The f-word

Everybody on Facebook is complaining, boasting, scared at the copious amounts of food they have consumed over these last two days. I'm usually one of them, just not this time. I did try. But I failed. And I guess nobody would like to hear the details. Let's just say that by the time I was home after the damn Christmas Eve breakfast, the whole breakfast had been thrown up. Enough said. Not a pretty sight. And it went on from there. I just didn't have the appetite for any of it. Which is extremely rare in my historical biography. Usually I just can't sit down properly anymore because I'm scared the buttons on my pants are about to pop, blind someone, and sent to forensics for proper examination. But not this time. And I am not a girl who pecks at her food. Unfortunately I think food is one of the best inventions ever made by mankind, and it's difficult to resist. But again, not this time. As for why, it seems my stomach too is into some recession. I can only eat some but not a lot or I am risking a repeat performance of early Christmas Day, which wasn't pretty, and which I am in no hurry to repeat. Which in itself is not a bad thing, it's not as if I am going to die from hunger anytime soon. It'll take quite a lot for enzymes to break up the f-word. I probably could go right through the Third World War hungry and still survive, because the f-word will protect me. Seriously. It is quite tragic the way a chocolate bar finds itself immediately on my hips, when the same chocolate bar is flushed out in minutes by my dear old twin. Twin? Yeah right. But then my dear old twin goes to the gym and exercises his abs, biceps and what not. Oh dear, we're quite a screwed up pair of twins.

So in honour of me having eaten as little as a sparrow, I'm off to McDonalds. I know, it's junk, but they make a mean chicken salad. So hoping I'll keep that down. And woe betide anybody who dares so much as think of the f-word. If you're thinking of it, look the other way....

D.I.Y.

Nothing is happening as in physical, butterfly-effect happenings. But a whole lot is happening as in inside me wasp-effect happenings. But I have to make the effort to come here, because as long as I'm here I'll be fine. The temptation to give my blog a break is big, but I know it will not help, because one day away will turn into a week which will turn into a month, just like last time. So I'm here to stay somehow, even if my ramblings do not always make a lot of sense. Even if I get down to my last cigarette in the house, at the very least, I'll put my words on hold and make the drive to MIA which is always so equipped.

I am at crossroads. I've known it for a couple of days, but I've tried to shelve it because Christmas really didn't look like the best time to stay motionless at the crossroads. Henceforth (now that sounds like one hell of a legal word but anyway) I tried to push myself to at least staying awake and talking, an effort both for myself and for the mister who worries so much. I'm sorry I worry him, but sometimes things are what they are. I know I need not use the sorry word because there is an unsigned understanding that one will pick the other up whenever necessary. No fighting, no shouting, no arguing, no disagreements. Just an understanding. And when you've gone through years with me without temperamental me throwing not a single tantrum, well I guess we're not doing bad at all. But that is not what has me sitting silently under the dim light of an old lamppost which could use a lick of governmental paint. It's cold, but I am wrapped up better then any Christmas present.It's also being wrapped up in thick skin which has seen worse. It's just the lies that I cannot take; the key words being soon, in due course, hoping I will understand, neglect, reluctance and the cherry on the icing ... fear. All of which are a heavy cocktail of lies so big that they cannot pass through the cocktail straw because the cocktail itself is like thick sludge. I am not one for the drink, and certainly not one for a disgusting cocktail like that. It's so sad that anybody human person can have a foot in such dung. And then we boast about integrity.

So should I turn to D.I.Y.? Should I turn to D.I.TV? Or D.I.Letters in newspapers? Or D.I. My Way? I haven't a clue. I could keep my chin up and keep up the drama, perhaps fall and brush myself back up. Or I could quite simply put another expenditure on the government. But hold on it's Friday and it's Xarabank. And I know the address, it's just next door to the people who lie. Same on me for not having walked out and in. But I thought it was for the best, and now I'm not so convinced. Perhaps a touch of D.I.Y.......

Do Not Disturb

I am out of my afternoon coma and have shaken myself into reality. I wonder why I sleep so deeply, it must run in the family but there have been times when people where abusing my pretty doorbell, when they were intent on breaking my front door down, when they called both my land line and my mobile phone line, all at the same time. I still kept on sleeping and heard nothing.I have given my twin heart attacks when I do this because he always fears the worst. I have sent shivers right down the spine of my mum and dad because they too fear the worst. And I have given my other half quite some scared moments because he also feared the worst. And all of them thought the same thing; that I must have fallen and hit my cerebellum so hard that I knocked myself unconscious when really it's just my head which hit the feather pillow. And all of them were quite pissed once they managed to get through the door (spare keys), and find out that I was still sleeping like a baby. Which didn't make much sense, since they should have been pleased to find out that I was safely in bed and not sprawled on the floor like some homicide scene out of Murder she Wrote. My relationship with sleep has always been strange. I can only sleep on my own pillow, and yes I've been known to take it on holiday with me. I need my own bed, my own cluttered surroundings. I need the same wall to stare at, the same cats jumping up and down on me, and then sleep is easy. But had I to miss just one of the requisites, then sleep is something way far off. It is probably the reason why I hated sleep-overs even as a child, while my twin was sleeping all over the place (just sleeping at the time). But not I. I envy those who enter the world of sleep exactly when they hit the pillow, those who can sleep a solid eight hours and not wake up some time in the middle. I can't. And perhaps it's also the reason why I should hang a 'Please Do Not Disturb Sign' and carry it around proudly on the left (or right) side of my chest. I would if I could. If i could get away with it, that is.

8 inch heels

And again, now I remember something else. I realise why it felt so bad yesterday on Christmas Day. I inadvertently pulled down the iron shutters on the outside world. Because I couldn't very well take the little people running down my street laden with presents as they made their way to their nanna's. And I couldn't very well let myself see their immaculate, airbrushed mums trying to balance themselves on something like 8 inch heels, with or without their husbands in accompaniment. That is not a problem for me. But there I go, of course seeing a couple together is not a problem, because I have all that. Although on Christmas Day I always say a silent prayer to the one who left so suddenly only to return in my dreams. But I've made my way through that, so now I don't give it much thought. That's the beauty of life and the way it changes us and others. So I can take 8 inch heels, 6 inch heels, knee high leather boots dangerously balanced on mean-looking heels. I can also take the war paint, that's easy, it only takes me a 15 minutes to create that. It should also take me 15 minutes or less to create a something else, but it never happens. And I am resigned to it, I don't spend a 15 minutes crying for what is not to be. It's not to be so it's over and done with. And I am one who will really never cry about shoes, I have so very many, one would think I have a foot fetish (which I don't). But when the 8 inch heels, no matter how dangerously balanced are taking baby steps so as to make sure the owner doesn't fall and so as to make sure that the little person, also dangerously balanced on a hand keeps defying the gravitational pull, well that's another story. And now I realise that I am, not intentionally, being a Silas Marner. But even Silas was sent a little Eppie. It seems that all through European literature, people who have had an unlucky blow in life have closed their hearts to the world. And that is understandable, I would have done the same. But then all through this literature, it's always the little people sent from God knows where who manage to open the hearts of those who have turned against life. And these little people do not walk on 8 inch heels. Somehow I am remembering a lot of things, and actually am surprised that I didn't grow bitter. Perhaps it was through sheer hard work of my own, perhaps because it was destined to be that way. But I do not want to be the girl who looks on wistfully on a scene which includes 8 inch heels and a little person. Or two little persons at that. I have gone through all of my childhood photo albums and yes I've seen how cute I was (who isn't at that age anyway?), but I've also seen the happiness of my mum in dangerous platforms and micro skirts (it was the 70's), and my happy dad with huge sideburns and hippy clothes. I guess I will never understand. But perhaps my profession helps me to function, and very well. Because I don't see many 8 inch heels. Although I see a lot of little people. But they're safely away from the heels and mostly into sensible school shoes.

Happy Birthday Jesus

I'm finally up (and about time too), and it has suddenly dawned on me why I thought Christmas Day is such a boring day. Because I forgot it was Jesus' birthday. Seriously. Sometimes we are so wrapped up in our boredom and in thinking about what we do not have as opposed to what we do have. There is this beautiful song (yes I am quite obsessed with the music), beautiful because of the lack of a better word, it is a magical string of perfect notes which when sung goes straight to the heart of even the best of Scrooges. It makes me stop in my tracks, especially when sung, and especially when listened to. It is one of those which I cannot have in the background while doing something else. Somehow it requires full attention, it is just one magical piece of music where you will stop in awe, at least that is what I do, and I have listened to it a million times, just not yesterday. Now I remember how I have survived all of my Christmas Days in the world. Because this Happy Birthday Jesus was firmly etched into my brain, heart, and soul. One just cannot not be moved with this. And here goes the link, please please please, watch this, it'll be worth your time..... http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=claKP84h9EE&feature=related