typical arguement with my mother: type #1

In which my mother comes into my room to complain about lodger/solicitor/sister/ex boyfriend/family..

'I'm not gossiping, but...... *airs misgivings.*'

'Well you are a bit. Little bit gossipy.'

'No, it's not gossip, I just wanted to tell you that......*misgivings*'

'Well, I really don't want to get involved but, *suggests course of action*'

'No! That's not at all what I want to do about it. You're so hard about things. Why can't you be nice? Why can't you say 'oh, mummy, poor you, yes I can see why that's so hard/difficult/mean/uncalled for/unreasonable.'

'.........beeeecaaaause.... I don't think it is hard/difficult/mean/uncalled for/unreasonable.  *thinks... i think you might be being unreasonable.....*'

'Yes, but don't you see *repeats misgivings. Twice. Minimum*'

'Right, so, if it's a problem, why don't you do something about it?'

'WHY AREN'T YOU SYMPATHISING WITH MY PLIGHT???!!!!!!'

'.....there's a plight?'

'SAY YOU AGREE WITH ME!'

'but I don't.... I think you're wrong.'

'YOU DON'T LOVE ME'

'No, I just can't relate to your 'problem'. I offered you my opinion on it...?'

'You didn't say how sorry you were about my PLIGHT'

'Because... *sigh*. You don't want to hear my opinion if it doesn't match yours. That's not really how conversations work.......would it be better if I lied?'

'I think you should move out. You're a terrible person.'

*FACEPLANTS DESK*

This wasn't meant to happen....

I haven't exactly achieved my goals recently.

• Move out of my squat style wreck of a house.      .....Well....yes...but....I moved back to my Mum's..
• Move to London.           .......yeah..... about that......
• Get a job in London.            ........or... I could get a job in the local village....
• Work as a live in au pair or housekeeper.         ..............or.....as a barmaid. Barmaid is... fine.....?
• Stay single.                              ...........yeah... well.... we're not... exclusive... I don't think. ...
• Learn to drive.                  ....I'm getting there! Gimme half a minute. I'll book a lesson.....Soon..
• Lose weight.                     ........................PIE!.................

So, yeah. Apparently, I'm staying put a little longer. And.... *cough cough mumble* erm... *cough splutter learning to be a dominatrix mumble mumble*
What? Did somebody say something? I didn't hear that. What? Never mind then! Can't have been important! I'll be over here if you need anything! *innocent whistle, skips into the distance*


I did do a lot of thinking about what the boy had said about male submission. Not a subject I'm well versed in. I did my research. (I do love my research) I read things. I watched things. I thought about it. About him. About it in general, meh, take or leave it. About it in relation to him.... I got to admit... it did kinda start doing something for me!
Unexpectedly I found myself getting into the idea - whether it'll be a case of liking the theory over the practice remains to be seen - it might end up me with stage fright - standing there, proverbial (or otherwise) whip in hand, suddenly running out shouting 'I can't do this!'.
But, it does appeal a little to the more dramatic side of my nature. (Me? Dramatic? Dahhhling, PLEASE! Don't be so ridiculous! Drama queen? Rubbish! *flounces out*)
And I have to admit. With a body like his, he would look very good tied down and blindfolded. (look at the pretty! I get to PLAY! My shiny pretty plaything, mine!)
I generally only really go for big men. Tall, 6'1 minimum. Broad build. Big hands. Powerful. Essentially, men who look like they could physically overpower me with ease, because, while I'm submissive, I'm not an easy sub. I'm not meek and mild. I don't give in without a fight. 'Want to spank me? Got to catch me first, motherfucker! *runs for life*'
I wriggle. I tease. I make them fight for supremacy even though I have no interest in actually being top dog myself. The idea of dominating a man like that... hmm. Turn off, somehow. Yes, I like having them wrapped around my finger, but I want the rope wrapped around me too, not them.

But the boy... the boy is different. He's a little more compact. At only 2 inches taller than me, I can look him in the eyes. It's a more even match. He's fair game. (still x10 stronger than me, but shhhhh) I can get my hands around his wrists. I don't have to crane up to kiss him. We're on a level. And he is gorgeous. (And I'm hoping him not being massively tall will have the added bonus of shower sex without me getting 3 day backache. One lives in hope...)

I think maybe.... there may be a new side of me coming out to play......

.....is that it? Seriously?

Really???

I may have just become the man in the relationship. With a man.
So, yay, I have tamed 'the boy'. The boy comes to my house for the weekend. We go to bed.
Him: Yeah. I'm reaaally tired. Didn't sleep well. *peck on lips* G'night!
Me: *startled look on face. Tries to bury naughty thoughts.* Really? Oh. Oh.....Ok.
Decide I'm clearly hideous, or, having had to meet my mother coming over to mine, have utterly put him off. Sleep, and stew about the lack of sex, and resolve to end things the next day (or, if my mother was to blame, arrange to have her shot.)  This angry stewing means I have seriously bizarre dreams, involving various methods of him leaving, and wake several times in the night alarmed that the next morning hasn't happened yet, and suprised he's still sleeping soundly curled up next to me.
You hear that? Sleeping soundly. Yeah. How about that. No sign of insomnia now you've rejected my advances. AGAIN.
(Might have failed to mention the refusal to engage in special cuddles last time I saw him.. he cited it being a sunday night, and the need to get up early to decline sex. He went to have a shower (not that I'd had a chance to get him sweaty) and I (having been wanting to jump him the whole evening) sorted myself out. And I slept very well that night, thankyouverymuch.)
Not really a great start to what might be the beginnings of a relationship...
Although credit to the boy, he did make up for it in the morning. But still. New relationship? Whole weekend together? one quickie? That's it? I was feeling a little short changed.
I made him talk about it. What the hell is wrong, huh? HUH? Whatarewedoing?

• Turns out the boy is a little kinky. Well, hell, that's fine.
• Boy has same kink as me. Well hellooooo sailor*! we gonna get it ON! 

                         (*my kink is not sailors. I'd like to make that clear. Think of the song lyric 'in the navy....'. You with me? Yeah. Exactly. Totally not my thing.)

• Boy and I share more than that. We're on the same side of the kink.    ....oh.

Yeah, brain, that's what I thought. Oh. Bugger. How the hell is that going to work? Two submissives in bed? *imagines tumbleweed blowing across room*. Yeah. Oh. Two doms, fur will fly. Two subs... yeah. Hmm.

We decided to sleep on it. I decided to think hard on it....

I mean... the boy is pretty. Would be a shame to let him slip away.....

Oh my god, oh my god, yes, yes, YES!

found here.
I think I might get a little bloggy-crush on her..she even uses the stabby picture at the top of my blog as her profile picture *magic happy love thoughts*
And, that is an AWESOME use for a dead squirrel. And we all know I love dead things.
Incidently, I gutted and skinned my first rabbit with G the other day. I screamed and squirmed like a little girl handled it really well. Yeah. Professional like. And didn't make the head talk. Or the skinless corpse dance. ...Honest. *whistles and looks at the sky*

Sexual healing. It's not working....

When I wrote this post, I didn't expect it to come back and bite me in the ass. (Unfortunately, not literally. I'm yet to feel him nibble anything.)
I'm dating/seeing/bedding/getting cosy with (I'll delete as appropriate, just as soon as I work that out) a great guy. He's funny, he listens, he remembers things, he's considerate, incredibly good looking, and clearly a great catch. If you can keep a hold of him. He also seems to be slippery and evasive when it comes to contact, decisions, or direct questions. But that's another story.

What I wanted, what I needed was to find a man who wanted to look after my needs. Who's aim in life bed was to treat me right. And, in this cute young thing, I have found it. He's committed to making sure I have a good time. By asking continuously. And approaching foreplay in a rather organised fashion. With military precision. And possibly a checklist that I can't see.
And sulking if I don't achieve by his carefully planned schedule.
And refusing to actually have sex if I haven't hit my happy place beforehand.
This rather puts pressure on me. And nothing happens.
Which means I'm left without.. anything. As is he. But he won't let me do anything about it. Because that 'wouldn't be fair.' FUCK FAIR! I want sex! My enjoyment be damned, I want to see him enjoy something!
There's got to be a happy medium out there somewhere.

In my quest to make things good with him, I'm starting to think outside the box. Maybe things would be better, more fluid and easier between us if we were to lose the condoms? They do tend to put a bit of a dampener on the whole occassion... wet patch avoidance aside..
So, off to the GU clinic just to put my mind at ease I'm ready to rock; clean, healthy, coil still doing it's job...

I forgot how embarrassing these appointments could be. I'm good at talking straight about icky things, I'm even pretty stoical about stripping off, getting my feet in the stirrups and showing off my lady-garden to all and sundry (I do this by inducing an out of body experience and talking about socks and the weather with the doctor while secretly repeating the mantra 'this isn't happening, this isn't happening' in my head. Please. Try it. It helps.)
But when it comes to taking down my sexual history... even I lose my nerve.

'So, any particular concerns to warrent a check up?'
'Er, nope, just... a new partner. I want to lose the condoms.'
'Ok, how long have you been with him?'
'Well... not.. exactly.. I don't know. Couple of weeks? Three? Not... really... sure.. if he's a... thing... or... if we're going anywhe...'
'How long have you been having sex with him?'
'Oh. Erm, 2 weeks. Probably.'
'OK. Has he had a check up already?'
'Well, it's not really something we've talked about... I'm not sure if he want's a relatio... er, no. He hasn't.'
'And, in the past 6 months, have you had sex with anyone before that?'
'Er, yes.'
'What was his name?'
'His name? er... M.'
'And before him? Anyone else?'
'Er.. yes.'
'Name?'
'F....why do you need their names? Do I have to go through it?'
'Just so you know who you need to contact if you have anything. It's not that I'm sitting here going 'goodness she's been busy!' I'm not judging,you can say Tom Dick and Harry if you want, just as long as you know who Tom Dick and Harry are. So, before F, anyone else in the last 6 months?'
'Tom.'
'Oh, there was a Tom? Really? Haha, didn't mean to say Tom, Dick and Harry then...'
'Well, there definitely hasn't been a Harry. Clearly.. there has been a few dicks...'
'Anyone else?'
'*forgets a name* erm... yes... there's... *counts on fingers*.... I mean... really? Do I have to carry on? Can we just agree to leave it at there's been a few, but I've always been safe with them?'
'Well... yes...'
'Excellent. Can we move on?'
'So, how many, shall we say.. 5 or 6 partners?'
'whoa... seems a bit high.... *counts in head, remembers someone else, realises that's a rather low estimation* err..... yeeessss.... 5 or 6.... that's.... fiiiine......'
'OK. Let's get on with the physical checks. You're quite tall, aren't you? I'll find the extra large speculum...'
'HUH????! WHATSAYNOW? Nonononononoooo.....'

Extra large?! She was sooooo judging me. I was judging me too by the time I left her office.

I wish......

.......that one single potential employer would look beyond the fact I have dreadlocks and give me a fucking job.
At least, I think that's the reason I'm turned down.... well.
 Not even turned down.
What happens, is I have a fantastic interview, we both make really positive noises about our future working together, we say we'll talk tomorrow with a definite plan/start date/agreement, and then I never hear from them again.
So I ring. And I ring. And I leave a message. Then a text. Then ring again. Maybe an email. None of this in a stalker-ish fashion, reasonable distances between calls, being perfectly polite...
I hear nothing.
I say I loved their family. I say how warm and welcoming they were. I say what a joy they'd be to work for. I say I'm not looking for much money. I say how adorable the kids are.
I hear nothing.
I say look, even if you've decided to go for someone else, could you just let me know for certain, so I can line other interviews up?
I hear nothing.
I might finally get through.
Oh, so sorry, driving right now, I'll ring you right back.
I hear nothing.
Ok. Well. I get it. You don't want me for the job. But could you please, please, have the common courtesy to reject me to my face when we've specifically said we will talk the next day. That is just rude, and ill-mannered, and I'm sure your pampered children will grow up to be horrible people with such charming guidance from their morally fucked up middle class parents.

I wish...
... that I wasn't feeling increasingly compelled to cut off my hair and to take out the most obvious of my piercings. The liberated, open minded, well off, successful, wouldn't-dream-of-being-un-PC middle classes are not, apparently, ready to accept me as I am, even after days previous to the interview of gushing amazement at my reference and CV. Not even after their children have flung their arms around me and said they really like me and have force fed me ice-cream. Not even after saying it was so lovely to meet me, and goodness, haven't I done well to run my own business so young, and aren't I a refreshing change. The door still gets slammed.
Just say it. You don't think my image fits with your Conrad shop sofa and pale beige walls.
You don't think my hippy hair has a place at the table.
You don't think the other mums would like the look of me pushing your pram.
Just say it to my face.

D - the man who killed me. (potentially)

The job hunt continues.  I got a very interesting sound response to my

‘AIIIIHHH  AAAM SUPPAAAAAHHHWOMHAAAAN’ ad on a job search site.

A man called me. Let's call him D. Was I interested as working as a housekeeper/ cleaner/ PA/ waitress as a live in position in a glamorous part of London. Was I? I was! I can do all these things! And what’s that? You’re a single man? There are no children? I get to iron shirts? Bring it on!

The conversation got quite involved about living arrangements and the like...

‘If, ah, you know, are you happy to.. keep yourself to yourself if ah... ah ha... um, say if I gave you 20 quid, to go and have dinner, stay out for the evening,  ‘make yourself scarce’ if I had for example...things...ah..... a hot date...’

Ah, yes, gotcha. Yup. You got it. Gimme cash. I’ll keep shtum. ( ****UPDATE**** G has just informed me this hot date may be code for 'when i hire a prostitute'. And, on reflection, I think she may have a point. I've seen a photo of this guy.)

Then the curious.... ‘I’d try to be a gracious host as well as an employer, make sure you had everything you needed, if you were short on money...’

What. Extra to my actual pay? That’s generous... oh... wait... is this a... mistress thing?

And then curiouser....

‘....would you be happy to wear a uniform?..’

Beg pardon.... what was that? If he’s thinking French maid, I’m thinking blackmail. Or colossal hike in my prices.

Apparently he’s just ‘old-fashioned’. (what, cane not cattle prod?)

He likes to keep the boundaries clear with live in staff. ‘Respect’, ‘servitude’, ‘knowing who’s boss’...these are words and phrases that were all used.

But, OK. I can get that. I see his – slightly strange and old fashioned – reasoning.

And then the phone calls start. 3 more that evening with add on information. OK, so this guy is thorough.

And then the texts begin. Here they are. With my wishful replies. Of course, my actual replies were actually rather more ‘respectful’.

22.24 – Thank you for responding so quickly and respectfully. See you next Wednesday, 2pm, prompt. You have an impressively respectful manner and I am sure you will find working for me an interesting challenge.

What is it with the respect? What does this guy want? Me to get down and lick his boots? Because, again, MASSIVE pay rise needed. An interesting challenge, eh? Buddy, I feel you. I’m getting that impression all too soon.(At this point, with only a first name and rough address to go on, I start googling the hell out of him. I have to know who he is.)

22.43 – Could you let me know what size skirt you wear for the purpose of a uniform?

.......say what?!!

23.01 – Don’t worry! No trouble. I am not making any assumptions, but your attitude is so focused and appropriate and your CV is ideal. And my parties are more fun than the one you would be at if you were looking after 8 year olds! A lot of people do not understand the positives of a uniform and I am pleased that you do.

....two things. Parties. More fun? More fun than cake and jelly? Are they special parties? *more internet snooping* aaah, you like cocaine. I see. Right. And will I have a special party uniform? Of shackles, perhaps?

23.05 – Anything you’d like to ask?

....can I please bring mace and a bodyguard to the interview? Right now I’m too dumbfounded for further speech.

23.15 – Excellent. D

Anyone else channelling Monty Burns right now?

00.23 – I think it’s only fair for you to see my CV now: *****website**** Let me know what you think please! D

I think... it’s a little late in the evening. And, ah ha! My snooping was right! You ARE you!

02.14 – also, look on Amazon for my new book ...*******... I think it is important to know I am someone whose status you can respect. And there is a great deal I can teach you in ** field of expertise** which will be useful for anything you eventually do.

.....Teach me how to beg for mercy by the sounds of it. I’m sleeping. Please go away.

08.15 – PHONE RINGS! Oh you are kidding me. Ignore.

09.23 – Good morning Ali. Have you had a chance to look at my website? Thanks, D

Jeeeeesus. What did your last slave die of?

09.51 – She was with me for 5 months. Would you like to talk today?

 tell me, did she magically vanish in the middle of the night? Talk about what? Your plans for my organs? We’ll talk tomorrow.

10.55 – no rush at all. D

You betcha.

Oh god oh god oh god. Help me.

I’m still going to the interview though. Massive intrigue. Because, if it isn’t a plot for my messy and untimely demise, it sounds like a great job.

Bye-bye, Shopgirl

My about me section may now be slightly misleading. I’m (hopefully) no longer going to be referred to as shopgirl. I sold on my shop’s lease and ran away to join the circus the big-bad South East. Hence my sleeping on my sister’s sofa. I’m now pursuing an exciting career of living in other people’s houses and looking after their children/pets/houseplants/laundry.

Oh yes. Welcome to the new exciting world of....

*fanfare* domestic-help-girl. *disappointingly small confetti burst*

Looking at the potential ways to start this career, a placement as a School matron jumped out at me. 
Oooh, live in, look after hundreds of small children rather than one or two, and wash hundreds of tiny pairs of socks.
 Cute. 
 It was even actually in my old school. Where, yes, I had in fact boarded myself. Briefly. But still, nice building, and I'd have advantage of already knowing every nook and cranny of the place.
 Plus, all I remember of the matron when I was there was a startling amount of tea drinking. Sounded ideal.
But then I had to let the position go before I even got around to returning my application pack. The interview day was on the morning me, G, and her boyfriend had decided to go mushroom hunting. The magic kind. And nothing was going to get in the way of our quest for free, tasty hallucinogens.
I wasn't too sure that 'sorry, can we reschedule the interview, please? I have a prior engagement with drugs' excuse was going to wash with a private school, so, bye bye potential job! Somehow, they might not find drug use a bonus to applying for a job with children.

Kids and class A's don’t mix. Well, could be potentially a fun experiment, but probably not one to introduce at the interview stage.....

Babies and bumps (to the head)

I spent the vast majority of my afternoon trying to shop for a 2 year old girl's birthday present (let's be honest, she's still only interested in the wrapping paper).
I have never gone baby clothes shopping before, and I'm not sure I ever want to again. I have mixed feelings about the whole affair.
On the one hand, I got to spend hours looking at the most adorable stuff in the world - so cute, it made my ovaries do an impatient little dance around my forlorn empty womb. (just you try it, uterus, just you try. Get me knocked up accidentally on purpose just so you can feel useful for once, and I swear, I'll have you whipped out faster than you can say 'oh no! surprise hysterectomy!')
On the other hand, it is bewildering, and confusing, and there is so much of it and it comes in every possible size except from the size you're looking for. Or, even more unfortunately, my size. Because kids clothing is way cooler than adult clothing. I feel a little sorry for my future (way off distant future) children if I have boys, because today I saw a vision of my shopping habits once I'm a mum. And it is RAINBOW coloured.


I then spent 2 1/2 hours sitting in Reading's finest A&E department thanking my lucky stars that at least it wasn't a Saturday night while my sister waited for medical attention.
She got smacked in the head by a rogue shuttlecock at close-quarters on Tuesday, and appeared to be having delayed concussion. (Or, possibly probably a case of severe drama queen-ism. Quite debilitating, that is...) I've been telling her for years that exercise is a dangerous hobby.

While we were there, we overheard many conversations with reception, including my personal favourite from a mum with a toddler in one arm and a carry cot in the other - 'Hi, my baby just fell down a flight of stairs. *notes a couple of shocked faces* FELL. Not pushed. Fell down the stairs.'
Way more disturbing than that was the dinner discussion going on between a family of people who could only possibly be described as fatties. Or porkers. Or lard-arses. Or... well. Many things. All rude and jelly based, but seriously. Had I called them anything within a healthy weight-range, I'd have been prosecuted by trade-descriptions. They were the kind of weight that rocks the ground when they waddle forwards. Like when the glass of water shakes in Jurassic Park when the T-Rex is near.
Fattie no.1: 'I was thinking about a chicken sandwich' (ok, fair enough, people have to eat. And hospitals make you wait a really long time. Knock yourself out. Sarnie vending machine right there.)
Fattie no.2: 'Oh well I don't know where McDonalds is from here' (oh. THAT kind of sandwich. The type normally referred to as a burger.)
F1: 'I'm getting hungry though, we're going to have to think about getting something for **the patient** for her dinner too' (she's in a hospital. They tend to feed the inmates. Ok, so granted, hospital food isn't up to much....)
F2: 'Well, I know where KFC is on this road, and Burger King, and there's a Subway just down there, but I don't know where to find a McDonalds' (oh, ye gods. You mean you don't have that on radar?)
..........OK, Fatties... here's a radical idea.... don't try to find a McDonalds. By the looks of you, enough Maccy D's have found you in the past, that you can afford to sit this one out. When you can see your pubes again, past your giant, 17 rolled stomach, then, then, you may consider eating a burger. But only consider it. Eugh. Eventually, they settled on their burger joint of choice (and nearest convenience) and on getting a pizza for the patient. A 12 inch.
'Will that be ok? Shouldn't we get her something for the night?'
'No, she won't be feeling great so I think that she's not going to be too hungry later.'
.......who the hell is feeling hungry after eating a 12inch pizza to themselves at 9pm? Actually. Probably me. But I'm in rightous indignation mode and refuse to admit to that.

ANYWAY.
2 hours later, my sister finally gets seen by a doctor. Not even a hot doctor to make up for the hours wasted from my life. I do my best to be helpful and fill in any bits my poor concussed sister might leave out.
*doctor examines sister's head*
'you might find some older scars on there. From rocks..'
*doctor looks up* I thought she said it was a badminton accident?'
'Well, yes. This one was.'
'But you were there?'
'Well, no. I don't believe in playing sports. Bad things happen - like Miss.Bumpy-brain here can testify. But I've been there before when she's had head injuries.'
'With rocks?'
'Yes. When rocks hit her head.'
'You mean when she hit her head on a rock?'
'Well, no. The rock hit her.'
'........'
'I threw it. At her head.'
'....er....'
'what?! It was an impressive shot! I was only 8!'

Despite my bragging, they refused to give her a brain scan. Which is a shame. Ah well. Next time... I'll use a brick.

Going Solo

In the vague attempt to get my groove back on in a ‘hey, look at me, I’m young free and single’ way, I went to a Six Nation State gig by myself in London. All I achieved was possibly making the front-man think I fancy him, because I vaguely know him and it’s the second gig of theirs I’ve been to solo.

‘Hey, Gerry!’

‘Hi! How are you? Thanks for coming! *idle chit-chat commences while I try desperately to look popular to a room full of strangers who’re all ignoring me, Look! I know the band* Who’re you here with?’

‘Oh, just me.’

‘.....oh, cool, right. *pause*....... didn’t you come alone last ti...’

‘yes. Yes I did.’

‘er.... right.... *backs away*... enjoy  the gig...’

*shouts after him * ‘There was a friend! There was! She was coming! She’s working late!......... I HAVE FRIENDS!’ *heads swivel*

Strangely enough, the room continued to ignore me after this point...

They played a good set though.

But, yeah. The going solo gigging? Not necessarily the fun I remember it being when I was young(er) free and single.

Seemingly just to re-iterate the point to myself that I’m getting old, and set in my ways, I also went out clubbing in Reading with my sister.

I discovered when you get a little older, and you’ve grown into yourself, awful music you’ve never really liked is harder to block out or pretend you enjoy. Instead, it grates on your very soul, and makes you feel sick to your centre. Which is a pity, because the music blocking used to go hand in hand with the beer goggles. Which means, all going out revealed for me, instead of a world of possibility and a night of potential giggles and groans with some handsome-in-the-moment-stranger, turned into one of those nightmares where the masks fall off and you see everyone is actually a gargoyle, and the club you went into was actually just an optical illusion, and you are in fact trapped in the inner circle of hell. With nothing but gargoyles. With popped collars, gold chains and awful hair. Did I mention the gargoyles?

After disentangling myself from two of them at kicking out time (let us never speak of this again) I found my sister (who is an occasional fuckwit) outside with two brothers, who she seemed to be swooning over, and who, (kindly, in view of there being no taxis) drove us home. Of course nothing in this life is free and they came in with us.

Cue this conversation held on facebook chat at 4.30 in the morning, after my sister had exhausted nearly all topics of conversation and had been reduced to parading a selection of new clothes purchases (including our matching leather jackets, yes, we’re very sad) in front of the brothers grim, and I could no longer bring myself to interact with the room.

Scar: Are you online? Why are you online? There’s a human? Online?

Ali: Apparently so. Why are you online at this time of night/morning?

‘...........’

‘Oh, yeah. You’re Scar. Mystery solved. Hiiiiiii!’

‘why are you up?’

‘I want to be asleep’

‘why aren’t you?’

‘There are men. They’re on my sleepy spot.’

‘?’

‘Men on the sofa. I sleep on that sofa. Blame my sister. She’s brought two brothers home and now they’re drinking tea and it’s fucking late and I’m SLEEPY! I think one of them fancies my sister, wish they’d hurry up and get on with the wooing.’

‘can’t you subtlety tell them it’s time to go? Yawn lots? Get a duvet?’

‘tried that. Crawled behind the sofa and came out wearing pyjamas. They’re still here.’

‘you could say something like "well, this has been great, but whichever one of you wants to shag my sister, please head to the bedroom, and the other one either cuddle me now or get the fuck out".’

‘Baaaaaaahhhhhahahhahahah! *shows message to sister*

Sister: ‘baaaahahhahahahahahhahahahah!’

Ali: well? Can I say it?

Sister: er, no.

At this point, my sister unadvisedly leaves the room, to wee, or re-arrange her bra, or, hopefully, to pacify her flatmate who by this point I can hear prowling about in her bedroom on the other side of the sitting room wall. I see my chance to get some sleep on the lovely red sofa that has actually started whispering my name...

‘So, which one of you two was intending on getting it on with my sister? Because you’ve left it kind of late to make your move, haven’t you? I’d get a wriggle on if I were you. I want to go to sleep.’

They looked very startled. In a sleepy sort of fashion.

But, one was duly led away by my sister (who reappeared in terribly unflattering tiny pjs – note to self, discuss her ‘company’ nightwear choices with her), and I made the ‘mistake’ of telling the remaining 6’4 chunk of brother that my sofa was longer than the one he was on. Which meant I got to go to sleep in manly arms, and I didn’t even have to kiss him. Because I feigned instant sleep.  Ah, modern women. We know what we want and we aren’t afraid to go get it! (*snooze, dribble, snore...*)   Still, manly arms were a nice change from *sigh* aloneness.

Old me, New me, no, wait... back to old me......

So. I lasted until date 3 until I slept with this one.

I should get a shiny medal.

To replace the piece of junk that is my broken moral compass.

Drunk, free, irresponsible me on holiday.

I am on holiday. Oh yes. I ran away from my responsibilities and the big pile of 'shop' in my kitchen (having now vacated my former business premises, 'shop' now resides in about 12,386 boxes of assorted size and weight - note: most of them back breaking - in my house.)
I have run away from second job 'just.... don't rota me on next week... I'll... yeah... let you know if when I'm back...'
I have run away from my mother 'of course I'll help you out in the garden... oh, wait.. my train leaves in.. 2 hours. BYE!'
I have run away from my tax returns (oh, come on, I have 'til January, it'll be fiiiiine...)
I have run away from 'lovely man' who may still think we've got something going on since I let him sleep in my bed again recently and kissed him rather too much... (oops? well... we've all done that, right?)
I have run away from my ex boyfriend who said 2 days ago, if he had his way, we'd be married, and I'd be big fat and swollen with sprog. (Which, if my period doesn't hury up and start I'll start worrying I might be).

I have just... well. Run away.

I might go back. I imagine I'll have to when I realise it's all going tits up and I've run out of clean underwear..
But, for the next 3 weeks, I've let myself off the leash of the whole hard work thing.
So, today, in way of celebration, my sister and I walked 10 miles to a nice pub and back. Which, incidentally also means I've now seen the Vicar of Dibley's front door. It's a very sweet village where they filmed it, which was lovely, but, looking at my slightly battered feet, I do wonder if it could have been as well appreciated from a car.

So now, I'm in my sister's flat, hobbling about, drunk on hideously cheap wine that has given us both massive headaches, and planning tomorrow, which, unfortunately for my furry bits, is also going to be a day of pain.

I'm sorry fluffy parts, but you just aren't becoming on a single modern woman out in the big bad city. You have to go.

Guilt and resolutions.

Last night, I was awake at 2.20am eating cold  blackberry crumble, and half a litre of the kind of ice cream that isn't technically even a flavour beyond rich frozen creamy goodness, knowing that I would feel unequivocal guilt for scoffing it in the morning.
The same kind of guilt you put to the back of your mind when indulging in a one night stand you know full well is ill advised. The guilt that in the morning (and for a good few days after the event) will manifest itself with you repetitively face-planting your desk and moaning 'oh, god, why?' much to the bemusement of your startled customers/ colleagues.
Guilty feelings about overindulgence in food and men seem to overlap an awful lot in my mind - I even know a man/boy who I refer to as 'happy meal' behind his back.
(Happy Meal: He's a very attractive prospect, in a trying too hard way - but he's tempting. You know you really don't need it. You know you shouldn't go near him, and you know that as good as it'll be to open the happy meal box and play with the shiny new toy, it's not actually going to be nearly as interesting as it looked on the adverts, and, you're going to be hungry again very quickly. Happy meals don't keep you satisfied for long. And they don't waste time. They go straight to your hips. They're bad for your health..... And they're aimed at a much younger audience.)

Anyway. This isn't about Happy Meal. (Who, incidently, I have seen getting changed several times, and, by god, the toy does look very pretty unwrapped.)
I'm not even sure why I couldn't sleep.
 I suspect it's something to do with men and confusion, because it generally is- although this time I'm fairly sure it's not about a bad one night stand. It's been a while since I had a one night stand. Or any kind of sex. In fact, I think I may have just stumbled on the reason for the no-sleepy-thing. I think I need to have sex. But, but, I've just come to the very firm decision that I don't want sex. Like, ever. For the foreseeable future. It's time I learnt to be happy just single. And alone. And fucking miserable comfortable with my own company. But, a little bit of me is really really craving there to be something big and burly and alive and masculine in bed with me.
Not entirely sure how I'm planning to achieve this man in bed scenario, as I've cancelled my dating site profile, broken contact with the men I was dating, cancelled my brazilian wax appointment, and quit shaving my legs. And nothing is as good a contraceptive as me with my natural state gorilla legs. But, no sex. This is what I need to stick to. I'm even committing it to blog. Which must mean I'm serious. I don't like going back on my word. No sex until I'm actually going 'steady' with a nice man.

I also need to stop eating pudding in the middle of the night. Now that one might be the tougher cookie to crumble.

mmmmmm..... cookies.....


Damnit!

Dead Thing Thursday

OMG. Dead faerie.

Also. I have dead feet.
I have beautiful new goth boots, but, they're very big, and high, and they make my toes go numb.

The old me / new me update...

I didn't go home with anyone.
I swear.
I went, I saw, I partied hard.



And snogged an 18 year old. Who has a girlfriend.

Back in the doghouse for me....

I will flesh this out tomorrow, right now, I'd like to just hang my head in silent shame for a little longer.



Update:

On reflection, there's little I can tell myself that will make me feel less guilty about the cradle snatching. I blame the NOS balloons. Yeah. That's it. Definitely. I blame drugs. Bad drugs! Naughty! I mean, it'd be rude not to kiss an extremely attractive man who's just bought you a balloon, and if you don't lean in and prop yourself up on his mouth you'll fall over because the high has, strangely enough, gone right to your head. And no one likes to seem ungracious. It was just a thank you. Yup, just a thank you.

(..... In my mind, I'm now skipping over  totally erasing the fact that I kissed him a second time, having been told about the girlfriend bit:
"so, I've just heard something interesting about you. You have a girlfriend."
"ah. yes."
"you're a bad man. A bad bad man. You shouldn't have kissed me. *kisses him again*"
.................Nope. Nope... doesn't ring a bell. Nope, that last bit neeeevvveeeer happened........ Nuh uh. Defo. No way. There was no second kissing. Tongues? Why, how dare you suggest such a thing!)

Er... yeah.

Seeing as we're connected by friends, I thought it best to ignore the whole thing ever happening. However. I didn't factor into the equation the whole he works next door to my shop.
So, who should walk in today while my hair is in disarray, my makeup is smudged off, I'm hunched over my laptop watching buffy episodes and I'm eating chocolate spread straight from the jar.

*in walks pretty boy*
*ali splutters and dies removes chocolatey knife from mouth. Acts normal. Ish. At this point I have just come back from having my underarms waxed, so I've got the slight 'fuck-balls-shit-my-armpits-are-burning' robotic movements going on where I can't bring myself to actually put my arms flat against my body. (Put a tennis ball under each arm, and see how relaxed you can look. You'll get the idea.)*
"Hi."
"hello, how ya doing?" act normal, act normal... pretend you don't know what his mouth tastes like...oooh... like.... nooo, nonono, don't think about it....
"I was just wondering..."
"yes?" oooh, my god.. a date? a date? ohmygod, whatdoido? nononono
"Is this your lighter?"
"Er, no?" mine was green, motherfucker! That one is orange! How dare you be so unobservant!
"Well, erm, I ended up with it on saturday... it's not mine.. so.. I thought.. you can have it, I mean, I have one anyway... so, yeah, I, er... I need to buy some incense sticks while I'm here..."
"OK! Cool! You know where they are!" *tries to look busy with emails* wait... wtf? why am *I* nervous? Pretty boy just came to see you with a really flimsy excuse! And he gave you a lighter   a present! Ah ha! You have the power!! aahhh hahahahaaha! *does little dance*
"why are you danci...."
"NOTHING! NOTHING AT ALL!"

I may not have pulled off the relaxed calm 'over it' look I was going for. But, I'm pretty sure he was doing a worse job than me. So, now all I have to do is await his jilted girlfriend to come and stab my eyes out. Oh, goody.

*note to self.. look up flights out of the country...*

Old me/ New me

I have decided it's time for me to change a few patterns in my life.

I've mentioned I'm single again, and dating, but I've not done a great job of it so far, having broken off every 'date' that seemed to be going anywhere and talking (nearly crying) on the phone to my ex. The talking to the ex thing aside, I'm falling back into old habits of single-lady-dom picked up as a teenager, and I thought long gone. I was a bad teenager. A bad bad girl. And I did things (ok, people,) that adult Ali is a little ashamed of.

The fact that I give off this impression of bad things came to light the other week when planning a photoshoot for a friend, and one of my best friends, G, who was going to help out. G is fantastic. G has skills with hair and makeup and costume and capturing  images that anyone would be proud of. I'd quite like the steal her brain. And eyes. (And while we're on the subject, the girl has the figure. She's all perfect-woman-fertility-goddess-curves. I'm not. Perhaps I just want to be her. Or kill her and live in her skin. Anyway.) We live within half a mile of each other, share the same tastes in many things, have good natured arguments about the things we don't, we share some of the same social circle and indeed a job. (I have my shop, but I moonlight as a waitress)
I think she despairs of me a little though. I'm not the most organised of bunnies at the best of times, and, due to the overlapping nature of our lives, (so much so that when I'm hanging out with her and her boyfriend, I'm included in the hugs) she often has a better idea of what I'm meant to be doing on any given day than I do.

An example: lying on the grass under an apple tree, counting daisies and listening to the BBQ being stoked up...phone rings...
'Hi G, what's up?'
'Where are you?'
'Where am I meant to be?'
'At work'
'Really? Oh. .....really? I'm not on the rota until monday'
'It is Monday.'
'No, I've not been working in the shop today, that means it's Sunday.'
'Today is a Monday.'
'It is? Really? Was I meant to open my shop? Why didn't I open my shop?'
'It's a bank holiday.'
'Oh...... then... it's practically a Sunday. I was half right.'
'.......*sigh*..'
'I'll get my uniform on.'

She also often just announces what I'm doing, whether I've had anything to do with the organisation or not.
She's like my walking talking social interaction diary. For which I am eternally grateful. *note to self - dreamt G and I built a fort in my garden last night and it turned into an ark and the swimming pool exploded. Must tell her.*

 'Right, tomorrow, we're going to the city, you're going to go to the cinema with my boyfriend while I go to band practice, and then we'll all meet up and eat pizza. I'll pick you up from work?'
'Erm, yes? Did... did I forget we were doing that?'
'No, I just told you now.'
'Oh, ok. That's ok. I thought I'd have known myself if we'd already planned it.'
'No, you wouldn't.'
'You're right. I wouldn't have a clue, would I?'
'Nope!'
'I love you, G.'

So, back to the other scenario, where I'm planning the weekend...

'G, what am I doing on Saturday? Do I have plans?'
'Getting laid?'
'I am?......Am I?'
'Well, that's probably what you were aiming to do if you're free.....'
'........Oh...'

So, G thinks I'm a slut. And she didn't even know teenage Ali. In fact, pretty much all of the time.... wait... yes, all of the time she's known me, I've been in a stable relationship. Aside from the last 3 months.

Anyway. Point being, this is the pattern I need to change. The sleeping with people pattern. And the being totally unorganised thing should really be improved upon too. But mainly the 'oh dear I have no self-respect and I slept with who?' thing must be dealt with first.

Old me:

• find man
• find him attractive(ish)
• talk
• find him... meh, relatively interesting
• kiss man
• sleep with man
• learn man's last name
• maybe get number

New Me:

• find nice man
• find him really attractive
• talk
• find him really interesting
• find out last name
• kiss man (maybe)
• get number
• meet up at later date
• talk more
• still find him totally attractive
• kiss man
• .........some time later, say, at least 5 dates later........(if ever) sleep with man

I think this is a plan I might be able to stick with. I'm going out tonight. And just to make sure I don't revert to old me plan, I didn't shave my legs. Ain't no way I'm getting my jeans off now! This new me plan cannot fail!


...Hopefully....

Rainbow Tuesday... belated wishes

I forgot yesterday was rainbow tuesday. It didn't feel very rainbowy... but this party looks like all kinds of rainbowy fun!

Having a spanking good time.....

Why is it that men like to spank my arse during sex? What is it with the spank?

I'm not talking kinky sex. Just sex sex. The regular vanilla kind.

It doesn't matter on the man. It's never who you expect to be wanting to make with the happy slappy... 'Normal Joe' (the date so boring I fell asleep on) did it, lovely man does it....the list could go on embarrassingly long, so.. suffice to say, men like the spanks. And I'm not saying I'm against it.. but.. sometimes.. sometimes these things need to be in context.

These slap-happy singles show no other signs of being kinky, or in anyway open to the idea of getting down and dirty beyond the normal 'hey look! Naked parts! Let's bump them together!' level of lustfulness.

They aren't kinky. They aren't dominant men. They have no idea what they want to do with me, and they sure as hell aren't talking dirty, not even stuttering dirty, in fact generally not even talking and yet, in the middle of a very suburban, regular, simple bout of sex...

'thwack'.

A single smack on the rump happens.

It doesn't seem to matter what approach I take to dealing with the wayward palm, it just happens. I've tried everything. Doesn't matter if I coo, writhe, and wriggle into it, or groan (sexily or otherwise), or giggle, or spank them back, or freeze and look at them with a raised eyebrow, talk anger issues, or remain utterly impassive and/or fix them with a stony stare, make the sign of the cross, or run to the cupboard and get out all the whips and chains shouting 'let's PLAY!'. It doesn't make a difference. Not even a combination of all of them all at the same time.

'Thwack'.

There it goes.

Two minutes later....

'Thwack'.

Another minute and oh! It's that time again! Time for a little...

'Thwack'.

It's not as if I have a smackable arse. I was never blessed with hips or bum - I have the shoulders of a quarterback, I have a pretty generously proportioned rack, (which gets totally overlooked - seriously - what does a girl have to do to find herself a boob fetishist rather than a butt-man? Maybe it's just fashion - cleavage was so last decade. It's all about the buns.) but below the waist? Nothing. Nada. Ziltch. If there is a god, it's as though they started at the top, but got bored and slacked off the job half way though. I'm not quite finished on the hip development. Not even started. I can't wear low slung belts, they end up around my knees because there is no hip flare or buttock bulge to work against gravity. Which means there's also no padding when I fall over my newly styled knee beltage. Which means ouchies.

It's like Becky (saviour of the blogesphere) at steam me up, kid says describing a friend -

"She has junk in her trunk, I like to stash mine away where pirates will never find it: mostly upper arms, tummy, and inner thighs." (***i can't find the post the quote is from... I WILL find it...)

Becky, I hear ya. Ain't no junk in this trunk either. I've got the bingo wings of a 40yr old washer woman, but no butt. My bootie is booty-lacking. Not booty-licious.

And yet....

'Thwack'.

*quizzical look*

'Thwack'.

For no discernable reason. No particualar moment. It's not an incontrollable climatic thing (in which case it would be written 'thwack!!!' or maybe 'thwack thwack thwack.. thwack...oohhh... THWACK!!!!!!') There's no 'you like that?' or 'do you mind?' or 'ooh, what a peachy bum', or 'faster' or 'I hate you and wish to cause you pain'

Just.....

'thwack'.

And I for one would like to know what the response for this is meant to be.

Dead Thing Thursday

This happy little dead chappy made me laugh slightly, because he looked like he was dancing. And puking. All at the same time. But it was the dancing bit that made me nearly laugh. I believe I may have text people at the time with the caption 'night fever night feeevveeeerr'...

Seeing animals squished in the road does actually make me quite sad, I'm not actually entirely made of stone.

Anyway, on a brighter note, I've more recently found a slightly cheerier version of a dancing squirrel at that cheezeburger place....

Maybe this is the before shot.. when the party drugs were kicking in.. the dead photo is the dancer squirrel after the overdose takes effect....

Rainbow Tuesday... from london with love...

I'm in London.
I nearly forgot it was rainbow-day...
but, all the pretties I had lined up on my hard drive are.. on my hard drive..

So, here's a picture of a rainbow in london, from a page you should definately look at if you like pretty photography. There are some stunners, here.

Things mothers don't need to know.

Last night, I was at my Mum's house, looking for a massive A-Z file that has everything important in it. Because although I'm a chaotic person, there's nothing I like more than having a place for everything.
 I love drawers.
 Really tiny drawers with labels on the outside so you know exactly what goes in it. I have a set of drawers at home that have labels such as 'fire making things', 'ribbons and lace', 'sharp pointy things', 'nice smelly burny things', and my favourite drawer, 'dead things and feathers'. Update: on reflection, 'the sharp pointy thing' drawer might just win...
 When I was at school, I didn't just have a folder for my notes and research, I had a folder that cross referenced to another folder and I had a seperate index book. Unfortunately, this meant I spent more time filing than I did studying, but damn my folder was neat.

Anyway. Scene one - Mum's house

"Mum, have you seen a massive folder about?"
"What folder? Folder? What folder?"
"A really big expanding file-y thing with, like, my LIFE in it. I can't find it at my house, thought I might have left it here."
"Months ago?"
"*sheepish* Yes... months ago... you seen it?"
" It was in the kitchen for months"
"Yes, I know, I'm sorry, I'll take it away now"
" Months and months "
"Yes."
"I didn't know what it was doing there"
"Yes. I understand that. Can I have it?"
"I put it somewhere."
"OK, where?" (seeing as Mum often puts spoons in the freezer, milk in the cupboard, and once rang her mobile to locate it only for the FRIDGE to ring, this is a complex question.)
"Somewhere"
"Well, yes, it's got to be somewhere, unless you're actually magic, or you burnt it.."
"* look of vague recollection goes across her face*
" ....you burnt it?"

We found it eventually, although it turns out what I was looking for wasn't in it.
Not until an hour later, my mum suddenly starts talking about the file again.

"When I picked it up to move it, it fell apart a bit and stuff fell out."
"Oh, shit, really? How much? *thinks of the hideousness of the papers being all out of order*
" Not much, but I saw a couple of things"
" Ooh.... really?" *shit shit shit shit shit shit shitshit shitshitshit - like what? naked pictures? old love letters? the list of all the men i've ever slept with?*
" Yes. One of them was a nipple piercing certificate thing."
" *SHIT* ....... oh.........really?"
"Which means you've had a nipple pierced?"

(Yes. Yes I have. And I've spent a long time hiding it from her. Including one afternoon when I was gardening for her, topless (i hate tan lines more than the devil himself. More than marmite, even.) and she came up to pass me a drink. And I spun round in a *shit must hide nipple* fashion. Phew! Dodged that one! And then... "whats that on your back?"

"*double shit. My tattoo. Also kept hidden.* er... henna?"

"So it's not permenant?"

"er... no?" She cottoned onto that one when my auntie dobbed me in.)

" Er... yes?..... but it was like... 3 years ago. And I lost it when I was in Morocco. So, I don't have that one."
" Thats just... I mean... why?  You're gross. It's actually disgusting. But you don't have it now?"
"Weeeelll, nooooo...."
"Good."
"........Not the left one. But I had the right one pierced recently. to.. even them up."
" So you have both?"
"No, one. I had to! The scar tissue made one nipple bigger than the other! I need symmetrical nipples!!"
" GOD I can't even THINK about it. How COULD you? You're so stupid? You're gross! GROSS!!!"
" I know *beautific smile*  It's so pretty! I love it!"
*mum walks out, possibly making sign of the cross* "you disgust me."
.................
"NIPPLES!!"

Sometimes I think my mother just doesn't understand me.

Family meals out and immaturity

My mother has decided my sister and I are now mature adults in our own right, and old enough for her to talk about sex with us.
Quite why she chose this particular family meal is beyond me, as my sister and I hadn't seen each other in a while, and there's something about adult siblings getting together that automatically reduces them to children. And the parent into a gibbering wreck.
The conversation had mainly been about teasing each other and coded threats to expose various secrets to mum, and just sheer wit on my part, as demonstrated below:

Sister: '*lists reasons why I'm a freak of nature and childish* See? I rest my case.'
Me: 'Yeah, well, I rest your face. HA!'
See?
 Pure wit.

Anyway. I digress.
Mum decided we were all adults on this occassion. I thought that this was the kind of open, adult, honest relationship I wanted with my mum, and is what I was always envious of with friends and their open minded parents.
However. It turns out however old I am, I'm never going to be old enough to react calmly to any comments my mother makes about her own sex life.

Mum: “next time I have a man in my life, I don’t think I’ll rush into having sex with them this time, it’s just not really so easy at my age”

Me: *chokes on food* “mum! I’m eating! Seriously?! *pours more wine* I was really enjoying that lasagne.”

“So eat it”

“I can’t. You’re always telling me to eat more. And then you say things like that. Why? Whyyyy? *starts guzzling wine*”

“oooh, don’t be silly! We’re all grownups here! I can enjoy sex just as much as anyone else, if not mor...”

“*chokes* ...ok, now you’ve ruined the wine for me too.”

“oh, Ali, it’s all the same, nothing changes when you get older”

“no, its just everything moves south, eh?” * leans across table, pokes her chest with a wooden spoon* “exhibit A”

“oh, don’t be childish”

“you’re the one talking about rude things at the dinner table!”

All of this turned to airing general grievances about our bodies (in a sensible, adult, non-squeamish way – I AM capable of it occasionally), and it reminded me of a post (or it may have been in one of her books) Brooke Magnanti once wrote back when she was still just Belle de Jour – the anonymous blogger and call girl, about a conversation between her mother and grandmother, where, as her mother complains about her pubes rapidly approaching all grey colouring, the grandmother scoffs, and says ‘honey, that’s nothing, what you need to worry about is when they all start to fall out.’ ***

With this thought in mind, I very nearly announced to the table (and in my slightly inebriated state, no doubt that would have meant the whole restaurant)
'Well, I dye my pubes bright red - it distracts men from the rest of me'
I can only imagine silence, bug eyes, and tumbleweed resulting from this statement. There are somethings my mum just isn't ready for, no matter what kind of adult conversation she thinks we're ready for. The fact I have neon pubes may blow her mind. FYI, they're poppy red. I'm considering neon blue next. Or lagoon blue. At least that way, should I ever catch crabs (and I never have, thank you very much) they'd feel at home in oceanic pubic hair.

Our adult conversation was going quite well once I'd managed to choke my inner freak, until we came to order pudding. In a lull in the conversation, which was at that point about men, my mum suddenly glazed over and said, apropos to nothing:
"bananas."
"*surprised look*"
" *looks focused again* well, I think we all know what we all want"
"what??!!!!?? What the hell, mum, enough with the sex talk!"
"What are you talking about? We're want the raspberry brulee for pudding, don't we?"
"Oh. I thought you were talking about penises."


Turns out she was just thinking about doing a quick grocery shop. And once again, I got the blame for having an immature, inappropriate mind.


*** I'm paraphrasing. I wanted to link directly to it, but can't find it. I have, however, just spent an hour going over some of her old posts, which are brilliant.

Dead Thing Thursday

I have decided I need another day dedicated to one of my obsessions. I like Rainbows, so, rainbow tuesday it is. Everyone needs a brightly coloured pick me up when they realise that monday might be over, but there's

still nearly a whole week to go...

But, I don't like people who get too excited about the weekend when mine doesn't start until Saturday night, and only lasts 24 hours. So, especially for all you people who are going "Heeeeeyyyy! Tomorrow's Friday! It's practically the weekend already!" Fuck you. I refuse to let you be that happy.

DEAD THING THURSDAY it is.

 

 The Bird-angel of Death, Destruction and DOOOOOOOMM!

He knows where you live.

a present from me, and my cats. I forgot to dispose of the body. This is what happens if you leave corpses under flower pots.

Grave humour and family fights.

I often annoy my family by being me. I have no intention of offending anyone, yet, somehow, I manage to put my foot in it. A lot.
And apparently, when mum says 'what is wrong with you?' shrugging and saying 'I don't know, you tell me. You raised me' is not an appropriate response. Who knew?!

Part of the problem is that my sense of humour is a little (ok, a lot) darker than my mum's or my sister's. Danger? Emotion? Death? I laugh in it's skeletal face! There's nothing like a joke to lighten the mood.
They're all like 'lets talk about things, get it all out and have a nice cry and a group hug' I'm more of a 'make snide comment, crack a joke, don't make physical contact, consider punching a wall' kind of a girl.
While they go into panic mode when, for instance, a family member collapses at the lunch table, I'm the one doing the practical things and saying 'oh dear. that IS bad timing, we haven't had pudding. Shall I call an ambulance, or just get the shovel out?' (I was 15 at the time. I call that mature beyond my years.)


My sister, mum and I went over to tidy up my grandparents' grave over the weekend, as it was my Grannie's birthday recently (as if she's bothered..  Gran! Gran! Helloo? Gran, wake up, you're missing the party!....).
As we're neatening up the grass I notice the grave mound has finally gone almost flat to match my step-grandpa Michael's. And I start a constant stream of comments.

'oooh, grannie! you've lost a bit of weight!'
'Ali. Stop it.'
'Short back and sides, gran? *snip snip* going anywhere nice on your holidays? ....... no. Funny that. You're quiet today *notice patch of scrubby earth* oooh, gran, you're getting a bald patch!'
Sister giggles, mum rolls eyes.
Mum: 'I wonder if I could get a plot next to them, here *points at ground*
Me: that's the footpath. Maybe you could have a little space at their feet? Curl up like a cat.
*disapprovingly* 'Ali....'
'You could earmark the space now. Maybe wee on it. Mark your territory.'
*angry noises*
'oooh! maybe you could go between them. Like cosying up in bed when you're little! HIIII MUUUUM, HIII DAAAAD!'
'*blanks me* I don't think we brought enough flowers. It looks a bit empty. It needs more colour. *spies another grave* That's a nice arrangement! Look at the flowers on that grave, they're nice. I'm going to go and have a look.
*loud enough for anyone to hear*'MUM!  You cannot take flowers from someone else. That's called grave robbing. I forbid it.'
 *angry hiss*'Ali, just shut up! Of course I'm not going to!'
'*innocent smile* Right. Let's go and check it out. See who's new in the neighbourhood.'

The grave turned out to contain 2 people in one plot.

Mum: 'I suppose they're stacked up.'
Sister: 'No, maybe they're top to tail'
Me: 'What, an eternal 69? *pulls face* Mmm, lovely.'
Mum: 'ALI! STOP IT! '

 I love jokes in graveyards. I remember at the funeral, while they were lowering my loud, talkative, dramatic, party loving, verbal-diarrhoea-inflicted lovely gran in next to grandpa, my sister was sobbing semi-hysterically, my mum looked shell shocked, my aunt looked like she might try and climb in with the coffin, and I was wondering what the wake catering would be like, my half-brother leaned over and whispered 'poor Michael, he was promised eternal peace - he only got 7 years.' I laughed outloud.

Apparently, that's not the done thing.

Rainbow tuesday gets illuminated

I have no idea where I found this picture, but it's pretty, it makes me happy, and it's often my wall paper. Who doesn't like rainbow coloured lights?

I sell these ones.. they make other people happy too...

Multi coloured lighting often means you're out somewhere fun...

But I can't remember where I was. It was fun. Probably.

Waiting for something exciting, and turning it down.

I have issues with saying no. Because you never know when everything is going to fall into place. What if the thing you've been looking for is just around that bend in the path where you've just said 'actually, no, let's turn back around now'? So I don't say no, but not necessarily yes, and I just wait for that magical connection to appear. For everything to fall into place. Or, for the love of god, for it to be over already. I hadn't decided whether to include the following post on this blog until I stumbled across Puddle of Ink, where the author had tackled the same issue from a different angle. It hit home a little, and put me in a honest, bare-my-soul mood.
She writes-

     "I stopped saying “no” a long time ago. Because it was never heeded, so why bother? I tried to convince myself that I didn’t care if I was just a sex object, someone to screw after a milkshake at the local Steak & Shake. Except that failing to voice my objection brought with it its own set of troubles—namely, a feeling of complicity. After all, it’s not rape if you don’t say no, right?"

for the whole post, go here.

The following is something I wrote (it's wordy, be patient) while trying to understand and justify the breakdown of my last relationship, the one i figured was the One. For the last 6 months of our over 2 years together, sex had fallen off the rails. Not because we weren't having it, but because I'd suddenly started to hate it, and fear it. Not something I saw coming, or something I understood. It's like eating peanuts all your life, really really loving peanut butter sandwiches and snickers, then one day, tucking into round 2 of a peanut butter extravaganza,
Boom.

Anaphylactic shock.

 

Now I just have to wait for some one to invent a magic EpiPen for sex phobia.

 

 

.............................................................

 

I want to be selfish. I want to enjoy sex. No guilt. Abandon myself to it, not care, not worry.

I want to feel as if the person I’m with adores me, wants me to feel beautiful. I don’t want to be the object with which they fulfil their sexual needs. I want to be the goddess. I want to be the subject of my own fantasy.

I am not a doormat.

I moment I adore is the feeling of them coming. That momentary power that comes with knowing you’ve caused their ultimate weakness. But it comes with a sense of huge relief too – that it’s over. That I can take the false smile off my face. That I can relax into my own body again. Hide in my silence. Itching to feel like they do, but never asking for it. Wishing it wasn’t the end.

Sex is primarily a male pleasure. Jealous as I am of those women who can orgasm through the physicality of penetration, I know I’ll never join their ranks. And perhaps I’m kidding myself that a man will ever understand that difference in experience. That great sex for them is just a motion to me, leaving my heart disconnected and deadening every nerve. That half pain, half pleasure, wishing something would happen, wanting it harder, faster, just in case there’s a wall, an invisible boundary that one day I’ll burst through and suddenly understand that great mystery that is sex.

I don’t know what I want. I want them to give me something I haven’t felt. Something beyond what I can do for myself and the void that opens and engulfs everything after. Le petit mort. The little death. What is it? What is the sensation that sends us over the edge? If you break it down, what is the pleasure? Where does this earth rocking sensation come from? The temporary cramp in an over abused inch of flesh. The dull crashing ache of longing, and sadness. Is this it? Is there nothing more? Just this ragged hole. A moth beating its wings against flame to get to the deepest black beyond the light.

I want someone to disconnect me from my mind. I want to not be waiting for it, not urging my orgasm on. Holding myself rigid, tensing every muscle. I want to relish every touch. I want to dare to prolong it, not worry I’ll lose it. Not give in to the inevitable – that I won’t come. That nothing’s going to happen, so you might as well give up, mate. Move on to the main event. Just fuck me. Get it over with. Embarrassed by my body, embarrassed by it’s slowness to respond to their touch. Ashamed that it won’t instantly blossom under their hand. Resentful to myself that ultimately, every time, if it happens at all, my elusive orgasm is for them.

Look – look what you can do. Look what a lover you are. Hear my breath turn ragged. Feel me bucking under you. See my spine arch, my hands clench. What a clever boy.

I want to do it for me. I want to feel it for me. I want them to want it for me, without them even realising it. I want it to be gift to me, not something they take from me.

I want someone to find the magic touch, the secret sequence of events, the touch paper to the deep primal urge inside. I want to be kissed. I don’t want to be rushed. I want an hour to go by before they make it further down than my waist. I want them to allow me the time to nearly come without the invasion of their fingers in my cunt. I cannot come from penetration. But adore me, just kiss my spine, my eyelids, focus on my breasts, and I think I could. But I can never stop them. I can never say no, don’t. Not yet. I never say make me see stars. Drive me wild. Make me forget who you are. Make me know nothing but the longing, the anticipation. Do anything. Kiss me anywhere. Tease me through my clothes. Brush over me. Tell me you want me, but don’t take me. Not yet. Let me float in nothingness. Make me come without splaying me wide open, going for the obvious, pinning me like an insect on card. I am not a science experiment.

Listen to my orgasm calling to you... I am not textbook. I am not one repetitive movement. I am not one place. I am spirit. I am at the ends of her hair. I am in her spine. I am in her eyes reflected in yours. I am the whispered desires in her ear. I am in the curve of her breast, the catch of a nipple between teeth. I am wrapped in her veins, curled in her ribcage.

Men come with their bodies. Women come with their minds.



Don’t touch me there, reach deeper. Reach into my soul.