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.
Tuesday, 31 August 2010
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.
Saturday, 28 August 2010
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-
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.
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.
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.
Friday, 27 August 2010
Why the dating scene might not have been a good idea..
Starting dating again was meant to be something to keep me from being bored.
I'm not terribly good at being alone all the time, so, I was persuaded to join a dating site, with the thought of, 'hey, at least I'll have a distraction or two until I work out what to do about my ex/ my life/ my ongoing battle with what on earth to do with my future!'
After about 3 weeks of random dates, Lovely Man seems to be on my mind and on my call list rather more than I intended.
There were others, like the man who online was omg, like, totally actually my twin we were so similar, but who in real life appeared to have left his personality (and a good 3 inches of supposed height) on his computer screen at home.
Then there was the man who I only agreed to a date with when I realised he knew exactly who I was and where I worked and could see no way out. I escaped after half an hour. He wanted to take me body boarding as a second date. He told me this 10 minutes into the first date. For me, that's the commitment equivalent of saying 'I love you and I'm going to keep you in a cage and impregnate you annually for the rest of our lifes' after a week together. Run away!
And then there was normal man. Totally, soul crushingly normal man. Very good looking, clearly a good catch, but lacking on the old grey matter. Had to ask me what 'emaciated' meant. I said we wouldn't work out. He continued to text constantly, despite me actually falling asleep on him out of boredom. Literally.
So, lovely man is definately...well. Lovely. I'm meant to be being single. For a long time. But there he is.
Even the gods appear to be on our side. They ever so kindly scheduled the big meteor shower for the night of our first date, which was conveniently, and entirely accidently was a homemade beach picnic of soup, brownies, and hot chocolate. We lay on our backs competing for who could see the most shooting stars. Went home to mine, kissed, talked, had the following conversation:
Me: I'm not going to sleep with you
Him: That's fine, I'm not asking you too
Me: ....... oh, well now I so want you, NOW!
I think when the first 2 weeks of seeing someone consists of astrological fireworks, triple chocolate brownies, and fluffy kittens, it's a pretty good sign.
But, when your own mother (rather prim and in her mid 60s) turns around and says 'but I thought you planned on seeing lots of men and being a bit of a whore for a while?' you start to think that maybe people aren't expecting you to start a new relationship just yet.....
I'm not terribly good at being alone all the time, so, I was persuaded to join a dating site, with the thought of, 'hey, at least I'll have a distraction or two until I work out what to do about my ex/ my life/ my ongoing battle with what on earth to do with my future!'
After about 3 weeks of random dates, Lovely Man seems to be on my mind and on my call list rather more than I intended.
There were others, like the man who online was omg, like, totally actually my twin we were so similar, but who in real life appeared to have left his personality (and a good 3 inches of supposed height) on his computer screen at home.
Then there was the man who I only agreed to a date with when I realised he knew exactly who I was and where I worked and could see no way out. I escaped after half an hour. He wanted to take me body boarding as a second date. He told me this 10 minutes into the first date. For me, that's the commitment equivalent of saying 'I love you and I'm going to keep you in a cage and impregnate you annually for the rest of our lifes' after a week together. Run away!
And then there was normal man. Totally, soul crushingly normal man. Very good looking, clearly a good catch, but lacking on the old grey matter. Had to ask me what 'emaciated' meant. I said we wouldn't work out. He continued to text constantly, despite me actually falling asleep on him out of boredom. Literally.
So, lovely man is definately...well. Lovely. I'm meant to be being single. For a long time. But there he is.
Even the gods appear to be on our side. They ever so kindly scheduled the big meteor shower for the night of our first date, which was conveniently, and entirely accidently was a homemade beach picnic of soup, brownies, and hot chocolate. We lay on our backs competing for who could see the most shooting stars. Went home to mine, kissed, talked, had the following conversation:
Me: I'm not going to sleep with you
Him: That's fine, I'm not asking you too
Me: ....... oh, well now I so want you, NOW!
I think when the first 2 weeks of seeing someone consists of astrological fireworks, triple chocolate brownies, and fluffy kittens, it's a pretty good sign.
But, when your own mother (rather prim and in her mid 60s) turns around and says 'but I thought you planned on seeing lots of men and being a bit of a whore for a while?' you start to think that maybe people aren't expecting you to start a new relationship just yet.....
Tuesday, 24 August 2010
Rainbow Tuesday
Surely we all know the double rainbow video, and the double rainbow song by now.... and if not why not?
but now..proudly introducing... from those pesky Lolcats...
IT'S TEH DOUBLE RAINBOW KITTEH!!!!
it's so intense...
Monday, 23 August 2010
Dating, and why my body is evil.
I had a lovely second date with a very lovely man. It was a date I very nearly cancelled due to the sudden arrival on the morning of said date of a coldsore. What a lovely surprise that one was. Instead of cancelling, I owed up to having face-AIDS (herpes’ OFFICIAL name) and had the following conversation with the lovely man:
Me: I have a cold sore. so, this is going to be a date where we don’t kiss.
Him: I’m not scared. I’m man enough. I’ve never had a coldsore. I like to try everything once - It might be fun!
Me: No, it won’t. You do not want a coldsore.
Him: It’ll be totally worth it!
Me: No, you DO NOT WANT THIS! In fact, the only way I’m only going to kiss you is as a punishment if you REALLY annoy me and I think you deserve a life-long virus and a fat lip.
Him: how annoying do I have to be?
Me: you’d have to really annoy me. Like, break a window.
Him: I’m going to set your house on FIRE!
Me: *sigh*
In a rare triumphant moment for my willpower, I did manage to not kiss him. Nearly imploded with the effort, (he IS a LOVELY man), but I didn’t kiss him. Not even in the morning. (because, yes, he did stay over, and yes, I do have sex on the first date. And second.)
Willpower = epic win
Body’s performance = epic fail.
I’m running out of way of keeping my body in check. For the past 4 or 5 months I’ve felt constantly slightly ‘off’ , which, at first, I put down to being single for the first time in two years and therefore slightly confused about everything in general, having re-emerged onto the dating scene again, blinking and trembling like a new born foal. However, I’m not one to dwell and have decided I should really be over things by now and ready to function like the adult I actually (supposedly) am.
So, the fact that my body refuses to behave is starting to annoy me just a little bit. Just to give you a quick idea of the kind of nemesis I’m up against, here’s a section of the running conversation my body and I have:
Me: right, body. We have a big week ahead of us. A really important, stressful, busy week, where we aren’t going to have much time to relax. We’re going to have to be really well rested. Ready for this?
Body: INSOMNIA!
Me: that wasn’t helpful, body. Now we still have to do the busy week without having had any sleep. Lot’s of hard work to do, we’ll just have to power through. We need to be on top form.
Body: FLU!
Me: That really wasn’t funny, body. I appreciate your new venture into irony, but now is NOT the time. Still, we made it. Thank you for not letting me die of flu. And I can tell you’re really trying on the sleeping front. Now maybe we can settle down a bit? I’ve got a date tomorrow, so it’s nice you’re in full working order again. Now, will you behave?
Body: oh, ok then..... *waits til I’m asleep*......COLDSORE!!
Me: .........*looks in mirror*...........small voice*.... I hate you, body.
Body: *evil snigger*
Do you see where I’m coming from now? My body clearly has issues with me being happy/ successful. So, I’ve tried writing to it:
Dear body.
I do not find you amusing in the slightest.
I don’t know why you continue in your campaign of evil against me. Surely you’re getting bored of it by now? Yes, I understand you hate me, but I have accepted this and hoped we could continue our lives together safe in this knowledge without continually having to come to blows over it. I’m aware I may have done some not very nice things to you in the past, but most of these occasions have been accidental, and on the whole I have treated you very well. Please desist in your general mean spirited attacks on my person. Our person. We’re in this together, damnit! Be nice to US! Any more unfunny attacks from you, and I WILL punish you. Badly.
I hope you take this on board and consider improving your behaviour.
Love, Me.
I’ll wait for this formal written warning to sink in, and let you know what happens.
...........waiting.......waiting......... *massive sneezing fit*.................
Me: fuck you, body.
Me: I have a cold sore. so, this is going to be a date where we don’t kiss.
Him: I’m not scared. I’m man enough. I’ve never had a coldsore. I like to try everything once - It might be fun!
Me: No, it won’t. You do not want a coldsore.
Him: It’ll be totally worth it!
Me: No, you DO NOT WANT THIS! In fact, the only way I’m only going to kiss you is as a punishment if you REALLY annoy me and I think you deserve a life-long virus and a fat lip.
Him: how annoying do I have to be?
Me: you’d have to really annoy me. Like, break a window.
Him: I’m going to set your house on FIRE!
Me: *sigh*
In a rare triumphant moment for my willpower, I did manage to not kiss him. Nearly imploded with the effort, (he IS a LOVELY man), but I didn’t kiss him. Not even in the morning. (because, yes, he did stay over, and yes, I do have sex on the first date. And second.)
Willpower = epic win
Body’s performance = epic fail.
I’m running out of way of keeping my body in check. For the past 4 or 5 months I’ve felt constantly slightly ‘off’ , which, at first, I put down to being single for the first time in two years and therefore slightly confused about everything in general, having re-emerged onto the dating scene again, blinking and trembling like a new born foal. However, I’m not one to dwell and have decided I should really be over things by now and ready to function like the adult I actually (supposedly) am.
So, the fact that my body refuses to behave is starting to annoy me just a little bit. Just to give you a quick idea of the kind of nemesis I’m up against, here’s a section of the running conversation my body and I have:
Me: right, body. We have a big week ahead of us. A really important, stressful, busy week, where we aren’t going to have much time to relax. We’re going to have to be really well rested. Ready for this?
Body: INSOMNIA!
Me: that wasn’t helpful, body. Now we still have to do the busy week without having had any sleep. Lot’s of hard work to do, we’ll just have to power through. We need to be on top form.
Body: FLU!
Me: That really wasn’t funny, body. I appreciate your new venture into irony, but now is NOT the time. Still, we made it. Thank you for not letting me die of flu. And I can tell you’re really trying on the sleeping front. Now maybe we can settle down a bit? I’ve got a date tomorrow, so it’s nice you’re in full working order again. Now, will you behave?
Body: oh, ok then..... *waits til I’m asleep*......COLDSORE!!
Me: .........*looks in mirror*...........small voice*.... I hate you, body.
Body: *evil snigger*
Do you see where I’m coming from now? My body clearly has issues with me being happy/ successful. So, I’ve tried writing to it:
Dear body.
I do not find you amusing in the slightest.
I don’t know why you continue in your campaign of evil against me. Surely you’re getting bored of it by now? Yes, I understand you hate me, but I have accepted this and hoped we could continue our lives together safe in this knowledge without continually having to come to blows over it. I’m aware I may have done some not very nice things to you in the past, but most of these occasions have been accidental, and on the whole I have treated you very well. Please desist in your general mean spirited attacks on my person. Our person. We’re in this together, damnit! Be nice to US! Any more unfunny attacks from you, and I WILL punish you. Badly.
I hope you take this on board and consider improving your behaviour.
Love, Me.
I’ll wait for this formal written warning to sink in, and let you know what happens.
...........waiting.......waiting......... *massive sneezing fit*.................
Me: fuck you, body.
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