Morning melt down

This morning I got ready for work and it was a disaster. Do you ever have those mornings where anything that could possibly go wrong, does in fact go wrong. I was a tornado of destruction wreaking havoc on my very own life.

I should point out I am not a morning person, I make sure I get every millisecond out of my allocated sleep-in time. I'm not a fully functioning human being in the morning. In fact, it could be debated as to whether I am a human being at all. I am typically woken by one of my starving cats (usually Dennis), who is quite obviously malnourished. Dennis is so tormented by his hunger that he will resort to batting my face with his paw and meowing in a hideous manner. The alarm on my phone is far less effective at waking me up than Dennis' method.

So Dennis attacked my face, I dragged myself out of bed and poured some biscuits into his bowl, much to his delight, and mine. I then proceeded to get ready. Now, before I get out of bed I think of what I want to wear.... AND NOTHING ELSE WILL DO. If I can't find what I want to wear I know I will have a shit day. It's that serious guize. This morning was one of those mornings where I could not piece together my outfit. Turns out I've lost my favourite black slip so I had to freestyle one out of a velvet skirt and black singlet, ohmygod it was tragic. I then proceeded to spill makeup all over my outfit, stab a hole and ladder in my stockings, and burst into tears on the motorway.

Oh it was a bad morning. Rull bad. I needed some serious Tony Robbins motivation to pull through that one.

Interesting drive home

I had car sex this afternoon. Car sex for me, is when I see someone in a really nice car and I sex them with my eyes. Am I the only person this happens to? An attractive person is driving a nice car, my eyes are greedy and I tend to stare, and I've been known to drool on occasion. So this guy he was driving this really nice Merc, it was sexual. We pulled up next to each other at the lights, and even though the light was red, I very much gave him the green light.
LOL

He noticed me staring at him so I just looked away and tried to be cool about it. Until, he went on the motorway as well and we sort of did the whole awkward you-over-take-no-you-over-take dance side by side. Agh and then he saw me looking at him again! But I was looking at him in a pointed way like 'are you going to over take me or not' and he was looking at me like 'bitch is still staring'.

So I make the move and pull in behind him, mostly because I don't want him to see the cat stickers on the back of my car. I have cat stickers on the back of my car by the way. And yes they scream CRAZY CAT LADY.

But then the unthinkable happens and he pulls off at the same exit, I don't want him to think I'm crazy so I go into another lane as to look like I'm not following him. I turn the radio up to listen to the ever so witty banter from the radio DJ's with Merc man safely behind me. I start laughing/creepy smiling at what the DJ's are saying and before I know it I look over to my left and Merc boy is sitting next to me with a look of fear in his eyes. He probably saw the cat stickers too.

I really wanted to make some sort of vulgar gesture to him but I realised that he was actually genuinely afraid of me. He probably had police comms on speaker. So I'm not having car sex again.

Sick as a dawg

Probably one of the most awkward illnesses you can get is Glandular Fever. After putting up with a sore throat and an inability to swallow properly (ahhh, hugely important function) I decided to go to the Doctor. And after feeling the golf-balls I currently have for glands in my neck he diagnosed me with the glanj. He then went on to advise me that people most commonly transfer this delicious fever via the exchange of saliva through kissing. This statement was followed by a very pointed look.

So yeah, along with glanj he also diagnosed me as being a slut. Which was fantastic, even though he went on to say I could also get it from someone sneezing etc, I knew he had already made his mind up. 

The bad thing about being sick is that I never actually look sick. I have puffy eyes but they're not that noticeable to people who don't stare at my face as intently as I do. Please see my sick face below, this was post a run because I felt lethargic. Yes I realise that is a symptom of glanj but I grew up on tough love, with a mother who didn't believe in common illnesses, one being Asthma. 

Shit I was a cheap drunk, one cider 4 pills = happy place. Opps. 

When I was about 11 years old I was diagnosed with Bronchitis Asthma, I can't really remember how it came about but I vividly remember being taken to the doctor and made to suck these horrid fumes through a mask. It was probably chloroform. The Doctor sent me home with various inhalers to take at certain times. I was quite clueless as to when I needed them. I remember freaking out at school because I started coughing and didn't actually know whether to take my inhaler or not.

My mother soon cleared it all up for me when she decided there was no such thing as Asthma. I remember taking my inhaler one night under her supervision and he saying "This is utter rubbish you don't need this junk, I'm throwing it out" in fact I remember our dodgy neighbour asking for them, so yeah my mum gave away my medication to a drug dealer.

Ever since then I've always been confused about whether or not I'm sick. As a child, if I was visibly sick as in vomiting/blowing my nose/lying on the floor dying my mother would believe me. Otherwise, I would not be taken seriously and sent on my way. 

This indecisiveness has followed me through to adulthood. Thank you mum. 

Once of the worst instances was when I fell off my pony and was actually briefly knocked out. I woke up on a pile of corrugated iron and barbed wire. Don't ask why this was in the paddock in the first place, my dads version of 'art' most likely. My mother came running down in a panic, genuinely worried about me. I had bitten down on the entire inside of my mouth and my gums were completely torn to shreds, as a result blood was pouring out of my mouth. The worst of it was my shin which collided with some metal and torn skin/muscle/flesh down to the bone. It was delicious. 

My mother was in shock at my state, needless to say. However, she did NOT send me to the doctor, rather she sent me to the bathroom to be cleaned up. It was my school production that night, and instead of going to A&E for a tetanus shot I was forced to go the school production I so desperately wanted to be in to WATCH IT. Yes, my mother not only decided that my injuries were not major but I had to be punished by being removed from the production and forced to watch. 

Oh the trauma. 

Thus the person I am today that associates injury/medical issues with very negative consequences. 

Quarter life crisis 2.0

So further to my last update, things have developed further in the Quarter life crisis front guys. And when I say developed I mean like in an a way a body builder "develops" muscles on steroids. Yes, my quarter life crisis is on the roids. But I'm not even embarrassed about it, much like a body builder I'm flaunting it, spraying it orange, and calling it a day.

Soz body builders, I totally respect what you do and maybe you're the only ones who will truly get what I'm going through. Ah, long shot?

Apart from the fact that I'm listening to house music while I a write this, I am doing something else that is very out of the ordinary for conservative old me. I'm just going to come out and say it. I'm wearing leather pants, here they are.

Body builders eat your heart out. Cat women-esq? Maybe. But hey, they'll go with the motorbike. I also kind of rustle and squeak as I walk like mouse trapped in a plastic bag. 

Quarter life crisis in full swing

So I feel like I have been fairly low-key about my quarter life crisis. Oh you didn't know already? Yeah I'm going through a quarter life crisis. See the reality of it is, is that you never turn 24, no sir-rey you don't. You turn 'I'm going to be 25 next year' there is no 24 kids. So wipe that off the list of numbers your teacher told you about. So when your teacher asks be sure to tell them 4 x 6 = 25 next year.

I have acknowledged the fact that I am experiencing a quarter life crisis, just look at the title of the blog and you will realise this is a shrine to my current phase. So I just want you to know I totally realise what I'm doing right now, but I had not truly realised the extent of my behaviour... until a couple of weeks back.

So I signed up for a motorbike lesson. I mean, I've always wanted a motorbike but there's always been a parent/guardian/common sense standing in the way. And now that I'm approaching 25 those factors don't matter anymore. So I was kind of hoping to channel a Britney-Spears-esq persona. Sexy leathers, red hair flowing in the wind, straddling some ripped black man.

Unfortunately my experience on a motorbike was nothing like the picture above. Britney made it look easy, she probably had a green screen too. Nope, my experience was more similar to the below picture, confusing yet hard to look away from.

So I showed up to my lesson in my cutest outfit consisting of real leather jacket (SORRY MOO-COWS BUT YOUR SKIN FEELS SO GOOD AGAINST MINE), 7 jeans, puma's, and white tshirt. I was like totally biker-chic, ya know?

The guy takes one look at me and already decides I can't ride a motorbike and informs me I need to "Zip up my jacket and do a basic balance test" at this stage I'm thinking "Well, screw it I've already failed" so I go to zip up my jacket, and no word of a lie, THE ZIPPER BREAKS!!!!!11!!11!1!!!ONE!!

So I'm standing there with my zip in my hand feeling very much like a soon-to-be-25-year-old fool. The news of my broken zipper does not improve the mood of my belligerent instructor and he just looks at me and sighs. I feel like a failure. Next minute, I am tossed onto a motorbike without so little instruction and pushed around (the motobike is turned off there's just some guy pushing me on it, reminiscent of my first bicycle experience) by mr grumpy instructor's assistant.

It is in this moment, while I am being pushed around on an idling motorbike with a broken zipper that I realise how uncool I am. Internally, I weep.

But I am then told by angry face instructor that I have excellent balance. YEAH THAT'S RIGHT BITCHES. And I spend the rest of the afternoon recovering from my bad start and working on my excellent motorcycle skills.

So yeah, I have a motorcycle licence now. Shit is getting real. Reel real.

I recommend you watch this space for more motorcycle updates. I promise hilarity xx

I'm probably an Indian God

So, you should know by now that I am a redhead. There's no if's or but's about it. My hair is redish-orange.. I am a ginga, ginger, carrot top, ginger nut, I'm all of those derogatory terms.
But I'm not an ugly gingner okay, I feel like I need to back this up with quotes I've received in my lifetime of being a ginger:

"You know the girl redheads look good, but the boys, they just don't suit it."

"IT'S A REDHEAD! IT'S A REDHEAD! A FUCKING HOT REDHEAD!!!!"

"You're a good looking redhead coz you don't have freckles" - I do in fact have freckles this guy was high

"You're good looking for a redhead" - I get this a lot. A LOT. "for a redhead" kind of takes away from the compliment."

"Do you dye your hair"
"You don't dye your hair? Wow I didn't know red hair could look nice on someone"

But I'm pretty sure someone once told me that Indians believe red heads are decendants from Indian gods. OH MY GOSH IS THIS TRUE?

Someone please verify the above fact for me.

Cat food and chocolate

I hate going to the supermarket, yet my survival depends on it. I find supermarket shopping more of a drag than a man in women's clothes,  even more of a drag than accepting a cigarette from a friend. And I just ran out of drag puns, I digress.

Supermarkets are awful places, so filled with melancholy that it spills out the automatic-doors and oozes into the car park. I sit in my car preparing for the task ahead and with an exaggerated sigh I drag myself out and into the black hole that is the supermarket. My supermarket of choice is usually Countdown, mainly because the Pak'NSave in my area is like visiting a third-world country. And you think I'm joking, no no, one of the isles' features a shanty-town of cardboard boxes.

So I get into countdown, and I usually decide a little green basket is a far better choice than to commit myself to a trolley. Mainly because the thought of pushing a trolley of food around a Supermarket is the most dismal thing I can think of. I have enough food in my body I have to push each day thank you very much.

My shopping list is all in mind - which means I manage to find everything that is the exact opposite of what is on my list. I can usually keep to a list of less than 5 things, otherwise I'm doomed.

I went to the supermarket tonight. I waited until after 7.30 pm to ensure children and the elderly would be tucked away safely in bed. It is also a peak time for pyjamas and slippers. But when you weigh the two up... sleepwear is the lesser of the two evils. I can't judge I was in my walking clothes, which involves three-quarter tights-as-pants and a tshirt. Sometimes I feel like wearing fitness clothes to the supermarket is as equally bad as wearing a bikini to anywhere but the beach. But I'm lazy and I wouldn't wear a bikini to the supermarket.

I had two things on my list; cat food and chocolate. So yeah, the necessities. I hate the layout of the supermarket because it means these two items are on direct opposite sides on the shop. DESIGN YOUR LAYOUTS FOR CRAZY CAT LADIES PLEASE. I grab my catfood first, oh yeah so cat food isn't just like one tin of cat food, it's like, um, several things:

The little green basket gets full and heavy quite quickly. But little baby kitty-widdies need the treaty-weeties. Okay? Don't judge me.

Then. For. The. Chocolate.

OMG ROLO.

So I'm feeling pretty good about my purchases and I've made good time. I make my way to the checkout to discover they only have one operator on at this time of night. Noooooooooo! This means that everyone can see the contents of my basket. It reminds me of a surpressed childhood memory when I first discovered white went see-through when wet after swimming in a white t-shirt with friends. EVERYONE CAN SEE BUT NO ONE TELLS YOU.

Let me paint this picture for you, I'm in a supermarket at 8pm on a Wednesday night, in my pre-sweaty exercise-clothes, with a basket full of cat food and chocolate. Jealous?

Got to go I just remembered I need to finish my rolo.