My (slightly crazy) view of the world

Archive for February, 2011

There’s A Chance I Just Lost All Viewers…

As most bloggers know, finding inspiration to write a post is pretty hard. I often sit and think “hmm, what shall I blog about today?” and as most of my regular ‘Blogitors’ (you know, ‘Blog’ + ‘visitors’ = Blogitors. Yeah okay, I made it up and it’s lame, but it’s MY blog, so I don’t care!) will know, I’m kinda crazy, so most of my chosen ‘rants’ are a little random. But I sat today, curled on the sofa, wondering again what to write. And I drew a blank. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. No inspiration whatsoever. 

So, instead, I’m going to write a blogoem (blog + poem = Blogoem. Again, lame, but I care not!). So, here goes nothing….

I curl up on my sofa,
Trying to think up my next blog; 
Should it be about today’s events, 
Or cats, or dogs, or frogs?
I sometimes find my inspiration,
While watching crap TV,
but often subjects come to me,
When I’m alone – just little ol’ me.

If you promise to subscribe right now,
Another ‘Blogoem’ you will not suffer,
But if you leave right now, I swear to you,
The next one will be dumber!

So come on, sign up to my blog,
And read my pointless posts,
And I’ll make a vow, 
To you right now,
I’ll visit your site the most!

Ta daaaaaaaar!

Okay, it’s shit. Reeeeeally shit.
I’m shit. 
What a dumb-ass idea. 
 
Crap. Nice going, Brain. 

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Whoops! I Didn’t Mean To Give Your Child Nightmares – Honestly!

Image of terrified child from the Internet

I was playing around with my friends one-year-old the other day – you know, peek-a-boo, tickling her feet, pulling silly faces… the usual. 
After a moment, the peek-a-boo thing got a little tedious for me (she was loving it, but I suspected she would still have been loving it three hours later, and there’s only so much I can hide behind my hands, remove them to show an insanely smiling face, make a stupid noise that is supposed to sound like ‘peek-a-boo’ but just sounds like a ridiculous loud noise, then start all over again, until I want to kill myself), so I switched to a different game: ‘I’ve got your nose’.

At first she didn’t really understand what the hell I was going on about, and looked at me in a way that suggested she thought I was a crazy woman, talking in a language she didn’t understand, and that she hoped I’d hurry up and leave her alone soon (ouch).
After a while though, the realisation of what I was doing seemed to dawn on her. However, instead of being met with gurgling noises of happiness, as I had expected – or at least hoped for – she looked positively terrified!

Now you’d have thought following this reaction I’d have stopped, right? Any normal person would be mortified with such a response, and abruptly change the game to one a little less scary. Well, it would seem I am not normal, as I literally couldn’t stop. I found the fear written all over her tiny, scared little face absolutely hilarious! I kept doing it, over and over again, trying to coax a little smile from her, but instead receiving the same, fearful look at having ‘stolen’ her nose, while I had tears streaming down my cheeks from laughing so hard.

I’m happy to inform you that after a few minutes of entertaining myself – and before she also burst into tears – I did stop. But it got me thinking – and I am about to share these thoughts with you lucky little so-and-so’s. 

You’re welcome 🙂

It occurred to me, we – adults – do this often. We invent games that actually scare children, but act them out in such a playful way that we convince ourselves this is acceptable. 

Case at hand: my Dad. 

When I was a child, my dad would playfully pick me up and advise me he was going to throw me away in the bin (or ‘trash’, for my American chums). I would squawk and giggle, crying “No! No!” until he put me back down again. 
To my dad, that was the end of the game. For me, it was the start of something else…

Unfortunately, I got it into my head that one day he WOULD actually throw me away into the bin. And this thought terrified me. So, in my warped, innocent and small child-mind, I decided the best way to avoid being ‘thrown away’ into the bin/trash was, well… to be nice to ‘it’. 

(oh dear lord, here comes the crazy…)

“Be nice to the bin?” I hear you ask, “How exactly would you do that?!”

Well, whenever I had to throw away any paper – envelopes, scrap, post-it’s, etc – I would, erm… well, I would write a note to it (the bin), with offerings of rubbish/trash.

Okay, hold on! Don’t go running off just yet! Hear me out!

I genuinely believed that any day now my dad would be THROWING ME AWAY! I had to do something, right?! So I decided to get ‘Bin’ on my side. If I managed that, it wouldn’t ‘eat’ me. You see?

C’mon, I was young. This logic worked in my tiny mind.

The notes generally consisted of:

Dear Bin,
I hope you enjoy this present.
Love, Belle. 

And of course, once the paper was folded a couple of times, I addressed the ‘note’ to the bin:
To Bin, Love Belle xx

This went on for AGES! It got to the stage where if – heaven forbid – I forgot to address the rubbish to the bin, I was sure ‘it’ would never forgive me, and the very next time the (apparently) funny game of ‘Put Belle In The Bin’ ensued, I was bound to be eaten alive. 

Now I realise you will all be thinking, “Who the hell IS this girl?! She’s actually insane!” and frankly, I wouldn’t blame you. But if it wasn’t for the (terrifying) ‘game’ of throwing me away, this fear would never have emerged, and the subsequent ‘notes’ would never have existed!
So really, it wasn’t actually my fault. 

Thankfully, the older I got (which was still pretty young), the more I realised this was ridiculous and abruptly stopped addressing my rubbish/trash to the Bin (it also has a little to do with the fact my younger sister ‘discovered’ (aka spied on me to find out why I was always behaving rather strangely whenever I had to throw anything away) this note-to-bin thing, and let’s just say it become her bribery tool for many, many, maaaaaaany years…).
But it makes me wonder how many other ‘games’ were invented by our parents/aunts/uncles, etc, that entertained them to the point they almost threw-up with laughter, but terrified us as children, and maybe even then led to fears/phobias in adulthood that we haven’t even made the connection with yet…

So I ask you to consider this, big, scary adults: if you find it roll-on-the-floor-and-wet-yourself-funny, the chances are it’s scaring your poor child shitless!

I will not be ‘stealing’ any noses for the foreseeable future. 

Urgh! Get ‘Em Off Me!!

I read a blog not too long ago that got me thinking – and thinking and thinking…
I can’t seem to get it out of my head, and frankly, it’s annoying me. So, given the sharing kinda person I am, I’ve decided to pass this thought onto all of you, my loyal blog visitors 🙂

Germs. 
This is what has been in my head, bouncing around until I can’t seem to think of anything else (I’d like to highlight here, it is the THOUGHT of germs bouncing around, not ACTUAL germs in my head – that would just be weird).

The comment I read that sparked this new ‘obsession’ was about public toilets (public bathrooms, for my American visitors), and the certain ‘do’s and don’ts’ that are regularly broken by the grubbier members of our society. 

Now, I know what you’re thinking: she’s referring to those who don’t wash their hands following their visit to the public toilet/bathroom. 
Well, yes, and no. 
Yes, that IS disgusting, and I regularly find myself watching those dirty little wotsits in the reflection of the (grime covered) mirrors as I wash my hands, while they walk straight from the cubicle and right passed the sinks to the exit (gross!), but no, this act is not the act that has been playing on my mind recently.  

It is the floors of these places, and, oddly enough, our handbags. 

Now, picture this, ladies: we walk into the public toilets and do what we need to do. The less grubbier of us then go to the sink, wash our hands with soap and water, straighten ourselves in the mirror, then leave the bathroom with little more thought of our visit. 
We washed our hands, right? We’re clean and germ free. 
Right?

Well, hang on a second. Think back to when you were in the cubicle. What did you do with your handbag?

Sometimes (though in my experience, rarely) there is a hook on the inside of the door, so naturally, we place our handbag and coat on this until we are ready to leave. 
But what about the times when there isn’t a hook provided?

That’s right: we place our handbags ON THE DIRTY, GERM INFESTED, DRIED-PEE COVERED (I often wonder how this happens in a ladies toilet/bathroom – I mean, really girls?!) FLOOR!
We pick up our bags, do what we need to at the sink, then leave. 

What do we then do with our handbag? Well, if we head to a bar or restaurant, we put our bags on the table next to us; if we’re shopping and go into a changing room, we again put it on the floor; if we head home, we put our handbags on the table. 
We are basically shifting the toilet floor germs stuck to the bottom of our handbags onto every surface we encounter! We then touch these surfaces, fooled into a false sense of safety (they look clean, right? It’s a restaurant/bar/our home – we know they’ve been wiped clean with the appropriate cleaning agents) and transport the germs to everything we touch – like our face and mouths!

How often do you actually wipe the bottom of your hangbag clean?

Myself? NEVER! The thought of wiping the bottom of my handbag has never, ever, occurred to me (unless of course it has touched something I can actually see, like it’s got wet or something).

And this thought has now led me onto other things. Like, when you buy something in a shop and place your hands on the counter, waiting for the assistant to ring up your purchase, whose handbag has previously been there, and what did it last touch? When was it last wiped clean?!

I have become completely obsessed with this. Seriously. Obsessed!
How many peoples’ dried wee has inadvertently ended up on my lips?! How many toilet-floor germs have I put into my mouth?!
Oh and it gets worse, ladies: how many of our boyfriends/husbands have used a public toilet, thrown their coat on the floor, picked it up with their hands, put those same hands to their mouths, then KISSED US?!

Eurgh! It’s disgusting! 

So I now fear I have an OCD developing – and with good reason! 
Am I ever going to be able to revert back to the time handbag germs didn’t control my life? Will I ever be able to touch another flat surface again without being dominated by the thought of whose toilet ‘stuff’ I am accidentally smothering over my lips?

So I leave this OCD thought with you, and ask you to consider how many surfaces your handbags have touched, how many times you have cleaned it after, and how many germs have been spread to your home, and how many of these you have spread all over your mouth…!

Welcome to the dark side…

Some Men Are Idiots. 

I live with two men.  Both late thirties,  but do you think their actual age changes their thought process from that of a mischievous teenage boy?

Answer: No. It doesn’t. 

I walk into the kitchen and see my flatmate watching my cat thoughtfully.

Flatmate: “Shall we get your cat stoned?”

Me: “No.”

Flatmate: “Oh, go on!”

Me: “No.”

Flatmate: “Go on. I promise it will be funny. My mate knows someone you could buy it from. We could sprinkle it on his food?”

Me: “No. Shut up.”

Boyfriend walks into room. 

Flatmate: “Hey. Shall we get your cat stoned?”

Boyfriend: Thinks for a moment. “Yeah sure. That could be funny.”

Me: Picks cat up and walks away with him.

Men are dicks.