Hello! I just dropped in to tell you about the alternative bucket list I’ve started. It’s not exhaustive and is very much a work in progress.
Must dash – I’ve just necked a Sleepeaze and feel it working its magic already.
My bucket/ fucket list.
- Roll naked on wet grass, while laughing like a drain.
- Go a day without rolling my eyes or saying FOR FUCKSAKE.
- Eat a deep fried macaroni pie in batter. Maybe two.
- Throw a chair at a big window.
- Motorboat Dolly Parton.
- Get an ASBO
- Cut a ponytail off without the owner’s consent.
- Sweep a shelf of overpriced tatt in a posh shop on to the floor while shouting “YER STUFF’S SHITE” at the top of my voice.
- Pour a drink over somebody’s head.
- Not end up in prison for any of the above.
- Set off a fire extinguisher to see what the stuff looks like.
- Pull the emergency cord on a train. (Is that even still a thing?)
- Have a tiger anaesthetised so I can cuddle the shit out of it.
What’s on your bucket/fucket list?
Well here we are again on board the old Insomnia Express to Shitty Street, Menopausetown. Come, sit by me – let us talk of hot flushes, night sweats, crazyarse dreams, high blood pressure, imaginary ailments, runaway weight gain, mood swings, brittle nails and free floating anxiety, not to mention the dry skin and umm orifices, for want of a better word.
I loathe and detest this. I’ve run out of podcasts and radio programmes to listen to to help me drift off. I need white noise, it seems.
I could just get up and go to work but a) nobody tends to get married at 2am and b) if for some reason they did, I doubt they’d want a torn faced sweaty insomniac in a Tesco nightie crabbitly pronouncing them married. (I know! It’s mental! Old Lindsey Two Jobs marrying folk! It still amazes me that an idiot like me is allowed to do it. I get really bad imposter syndrome. I basically just go “yadda yadda yadda, by the power of Grayskull I blah blah blah…BOOM – yer married”. It’s a weird thing, innit? Yet it’s such a privilege. Most enjoyable. What a time to be alive. Actually what a time to be awake, never mind alive.
I’ve a craving for something sweet like oh I don’t know a three day old Tesco Finest salted caramel cookie but no wait Tucker (and it’s no coincidence his name rhymes with that word) stole the bag off the kitchen table and ate it while I was bringing in the wheelie bin. Nutella jar and a spoon it is, then. And a podcast. Sleep well. Oh, you ARE? Ah. Just me then. I’m not even jealous. Nuh uh. Not me. No.
Yes I’m back on the subject of wishing and yes I’m wishing for a spiraliser. What of it? There’s always room for another gadget in the house of profligacy. I read an article about spiralisers in a Sunday Supplement (on Sunday, funnily enough) and at first made that face – the one I usually make when the Bublé or the Kylie comes on my telly – then thought “wait a jolly well minute – this gadget is just the thing to make my life complete! I could make spaghetti out of for example courgette. Once. Then shove it in the utility room where all the dust gathering gadgets go to die. Hello popcorn maker that looks like a duck! Hello potato ricer that turns perfectly acceptable potato into maggot shaped potato!
Actually I’ve gone off that idea already. Forget it. I almost never eat courgettes anyway.
In Tucker related news he’s conspicuous by his absence this morning. He’s usually burrowed under my duvet at this time of the morning, bandy legs akimbo, but there’s no sign of him. I’d the offspring here last night so he’s probably burrowed under somebody else’s duvet this morning, exhausted from a Saturday night spent dragging pants out of the washing basket and parading them round the house like trophies. He’ll be back in his rightful place tonight, being all prodigal dog-gy.
It’s only the most ridiculous purchase I’ve ever made (apart from the anatomically correct heart brooch I bought that Debz McDozey thought was a vagina* when I wore it to Mrs Green’s Tea Lounge. Why would I wear a vagina* brooch? Don’t answer that).
Yup. He’s back. He must be dizzy. It might be my imagination but he looks a bit pissed off. I’m certainly pissed off that he’s back.
In other news I’ve just been out for tea. Came back starving. Ate four mini sausage rolls.
Anyway if you fancy a dinosaur necklace – and why wouldn’t you – apply within. Yours for the bargain price of £100. (That means I’ll pay YOU £100 to take it away)
*(Rachael! Hannah! Mummy’s saying vagina again!)
I’m entering a competition to write a column for a magazine despite the fact that:
A) I have no idea what to write and very much doubt that words like vagina, fuck and shit would be either printworthy or acceptable.
B) The minute I’m required to do something it stops being fun (except possibly being a taste tester in a crisp factory or being paid to roll around on a carpet made of bubble wrap, naked)
I’ve started half a dozen entries but abandoned them after a paragraph. I think the problem is that I’m fundamentally really happy at the moment. I think I must need to be tortured and gloomy to write anything. Any ideas?
Please leave comments below. I’ve procrastinated over this for about a month and the closing date is this Friday. The hurly burly of my social life means that I only really have tomorrow night to knock something out so please hurry. Help me Obi-Wan Kenobi you’re my only hope.
If you’re reading this via a link on Facebook or the Twitter please leave comment HERE not THERE or I’ll never see them. If you suggest something I can use I’ll give you a free signed copy of my forthcoming book* delivered to you by Tucker dressed as a shark on the back of a Roomba, thus:
If I knew how to embed the video instead of the link I totally would but I’m typing this on my phone and am suffering from the carbs bloat, Sunday night existential angst, separation anxiety, post-natal depression (from 25 years ago) and Munchausens by proxy.
*Or I would, but I don’t have a forthcoming book.
When the inevitable happens and I keel over with my leg in the air – because two things in life are certain – death and taxes- (And the phenomenon of feeling better the morning of a doctor’s appointment, or unexpected visitors *stab stab stab them to death* when you’re mid Netflix binge and a six pack of Magnums in your pants and a t-shirt, sans bra, or your hair looks fanfuckingtastic the day before a long awaited hair appointment) my obituary will read thus:
Lindsey E Mason: 1961 – 20XX
“She never knowingly under-reacted”
I’m not proud of the ease with which I can ahem gently segue from calm and controlled to batshit. It doesn’t take much. I almost always regret it, but not always. I kinda enjoy it. I’m worried though that meltdowns are like alcoholism – you start off with a wee glass of wine at night then before you know where you are you’re having vodka for breakfast and drinking oh I don’t know hairspray.
What, then, is the next step for a menopausal lunatic like me? Genocide? It’s a worry. The reason I’ve brought this topic up is that I had a good meltdown today. Most satisfactory. Very pleasing in actual fact. It was over that bastard dinosaur necklace. (I told you it had more comebacks than Frank Sinatra. If you don’t know the story read a previous post but why would you? It’s boring the arse off me, so christ knows how you must be feeling). The company now want me to PAY to have the bloody thing sent back to me! The cheek of it! I gave them a piece of my mind on the phone though, don’t you worry about that. I even said “I’m kind of a big deal in the world of blogging you know, and I SHALL be blogging about this”, despite the fact that this is obviously a lie. My blog has 19 followers. NINETEEN. 19 followers and I think I’m it. I slammed the phone down, metaphorically, I was on my mobile. Five minutes later my phone rang and I recognised the number as theirs. “Ha!” I thought triumphantly; “they’ve had a change of heart now that they’re aware I’m kind of a big deal in the world of blogging. They’ve obviously googled me and can’t take the chance that a high profile blogger like me could take their company down to Chinatown with just a few clever words”.
Me: “Hello Lindsey Mason speaking”
Them: “Hello this is Julie again from customer care at Overpriced Jewellery for Wankers. I’m sorry but I’ll need to take your card details again for the return postage. The card machine didn’t work first time”
Well, you can imagine my response. Suffice to say (I bloody love saying that) it’s now being returned FREE OF BLOODY CHARGE OH YES IT IS. Not that I want the fucker back but it’s the principle innit?
I wake up during the night a lot. Specifically I wake up at 02:30 a lot but that might just be confirmation bias – I pick up my phone, note the time, (2:30 in the ayy emm, nine times out of ten) and thrust the phone into a baffled, sleeping Tucker’s face while going “see? It’s bloody half two in the morning AGAIN and I’m awake” which usually makes him growl before sighing and rolling over on to his back with his bandy wee legs in the air, urine stained winky hair glinting in the moonlight. Tucker’s a dog by the way. Felt need to clarify.
The awake at 2.30 thing happened again yesterday morning. Another strange thing I’ve noticed is that I wake up starving. Maybe that’s WHY I wake up. I doubt it though – I don’t have mealtimes as such – preferring instead to have one long continuous day long sweet/savoury/sweet/savoury binge.
I woke up hangry at 02.30 yesterday and remembered there was Mars Bar crispy cake in the fridge. So I tidied up the raggedy edge of it and then cut it into a nice square shape. Then I just smoothed off another couple of rough edges leaving a pleasing rhomboid shape, returning to bed triumphant and riding the crest of a big chocolatey sugar rush.
I wonder if I’m sleepwalking? Is that possible? It always feels a bit dreamlike when the alarm goes off and I half remember eating my way through the fridge in the dead of night like Nigella. Nutella more like.
Stop Press – I just broke the pattern. I woke up at 4.29 (after a panic inducing sweaty nightmare that makes you realise all the insecurities you thought you were successfully hiding from the world are actually floating above your head in a speech bubble for all the world to see, making you want your mummy at 5 in the morning). To calm down I’m listening to a TED talk on teaching monkeys how to use money. Interested to see how it pans out. Maybe they could teach me, if it becomes a proper methodology because I sure as shit might as well be a monkey jabbing indiscriminately at the buttons on an ATM given the money I’m haemorrhaging out of my account on ill-considered pointless stuff eg Perspex Tyrannosaraus Rex necklaces.
I wished for this thing.
I do love a statement necklace and this one certainly makes a bold statement. What that statement is remains unclear. I’m a palaeontologist? I’ve too much money? (I haven’t – I’m just a buffoon with the money I do have and have to fling it at things like a man wi’ nae airms as Marlene used to say (Dawkins rest her soul)
I practically wore out the bloody website over a period of several months looking at this necklace – wishing for it, coveting it, flirting with it, visualising it ‘ponst my chest, adding it to basket, abandoning the basket, rinse and repeat times about ahunnerandtwenny. I finally purchased it three weeks ago during a 20% aff everything day. Guess what? I didn’t like it. It was jaggy. And not worth what I paid for it, in my very own humble opinion.
I tried it on and ponced around the house for a while, admiring myself in shiny surfaces, decided I didn’t like it resting on my matron shelf before finally packaging it back up and schlepping it to the post office to return it by Special Delivery which cost me seven of your British pounds thank you very much and waited patiently for the hundred odd pounds (I know. I’m a bloody fool and a profligate one at that) to slither back in to my bank account.
Imagine my dismay then to receive an email from the company yesterday to say that they were unable to refund the necklace because “it looked like it had been worn”! Bastards! Of course I’d worn it – I tried it on for chrissake.
So they’re sending it BACK to me. Bloody stupid necklace. It’s had “mair comebacks than Frank Sinatra”, again as Marlene used to say (Dawkins etc…)
The moral of the story? I don’t know yet, but I’ll bloody find one. Something about be careful what you wish for because you might not get your money back and it’ll turn in to a fucking albatross round your neck – or in this case a perspex Tyrannosaur Rex?
Yeah that works.