Frailty, thy name is woman, but surely you can forage for a Mint Club?

Holy shit my chi is all wrong this week and there’s heehaw I seem to be able to do about it. Bloody hormones flippetyflopping about all over the bloody place. I know my attitude’s all wrong and I should be “choosing a positive attitude” or some such shite but I’ve a face like a slapped arse and nothing – not even the hypothetical promise of a lifetime supply of deep fried things (if such a wonderful gift were ever to be forthcoming) – could turn my frown upside down. There’s no reason for it so I’ll just have to suck it up until it passes, which it undoubtedly will, and we can all be thankful for that, can we not?

You know your day is going to be irksome when you’ve had your knickers off before 9am and not in a good way. It’s really all downhill from there, innit? You’re left with nowhere to go except Crapmoodville via Shittown. 

To add insult to early morning bare arsed injury (figuratively speaking – that’s not why my knickers were off early doors – I didn’t sustain an injury by sitting on a cold dyke or similar) (I’m aware I’m making no sense. Feel free to stop reading) I’m caught in a hellish loop of jerky buffery adverts on Sky Go trying to watch episode 3 of Game of Thrones, having missed How Scotland Works on BBC2 due to dicking around like a damn fool. This is exactly what my personal hell would be like. Jerky buffery adverts on a loop when you just want to watch some soft porn (Thrones; not How Scotland Works, heaven forfend). I’ve given up. I’m considering a Mint Club which is lurking seductively in the fridge but I’ve no energy to get from here to there. Maybe I’m sickening for something if I can’t even forage for a Mint Club. 

I did make a grown up tea tonight so that’s an achievement compared to last night’s smorgasbord of Heinz Tomato Soup and a couple of cold sausages eaten standing up. 

Right. I’m boring MYSELF rigid writing this so I can’t even start to imagine your rigidity at having to read this tripe. 

Oh I’m all about the self-loathing tonight. 

Outraged from Dumfries

Check the nick of this. This appears to be an artist being promoted by yer man Usher. His name is Rico Love, allegedly. I’m assuming it’s not his actual real name which is probably Gavin or Alan which was dropped for not being bibbety bobbety boo enough so he adopted a stage name inspired by the best roll shop in Dumfries opposite the Academy yonder (Let’s hear it for Rico’s! Mine’s a tattie scone and egg roll and a can o’ Diet Coke – I’m on a diet).

 By the way, no offence to any Gavins or Alans who might be reading this. No wait, I take that back – I was at school with a Gavin and he called me Bugs Bunny on account of my pre-braces teeth but it scarred me for life so UP YOURS Gavin and you can take all the Alans with you an’all because THEY’RE all twats. I condemn you to spend your weekends trailing through garden centres and painting bathrooms to the soundtrack of a nagging wife. HA!  

That got dark quickly. I do apologise. Didn’t sleep too well and woke up facing the mirror which gave me quite a start with my experimental third day hair standing on end. This in turn made me crabbit as it means it’s hair washing day with its associated tuggy nonsense including brushing and endless drying. 

Nespresso’d up to the max – a double shot Arpeggio since you ask – I returned to bed to conduct my morning rounds of social media. Imagine my outrage at this:

As referred to earlier, this is a young upstart protege of Usher (again probably not his real name). This, I’m assuming, is an album cover. The album is no doubt full of young Gavin rapping all that bibbety bobbety boo shite. Why is the woman naked and prone? And why is young Gavin or Alan standing triumphantly with his hands in his pockets, head cocked, as if to say “yeah, I gave her a good seeing to. I was so good she passed out and I threw her clothes over that wall for a laugh?”

In real life I hope he accidentally got off at Kilmarnock when he REALLY WANTED to stay on til Glasgow if you get my drift. (If you don’t get my drift it’s an analogy using the train journey from Dumfries to Glasgow to demonstrate a point, Glasgow being the final destination and Kilmarnock being an earlier stop. Get it now?)

I’m outraged at this picture. It’s offensive and demeaning, innit? If it was a woman breastfeeding it’d be taken down. I hate all this faux gangsta pish. Oh that reminds me, I parked my car beside a young man yesterday with loud “straight from the streets of Compton” music blaring out. He screeched to a halt, jumped out of (probably) his mum’s Ford Fiesta, flamboyantly flicked the key over his shoulder to lock the car (don’t bother trying to impress me son, I’m 53) and swaggered off, pants on show. He stopped suddenly, remembering something, swaggered back to his car and put his parking disc on. I did laugh. Even a badass mofo fae Dumfries needs a parking disc. He ain’t no fool…

Peace up. A-town down. 

Belated Birthday greetings, Ryan!

i almost forgot!  I was in Nona Lou’s yesterday (eating gluten free toast, having decided after a pastry induced episode of bloat that I was wheat intolerant. Yes, it appears I’ve become one of those annoying people who say “ooooh I can’t tolerate wheat, it bloats me, I’ll just have some waffer thin ham”. I couldn’t be prouder. 

There’s no scientific basis for this self-diagnosis. I’m just showing off. I’ll tell you what though – I feel better for it. (That’s possibly the most shitawful boring thing I’ve ever said, apart from “wait til I tell you about my dream last night”) That said, in approximately 3 hours I fully intend to hork down a scone and butter. Quid pro quo, Clarice, or some shit. 

So there was I, righteously poking down gluten free toast and very much enjoying a double cappuccino when the Nona half of Nona Lou’s informs me that her partner Ryan enjoys my blog regularly and chortles away as he reads it out loud to her. That won’t be in the least bit annoying for her, will it?  Having me barge in to her relationship when she least expects it, saying vagina all over the bladdy place. And guess what? It was Ryan’s birthday yesterday! I thought it would be fun to wish Ryan happy birthday on the blog, just to surprise him. So happy belated birthday Ryan! That dog definitely has a bit of Alsatian in it…

I’ve a whole heap of stuff to blog, mostly about Tucker, who has been a shit this week, but it’s hair washing day which means a battle with the Tangle Teaser and much whining. (My hair,  not Tucker’s), and I haven’t had my Nespresso yet. 

A rootle through my drawers

My sleep pattern is all topsyturvy again. I suspect I’d’ve slept through the night if it hadn’t been for Tucker dramatically and noisily trying to burrow under the duvet with his comedy cone of shame at 2am. So here I am, blogging like an idiot. 

I lay there in the dark for ten minutes wondering whether I fancied tea, toast, a fagatthebackdoor or a rootle through the lidless Tupperware box of pharmaceuticals that lives atop the fridge. (I moved it there after worrying that Tucker would develop opposable thumbs and work out how to open the kitchen drawer and carefully unscrew all the lids off the bottles in the same way I worried that he’d open the kitchen cupboard where the bleach lives and unscrew the childproof and adultproof top off the bleach with his overevolved wee paws before drinking it, god forbid). 

Bringing up Tucker has been a rockier road than bringing up two humans; my approach to child rearing was gung-ho at best – I shudder to think what their upbringing would’ve been like if mobile phones and the Internet had been around in the olden days, when I was breeding. 

So I staggered to the kitchen for a rootle at 2am, stopping only to stand on the upturned Hoover plug, trying to decide what pharmaceuticals I might be in need of in the same way you ask in a pub what flavour crisps they have so they rattle off a comprehensive list “salt and vinegar, cheese ‘n’ onion, ready salted, Worcester sauce, tomato ketchup…” and you go “have you nae smokey bacon?” I necked a couple of Kalms if you must know. 

I suspect my teatime nana nap did me no favours. I fell asleep at 6, knowing full well I’d to be at a thing by 7, at which I may have been required to deliver some opening remarks. Full of faux bravado, I set my alarm for 630, and emboldened by the power nap, snoozed it for another ten minutes. Finally woke up in a bit of a panic at 640 going “FUUUUCK! FUUUUUCK!” to myself and basically jumped in the car. Rocked up to The Thing all crabbit and shrill at 7, tutting at everyone and being unreasonable. 

Things I hate today:

1. When a thing starts at 7.30, why do people turn up at 7? There’s nothing guaranteed to make me passive aggressively look at my imaginary watch and loudly proclaim to anyone within earshot “what time do we kick off again? Oh 730? And what time is it now? Oh it’s only 7? Righto”

2. When I’ve hummus in the fridge but nothing to dip in it. Yes I’ve carrots but nobody needs that level of negativity on a Sunday morning. Raw carrots. Nah. 

3. Standing on upturned plugs 

Big fat hairy deal, NASA. 

Top NASA scientist says that they’re on the verge of finding alien life. 

Is it just me or is everybody thinking that when they finally have that eureka moment and announce they’ve found evidence of alien life elsewhere in’t universe and it turns out to be just like microbes or plants and not a person-like fully formed alien able to communicate via oh I don’t know an Etch-a-Sketch or something, it’ll be a bit of an anti climax? I’ll probably be watching it on the news and go “Oh big fat hairy deal. Show me a little green man, or ET, or a replicant and not just like plants and shit – THEN we’ll talk” through a mouthful of crisps. I don’t cope well with disappointment. It comes from being youngest of three and constantly being disappointed. I was born disappointed. Disappointed is my middle name. Well, it’s not literally “Lindsey Disappointed Mason”. I’m speaking figuratively. But anyway, NASA, shit off to Shitsville with your shitty microbes discoveries. Nobody cares. We want Richard Dreyfuss carving hills out of mashed potato. We want flying saucers made out of shiny metal the likes of which we’ve never seen so we can get our hands on it to make truly non-stick frying pans with. 

(Apologies for saying shit before 7am. At least it’s not vagina. Woops. It is now. To be fair, the last time I said vagina in a blog was about twenty blogs ago.)

Spider update

Aforementioned exotic looking spider in post box appears to have died. It could be faking it. All the news, as it happens, right here. 

While I’m on, I’m a fan of the foam shrimp. I’ve never really grown up, confectionery-wise. I purchased a packet today in M&S for 70p and cracked them open on the way back to the office. Had a slump at about 3pm which consisted of feelings of extreme lethargy, cotton woolly brain and a bit of a “whitey”. I’m blaming the foam shrimps. They’re clearly completely poisonous to the over 50s. Lesson learned. 

Spider still dead. 

Nowt much on. 

I’ve nowt much on tonight. Hallebloodylujah. I’ve nowt much on engagement-wise I mean; I’m not partially clad. (Although I do tend to remove tights and pants in a oner and throw them across the bedroom with gay abandon as soon as I cross the threshold of the house ( in the way, not out the way – I’m many things but I’m not an exhibitionist, damn you. Don’t visualise any of this, it’ll just put you off your mince and tatties) CLOSE MULTIPLE BRACKETS ))). 

I loathe and detest having stuff on on school nights. I always regret planning social activities and will do my utmost to get out of a thing as the agreed hour approacheth. I live in hope that the other person texts me first with a pathetic excuse so I can feign disappointment, but that rarely happens. Bastards. Surely the world is full of people grudgingly schlepping their way to a social engagement (“oh come for tea next Monday! We’d LOVE to see you!”) wishing that the world would end or something equally dramatic that overrides all diaried appointments? Surely. 

This must be linked to my procrastination gene. (I got all the shit genes passed down including my dad’s legs – it’s Cankle City Arizona here) I once hoped a person would die so I wouldn’t have to do a work thing for him I’d procrastinated over for a year and a half. I’m a horrible person. I just hoped he’d die without having left a record of our discussion and subsequent action points. I’d’ve punched the air in triumph if I’d had a phone call to say “Oh Lindsey I’ve some terrible news…C**** M***** died suddenly this morning. A very tragic accident involving his tie and the office shredder”. I never understood the brief anyway so when I eventually did the thing it was all wrong, but I moved on from it very rapidly, box duly ticked. I suspect he’s still alive just to spite me, simmering with lingering resentment about my inability to understand basic instruction and the length of time it took me to produce a frankly well below average piece of work. I still wake up with the fear occasionally about that, toes curling with embarrassment. (I woke up with the fear this morning about an embarrassing alcohol induced impromptu interpretive dance I did on Saturday night to the White Horses theme tune from the eponymous seventies badly dubbed TV prog, but that’s quite literally another story). 

In other news Tucker had the run of the house today. I was leaving for work and the little shit ran under my bed before I could start the kettling process which involves luring him from room to room, shutting doors behind him until we reach the lockdown point (kitchen). I could not be arsed trying to get him from under the bed so just left him free range. When I opened the front door, yanking off pants and tights before the door shut behind me, he was there to greet me with my toothbrush in his mouth, which he’d obviously looted from the suitcase I’d abandoned at the front door last night after my weekend away. Ha! I did laugh!

In other other news there’s a rather exotic looking spider in my letterbox. May be somebody’s pet. 

Started this last night. Makes no sense now because I mention times. 

I found myself stuck between a rock and a hard place today.  I jumped into an unfamiliar car (not illegally – I wasn’t joyriding – I’m fifty odd you know – and you don’t need to get bogged down with the detail. Suffice to say it was a car with which I was not familiar and let’s just leave it at that, because frankly it’s just after 11pm and we’ve all had a hard day, emotions are running high and we all need some kip, so the sooner we get this story over and done with the sooner we can all get some shut eye) (syntax confusion again – sorry – I’m just going to start a new sentence and paragraph and hope for the best that you can work out where one set of brackets finishes and another starts). 

Here’s the new sentence, and indeed paragraph. So I jumped into an unfamiliar car. Now usually I’m fine with a manual transmission given that my own vehicle is an automatic (just one of several quirky features including a passenger door which requires prising open with a kirby grip if a passenger unfamiliar with the passengerdoorquirk squeezes the handle which would be the usual modus operandi for entering a vehicle as a passenger but in the case of my car necessitates the following passive aggressive one sided exchange:

Me: “oh just FYI don’t squeeze the passenger door handle from the outside because… oh you’ve already squeezed it right hang on, let me get out of the car, stomp over to your side in the pissing rain and deploy the kirby grip kept in my bra for just such an emergency” 


Righto for the third time…I jump into the unfamiliar car, start her up after performing the usual perfunctory checks like adjusting the rear view mirror to ensure that it is indeed correctly angled for both admiring self and seeing out of the back window, and proceed to drive off. Reach for handbrake. There isn’t one. At this stage my feet are confused as to what pedals are the clutch and the brake (non drivers – I realise this story is probably over your head so feel free to go and oh I don’t know do an online Tesco shop or some shit). I search in vain for the handbrake. I search again for the handbrake. Notice a bizarre lever under steering wheel that has a big letter P on it. Pull it. Hear clunky sound. Assume handbrake now disengaged. Breathe sigh of relief. Realise am pointing down a slight slope and there’s a car 3 inches in front. Further realise that have forgotten what to do next, flummoxed by the whole “lever marked P” thing. Decide to engage handbrake and start again. Remember there is no handbrake. (Feet still on clutch and brake – they decide that now is a good time to feel a bit numb). Grab lever marked P. Do a bit of pushing and pulling to no avail. Feel like am in film Speed like housewives’ favourite Keanu Reeves (or was it Sandra Bullock driving the bus?). Panic. Phone a friend. Friend comes. 

“Get out”, says he. “I’ll deal with it”

“Can’t get out” says I, “feet on clutch and brake”. 

“Oh” says he, climbing in to passenger side (thankfully there’s no stab inducing door quirk or I’d be there yet, crying in a pool of my own wee)

Friend, who knows thing or two about cars beyond my tyre kicking and mirror adjusting knowledge, mooches around the driver footwell. Spots a fourth pedal. 

“Put your foot on that pedal”, says he. 

“Can’t” says I. “I’ve only got two feet and they’re both kinda busy stopping me hurtling into that Ford Fiesta three inches away”. 

“Trust me, says he. “Knock the car out of gear, foot off clutch and on to that fourth pedal”

“What’s the clutch again?” says I, now paralysed with anxiety and wishing a policeman, or my mum*, or YOUR mum, or somebody who can make this  fandango stop, would walk past. 

“Your left foot” says he, unhelpfully. 

I eventually remember what my clutchfoot is and try to move it with the power of my mind (foot numb). Somehow manage to remove it and gingerly push the weird fourth pedal. FINALLY! 

Allow friend (don’t know why I’m not talking in sentences but it’s too late to start now) to reverse car further up road away from collision course towards Ford Fiesta. I get back in and practice the procedure for disengaging and engaging the nonexistent fucking handbrake which seems to require all my limbs and some I don’t have (hurry UP, evolution) and drive off. Arrive at destination half an hour later having worried for whole journey about stopping car. Realise have forgotten procedure so drive to a flat bit of road and sit for what seems like an eternity before basically just stalling the car. 

I don’t need this kind of shit in my life. Funny thing is I had a premonition that something would happen before leaving the office but a) I’m a catastrophist and b) it’s probably just confirmation bias, which is a thing I’m now applying to everything since I read about it. 

*this would be an Easter miracle.