Niecy Who?

Niecy Nash? Honey, you might be late. The Sweetie and I got our arse in gear, cleaned the house from top to bottom, found a bed and assembled it, bought a cheap bookcase and assembled that as well (a bit crooked, but hey) and voila: we have a guest room! And a place for our old teddies to live. And some of my uni books. I can read stuff about psychology now and actually "be" a psychoPiglet again. What a relief.
We handily made some of the junk we didn't want to have time to sort through disappear to the attic... *whistles innocently* no one will know.
We're rewarding ourselves tonight with a night of passion under the tv blanket watching everything we taped... and Alias Season 3.

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Help

I want Niecy Nash to come de-clutter my house, right now. I'm sick of it. I'm so desperate I'll even let that weird blonde friend of hers organise everything with labels and velcro! There's paperwork everywhere, the sweetie's and mine, I don't know where everything belongs, half of the bills are stuffed between my "important paperwork" folder instead of in their rightful place, ellen's frederic's our guest room has been "almost ready" for over a year now and we've done nothing, I want my cats to be shaven bald, a solution for the teddybears the girlfriend and I acquired in our childhood (I can't just chuck my dear companions out, but neither can I ... put them somewhere too visible... the shame of it), book cases for my university books (that are still at my parent's), a cat-resistent spell to save our plants and christmas tree, a cleaning lady (or three), cathair-free kitchen cabinets and self-cleaning kitty litter.
I also want a job. And money.
I want lots and lots more as well, but this is pretty much the gist of it.
So either I'm stressed from the "holidays", pre-menstrual, or just old-fashionedly pissed off.

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christmas

I hate it.
I really really hate it.
Apparently my mother expects to see us for new year's as well.
And she wanted me to chauffeur her on my birthday. On my birthday. My birthday!

Aargh.

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Winter solstice

Winter solstice heralds the return of the sun, the victory of summer over winter, hope over despair and blablabla. I won't go all wiccan on you, though I am tempted. As a lesbian, I have a stereotype to live up to, especially since I spent all day yesterday dragging the girlfriend around various shops (crowded! crowded! is everyone unemployed these days?!) looking for a new (mini) christmas tree and ornaments worthy of a solstice celebration.
Another cause for celebration is that in Britain, gay couples can finally sign a "partnership". Not marriage, no, that would be too much to ask. Everyone is thrilled however, and even the girlfriend reminds me that "it's a good start", which it is. And it brought us pictures of lovely lezzas and quaint queers (can queers be quaint? I guess that's mostly a thing for villages and churches... but it sounds so good...) partying poofs, so that's a highlight of any day.
But please, poofs and dykes of Britain, don't stop there. You've not got what you want yet, this is not enough. Partnerships, nice, bring it on. But it's not marriage yet, is it. It's not full equality. Please tell me the local OUtrage and whatever will keep fighting for that. Don't give the government your money for your partnership contract, if it doesn't promise you full marriage rights in future.

After this message of activism, I shall leave you to the boozing.

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Oh christmas tree

Our Christmas tree is dead, and this while the girlfriend is on the phone with bietje. It had a lifespan of about a month last year, and one day this year before it was jumped by a number of beasts, keeled over and died. One of its plastic legs is bent. There is probably no hope for it.

Now what?!
So much for our holiday atmosphere. And that while we're meant to be entertaining people on New Year's eve. Perhaps we should ask them to bring their own tree...

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Ladies in suits

Congratulations to the first gay couple to have a "civil partnership" in Belfast. (and what lovely outfits they were too)
I hope the protesters got a throat infection from standing out in the cold with their ridiculous slogans.
Console yourself, ladies, it's not just everyone who gets a banner and slogans on their wedding. I mean, me personally, I wouldn't dream of marrying without!

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L

We picked up the girlfriend’s learner’s permit on Saturday morning. Ever since then she’s wrestled my car keys off me been graciously driving me everywhere. We drove through snow to my parents with their groceries, all the way to Kortrijk to her parents, dropped off her brother at the sports centre and drove back home. She did all this without panicking, without hitting even the tiniest pole and without any problems. What a girl!

Apart from that we've spent the day doing the ironing, putting up the christmas tree (yes, I know we're late, but the girlfriend wanted to spare our cat-sitter), chasing the cats out of said christmas tree, and cleaning up after yesterday's orgy. You know who you are, you dirty poofs... and that on our sofa! Honestly! I hope the stains can be removed...

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Holiday report: bite-sized

Day one: I have a terrible cold and go through three hankies before we even leave for Center Parks. Our babysitting employers offer me something for my throatache. The car ride is hectic, lots of trucks and other traffic. I can’t see a thing through my side mirror. Not handy. Am in need of second Red Bull or chocolate. Alas, both are in the boot of the car, out of reach. Upon arrival we see what appears to be a camping site with cottages. The cottages are small and used to be white. They’re forming a line through the trees. The site is huge. We pass a cow (named Riet) in what appears to be a petting zoo. There are Dutch people everywhere. I am not amused. Everyone is trying to check in at the same time and there are cars all over the place. We are tired. Am angry because of the blatant marketing aimed at young children and designed to make as much money as possible. I wonder if the cats understand why there’s a strange man in our house, instead of us. I hope he remembers to feed them.

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Day two: We are woken at 8.30 by an enthusiastic 2 year old. The girlfriend is instantly awake, reminding me in no way at all of her behaviour back home. What a show off! Halfway through the day I switch to paper hankies to deal with my cold. It’s just simpler and there’s no way I’m going to have enough even though we brought the whole lot from home. We splash about in a cold tropical swimming pool, though “cold” could be because by now I’m running a fever. There are people eating chips and hamburgers by the pool, in their bathing suits. Though I can’t smell anything since my nose is blocked shut, the mere thought of eating chips in the smell of chlorine is enough to make me more nauseous. My cough gets worse and it feels like I’m tearing up my throat. I don’t join the rest for an evening walk, but stay home to take some drugs and wash the chlorine from my body. The drugs work and our Terrible Two is –unlike her age- very sweet and caring. We find out the cats don’t miss us at all, in fact they’ve not even noticed we’re gone and have accepted the Strange Man without questioning why he’s suddenly in the house. Nice.

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Day three: By now I’ve carefully scanned my surroundings and know what to expect. I instantly feel a lot better about our little holiday and decide I can enjoy myself. Go me. “Our very own Terrible Two and the littlest one (6 months) need to see the petting zoo”, the girlfriend proclaims. And so it happens. Apparently millions of other pram-pushers had the same idea. There is a gigantic pig, baby goats, a cow, the lot. Afterwards we go back to the cottage and boldly announce we don’t mind taking the kids to the swimming pool while mum and dad go to the sauna. We must be idiots. Everything goes rather well though. We have dinner in a “restaurant” and the Terrible Two really goes for it “NO! I want chips!”. When I phone my dad to wish him a happy birthday he tells me he’s been feeling a bit down. I feel guilty.

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Day four: By now we’re so used to the noise of two little kids that we sleep through their crying. Woken at nine by the clatter of dishes and a two-year-old ramming our door “I want to wake up Merlina!!!” (note how I’m being ignored here? Yep, the girlfriend is definitely the favourite) Walk to the petting zoo, with bunnies and playground this time. We go swimming in the afternoon and eat in the Money-Grabbing, killed by marketing and advertising-Dome. Twice. The girlfriend braves a kind of chicken burger and has a fight with our Terrible Two. Both are stubborn. The Girlfriend however is right. It is not polite to hurt your babysitter. TT refuses to back down and only grudgingly gives the girlfriend a kiss because otherwise she won’t be allowed to go see Bob the Builder. In the evening I’m suddenly the most popular babysitter. Tsk. We go for a walk around some of the cottages and the girlfriend feels romantic, insisting on kissing me while we’re standing on a bridge. Aaah.

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Day five: packing, eating, driving through hectic traffic. We are greeted by angry cats who ignore us. Bitches! After a while Soes warms to the idea of us being back. There’s no sign of Duvelman’s presence. Or is there? Upon closer inspection we notice a loaf of bread, lasagna with meat and half a crate of beer. He’s still here in a way…

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First thoughts

on getting back home:
- the cats are fatter than they were
- they're also rather angry at us. Peeved that we took off? Or that we came back?
- we've got beer! wahey!
- what is Harry Potter doing on our mantelpiece?
- I think our catsitter walked around with Swiffer-cloths on his feet... the house looks too clean.

I'll blog about our "holiday" later.

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Holiday. Celebrate.

We're off tomorrow morning, to center parcs. Our babysit-family needed two extra pairs of hands with the kiddies and it was a good excuse for us to splash around in a tropical swimming pool.
Today was spent in a mad packing and cleaning frenzy, since duvelman has agreed to cat-sit for the week. We couldn't possibly let him loose in our house without cleaning it thoroughly, wouldn't want him to find out what a dreadful state it's usually in. I really wanted to get the Christmas Tree out for his visit (so he could discover the delights of a real piglet&merlina christmas), but the girlfriend forbade me from doing so. Spoilsport.
All this "holidaying" would be fine, even despite the fact that I'm a an obsessive freak creature of habit and am stressing my arse of over it, were it not for the fact that both the girlfriend and I are struck down with the cold from hell, including bloated sinuses, tiny swollen eyes and raw noses.
I don't wanna go...

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Little Britain

A minute, ladies and gentlemen, to honour Sir Tom of Baker, for quoting Ant and Dec in his Little Britain introduction speech: "watch us wreck the mike, watch us wreck the mike, watch us wreck the mike. Psyche!"

It has truly been too long since we heard those poetic words anywhere. It makes me want to dig out my one and only -practically dead- Ant and Dec mixtape, just to hear the infamous lads deliver their version of the lyrics.
Let's get ready to rhumble, indeed!

Yes, I know the photo is actually from the lovesong "perfect", but let's be honest, how could I not post this one?

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Open letter to Robbie

Robbie, dear Robbie. Even when you were in Take That you were my favourite. Mark was too short, Howard too scruffy, Jason had that scary beard and Gary... well.. he was Gary. You had that funny hair, with the split in the middle. Cheeky and sexy. My heterosexually-aimed brain chose you out of the five boys. Congratulations with that.
When you went solo, got fat, got fit, got stoned, drunk -well, I don't need to tell you, you know all the things you did-, I figured you were alright. Catchy songs, sometimes a bit too sentimental. I even bought an album of yours. Well, I was in Britain and I'd just bought Stephen Gately's first (and only) solo album. You were on sale, and less embarrassing than Stephen.
I always saw you as straight, but I figured if you were drunk, staggering around Old Compton Street you wouldn't be particularly picky about who put his or her head in your lap. I mean, what difference does it make. (it makes none, as Morrissey would say).
Now I hear you sued some silly tabloids claiming just that. Apparently you've never had homosexual affairs and if you ever did stagger drunkenly through Old Compton Street it would be because you were looking for some tough firemen to help you break into your house when you lost your keys.
I'm sure I'd not be too happy if someone claimed I was heterosexual. After all, just like you, I have an image to uphold. But I don't think I'd sue them. Sweetheart, ambiguity has the chance to double your fanbase. That's what Take That and those first shows in Heaven were all about. Not to mention that video with the jelly and the leather trousers...
"By the almighty! You're right, Piglet" I can hear you think. "But what do I do now?" Well, it just so happens I'm in-between jobs at the moment. I suppose I'd be willing to help you out for a while.. so I propose you fire your manager and your lawyers and hire me. We'll do some shows in Soho, a performance at the next Trouble and take topless pictures of you wrestling your mate Jonathan Wilkes. Sales will soar sweetie, mark my words. And we'll sue anyone who claims we're doing this for the money and that you're secretly only into women.

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Dear Kanaal Twee

What the hell happened to Boston Legal?
I like ER, but I don't need to see it twice a week. I happen to have become rather attached to Denny Crane.

Make things better.

Sincerely pissed off,

Ms Wildebeest.

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strong

I roughly spent about three and a half hours with my mother in the car. It's a miracle I'm still sane.
Even more than a miracle is needed for my dad tomorrow. The surgeon is operating on him tomorrow (two more tears, at the bottom of the eye this time) and will do something with oil that will leave his vision blurry for some six months. Great. He used the words "we hope" and "possibility of failing" rather a lot too, so I don't think my dad's chances are all that great. If this doesn't work, my dad will go blind in his left eye.
I know I'll be lighting a candle in honour of my Gay Messiah tonight. He might fancy my dad and make an extra effort, who knows.

By the way: My sanity can be questioned, seeing as I also tried to reason with a two-year-old having a tantrum today: "What do you mean with "eeeee" C, you'll have to speak clearer, I don't understand."

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Always. Traveling.

This morning we went for our last ever dole stamp. But was there anything to celebrate this joyous occasion? A little ribbon, a biscuit, a drink? No. Nothing. I must say I'm quite disappointed and had expected better.
Cheap bastards.
Like decent unemployed people we went out and spent our money. The girlfriend finally got her new frier, after she burnt the other one to a crisp.
Just one of her many talents!

Unfortunately my dad will have to go back to Bruges for another operation. Tomorrow I'm to drive him for a consultation and then we'll know when they'll admit him again. Apparently he's lost some vision and there's water in his eye. Not nice.

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Recovery

Yesterday evening I was ambushed at Trouble by a man with an M People T-shirt. "Who the fuck is this?" was my first thought. My coca cola-impaired brain couldn't put two and two together until I realised he'd addressed me by "Piglet". It had to be someone off the internet. Judging by the T-shirt, it could only be Fresco. The man paid me a number of compliments to try and lure me into a false web of safety (little did he know compliments make me suspicious, what was he up to: take over my weblog? kidnap me and harvest my eggs? Demand my Little Britain DVD?!) while all I could think was "It's Fresco!". Hence my intellectual capacities were a bit void at the time. There's also the fact that I may have a big mouth once people know me, but if I meet someone for the first time I'm desperately shy.
Poor man.
Thank god I was surrounded by other bloggers so I could introduce him to them. Thank god it was still relatively early so they were all still reasonably sober!

Oh, but Sweetie. I know it was dark there (and I know Littemoose fancies her), but I do not look like Sophie Ellis Bextor. Not in a million years. But thanks anyway.
And how on earth did you recognise me? My PSB T-shirt was nowhere to be seen.

My eyes are still teary from the smoke, my hair's been washed twice but still I smell the odour of cigarettes surrounding me when I move, I washed the clothes we were wearing yesterday and put the coats in the dryer and I've been drinking plenty of water to make up for my (strangely metalic tasting) coca cola binge from yesterday. I'm listening to Rufus Wainwright to come back to earth.
And we're off to Spike's to watch Serenity later today.

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Housewife

This afternoon I proudly exclaimed "your cardie sweater is so soft now I've washed it with the wool programme" to the sweetie. I did another machine of laundry, put it in the dryer and hung up ("I'm hung up on you-ou-ou") the rest. After that we re-potted our plants. I'm not kidding. I've only been unemployed for four days but already I'm gunning for "housewife of the year"! The Sweetie is alternating between insanely jealous and proud. Jealous because she also wants the title and proud because hey, she loves me (and quite rightly so!). Right now she's trying to steal poll position from me by vacuuming... I guess I'll have to take back my place at the top by mopping while she's out driving with Willy (yes, Willy), "Instructor From That Place People with Bad Taste in Cardies live", tomorrow afternoon.
Muhaha! I shall prevail!
But tomorrow morning, we go to the dole for the very last time. I feel honoured to be a part of it, and I have to admit my contract ended at the right time. The very last time waiting in line for a little stamp.
I'll have to let you know what it was like.

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Gay rights for gays!

As you can see here, with bonus points for the site using the word "kerfuffle".

Long live the belgian lower house!
Long live poofters!
Long live dykes!

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