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.