Once upon a time there was a young woman who loved to sleep.
[Hi! That's me.]
She loved snuggling up in her bed with her two three four five alright, SIX pillows, scrunching her toes up to her knees until the sheets warmed up, and blissfully arching her back until all of her muscles relaxed.
[I really do have six pillows. Don't you?]
The young woman spent a fair few years sleeping alone, squished and comfy in her single bed. Eventually she upgraded to a double bed, where she took to sleeping stretched out diagonally. A few years after that, she learned to share her bed with her longtime partner boy, and occasionally shared a few pillows and some of the blankets too.
[He still got the flatter, less comfy pillows. I got the good ones.]
One day, the boy hopped on a plane and flew to another country that was a long, long way away. The girl was sad, but knew that she would be with him in a few short months, and besides, at least she got to sleep in her whole bed again. With all six pillows. But even though she could stretch out to her heart's content, she missed having the boy to snuggle with. The girl was lonely, and sad.
[But still no tears yet. Am obviously a freak. A lonely freak.]
The End.
[Am heading to bed alone now. Mraz lyrics are thanks to Kirby.]
Sleeping to dream about you,
But I'm so tired of having to live without you,
But I don't mind sleeping to dream about you,
But I'm so tired...
E. over at Talking Budgie tagged me a few days ago to complete a bit of a challenge. Since I've had a fairly busy weekend (for me, anyway) what with heading to the movies, going for a night out dancing & people watching, and attending a Sydney vs. Melbourne netball grand final match, I figure this is the perfect opportunity to get meme-ing. And rest. Rest is good.
Let's get on with it - the "Ten Things I Like About Myself" meme challenge.
- I can laugh at myself; I have completely stupid blonde moments, I'm slightly gullible and I'll fall for basically any practical joke you can pull out. But I can laugh about it. And that makes it all okay.
- I like my teeth; they've done me well over the years, minor cavities aside. I actually don't mind my smile, on the odd occasion that I snap a decent picture.
- I'm a pretty good goal-setter; I might have setbacks along the way, but I can say that I've stuck to most goals that I've set for myself. Or am at least working towards achieving them.
- I'm a good listener; I can make time for other people. In fact, I like to make time for other people. I might not have any answers, but I think I can say that I'm a fairly stable shoulder to lean on. I'd like to think so anyway.
- I'm not a trend-setter; I've never been a trend-setter. I will most likely never be a trend-setter. And that's fine by me.
- I'm a little knowledgeable at a few little things; I'm getting better with practical stuff, I have a good memory for remembering how to do things. (Unless it has anything to do with cleaning. Then I'm forgetful.)
- I'm learning to be more patient; I used to be so focused on the future that I stopped thinking about the present. I admit, I still fantasize about jumping forward five years and imagining what life will be like, but I'm also comfy with where I am right now.
- I'm 'growing up'; from organising plane tickets, to saving money, to setting up international interviews, I just feel more in control.
- I like my hair; when it behaves, that is.
- I'm coping on my own; I miss Jason like you wouldn't believe, but I'm still alive and kicking. And having fun, for the most part. I will be alright. I am alright.
If you're interested in a way to feel good about yourself, consider stealing this meme. It made me think, that's for sure. Thanks, E.:)
[The post in which I waffle on about trivial things like hair and eyelashes and things. Five minutes of your life you'll never be able to get back again.]
I think in whatever field of work you reside in, there's a need to be empathetic about things which may be sensitive or emotionally disturbing to you or your clients/peers. For teaching, it can be as simple as not going on and on about Mothers Day, when you've got a kidlet in your class who doesn't have a mother. If you're a hairdresser? To me, it means you listen to the client and try to do what they want, clarifying what you're doing along the way.
In simpler terms? Do not fuck with their hair. Give them what they want. Give them only what they want. Because if you fuck with their hair? It takes a mighty long time to grow back. And yes. This is coming from personal experience.
In December, I visited a salon near my work - we had a year six farewell dinner that night and I thought I'd have a shampoo and blowdry, since only hairdressers can make my hair go all smooth and flippy and frizz-free. While I was there, I decided to get my hair trimmed. Keep in mind, I have long hair. It was about mid-way down my back at that stage, with only one mid-sized layer to keep it thick. I'm sure you see where this story as going. To quote myself, here's what happened;
I went into the hairdresser today with high hopes and a few simple words. "Just a tiny trim off the length - I’m trying to grow it out. Oh and just trim my fringe too, please." I thought that meant "Just a tiny trim off the length - I’m trying to grow it, oh and just trim my fringe too, please." [As you would, right?] Apparently what it actually meant was "Hack at my hair in large chunks, giving me Rachel-style bangs around my face and chopping at least 2 inches of length off the back and 5 inches around my face. And then beat me with a stick."
Yep, she really did that. Left me with mutilated hair and layers that refuse to grow out, eight months later. As well as a fear of people wielding scissors.
To say I was nervous about visiting the salon yesterday was an understatement. I relaxed a little while being shampooed (somehow, massaging your own scalp in the shower just doesn't have the same effect as lying in a comfy chair with someone else doing it to you) and ended up spilling my hair horror story to my stylist, who did a great job of acting surprised, sympathetic & outraged all at once.(I love that woman.)
To cut an already-getting-long story short, she fixed the damage. She fixed the straggly bits, re-shaped the will-be-growing-out-forever layers & gave me some side swept bangs, that seem to be behaving so far.
(And no, I didn't get brave and have my hair colour changed while I was there, it's just that my el-cheapo camera has apparently decided I look better as a brownish red-head. And what el-cheapo camera wants, el-cheapo camera gets.)
As for the eyelash tinting? Me and my spectacular MS Paint skills put together a little before & after diagram for you. Let me just share an occupational health and safety warning before we begin, as viewing these up close photographs may cause blinding and retinal damage. Thank you.
You may click here to see the results, if you're so inclined.
And on a completely unrelated note, I have just added some of my new-found blog stalkees to my "Stalkeriffic Blogs" page. Check it out, and do drop me a line if I've forgotten you. Will remedy immediately, for chocolates of course.
The following excerpt was taken from a student's spelling book;
"A Diplodocus is a plait eating dinosaur."
Be afraid, girls. Be very afraid.
I've got a few upcoming events from "The List" planned for the next couple of days, which should be fairly interesting. What's that? I should just spit them all out?
Alrighty then.
Perhaps the most exciting one is that as of last night? I'm officially reading the Deathly Hallows. Only a few chapters in, and I've bawled already. I don't know how I'm going to get through this one without a tissue box by my side at all times.
Tonight I'm experimenting in the kitchen: chicken & herb meatballs with pasta.
Tomorrow I'm heading to the hairdressers & have booked in for eyelash tinting!
On Saturday, I might be going and seeing another movie in Gold Class. How's that for extravagance? Must start saving my pennies . . . for gourmet pizza. Also on Saturday, I'm heading out for a night on the town with my mum and some of her friends. I'm trying to drag along one of my colleagues for a night of people watching and dancing, so if you're reading this Ms KC? You have to come along with me.
And finally, I'm now the proud owner of a Swear Jar! Of course, I'm too poor to use it as I'm saving up, but at least it's there. Must start talking like a lady . . .
Am looking forward to them all! I think even after this year ends and I make the big seachange, I will keep a list of sorts up and running. Is good. I like it uh-lot.
(Of course, I'm saving all of the er, less interesting items for last; such as giving blood, cleaning my room, going to the dentist. But honestly, wouldn't you?)
After last week's bunny-related injuries, you may or may not remember that I vowed to have the last laugh, by booking Ricky in to have his 'bits' removed. You might also recall my disappointment in not being able to find any said 'bits' myself, because surely it was my rabbit momma duty to be capable of peering into bunny nether regions and spying any suspicious bulges. I discovered rabbit mounting, humping and a few random weird smells, but nary a ball in sight.
To cut a long story short, today was the day. I had Ricky all set in his travelling cage before I left for work and Mum dropped him down to the vet's office for me. I presumed all was going well, until I got a phone call from my mother in the afternoon, who said four dreadful words: "We've got a problem." Of course, I then had flashbacks to when I got the bad news about Bella-Rabbit, and immediately started panicking.
Turns out the news was just a little less stressful than that, though.
Ricky's first check up fee & shots: $38
Quote for Ricky's De-Sexing Operation: $95
Possible Price of an Infected Hand Amputation: $10,000+ (Who knows?)
Finding out that your BOY RABBIT is actually a GIRL RABBIT? Priceless.
No operation was necessary. And I'm not completely useless when it comes to bunnies, since there were never actually any balls to find. Poor Ricky, being subjected to almost daily physical examinations for nothing. He must have felt so violated. I'm not changing his name either, we'll just call him/her Ricki. Like Ricki Lake. Go Ricki! Go Ricki!
And guess what? The little bugger gave me two fresh scratches today. Some things never change, even if you are a slightly confused cross-gendered bunny.
Last night it was just Mum, Dad & I about to eat dinner together - something that rarely happens around here anymore. We were all set and ready to go, when Dad's work phone rang so he scuttled off to answer it (crazy man). Because Mum & I are polite, we sat down quietly at the table and waited for him to come back . . .
No, actually, I'm lying. We didn't. Since the average time of a work phone call is undetermined and unknown, we decided to just eat without him. He understands these things. And we were hungry. 'Nuff said.
Before I go on with this riveting (!) anecdote, let me rewind a little to Sunday, where I was excited to find no-sugar Creaming Soda on special at the shops. (As you can tell, I don't get out much. But it was only 80c for the bottle!) Since I'm trying to be good, the diet soft drink/soda really struck a chord with me, and I'd been waiting to open it up ever since we got home. Now fast forward to last night, where I decided to break it open for dinner.
The bottle had been sitting on the table. It hadn't been knocked over. It hadn't been shaken. It looked fairly innocent. But being skeptical of fizzy drinks, I still opened up the lid really slowly, just in case things got a little bubbly. Mum was sitting in front of me. Creaming Soda is red.
Do you see where this story is going yet?
Everything that happened next took place in slow motion. (Or at least, that's what I see in my head every time I replay the event and pee a little in my pants.)
As I slowly opened the bottle lid, there were no bubbles in sight. Of course, now that the danger was over, I could quickly twist the cap off and get on with the drinking of the red fizzy goodness. Er, wrong. For some reason, at the last turn of the cap, the bottle started spraying Creaming Soda EVERYWHERE.
My reaction? A strangled "Argh!". A frantic twisting of the cap back on. And the pointing of the bottle away from me. Towards Mum. And her mashed potatoes.
[Excuse me for a minute, seeing the slow motion version in my head is still making me break out into giggles a whole twelve hours later.]
The spraying assault eventually stopped, and the first thing Mum did was grab her piece of grilled chicken and gingerly shake the droplets off. And then glare at me as I laughed. Hysterically. Because her mashed potatoes? They were pink. And her chicken? It was dripping. (As was she.)
As for her pyjamas? Let's just be thankful they were pink to start with.
Because apparently I like the word too much, having used it in the last two posts.
Not that there's anything wrong with that. Friends are good. I like friends. In fact, I wish I had more of them, so that we could have big shopping days, and dinner dates and paintball games. (Perhaps I should have added some more things to "The List".)
Speaking of friends, some days I really miss being in school. Where you get to be in your comfort zone, seeing your friends day in & day out, making plans to see movies on the weekend . . . I know that there are people who are lucky enough to have similar experiences in their 'real world jobs', but for me it's never really happened that way. I make friends, yes, but not really ones who care to spend time with me outside of work hours. It's actually a little sad.
I'm dedicating this post to all the lonely souls out there; this one's for you.
[The following statement needs to be read in a super speedy voice, ala the fast voice overs on television. Breathing whilst repeating it is strictly optional.]
Today'sblogbroughttoyoubythatchickwhoishidinginherclassroomatlunchtimeinstead
ofsocialisinginthestaffroomwitheverybodyelsebecausesheisfeelingmopeywahboohoo.
Did you know that I didn't touch an alcoholic beverage of any kind until I was 19?
I know.
It's true, though. Not a single sip of beer. Nada. Nothing. Alright, I did indulge in one disgustingly creamy Mud Slide on my 18th birthday dinner, which I couldn't stand and ended up giving away, but other than that? I was completely alcohol free. Until I went to Europe, that is. Ah sweet Europe, where they have wine on every table and keep the booze flowing all evening long.
I have fond memories to this day of my first drunken romp in an Aussie pub in Nice, France. I especially remember stumbling up the stairs to the bathroom, giggling hysterically while on the loo because I was swaying rather a lot, and forcing people to plait my hair for me. (What I don't remember is how we got home. No idea.)
Anyway, I soon discovered that I had a fairly nifty (and expensive) trick when it came to drinking. Even though I technically should have been a lightweight as I never drank alcohol, I came to realise that it seemed to take a lot of drinks to make me tipsy. Am talking lots of glasses of wine. A fair few bottles of girly drinks. Loads of cocktails. None of this one-drink-wonder crap. I apparently had guts of steel. Good to brag about, expensive for a night on the town.
Last night we had a little Sing Star shindig, and I decided to throw together some punch for myself. I wasn't particularly fussed on what was going in it or what it looked like, since it was only me that would be indulging in it. I ended up tossing in some tropical fruit juice, a little diet lemonade, some Midori and some Vodka.
Don't ask me for the recipe, as I made my little concoction using the old "pour and sip" taste testing method. I don't know how much alcohol was in it altogether. All I know is that it tasted pretty darned good and I was giggling an hour later. And it was only 7pm.
Apparently I'm a lightweight after all. (Or I just make bloody awesome punch.)
I think it's time I declare something: I still haven't read the final Harry Potter book.
Does that make me the last person alive who doesn't know the fate of Harry & the gang? Probably. Barring the crazies folks out there who aren't fans of the series and have no intention of reading it, that is. But the only fan left? Yep. Is possible.
Don't get me wrong; I adore the Harry Potter series. They are treasured books, ones I can happily re-read when the moment takes me. Like hundreds of others, I pre-ordered the book so that I would get it soon after it's release. It's been sitting patiently on my shelf, waiting for me to get off my arse and around to reading it.
At first, I decided to put off reading the book before Jason went to London; The way that I get involved in books, he would have had difficulty prying me off my bed to spend any time with me what-so-ever. I decided that I would save The Deathly Hallows until the weekend following his departure, so I could bury my nose in the story and pretend that I hadn't just said goodbye to my partner for five months.
That weekend came and went. Did I read it? Nope. I fell back into one of my old quirky habits with reading novels in a series - I decided to start again. I finished the first three books in the week before Jase left, as they were only small and I had that viral infection of death. Goblet of Fire was completed during lonely weekend number one. Order of the Phoenix was finished over the past week.
I've just re-started the Half Blood Prince. You get the idea.
This year, people have tried really hard to keep things as spoiler free as possible. Nearly every blog I've come across that has mentioned the Deathly Hallows, has used multiple exclamation marks and capital letter headings - !!!!!! ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK !!!!!! or warnings, kindly looking after readers like me. They have no idea how appreciative of this I am, as nearly a month after the book's release?
I still don't know what happens.
I remain spoiler free. Just the way I like it. And if you spoil it for me? I will grab a big stick, wave it around your forehead pretending to incant spells, and then jab you repeatedly in the eyeballs with it when you are least expecting it.
(I'm not a violent person, honestly.)
Posts
