Has this ever happened to you?

And no, I’m not talking about when your boyfriend couldn’t get it up. Or, when you accidentally farted while having sex. Or, while doing the downward dog in yoga.

I’m talking about this earth-shattering, peace-destroying, nerve-annihilating glitch with blogger/blogspot.

When I click on ‘New Post’, instead of the usual comforting all-the-space-in-the-world big box under the font (and others) button, I see NOTHING.

When I scroll down, down, down, I am greeted with this tiny, tiny excuse of a box that says “Preview” on top.

I can’t see the buttons for font size, spell check, include a link, etc. Nothing.

So, has this happened to you?

Or, AM I THE ONLY ONE?

Seriously beginning to believe in that whole conspiracy theory, again.

Because murder tends to get you the electric chair

On one or five hundredth of the free hours I’ve had during the on going unemployment, I decided to compile my mosiacs into a website.

The result?

Dial M for Mosaic.

So go on, tell me what you think. But just remember, the hand that rocked the mosaics knows how to use one mean hammer and an ever meaner pair of tile nippers.

Sometimes there is just no right side of the bed

And you have no choice but to roll out it, disgruntled, annoyed, and tired. Oh so, tired.

It started with a dream last night where I am on a rickshaw with some people and we pass a building that is going up in flames. Big huge, popping, snapping, snarling flames that are just eating up the building. Weirdly enough, I seem to be the only one who gives a damn. I shout at the rickshaw driver to stop while dialling 911. And then remember that in this country it’s 999. So I frantically dial the digits, finally get someone at the other end, inform him of the fire and the urgency and the panic, the words all but falling out of my mouth, only to be PUT ON HOLD!

As if the dream wasn’t infuriating enough, I am then woken up at 5 30 AM with persistent whinging from first one and then the second Beastie. And no amount of muffled “Shoo!” and “Shut up!” do the trick.

And just in case you’re thinking, all this getting hot, bothered and aggravated seems to be completely contrary to my post and resolutions yesterday, you can just shut it already.

Because true to my post and the resolutions, I stopped fretting and getting madder by the second. Instead, I became a DOER. I hauled ass and got a handful of water from the bathroom sink and baptised the hell out of those little shits.

A doer, that’s me.

Resolutions

Yes, I’m fully aware that it is the seventh month of the year. And not the start. I may spend my days in my pyjamas but I haven’t lost track of time entirely. Yet.

And I also know that while we never quite stop subjecting ourselves to hangovers all year round, resolutions are traditionally made at the end of one year and the beginning of another.

But trust me, this is important. This is needed. This is long, long overdue.

I resolve to be less Monica Geller, more Phoebe Buffet.

I resolve to worry less, and live more.

To plan less, and do more.

To not get my knickers in a twist when the flatmate doesn’t empty the water out of the kettle after using it. And when she puts the sugar in the wrong drawer. It’s her place, too. And she has every right to do things her way. (Even though we all know, my way is THE RIGHT ONE, of course.)

And when things go wrong, and trust me that is one band that so does not stop playing (this morning it was the Internet connection at home crashing, my air con dying and the flatmate’s sink springing a leak), I will think less conspiracy theory and more, oh well, shit happens.

I will stop counting the pennies. At least until there are none to count.

And here’s the most important one.

I will NOT beat myself up if despite my best efforts, I slip up on any of the above.

Single White Female

So, the new flatmate.

She seems perfectly nice, picks up after herself, washes up after herself, and is even Beastie-friendly.

She kindly offered to look after them when I briefly toyed with the idea of a weekend getaway. (Finally ended up scratching the thought in the interest of a few more weeks of groceries.)

We seem to have similar taste in books, movies and a shared passion for Grey’s Anatomy.

It definitely could be worse.

And the best thing? She shows no interest at all in copying my wild just-got-out-of-bed-after-a-nasty-nightmare hairstyle.

Thinking

After being confined for two hours in a movie theatre with 3 bratty, giggly, loud and obnoxious teenagers, and did I mention LOUD, I promise to be a whole lot less judgemental the next time I see a lion kill its young cubs on Animal Planet.

Conspiracy theory

You know how sometimes you have one of those days when nothing, absolutely nothing seems to go right? When somewhere through the day full of debacles and disasters, you start wishing you hadn’t bothered to get out of bed that morning?

I’m having days, no, make that weeks, no, actually more than a couple of months of that.

First there was the ominous court order and the threat of having prison orange clash horribly with my complexion. Then there was the whole joblessness thing. Which incidentally, is still continuing. Then came the bout of flu which had me eating toast for five full days as that’s all I had in Mother Hubbard’s cupboard. Then arrived the weird, unidentifiable eye infection which was diagnosed yesterday as an inflammation of the cornea and which may need an incision. That’s right, an INCISION IN MY EYE!!!!!!! Then the air con service man arrived and terrified Beastie 1 with the alien howling machine so much that I am still sporting deep gashes in my arm. Then the air con man dropped something big and heavy and solid on one of the two matching food bowls for the Beasties and as a result we now have just one. Then I finally get a call for work only it’s from the worst possible agency in the country and I am not even remotely exaggerating here. And they offer me work for a WHOLE WEEK. So where is the catch here, you ask? I promise it won’t disappoint. Knowing that I am destitute and jobless, they do so by generously offering to pay me 50% LESS THAN MY USUAL FEE. 50%!!!!! And that’s not even the worst part. That comes when I tell you that after a lot of bile and pride swallowing, I decide to accept the offer.

Now tell me, am I just imagining that the Universe is out to get me?

Can one stay in bed for a whole three months?

And wake up when it’s over?

The new flatmate

So why don’t I skip the part about how I still don’t have a job and how I’m still perched on the window sill of my ninth floor apartment and how I still can’t decide whether it would be worth it to land on the yappy dog and do a good deed for the whole neighbourhood on my way out?

If I leave all that out, then I’m left with just one thing.

The two Beasties and I are going to have a new flatmate. She seems perfectly nice which as we all know means she is probably going to be my own private version of A Single White Female. She moves in the day after tomorrow.

Maybe now finally the blog will have some content. And I’ll have some spare cash to feed my Ben & Jerry craving.

What are you looking at?

Status update: So I’ve been feeling bored and worried and anxious and panicky and angry and resentful and bitter. It’s a vicious circle with one leading to the other and then the other and so on and so forth back to the very beginning. A big fucking pot of negativity that boils and bubbles and churns and stews. And it’s Just. Not. helping.

I keep hearing how I should make the most of this downtime and enjoy it and use it to do things that I wouldn’t otherwise have the time for. That’s all fine and well. But you try planning a holiday or deep breathing in a yoga class or even window shopping when you have no idea how you are going to be paying the rent soon, and I promise you, the only thing you’ll enjoy is kicking the head in of the next fuckwit who suggests any of the above.

Ummm…did I mention angry and bitter in the laundry list above?

So, the point of this post is that there is none. I’m simply looking to vent. Even when it doesn’t do crap to help.

Thank you for letting me.

Confessions of an ex-Shopaholic

This, this, is one of the reasons why I need me a job.

And the catalogue isn’t half bad either. Love the shadow play.