Not that I really want to talk about it...

..because I'm intensely private. However: the need to vent prevails. Once again, my heart finds itself a little bent, folded, and stapled. I do not enjoy this, it sucks greatly. There are few words less pleasant to the ear than "I could never love you". So I'm a little blue, and delicate... and confused.

Because... I'm kind of a catch, theoretically. I'm decent-looking, I have a fantastic bottom, I'm smart, I like movies and graphic novels and kung-fu movies and food, and am not particularly high maintenance. Also, I'm told I'm rather good in bed*. I'm independent. I have a quirky fashion sense. I can cook, and bake, and dress wounds. I have nice hair, and high levels of personal hygiene. I am edumacated. So why is it that I have such difficulty in finding men who actually want to date me? I think I've been asked out about five times in my life- I end up dating friends, or doing the asking. Is there agreat big neon sign above my head flashing: "DANGER! DANGER! AVOID!" or something?

I think the problem is that a) I'm not a girly girl. I don't do giggling and pretending to be dim. also b) small boobs. very small boobs. c) my awesome ninja skills are intimidating d) I'm weird.

I'm going to die alone and be eaten by my bunnies.

*by your Mom. Sorry, misdirected repressed anger there.

Intenational Talk Like A Pirate Day- ARRRRRRRRR!

Today be international Talk Like a Gentleman o' fortune Tide, an' as a practisin' swashbuckler*, I feel 'tis me obligation t' raise awareness o' this fine tradition. This tide aims t' honour them great swashbucklers through history- such as Blackbeard, William Kidd an' Johnny Depp. Men who swashed, buckled, an' stomped around on peg legs, drinkin' rum** an' buryin' booty, instead o', fer some reason, spendin' 't. Also: they be really good at trap design, 't seems. An' had plenty o' time t' do so, on accoun' o' those things be complicated … like th' flyin' spike ones. How did they get them things t' reset? I'm only askin' on accoun' o' thar be always dead bodies o' swabbies who got caught by th' flyin' spikes/ darts/ spears/ capuchin monkeys, but th' traps be always still primed… hmmm. Arr swashbucklers also hire good long-term caretakers. They’re planners, arrrr.

Belay that, hearties.

Anyway, 't must ben fun t' be a swashbuckler, all that fightin' an' drinkin' rum t' prevent scurvy*** an' robbin' an' eyeliner. Men look good, sometimes wi' eyeliner. This be also why Goths be popular. An' Brandon Flowers. But Brandon Flowers be nay swashbuckler. Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr! He’s, frankly, a bit unconvincin' an' weedy. A real Gentleman o' fortune be dirty an' unkempt an' hairy an' possibly keeps a spare eye patch fer formal occasions. He climbs th' mizzenmast an' uses his knife t' slash his way aft down th' sail. He sweeps ladies off the'r feet, an' right onto th' plank.

If I be a swashbuckler, I would be both fearsome an' proud. Also, ribald. I would swear a great deal. An' be obsessed wi' dubloon. I would be havin' a large beard. An' th' wenches would tremble as I strode into th' alehouse, an' plunk me rum down right quick!

An' always, always, thar would be th' Arrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

*some would insist that I’m more o' a wench, but them scurvy dogs will feel th' taste o' me cutlass.
**ugh, tho, rum gives me heartburn. Well, I like spiced dubloon, wi' Appletiser.

*** a sound nutritional theory, t' be sure.

Bunny Love...

I know. I've mentioned it before, my crazy love for teensy bunnies. But my mania for fluffumses has been stoked of late...My mother made the mistake* of taking me in to Perky Pets in the Gardens Centre over the weekend, where they have the darlingest dwarf bunnies. For only R80!! How they do undervalue the little balls of fluffy goodness, but oh what a temptation for me! I could totally get a weensy black bunny... or a tan one.

Not a white one though...they show the dirt most dreadfully, and they're rather démodé and 80's...Which reminds me of a rabbit-fur coat I used to have, before my mom discovered fur was evil. I used to feel both glamorous and dorky in that coat. But is was so soft! Sometimes, I would pretend I was a bunny, when I was wearing it.

... did I just overshare?

Anyway, so I could get a bunny, but not while I'm in my place...I'd need a little patch of grass at least, although I do plan to have a range of super-cute leashes that match my shoes and/ or handbags, and then we can go for teensyy walks on the promenade. Actually, that might not work, some awful miniature Pinscher or Maltese bitch** might think he's a chew toy and bite him. He's need a little hutch to sleep in (can you paint them? I want one in pink and gold). Do bunnies like cushions? Must Google "bunny needs"***.

What's a good name for a bunny? Not anything like Benny, or Bobo, or something dumb with a B.... Ehhhhhm. Elijah...Elijah bunny! it totally works!

* but a good one
**female dog! female dog!
*** hmmmm. what do you bet there'll be some sort of porn result?

...things I would much rather be doing today.

Yesterday was a looooooooong day. I got home from work at 10:30pm. I had a shower, watched the tail end of Oprah, and passed out. So, this morning I'm a little exhausted. Funny, for years while I was studying full-time and working 6 shifts a week (at one point I had 3 jobs- how did I do that?), getting by on four hours sleep a night and a half-hour nap in the afternoon didn't really tire me out that much. I guess you get used to a certain level of activity*. Of course, my darling bossness of loveliness and sweet sweet jubilation has graced me with some of her customary graciousness**, which has added to my general level of sighing.

I need a vacation. I have put in for leave in October, but that's over a month away. Luckily next week we have two-and-a-half days off for Rosh Hashana****, which means a looong weekend. What do you think the chances of it being beach weather are? because I could so do with a few days on the beach, reading books and magazines (not library books though, I've learned my lesson)... Really though, what I'd like is a tropical island...somewhere in the Bahamas. Or Jamaica. Jamaica looks good. They've got all that jerk chicken. Which sounds spicy. And sand, I'm sure they have lots of sand... and cocktails.

In general though, I don't think I need a whole fancy-schmancy holiday. Just a break from the routine. I'd like to hit a midweek, midday movie. Haven't done that in a while. What I love about that is that there are no teenagers, usually. And I'd like to go buy some fabric, and make a skirt, or something. I used to do that after Uni some days, just go to TCT or Fabric City or wherever and get a meter of something cool, and make a skirt, or a dress, or an experiment. I very rarely finished these projects, but it soothed me, and those I did complete are still in my wardrobe. So. You see.

There are all these things I could be doing with a slightly-chilly, sunny spring day. Working sucks. Anyone want to support me while I live a life of leisure....?

*current level: not-quite-sedentary; chaise-based root vegetable.
** she acted as if I slept with her husband*** and she knows but she thinks I don't and she's being all passive-aggressive and snotty.
*** I didn't. Eeeeeeew!
**** Jewish New Year, not as cool as Chinese New Year (no fireworks or Dragons unless you count the one I work for), but leave is leave. Especially paid leave.

Life. What's up with that?

Hormones. I got me some hormones. Lots of 'em. All over the place.* And right now, they're angry. and they're taking it out on me. Now I can totally understand where they're coming from: it's crowded in there and they'er not getting up to much, aside from getting really excited occasionally when they think there might be some action or activity, which there isn't**, and hence their disappointment. So there they are, lounging around and grumbling, doing yoga and whatnot, and becoming increasingly cranky. I guess it must be akin to cabin fever.

As with all housebound inmates, cooped up and full of unexpended vigour, they look to spread their misery and negative feelings. And so they do. They kick around my glands and my language centres and screw with my emotions. They puff up my eyes and sneak extra nastiness into my pores and than make snarky, cutting little remarks about me when they know I can hear them. They pour the vilest thoughts into my ears in the hopes of stoking homicidal rage at the slightest of provocations***.

Right now they're whispering: "Get a haircut, beetch. Get a Pob****. Your hair, she ees lookeeng so bad!*****". They know exactly what to say to drive me crazy. Because I do love angular haircuts...

They're crafty little bitches. But I'm on to them.

* Even in my feet. Even there.
** ever.
*** seriously though, biznatch, stop moaning all day or I'm going to throttle you
****A Posh Bob, like mrs Beckham.
***** oh yeah, my hormones are mexican I forgot to mention.