And it’s good to be alive, to laugh and love and thrive.
And it’s good to be alive, to laugh and love and thrive.
I had been thinking.
Pulling my hair.
Gnashing my teeth.
Scratching my back.
Picking at the pimples on my face.
Scratching my scalp bloody.
Biting my nails.
Re-counting my years.
Checking the wrinkles that may or may not be showing up.
Checking my awaited grey hairs.
Learning new things.
Investing the savings.
Thinking. Choosing. Re-choosing.
What a luxury! To have choice. All these wonderful choices.
Some mornings, I woke up sad. Some nights, I slept close to tears.
I can afford the rent.
I can feed myself.
I can pay my ticket and hotel room in Paris.
I can buy my own shoes.
The thought hit me.
To choose; when you have everything else and the only thing left to choose is love; you have to choose the love you cannot live without.
The silent question: “how to choose?”
Pooh answered: “You cannot go through your feminist life looking back at the things you rejected and miss & regret when you are 50, 60, 70 years old.
If you cannot say the below to the rejected, the left behind, the discarded, the not-chosen, or to yourself, and really mean it; then you cannot reject. Anything. Anyone. Ever.
I found this, and I am crying in laughter 🙂
I have been on a bra hunt for over 10 years now. A constant desperate hunt.
There are booklets about bras. Articles about bras. Books. Real books, about bras. Stand Up comedy about bras.
When the boobies first showed up, they hurt. They were perky tits. Pointed breasts. Fantastic.
I swear you could see the nipples from 3 kilometers away.
A late bloomer, my fun balloons showed up at between 15-16 years old. I was skinny; a boobies and bones kind of awkward.
The fun balls needed to be hidden. Concealed from all the neighborhood adolescent boys who were sniffing around. The nuns thought the boys could smell the nipples like the cat can smell a rat hidden in a ditch.
There were many helpers within the secret society of “African Aunts”. All the nuns, aunts, cousins & female friends were committed.
Over 10 years into this journey and the boobs are still one of the reasons I make those grand trips to the malls.
Recently, the pleasure bags hurt every month during the premenstrual days.
There is the far away headache.
There is the far away backache.
There is the moodiness and the claws barely sheathed.
premenstrual him: “love, did you put on the kettle?”
premenstrual Me: “don’t you call me love! it is patronizing! why would I put the kettle on?? because I am a woman??!”
Ovulating me: “yes dear. & the egg is boiling! kiss kiss”
Premenstrual him: “are you having your periods?”
Premenstrual me: “screeEEEEeeeeEEEEEeeEEEEEEEK ”
Premenstrual him: am off to work then! have a nice day. sorry, running late!
There is the huge torch of a pimple in my face. It leaves black mark which leaves me spotted like a giraffe after a few months of pimply periods.
There is the sleepiness. I want to sleep & sleep & sleep & sleep. not the regular 9-10hrs. I want 15-20hrs.
There is the occasional herpes attack. don’t judge me. All of us have Herpes virus in us. You know, the mouth sore when you have the horrible cold? THAT. IS. HERPES!
And then there is the hurting mammary glands. Rubbing my hand/arm on them while performing some other thoughtless result-less activity makes me screech with pain.
So I keep looking. And trying. And fixing. And buying. And reading. And now writing.
I have some favorites in my wardrobe. Nice colors. Beautiful lace.Wonderful cups. Fabrics that would make a queen pine. Silk. Cotton. Straps. Strapless. Brands. Brands whose names cost money without providing MORE support.
Still, during these great days; when the uterus acts out in bloody anger after the realization that; yet again, no baby is going to come out of the poking fun & canoodling that has been going on week after week; every single one of my well selected bras make me grimace in pain.
I come home & before I open the door, I open the bra. And smile. And breath. And smile.
Shall I ever find this wonder bra that keeps them happy and calm through the stormy days?
When do I know I have found the bra?
We bought a bed though. Instead of a bra, we found a good comfy bed.
That should sort the back aches
I was up at 04:30am, turned my laptop on and started to browse the net for news of me winning millions on that ticket I bought in January.
Who knows, luck strikes unexpected. Just like sleeplessness.
I found below and got a thorough morning laugh.
Good start to a rainy/snowy/sloshy/windy/grey bad hair day.
Enjoy! I am nice that way 🙂
So, last week, something pretty tragic happened in our household. It’s taken me until now to wrap my head around it and find the words to describe the horror. It started off simple enough – something that’s probably happened to most of you.
Sometime between midnight and 1:30am, our puppy Evie pooped on our rug in the living room. This is the only time she’s done this, so it’s probably just because we forgot to let her out before we went to bed that night. Now, if you have a detective’s mind, you may be wondering how we know the poop occurred between midnight and 1:30am. We were asleep, so how do I know that time frame?
Why, friends, that’s because our Roomba runs at 1:30am every night, while we sleep. And it found the poop. And so begins the Pooptastrophe. The poohpocalypse. The pooppening.
If you have a Roomba, please rid yourself of all distractions and absorb everything I’m about to tell you.
Do not, under any circumstances, let your Roomba run over dog poop. If the unthinkable does happen, and your Roomba runs over dog poop, stop it immediately and do not let it continue the cleaning cycle. Because if that happens, it will spread the dog poop over every conceivable surface within its reach, resulting in a home that closely resembles a Jackson Pollock poop painting.
It will be on your floorboards. It will be on your furniture legs. It will be on your carpets. It will be on your rugs. It will be on your kids’ toy boxes. If it’s near the floor, it will have poop on it. Those awesome wheels, which have a checkered surface for better traction, left 25-foot poop trails all over the house. Our lovable Roomba, who gets a careful cleaning every night, looked like it had been mudding. Yes, mudding – like what you do with a Jeep on a pipeline road. But in poop.
Then, when your four-year-old gets up at 3am to crawl into your bed, you’ll wonder why he smells like dog poop. And you’ll walk into the living room. And you’ll wonder why the floor feels slightly gritty. And you’ll see a brown-encrusted, vaguely Roomba-shaped thing sitting in the middle of the floor with a glowing green light, like everything’s okay. Like it’s proud of itself. You were still half-asleep until this point, but now you wake up pretty damn quickly.
And then the horror. Oh the horror.
So, first you clean the child. You scrub the poop off his feet and put him back in bed. But you don’t bother cleaning your own feet, because you know what’s coming. It’s inevitable, and it’s coming at you like a freight train. Some folks would shrug their shoulders and get back in bed to deal with it in the morning. But you’re not one of those people – you can’t go to sleep with that war zone of poop in the living room.
So you clean the Roomba. You toss it in the bathtub to let it soak. You pull it apart, piece-by-piece, wondering at what point you became an adult and assumed responsibility for 3:30am-Roomba-disassembly-poop-cleanups. By this point, the poop isn’t just on your hands – it’s smeared up to your elbows. You already heard the Roomba make that “whirlllllllllllllllll-boop-hisssssssss” noise that sounds like electronics dying, and you realize you forgot to pull the battery before getting it wet.
Oh, and you’re not just using profanity – you’re inventing new types of profanity. You’re saying things that would make Satan shudder in revulsion. You hope your kid stayed in bed, because if he hears you talking like this, there’s no way he’s not ending up in prison.
Then you get out the carpet shampooer. When you push it up to the rug – the rug that started it all – the shampooer just laughs at you. Because that rug is going in the trash, folks. But you shampoo it anyway, because your wife loved that damn rug, and you know she’ll ask if you tried to clean it first.
Then you get out the paper towel rolls, idly wondering if you should invest in paper towel stock, and you blow through three or four rolls wiping up poop. Then you get the spray bottle with bleach water and hose down the floor boards to let them soak, because the poop has already dried. Then out comes the steam mop, and you take care of those 25-ft poop trails.
And then, because it’s 6am, you go to bed. Let’s finish this tomorrow, right?
The next day, you finish taking the Roomba apart, scraping out all the tiny flecks of poop, and after watching a few Youtube instructional videos, you remove the motherboard to wash it with a toothbrush. Then you bake it in the oven to dry. You put it all back together, and of course it doesn’t work. Because you heard the “whirlllllllllllllll-boop-hissssssss” noise when it died its poopy death in the bathtub. But you hoped that maybe the Roomba gods would have mercy on you.
But there’s a light at the end of the tunnel. After spending a week researching how to fix this damn £350 Roomba without spending £350 again – including refurb units, new motherboards, and new batteries – you finally decide to call the place where you bought it. That place called Hammacher Schlemmer. They have a funny name, but they have an awesome warranty. They claim it’s for life, and it’s for any reason.
So I called them and told the truth. My Roomba found dog poop and almost precipitated World War III.
And you know what they did? They offered to replace it. Yes, folks. They are replacing the Roomba that ran over dog poop and then died a poopy, watery death in the bathtub – by no fault of their own, of course.
So, mad props to Hammacher Schlemmer. If you’re buying anything expensive, and they sell it, I recommend buying it from them. And remember – don’t let your Roomba run over dog poop…
Credit to: Jesse Newton
This morning, I showered, dressed and put on some make up.
Make up for me is a click of foundation and a little lipstick.
My skin doesn’t like make up that much. And I don’t give that much of a crap to make Makeup look good.
Before I left for work (today, work is a summit for Data
BI Nerds), I browsed through the news. One day too late as usual, I find out about the attack at Westminster that took place yesterday.
I click on to read about this terrible news. Where is the world headed? How can we save ourselves? Where do we hide our fear? Where do we hide our courage? Who do we
the civilized world have to attack to make this stop???
…huh?…mmm…huh? To the right of this important news item, there is even worse news!
The WORLD‘s most eligible bachelor has been taken!
I feel crushed: nooooo. not him! no. no. no. after all this trouble with lipstick that ends up on the cheek?
Then I wonder despairingly: who??!
And then I realize: oh. him! I don’t know him!
Why is he the world‘s most eligible? Why don’t my relatives know of him?
My very beautiful cousin is single and the aunts have been going nuts
pictures & work titles about all the bachelors she could capture if she paid any attention.
Is he nice? is there any news of him doing nice things?
Is he kind? is there any news of him doing kind things?
Is he respectful? is there any news of him doing respectful things?
Is he sober
not abusing anything?? is there any news of him doing sober things?
None of that crap.
Lots of information about how much money he is worth and where his properties are to be found.
promegneture, pregonut, primegenite, primegerosorous, primogeniture?
I read that the one who has captured him is his high school sweetheart.
So was he ever The World’s most eligible in the first place? You know, being in love with someone can takes care of that.
Being the world’s most eligible; that means the whole world including China, Thailand, Guinea, Vietnam, US, Mexico and all the regular suspects?
That any girl
woman, including my cousin in the world had a chance until he was snatched right under our sweaty pimply noses?
The spin in my head: So..
if she just pulled herself up by the bootstraps
cheap broken zipper,
wore her best dress
Polyester from Ellos,
took some time on her makeup
She would have a chance to meet the world’s most eligible, take him home and make him hers?
Why doesn’t someone mail out a newsletter with this kind of data
shit to unmarried women under 30 every month?
Given data in time, anyone, & I mean anyone, could have captured this bachelor!