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Tuesday 14 February 2012

Happy Valentine's Day - Does this rag smell like chloroform to you?

I know I’ve spoken about it before, and I don’t doubt that at some point I will speak about it again, but please, for the love of God, put down your fucking iPhone.
Yesterday was Valentine’s Day and whether you’re on the “Snuggly-bear I wuvs you so much, you’re my honey boo-boo for evers!” lobby, or whether you’re riding shotgun throwing flaming bags of dog shit onto couples from the top of the “This is just an excuse for Hallmark to make money! What a bunch of commercialist claptrap, I can’t believe people would buy into this blarney! I am an independent person with very high self-esteem and don’t need a dying flower to cement my belief in myself!” bandwagon, I would like to think that we could possibly agree on one thing: If you are out on a date, leave your fucking smart phone in your fucking pocket.
Husband and I forgo presents and will go out to eat or participate in an activity for days that are special to us. Anniversaries, birthdays, things like that. For Valentine’s Day this year, we went to Gingerboy in Crossley St in Melbourne’s CBD. I’m going to make a little aside here, and say that if you go to Gingerboy and want a cocktail, get yourself a Lustful Revenge. It’s like Ribena and Turkish delight had a baby. An alcoholic baby and that baby is AWESOME. Anyway, there are a million reviews out there and everybody knows Gingerboy is amazing, so you don’t need me telling you how great it is. My point is that out of the completely full dining room, Husband and I win the most romantic couple award. We may win by default, but by God, that counts.
Everybody in the restaurant, apart from us, at some stage pulled out their phones. It was obvious by the bluish tinge on their faces as they furiously tapped at their crotchal region. The couple next to us spent the entire night on their iPhones. I think at some point they were even texting each other. The couple on the other side lasted most of the night until the girl pulled out her phone to tweet “OMG… Why is this so spicy? Why would curry be spicy? It’s inedible!” I know this because she said the same thing out loud, multiple times before sending her food back. Here’s a hint love, if something says chilli crusted, chances are it’s going to be hot.
I thought I had made a silent alliance with a couple sitting adjacent to us who were also sniggering at the texting couple until I glanced back sometime mid-Wagyu beef and they were tapping away at a suspiciously phone shaped object. Honestly, it breaks my heart. A guy in my company gave his girlfriend 12 long stemmed roses, a heart shaped box of chocolates, a fluffy dog toy and a Tiffany & Co ring this Valentine’s Day. My husband gave me the best present of all though, his attention and the gift of his conversation.  

Monday 6 February 2012

Too lazy to finish a sente....

One of the dangers of being a slovenly creature, like myself, is that when home alone one night and cooking dinner for yourself without witnesses you are liable to make mistakes. Take for instance, this evening. Husband is at dance and I am home by myself cooking stir fry and drinking diet rite Portello directly from the bottle. I put the delicious beverage (with 5% juice - it makes it healthy) down on the bench. When I pick it up and take a swig I notice it's rather thicker and more oystery than normal.
Yeah... That'll be the Oyster Sauce then. That's not even close to Portello.
I know that I could have avoided this entire situation by pouring the damn thing into a glass, but it's just so much effort.
It's the same crushing laziness that leads me to kick my shoes off in the general direction of the designated shoe area, and trip over them time and time again until I give up and finally kick them close enough to the wall that I won't trip on them in the middle of the night. I won't actually bend over, pick them up and move them, I'll just scoot them further with my foot so that they're not such an immediate trip hazard.
It's the same debilitating not botheredness that refuses to let me put things away when I'm done with them. I look at the things on the bench, the flour, the eggs, the sugar and this wave of instant lackadaisical apathy will come over me. It's why there's a soft toy ninja on top of my recipe books. He doesn't belong there, but it's just so much effort to move him.
There's a thousand piece jigsaw puzzle spread on the floor of my study. I haven't even finished the border, but I can't bring myself to sit down and actually do it, nor can I bring myself to pick it up.
My casual attitude to the general neatness of my environment has been a problem for those that live in my vicinity for as long as I've been alive. I maintain that I know where everything is and it's a sort of strata system.
I washed that dress and put it on the pile about 2 weeks ago, therefore it will be approximately 1 meter from the top of the pile, slightly to the left, because the clothes fall that way due to some trick of gravity or the slant of the chair I have placed them upon.
Husband is a neatness freak. Everything has a place. He may not necessarily know where he's put it, but damn it, he put it somewhere and that's where it lives.
My kitchen has a whole bunch of random hooks that things hang off. So does my bathroom. I have a fucking wok hanging from my kitchen window because that's it's spot. Husband has decreed that the wok lives on the right, and the fry pan on the left. I wanted to go for more traditional curtains, but hey, let the man have his fun.
My house, were I to live alone would possibly resemble that of one of those hoarders houses. Not because I have any attachment to the things, just because I can't quite bring myself to put down my sci-fi book, get off the couch and fold towels.
It's something that I know I'm going to have to work on... Just not now, I'm reading this book.