom.  Funnily enough, I didn't evolve into a straight-spined social butterfly as I fully expected to.  Just melted into a slouchy lump whenever I got home from school and didn't have to sit like I had a bloody back brace on for the rest of the evening.

I wish I could tell you that those were the only things I worried about, but you know me well enough by now to know that that would be a bare assed lie.  And I don't want to lie to you, reader. 

Oh! Oh! And while I remember - when I was little, I also wholeheartedly believed that it didn't matter too much how I looked, as long as I magically morphed into something "acceptable" by the time I was sixteen.  I wasn't even old enough to know why this would be required of me and my boy-arsed, moon faced, weird little body by that age, but sixteen was apparently the cut-off point for when you should reach physical attractiveness.  I don't think sixteen year old me, weighed down by eyeliner and an impressive beard of spots was all too impressed when her time rolled around to shine.   

Point I've been (poorly) trying to make is that everyone has hang-ups and more or less all of them are irrational and stupid, even if we are likely to be stuck with them to some degree right the way through our lives.  

Example:  I bought night cream the other day because I convinced myself that at twenty six years old, my face is collapsing from the forehead down.  Think the irrational thought, laugh at how bloody absurd it is and move the fuck on with your day.  

Now, please excuse me, I have to go and top up on the old Q10.  I feel a sagging sensation underneath my fringe.  Good day!