poobumwee

This is going to be a quicky, it's just something that's been on my mind lately.

Okay, so you're waiting for a vacant cubicle in a public bathroom and you hear a toilet flush so you get ready to go in. You walk over to where the door is opening and awkwardly smile at the person coming out as if to say "thanks for doing your business quickly, I really need to go". Then you walk in to the cubicle, and there is no toilet seat. It has been ripped off by some vandal. So now you're all conflicted. Do you go in and attempt to pee like a dude? Or do you walk out and wait for another bathroom? Are you better than the person before you? Are you above hovering? Yes, I think I am.
I have nothing against people that hover, I can't recall ever doing it and I don't think I'll ever be a hoverer, but you just do whatever you think is most hygienic. What does really weird me out when there is no seat. What if you slipped? you'd be straight in there! And if you didn't get completely stuck, you'd pull your arse out and it would be dripping wet with both toilet water and your own urine. So then you'd try and wipe your whole bum with wads of toilet paper which you would later have to flush down the toilet and it would get clogged and then it would over flow and you'd slip over in it and get your pants soaked. Then you'd have to slide out of there, red faced and wet bummed in front of all the other ladies. No. thank. you!
I'm more of a wipe the seat down like a crazy person and touch as little as possible until I'm back outside.

This has happened to me a number of times; it seemed like a good blogging topic.

- Ardy, "fellow blogger and haver of a tiny bladder"? So I'm not your 'good friend'? gee thanks. And I do not have a tiny bladder! I just drink a healthy amount of water, unlike the vast majority of people today. So when all y'all kidneys fail the joke will most certainly be on you. HA!

ps. Deliver the sausage, deliver the sausage! Can we see the sausage!?

listening to: When you're gone - The Cranberries

I wonder what Freud calls it.

“Grace...why do we always fall in love with unattainable older men?”

Today I am going to attempt to answer this question.

But let’s start off by defining some key terms:

1. When I say “we”, think royal “We”. This goes for my fellow bloggers and also any other poor soul suffering from this condition.

2. “fall in love” – this is arguably figurative. We have rarely met or have any form of quantifiable relationship. They are normally some form of celebrity/public figure.

3. “unattainable” – this is mainly because of the celebrity/public figure factor. Also the age factor. And also because occasionally they do turn out to be married – We respect the sanctity of marriage - making them highly unavailable.

4. “older” – this is a big one. Please, we are not like...extreme. We mean like. Mid thirties. This is the general market. There are exceptions. Johnny Depp, for instance, will always be talented, intelligent and bloody attractive.

I really am an expert in this field. I will list my credentials:

- I have an intense and irrational obsession with Gerard Way (31). Go on, judge me. I don’t care. He’s got more talent, intellect and courage than you or your mother. But alas, he is married and a soon-to-be father and, as previously stated, I wouldn’t be attracted to a man who cheated. Because that’s uncool.

- I really really really like Russell Brand (33). Like Beauty, this needs no explanation.

- I also like: John Green, Jon Walker, Oscar Wilde (yes, I know he is dead and also gay, but come on, the man was undeniable), Joss Whedon and a host of fictional characters (including but not limited to; Simon Tam, Sawyer, Angel/Spike/Connor and Sirius Black – and even they are unattainable and older.)

I also fall for men (and the occasional woman) on the bus, on the train, in the park, in the food court, in the coffee shop at the bottom of my street and especially in second hand book shops (all of the men I have named are big readers, except possibly Sirius, but he has the troubled “I was strong enough to escape Azkaban-I’m all rebellious and dark and just want to protect my family-I’m played by Gary Oldman” thing going on).

This never goes anywhere and I never want it to. I just like imagining their stories and their lives and our life together – e.g. SuperDad Jonathan. His wife ran off with a Nubian princess, and even though it pains him to be reminded of her every time he looks in his daughter’s faces, he takes them to the park every Saturday and stays until they get cold. I miss him so bad.


It could be argued that part of the reason I devote myself to these people is because I know that it will never really amount to anything and so it is a simple, moderately socially acceptable way to prevent myself from ever really participating in a relationship and therefore, being hurt.


Or it could be that they are fucking hot.


Young people just suck. My good friend (fellow blogger and epic-hugger) Christine made a very good point the other day, which Aidan (fellow blogger and haver of a tiny bladder – that shit rhymes. boo and yah) agrees with. Like me, they are old souls. We want our respective partners to have already done the whole “young thing” (whatsthataboutanyway?), so we can just get on with the tea and the cuddles and the Nietzsche. Not that we don’t like silly 11-year old boy humour, we do! We just like balance. IS THAT SO MUCH TO ASK?


I hope not.


(I am writing this sentence here because I am telling my Dad that I am writing an essay about Stalinism and the Five Year Plans and I want him to believe me so I shall continue typing until he goes to the mall where he is going to buy me some delicious Frosty Fruits.... he can’t find his keys, damn it. I will have to continue typing until he finds them. Um. Let’s think. Anchovies, anchovies, you’re so delicious!/ I love you more than all the other fishes! I’m genuinely worried that Russell Brand will stumble across my Twitter or this blog and be legitimately scared or just think I am some fangirl. Which I am. He found them (my Dad in reference to his keys, not Russell and the running and screaming). They were hiding near the fruit bowl. He’s leaving. I can stop now.)


To all those out there that love unattainable, older men/women:

We feel your pain. We know it all too well. We can’t offer a solution just yet. But if we do, we promise to blog it here and share it with the world.

And if you are a 30-something public figure with a teenage following:

Just fall in love with us already. We are pretty fucking rad. We’ll keep you young and you’ll keep us warm.

Grace, has eaten 39 Frosty Fruits in less than a week.

p.s. Chi and Ricard tied their hair together, loaded their pistols and began to boogie to the hot Latin beats.

Listening to: Goth Detectives - Federal Drugs Administration

You dream about dead guys?

Okay, I really, really shouldn’t be doing this right now, but I realise I’m falling pretty far behind in the posting of blogs, so here’s a quick one to bring up my numbers a bit. In fact, I’ll talk about more than one thing, so then it’ll be like two posts in one, thus bringing up my post-count to match that of my fellow bloggers. GENIUS.

Alrighty, firstly: Jeff Wayne’s Musical Version of the War of the Worlds (1978). Even if you’ve never listened to this before, part of the title will probably be familiar to you, thanks to the recent 2005 Steven Spielberg film (starring good ol’ Tom Cruise) which, in my opinion wasn’t all that great but, whatev.

(Don’t let that taint your opinion of the War of the Worlds as a whole. Go Wiki it, dudes. Seriously, that book has brought about some crazy stuff. Like, a book which was dramatized on the radio in the 1930s on Halloween, causing mass hysteria due to listeners believing aliens were actually invading the earth, must have something going for it, right?)

Jeff Wayne’s musical adaptation of H.G Wells’ 1898 novel is a concept album which basically retells the original story but with the added bonus of amazing 70s era ‘progressive rock’ (that’s what Wiki calls it) songs and background music. Seriously, I don’t really know how to explain this album’s magic in words, but just take it from me that you should go out and get your hands on a copy as soon as you can.

It should be pretty easy to find, seeing as how they’ve just recently done a huge Jeff Wayne’s Musical Version world stage tour or whatever. I didn’t get to see it, but Ardy did, and she said it was good. Anyway, just listen to it. It’ll blow your mind.

Nextly: The Mummy (1999). Like my first post, this is a movie which has been around for a while, and most people probably already know about it. But I love it, so, I’m just gonna blog about it anyway.

This movie’s a remake of a 50s film, and despite the fact that the basic premise is that a cursed Mummy gets brought back from the dead and starts sucking the innards out of the people who woke him up , it’s not really scary at all, and it’s more funny than anything. Luckily, it doesn’t take itself too seriously, which is good, because it’s a little historically inaccurate.

For example, scarab beetles do not eat people. Unfortunately I think this film has brought up a small population of human beings who actually think that scarabs are beetles who will eat you alive in seconds. I think this because I believed it when I was eight and didn’t know what I know about Egypt now.

Like Jurassic Park, this is just a lighthearted film that you shouldn’t analyse too closely. Don’t expect to learn anything true about Ancient Egypt, either. Except maybe that Anubis was a jackal-headed God. That’s true.

Jeff Wayne’s Musical Version of the War of the Worlds gets 10 out of 10 fluffy mittens.

The Mummy gets 9 out of 10 flesh-eating scarab beetles. I realise I mark really generously. I should probably re-evaluate my criteria for a good film.

Christa, should really be doing something else right now.

p.s Like the sun through the trees you came to love me. Like a leaf on a breeze you blew away.

Listening to: Highway to Hell - ACDC

BookBadBadBook

I am currently reading "Letters to Alice - On First Reading Jane Austen" by Fay Weldon, and it is, so far, very bad. So without further ado I'm going to give you a spark notes style summary of what I've read so far. I'll keep updating as I keep reading and soon enough nobody will ever have to read this book ever ever again. And there will be much rejoicing.

Letter One:
Dear Alice,
Your mum, who’s also my sister if you didn’t know I was your Auntie when you wrote to me, is kinda worried about you because you dye your hair green. What is up with that?
You really should read books. Books fucking rule. Now I’m going to bore you with a damn long and arduous metaphor about “Book City” where I just diss Sci-Fi and talk about how flipping sweet Jane Austen is.
There are lots of jelly fish in the water so I can’t go swimming. Goodness gracious, someone nearly got hit in the head by a coconut. I bet you 500 bucks you haven’t read this poem: Hound of Heaven.
Your mum (did I already say she’s my sister too? That makes me your Aunt. Cool right?) also tells me you want to write a book when you have time. Take my advice and don’t. It would be really bad I’m sure.
Best Wishes,
Aunt Fay.

Letter Two:
Dear Alice,
So you have read the poem you little bitch, and you want to spend the 500 on ‘Microsoft Word’ aye? That is a stupid idea. If you are going to write a book you have to use a pen fool. If God had meant us to type, we’d have had a keyboard instead of fingers. Even though if we did have a keyboard instead of fingers we would have to push the keys with our tongues. Now that I think about it, fingers are pretty essential for typing. Oh, it would have been better if I’d said “If God had meant us to write with a pen we’d have pens for fingers.” Because you could quite easily write with pen fingers. Note to self: “Pen Fingers”
With Love,
Aunt Fay

Letter Three:
Dear Alice
Have I mentioned just how amazing Jane Austen is? She is the best; so much better than you are. Now I’ll tell you her life story.
Oh, Alice dear, do you remember that time you tried to drown your sister Polly? You were quite the rascal. Yes, what a scallywag you were.
Your aunt (My sister is your mum! How fucking weird!), Fay

- Ardy, is fairly certain this cold will be the death of her.

ps. We were at the beach, everybody had matching towels. Somebody looked under a dock, and there they found a rock. But it wasn't a rock, it was a rock lobster.

listening to: Night on Night - Art of Fighting