Anxious? Moi?

I just phoned the vet for the third time... the first time to make an appointment for the sterilisation, the second time to ask whether it'll be a "castration" (where they can still go in heat) or a real sterilisation (take out all the bits and pieces), the third (just now) to ask if it's definitely ok that I drop them off tomorrow morning and not tonight.
I just can't stand the thought of those poor monsters defenseless creatures sleeping in a kennel at the vet's with that terrifying smell and no idea why they're there. What if they think we've abandoned them? What if it traumatises them?! They've already got an attachment disorder for crying out loud! They were abandoned by their mother! How much more can my poor little kitties take?
Ahem.
Excuse me. I might be going a little overboard here.

It makes me feel better knowing they'll only be gone a day. Hopefully they'll be under the knife before they realise they're not at home and afterwards too groggy to realise anything at all.

I hope nothing goes wrong.
Aack.

They have to have an empty stomache for tomorrow, but they keep eating flies... this is not going to be easy.

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Oh my

Arme Duvelman...

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three Four

That's the number of hairy monstrous beasts (photographic evidence here)I discovered yesterday and today. All in the hallway and upstairs, near the bedroom. All in the space of some four hours and a day. All three four killed for me by surprisingly butch men (the girlfriend couldn't reach, they were too high on the wall. And she was too busy snapping bloody pictures!) and a girlfriend. This morning I discovered a mangled spider corpse in the kitchen. Murdered and chewed by my favourite hunters.
It's come to the fact that I'm too scared to go into the hall on my own. It's as if they're waiting for me to crawl out of their hidey-holes and be spied. Bastards.
Someone tell me this is no longer normal. Last week three, now five in the space of two days. What the hell is going on. Someone get the bug-killers here to nuke our house! Now!

Meanwhile the Girlfriend keeps kicking my arse at Scrabble.
It's just not fair...

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Marvin!

Ladies and gentlemen, meet Marvin, my new pin-up!

I loved Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. And I'm not just saying that because it features the voice of Stephen Fry and ... his holiness Alan Rickman.
Why did no-one tell me this before??!

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Today I...

- checked my mother's poor attempt at filling in our taxes (and good that I did), corrected them and handed them in. Remind me to just do it myself next year, no matter who she says she knows will handle it for us.
- phoned my bank to see what's going on with my visa card. Apparently they've had it lying in their agency for weeks now... they coulda told me! But then the girl at reception is hot, so who cares. Went to pick it up and ordered part of the Sweetie's birthday gift.
- in a fit of equal opportunities-beliefs: if our resident man had to have the snip, so should the ladies, I made an appointment to have our sweet lady-cats sterilised... I feel guilty already. And scared, what if they don't handle the anaesthetic well? And broke, cos damn, that's hugely expensive...
- I hounded the sweetie into doing the dishes and helping me clear out the paper that's accumulated on our dinner table.

Tonight we're seizing Occie and Spike to see Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.

Not bad for a day off eh?

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My hero

Huge. Monstrous. Black. Hairy.
That's the kind of spiders that reside in our "not quite shed"-hallway. You know, the place where you put your washing machine, your extra fridge, dozens of water bottles.
Last Sunday found me home alone (the sweetie was out seducing Hungarians) with Baloo and Stud. Suddenly Baloo tells us there's a spider underneath the lightswitch and that he's scared. I started screaming, even though I hadn't seen the creature. Stud, being the tough macho that he is, asked for a piece of tissue, he'd soon have the thing killed.
With an embarrassed look on his face he came back. He too, was scared. "You can't leave me to it!" I screached. "I'm a poor defenseless non-feminist woman! Kill it!" and I shoved my slipper in Stud's hand. He looked positively sick (I don't know whether it was because of the slipper or the spider) and pretended to try and kill it. "I can't reach it" he mumbled "it's hiding behind the washing machine". I vowed never to go into that place again, whether or not the bin and the downstairs toilet are there. I didn't need that kind of danger!
Monday the sweetie came back home and promptly killed the beast and its even larger sister. Tuesday I was in the loo (satisfied with its safety) when I saw another one of the spider family crawling towards me. I ran (trousers at my ankles) and the sweetie came to my rescue again.

I ask of you, what would I ever do without her?

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"You think about me? Yes, I think about you too"

My girlfriend is cheating on me right under my nose with one of "her" Hungarians. I knew it would come to this. Right now, the toughest of the lot, a peroxide crew-cut blonde, is on the *phone* with my darling, and she's replying the above mentioned sentence. The PeroxideBlonde is also making her say a lot of Hungarian which could mean all sorts. Perhaps the sweetie just told her she wants to marry her, move to Hungary and have lots of football-crazed children. Who knows?!
Now, the sweetie has always had a soft spot for the "tough" types. The real dykes. Not like me, with my long hair and occasional skirt-wearing. I'll just have to live with the fact that I can never live up to a short-haired football playing Hungarian.
Now she's talking about "a holiday in Hungary" and stuff like that. Visits. E-mails. Bloody phonecalls. And she just confessed that Blondie told her "I love you, Ich liebe dich, je t'aime".

Me thinks I need a haircut and to learn football...

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So...?

Is no-one going to say anything about the new Depeche Mode song?
No-one?

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Denial, not just a river in Egypt

DC Comics has ordered a New York gallery to remove pictures which show Batman and Robin kissing and embracing.


Why?
Can't handle the truth? Eh?! Eh!? Tsk...

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Wreck

In an effort to forget my lament as single mum for a week-end I drowned my sorrows in sparkling water yesterday. I kicked Duvelman's arse in table tennis (or that's what I like to believe), jumped on one of those blow-up castles (is it bouncy or bouncing castle?), watched my partner-in-crime Le Feux perform spectacularly, learned what happened when you dare a straight man to do something, shared a woozy-making bottle of sniffing glue and had unfortunate acute flashbacks to when I was 15.
I was not a happy teenager.
Now my head hurts, I'm tired and I'm meant to watch Hungarians play football and engage in conversation with the father-in-law.
That'll teach me.

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"I love you"

The special Olympians' knowledge of Eurovision is appalling and disappointing. When I sang the Polish entry for this year the Polish team didn't even look twice. Neither did those bloody Hungarians when I sang "forogj vilag" at them.
It could just be my singing, I suppose, but still.
And I think I met those "chav"girls encountered, they were on the Irish team.

My sweetie tried to explain to her football team of "special" Hungarians that we are "together". One girl asked if we were family, to which the girlfriend pointed at her ring... the girl smiled and said it was cool, only in Hungarian and with a lot more words. The other girls had more difficulty grasping the concept. There were drawings, kissy noises, rather crude gestures (think of Anya from Buffy the Vampire Slayer in the episode "Hush") and much pointing from me to the Girlfriend with the sentence "I love you? Yes? *point* and *point* "I love you?"". Well... yes.

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Mo Mowlam

I am so sad to see her go.
I'm no expert on British politics, but someone who throws her wig on a table where the Ian Paisleys and Gerry Adamses of Northern Ireland are seated in a (successful) attempt to create a friendlier atmosphere... you've got to respect that.
Or how about this Quote? "Bloody well get on and do it, otherwise I'll head-butt you!" (overheard talking to Sinn Fein's Gerry Adams at talks running up to the Good Friday Agreement). (from the BBC site)
What a woman.

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Bent

When the pope prayed for the victims of the holocaust, I wonder if he just meant the jewish victims, or if he spared a thought for the others as well. You know, like... the queers?
On that note (and on the "time to watch DVDs the sweetie considers too gay or too boring"-note) I've been watching Bent for the first time. I've had it for a while, but the first five minutes put me off when I tried it before. Too arty for my mood then. I decided to give it another go and so far it's definitely been worth it. I had to stop and fast forward a few times though... it gets pretty graphic and too realistic for a sucker like me. Not much good feeling miserable when no-one can console you is it? I'm half-way through. Will watch the rest tonight.
One of its strenghts is the fact that it's still very much a play-in-the-form-of-a-film... the settings aren't realistic but the fact that this doesn't bother you (or me in any case) shows how strong the story is.

Plus, it features Sir Ian.
And he's sexy.
So there.
Oh, and I just saw Jude Law's in the credits as well.. not noticed him yet, but then he might be a moustached-gestapo I fast-forwarded.
But Jude's sexy too.
So there you go again.

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Hungarian ladies

Our three kitties now know what it feels like to be the child of separated-for-a-few-days parents. When I came home from work their tiny faces eagerly looking at me and past me... where is the other one, I could hear them think. The shorter one. The one that always waves that camera in our face. The one that stands in the kitchen making a lot of noise, warmth and steam.
She's not here, my poor little near-orphans. She's at some "special olympics" tournament, taking care of a herd of Hungarian female football players.
Many of them are dykes, she says.
Well of course they are! They play football!!
One of them had better not be making a move on my sweetie, with their weird language and their shorts and knee-length socks with shin-protection. And the sweetie had better not come home after this weekend with an impossible desire to play football. Or worse, to wear football-shirts!
I might have to kill her if she does...

But what to do tonight, without my darling? Blogging's one thing. But that's nearly finished now. What next? She'd not forgive me if I went to the cinema on my own, and besides, it's rather sad. I might end up snuggling a complete stranger... I could entertain my mistresses I suppose, but they're all out of town. ...ahem...

I don't like sleeping alone. I miss her.
I think it might be time to get out the sad CDs (George Michael, Tracy Chapman) and give myself a good old melancholic sentimental sad evening. Fabulous!

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Moesiek (is what I want)

Go to MusicOutfitters.com and type the year you were born into the search box. The first link should be the Top 100 from that year. Bold the ones you like and underline your favourite.

See my results

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Out!

My baby's out. She's at some kind of meeting for something I'm meant to take part in as well. She just texted me I shouldn't look forward to having my whole weekend stolen from me in a shambles of getting up early and working volunteering. Crap. Can't I call in sick? I have been feeling rather weak...
Ahem.
But since she's out I have the place to myself and three cats. The possibilities are endless! I can dance around the house naked. But then I do that when she's here as well... Oh, but I can finally watch all the DVDs she doesn't want to watch because they're too "boring or gay (male)", or dig out my old MTV's Most Wanted tapes. Ten years old, they're bound to be worhtless, but it could be worth trying if anything is still on there. I could do the ironing! Or then again, no. I could read "gay sex tips for gays" or something of the kind, without feeling embarrassed she might be reading over my shoulder. Or... Christ, I wish she was home already...

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Examples of good parenting

Him: "The lady is leaving because you've been such a bad boy"
Me *spluttering, shocked*: "No, no... I've got some more work to do, that's all"

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Balloon clowns, Judges, Idiots and the Office

I've met two judges (for juvinile court) in my "career" and based on this "extensive" experience I can honestly say they are bigoted power-crazy insensitive bastards with tiny penises.
I don't find it normal to make two police officers (who were so cliché it was unbelievable -the older cop with moustache and his spotty younger lackey cracking jokes), a lawyer, a 16-year-old and me (yes, me!) wait for 45 minutes discussing his holiday with his secretary. Prick. I also don't find it very sensitive to mock a kid's alcoholic mother. It's hardly his fault his mother's a drunk, I doubt he needs reminding. You're called at work that you have 15 minutes to get to Court, you rush there, panicky because it's about a kid that's been followed by your colleague and you hardly have a clue what it's about, and all you get to witness (after 45 minutes) is a silly charade. Honestly. I have better things to do with my time!
Of course I'd have had more than 15 minutes to get there (and read the file!) if one of the most incompetent idiots ever had not been manning reception in the main branch of my organisation. You phone in asking if there've been any calls for you, "Erm... I *think* not" is the intelligent reply, only to get a phonecall 10 minutes later from a colleague that there has indeed been a call, and a rather bloody important one at that. Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.

Earlier that day I'd been on a housecall to a Steiner-family (people who are very in tune with beauty in the world. And elves, for some reason) and an incredibly luxurious wedding (the gay sleeveless supervisor -in sleeves unfortunately). The strangest part of said wedding -apart from the SCARY balloon clown, there's absolutely no topping that. Clowns are evil. Enough said- was meeting the person I'm replacing. She looked at me as if I was something she'd scraped off her shoe. And what was that girl doing with me, I could see her wonder. Muhaha. The reaction of my temporary colleagues to the Girlfriend ranged from "oh my god, she really is a lesbian" to "wonder who the man is and who's the woman", to "ah, and I take it this is your girlfriend, nice to meet you". I liked the latter of the options best.

We watched series 2 of the Office yesterday with some Esteemed Guests, what a brilliant show. And I just had an important Capslock MSN-message from the earlier-mentioned Spikey that under no circumstances "AM I TO WATCH ARRESTED DEVELOPMENT IF I4VE NOT SEEN THE FIRST SERIES COMPLETELY!88!!". So I'll be going overthere to watch the first series tonight. I'd never dare defy him, after all. Not when he holds the last series of Six Feet Under and I'm still to beg him to borrow it.

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Recommendation

Since no-one has to work tomorrow (oh the joys of Catholic national holidays... who went up to heaven this time?) I feel safe in recommending you the following series: Arrested Development. Tonight, 20 past midnight on BBC2.
Unfortunately we seem to have missed the entire first series, since this is the first episode of the second series, but I'm pretty sure they'll give us a brief round-up. I saw the first three episodes of this show at Spike and Occie's and it's fabulous (and rather fucked up, like all good things are), having guest appearances by none other than Ms Liza Minelli for instance (Liza with a Z darling).
So, be good girls and boys, and watch it.

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Dude...

There's a strange phenomenon at work. As I'm the only one there I've noticed a few holiday-trends:
- no one phones before 9.30
- around 9.30 there's usually two calls at once, sparking a "busy time" till 11-ish.
- I can deal with the aftermath of the "busy hour and a half" till lunch
- after lunch there's only silence. Nothing happens anymore. I wonder if they'd notice if I left at noon?
I could use the blissfully quiet 4 hours for report-writing of course. After all, wouldn't that be the sensible thing to do? But I don't. I need pressure to function. Or motivation. Or... anything. So I keep busy reading, phoning the sweetie, walking around, listening to the radio (which I took from the kitchen to keep me company) and today I stole Solitaire from a colleague's more-advanced computer! Muhahaha!
All I need now is FreeCell and I'm settled!

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On my first day back

I have to wonder. Am I cut out for this job? What if I made the completely wrong career decision and there's a potentially-brilliant tomato picker sitting behind this PC, wasting her time in the social sector. Or an accountant. Or something-obscure in a paper-making company.
I love psychology. I find people and the possible reasons behind their behaviour intriguing (and yes, I realise that makes me sound as if I watch them squirming on a microscope and chart their reactions) and I also have a silly parentified empathic white knight-complex, but while I couldn't shake off my colleagues during my break I seem to have forgotten how completely and utterly ANNOYING our "clients" can be.
I know I usually only get to see you once every six months, Natural Borderline Mother, but I've spoken you several times on the phone as well, so kindly refrain from calling me by the name of my predecessor. And while you're at it, don't lie to me as if I was a 2-year-old. I know your visitation rights better than you do, so it seems.
And fostermum/grandmum, I know you try your best, but if I were your grandchild I'd go mental too. If a 15-year-old uses make-up it does not make her a whore. Even if her mother is one.
And the lot of you, asking me if they can do this or that, without the Judge's approval, when I don't have a clue what the situation entails, make up your own damn minds!
I think I need a break...

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Touched by His Noodly Appendage

I cannot stress strongly enough how important it is that you visit the site of my new religion: Flying Spaghetti Monsterism. (Through Gaylord500).
Since Bush wants schools to teach Intelligent Design (Creationism), Bobby Henderson, prophet of the Flying Spaghetti Monster asked that schools are aware of the many different angles to Intelligent Design: " I and many others around the world are of the strong belief that the universe was created by a Flying Spaghetti Monster. It was He who created all that we see and all that we feel. We feel strongly that the overwhelming scientific evidence pointing towards evolutionary processes is nothing but a coincidence, put in place by Him."

He presents us with compelling evidence and, most importantly, T-shirts.

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Straight men in the lion's den

Yesterday evening we lured a straight man into our den of lesbian labialove with promises of The Office on DVD. What did we do after we had him reasonably happy with some four episodes of The Office? Well, we read to him from the Vagina Monologues of course.

We tied him to a chair, got out mirrors and the lot and started reading. About beautiful flowers, tulips, caves, birth-giving vaginas and whatever else.
We stopped when he looked suitably squicked and said he'd learned his lesson. Never again would he outright stake a woman with his blunt daggger of love.
Then we resumed the last two episodes of The Office.

That's how lesbians do it.

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Be ashamed, be very ashamed

In a desperate "it's the end of my holiday"-shopping spree I bought the following items:

- the Jeeves omnibus by PG Wodehouse
- Monty Python's life of brian
- a black shirt (mourning the death of freedom)
- three pink dessert spoons
- two nice glasses
- an obscene amount of sweets including "sour jaw-breakers"
- the first Discobar Galaxie CD
- four cheap photo phrames
- a lesbian magazine
- some books and a Ferngully DVD for the sweetie.

The Sweetie also got me Season one of the Office.

I've been a very bad girl.
I need punishment.


Severus?

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Babies

We spent the past two days babysitting a two-year-old and her three-month-old little sister. And well, I've decided babies are not for me.

Now don't get me wrong (and don't pack your suitcases yet, sweetie), I still want children. I'd just like them to be some 6 months old when I get them (though delivery might be rather painful then, don't you think). The highest thing I see a three-month-old achieving is blowing spit bubbles and having a facial expression between "constipated" and "smiling". I mean, their heads are so huge you'd think they don't have a neck. There's just an enormous head, a diaper and chubby legs. All covered in spit, I might add.
Ok, I'll admit they're sometimes cute. In small doses, when they do something stupid like trying to fit their whole fist into their mouth. But I prefer it when they're a few months older. When they're reaching for their mouth with their *feet*, for instance. Or, god bless, when they start crawling and suckling on the plugs. That's when they get interesting!
Thank god my baby will have two mums... and not just me.

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CycleDykes

Ever since my dad gave me back my bicycle (with a flat tyre) (so ever since I took it to the repairman), the Girlfriend and I have become... CycleDykes.

Not only do we vote green, recycle and use glass bottles, we now also try and lower our car use. How much worse can it get? I'm not just talking about the "sensible" thing, like not taking the car to go to the "city centre" (using the term city very liberally) where trying to find a parking spot means you'll get there faster on bike. I'm also talking about "long trips" by bike and ... god forbid, leisure trips. Saturday, the Girlfriend said "let's not spend money we don't have today, why not just cycle". "Just Cycle". So we Just Cycled to the canal, to do my "those were the good old days when I was anorexic"-tour, watch the plants and photograph some bunnies....bunnies for crying out loud!
I fear it's not long until we get one of those bike-things to put on your car and make real cycletrips along "cycle routes" and the like...

But, to balance things, we went into town today (on bike, yes) to get ourselves a visa card (amazon... amazon... amazon...), a library pass, try and find a travel agent's (closed) and see if our photos were in yet (no). So we'll be back to our materialistic self in no time.

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