The singing mug

Wow, I'm just a little bundle of joy, aren't I? That's what comes from being a bit of a sensitive soul, dealing with lots of things, in a state of flux/confusion. Life, I guess. Oh, and the PMS. Yes, that could have just a little bit to do with it. But don't you tell me that, or I might bight your head off, chew it up slowly, and spit the bits into the gutter. Or something. Yes, perhaps that is a small influence on my mood. Maybe.

There is an ad on TV at the moment with a whole bunch of coffee mugs that sing when they get coffee (and a particular brand of powdered creamer) in them. They all have different, but sweet, smiley faces and sing "So happy together..", or whatever it's called, in chorus, while sitting on people's desks, looking friendly. I want one.

Just imagine how much more fun the office would be if, when you got in in the morning, and made yourself your first cup of coffee, your mug looked up, smiled, and sang "So happy togeeetheeer..."? Hmm, ok, thinking about it, maybe I need to find one that has a slightly bigger repertoire. I have that song stuck in my head from seeing the ad last night, and I'm not sure I want that ALL the time.

So to all of you, my hundreds of two readers (this is especially a challenge for you, Catherine, I know you're good at theses things), please could you find me a singing mug, with a relatively large repertoire. Preferably a stripey one. I like stripes.

For who's life could be incomplete with a singing mug?

Fear again

My mind ambles, no, drags its little mind-feet from one place to the other, dead weight. As I start to latch onto one thing I am rudely forced to another, never quite getting a grip on any idea or thought, slowly trudging through a swamp of them, none more enticing than the next, all rather dreary really. A bunch of tadpoles in a muddy puddle, the wind whipping around it, threatening any hopes of them becoming frogs.

I received a joyous SMS from an old school friend, a lovely girl who deserves every ounce of happiness coming her way, announcing that she is expecting her second child. Not an unusual SMS for me to get, being of that age where people are getting into second (and third) sprogs. Happy families.*

Today, though, with my dreary, dredgy mind, it just slammed me on the back of my head and made me wonder when it was that I got left behind. How did I miss the queue for Finding a Husband and where was turnoff to the First Baby (and Second etc)? Which pathway did I accidently stumble away from? I realise I am not alone in this mid-30’s status, and also that the whole marriage thing has never been a huge focus in my life (I’m not one of those who has dreamt of my princess bridal gown since I was 6 years old.)

It’s none of that fairytale stuff, it’s that fear of mine again, rearing its ugly, sharp-tooth-filled head, red eyes glinting. Loneliness. It’s biting at my heels, its teeth bared, waiting. A fear that makes me do silly things and makes my head spin until I feel physically ill.

A fear I need to fight.

*For the record: I did not send a horrible, dark reply because I really am glad for her. It’s fabulous news and received the joyous reply it deserved.

Flaws, and more flaws

Admitting that one has some serious characteristic flaws is really hard. Well, it is for me. I can’t speak for the rest of the world, I guess. I have a whole bunch some character traits that are really crap. Like seriously crap. I’m not kidding. They’re crap for me, they’re even crapper for those around me. It’s just, well, crappy.

And I’m not talking about my just-now-seen-above inability to come up with decent, grammatically-correct and socially-acceptable adjectives to describe my character flaws, I’m talking about real stuff, horrible things. Sometimes they make me feel like a hideous person. The real problem lies, then, in the fact that if I’m feeling hideous, I prickle towards everyone, making them feel hideous too.

Crap. I told you. See?

Monsters

I work in the healthcare sphere, my Real Work, that is. Monday to Thursday I deal, in a roundabout way with people’s lives, in a clinical sense. I try to distance myself from it because the stories I hear are often heartbreaking and they make me lose faith in humanity so, in a way, each day as I leave the office, I put on my blinkers and pretend all is right with the world, despite what I have heard during the day saying otherwise.

Perhaps this is a wrong approach, burying my head in the sand, pretending, but I fear that if I didn’t do this, I might not be able to drag myself back to Real Work each day. You see, it is fulfilling what I do, I get to help people, make a difference, do something in a field where so much is needed and, often, resources are slim. So I keep at it, blinkering, opening up, blinkering, opening up…

But then, every now and again, I deal with something that is too raw, too real. I just had a call from a woman who has, in effect, received a life sentence, and her voice told it all. Fear, sadness, chill. My heart broke. Not just for her, but all the others too, the one’s I try to push to the back of my mind, deep down, far below, where I can’t see them.

You see, while I faithfully put those blinkers on, hide my head in the sand, push those souls where I can’t see them, they are still there, watching silently, waiting to jump up and yell. Because this disease we’re trying to deal with in this beautiful country at the tip of Africa is a monster, creeping in, not-so-surreptitiously anymore. It wraps its cold hands around our people’s throats, tightening slowly and cruelly. HIV – monstrous megalomaniac.

Another letter

I tend towards completely mildly absurd stalkbook statuses. Mostly they are vaguely (or cryptically) related to what’s going on in my life but, sometimes, they’re just nonsense. Those angst-filled Facebook statuses irritate me. You know the ones? The ones that are shouting “Look at me! Look at me! I need sympathy! Ask me what’s wrong.” Ones like: Poppie van Complainer is so cross.

Anyway, let me not get off my point. At some stage last week I had a completely nonsense one and a cousin of a friend of mine (you’ve got to love Stalkbook for its ability to make you ‘friends’ with all sorts) commented thus: ROFLMFAO.

You know my affinity for text-language. I have had to compose a letter which I should send.

Dear Cousin-of-Friend,

Thank you so much for commenting on my Stalkbook status. As much as we don’t like to admit it, acknowledgement of any kind is always welcome, even if it is of an incomprehensible kind on a vacuous platform such as Stalkbook. I just have a little thing to say.

While I am also of the kind that opens Stalkbook, then wanders into the kitchen to make myself a nice sandwich (cheese and gherkin, with a smattering of chutney is currently my favourite) while it is downloading, one should not fill one’s mouth with said sandwich, just before commenting. As my mother (and I’m sure yours) always said, it is rude to talk with one’s mouth full and, generally, also makes what you are saying unintelligible.

This was obviously the case with your comment: ROFLMFAO. I spent a long time (while eating my delicious cheese/gherkin/chutney sandwich), trying to work out exactly what you were trying to say. I’m going to go with: You are wonderfully clever, witty, and beautiful too. Feel free to correct me if I’m wrong.

Thanks, again, for commenting though. Please don’t let this put you off. As I said, I’m a sucker for acknowledgement.

Love,
Shiny x

I am getting old, aren’t I?

A confession

WARNING: This post may be slightly over-dramatised*

I have a confession to make. It is very hard for me to admit, as I fear excommunication, or at least mild shunning, from contemporary society. I have been hiding it for years and years, since the first showing of it. It was just so “order of the day” and everybody loved it, I couldn’t reveal my dark secret.

I thought, perhaps, when it first showed its face in the early ‘90s that it’d be a passing phase, that I could get away with my terrible truth. I endured occasion after occasion, smiling sweetly and making the right noises, while inwardly I felt my bile rise.

I have realised now, with ever more daring versions of it constantly being thrown in our faces, that it is here to stay, and now I feel I must clear the air, be honest, and tell my truth…

I really, really, really don’t like pesto. In any form. Its green mushiness does nothing for me. There, I said it.

I wonder if I’m alone on this?

*See? I wasn’t kidding. That’s what boredom at Real Work will do for you on a Tuesday afternoon.

A cocktail party, sans cocktails

A sticky silence pervaded the small, strangley decorated room. It made me think that possibly the interior designer in charge of this one was suffering from some acid flashback at the time of decoration and thought people might feel comforted with carpets up the walls on two sides and a completely mirrored wall on another. A mirror which everybody was avoiding, in case they caught a glimpse of one of the other’s eyes.

There were about ten of us, all strangers, standing about, a tiny cocktail party but with no cocktails. I looked around for one of those pineapples with sausages and pickled onions on toothpicks sticking out of it. A snack hedgehog. But there wasn’t one.

Three well-dressed, middle-aged men stood together at the back, looking like overgrown schoolboys in their shirts and ties. I imagined they might have marbles or catapults in their pockets, and perhaps a half-chewed toffee.

In the mirror, I surreptitiously watched a flash of lust pass through the tallest man’s eyes as he looked at the pretty young girl standing next to him. She was wearing jeans that she must’ve put on when they were wet, so tight they were, and a low-cut t-shirt, the top of her bra peeking tantalisingly out above the neckline on one side. She smelt like Issey Miyake.

The frumpy lady in the corner was looking uncomfortable. She rummaged around in her bag for nothing in particular, avoiding eye contact with the fat man who was standing in her space. I felt claustrophobic for her. The silence was getting thicker as our time together lengthened.

Then the young girl sneezed. A chorus of “Bless you” and a ping to announce our arrival on the ground floor. The lift doors opened, a rush of fresh air, and our little cocktailless cocktail party was over.

Lifts. Strange places aren't they?