Poll: Which is this month's weirdest search term?

Man. There are some fruitycakes out there, non? I'm always interested in the search terms that lead people to my blog. Vote below and choose thee weirdest, and I swear to all that is covered in chocolate I'll write a fantastical blog post about it. Yeah, Beyotches, it's on!!!!

more at twiigs.com...

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.

I'm Only Petite on the Outside.

All my life, I've been the tiniest person in the room. Especially when I was a kid, when I was even smaller than I am now*. Well except maybe in Sub B**, where this guy Tony was about an inch shorter than me and I decided that this meant we were going to be boyfriend and girlfriend. I don't recall actually mentioning this to Tony, because I didn't realise at the time that he had any sort of choice in the matter. He didn't seem to mind... or notice, for that matter.

Bygones.

In any case, I am now a petite adult. Petite in clothing stores seems to be shorthand for Really Short Legs. Generally though most people prefer to go with Midget, teeny tiny short person, and Oh Hey You're Cute. Women tend to refer to me as slim, skinny or delicate. Men, on the whole, tend to use the word miniature a great deal, and attempt to rest things on my head. I get a lot of hair ruffling too***. In japan, slightly-less-tiny 15-year-olds would ruffle my hair while squealing excitedly that I was "kawaaaiiiiii". Then I would shoot them with the Bazooka that I had taken to work that day and had cunningly concealed in my elaborate hair style.

The problem is, how people seem to see me is not how I feel. I feel, generally, lumpy and gangling. Technically there needs to be more of you, and with longer limbs, to be gangling, but I feel like I somehow accomplish this. While I strive for ballerina grace, it feels more like elephantine stompiness.

Possibly, this comes from being somewhat of a tomboy, and also incredibly clumsy. If there's something to fall over, I will fall over it. Sometimes also if there isn't something to fall over. If I lean into a cupboard under the sink to get a pot, I'll whack myself on the back of the head. I'm pretty sure I've incurred brain damage doing this the hundred-odd times I have. Drinking tea or water, I'll miss my mouth completely and pour the liquid down my face, or onto my lap, or a nearby computer, or a baby. I come home with mammoth bruises that I don't remember getting, and large swathes of skin I seem to have misplaced.

Once, a friend referred to me as "graceful and elegant" when describing me to someone else. I was, to say the least, confused. But if I can fool at least one person, then maybe that's enough. The rest I can just take out with my Bazooka.

*Proportionately to the other children dumbass, obviously I wasn't born this size or my mother would have made an even bigger deal about the labour.
**which is now called Grade 2. It used to be 2 sub-standards and ten standards, the last of which was Matric and now it's 12 Grades. I get very confused.
*** because there's nothing a grown woman likes better than being condescended to like a four-year-old.

All Your Base Are Belong To Us*.

So. Let's talk about fear, shall we? Blinding, night-sweat, wake- up- in- a- panic- with- a - pounding- heart terror. Some people are afraid of clowns**. Some people are afraid of birds***. Apparently, there are even people with a fear of poetry, which is understandable****. There's a lot of bad poetry out there, people- especially Haikus- and it needs to stop.

I have few fears, and most of them are rational. Cockroaches (they jump on your face!!!), earthworms (they stick to you when boys throw them at you!!!), Death (it's permanent!!!!). But the worst fear I have is, I suppose, kind of...weird. I fear the Gere.

Richard Gere. One dark alleyway away from being one of those smelly pervy molester guys. Piggy eyes. Sneeriness. Aaauauagh. If one more middle-aged woman tells me how much of a "hunk" he is, I will vomit a great deal on her Crocs. I had this nightmare last night that he had had a haircut and was stalking me. Oh, and he was a transvestite. And he wanted me to eat his earwax.

What is wrong with the man!!! Can't he just leave me be?


* what. What?!?
** coulrophobia
***Ornithophobia
**** Metrophobia. sounds like fear of subways, but whatev.

Girls Get Pervy For Boys With Scurvy*.

There's nothing quite like getting a package to elevate your mood. Okay, this weekend was a good one due to a combination of rest, fresh air (it was warm enough to open the windows), and cleaning. I scrubbed my floors on Saturday morning, for a full three hours, until they were both sparkling and treacherously slippery. Clean floors down, I attacked the rest of my apartment with vigour. Ah. Cleanliness.

Anyway, the rest of my weekend was a blur of exercise and virtue. I even started painting again**. And on Sunday was Mother's day, all bonding and gossip and possibly too much coffee. And then... my package. All the way from Japan, a long-anticipated mix CD from my friend Mr Flinn. Getting packages is a pleasure that can't be beat, really...It's a gift, but from far away, full of exotic promise and.. stuff. Also... sometimes, in this world of email and Facebook and other binary-based relationships, something solid you can hold in your hands is almost as good as a visit. Sort Of.*** So a good weekend in all, and hopefully, my brain will soon be back on track.


* Don't Ask.
**I'm not a good artist, but I like my own work, so that's grand.
*** Although there were no cookies, and cookies make an package into a care package.

I think I may have.. a Problem.

Man Oh man Oh manoman. So, my mom's always been worried about me becoming an addict. Or maybe it's just an alcoholic. I think this is the type of thing moms worry about, especially with a) family history* and b) university. University students drink a lot, even by my standards. And I have to admit, I drank a wee fair few drams in my time. Thing is, it was never going to turn into an addiction because i) it's far too expensive when you only like imported beer and ii) I could never muster up the motivation to deal with hangovers more than once a week. If that.

However.

I seem to be an addict. And it's the worst, most insidious type. It's socially acceptable, nay, it's socially encouraged! That's right. I worship the bean. I crave the caffeine. I get juiced on the Java.

I think the problem can be traced back to Starbucks. I know, all my American friends are like:"blah blah Starbucks are the Antichrist blah blah exploitative blah". But they know nothing. the Bucks have succoured my emotional well-being on many an occasion. Oh, caramel latte, how I beseech thee, prithee cure my ills**.

In any case, I am now experiencing full-blown signs of addiction. I Jones for coffee. If i don't get my morning cup, I get a headache- which disappears the minute I have some. I'm cranky, bitchy, and emotional without my fix. My skin freakin' hurts! well, i imagine it does, which amounts to the same thing.

you know what the sign of a true addict is? chocolate-coved coffee beans. If you eat an entire packet in one sitting, you should reconsider your life.

* "omigod Bet! are you sharing personal information on your blog?" I am. sort of. I can't be secretive all the time, you know.
**fuckit, even I don't get my sense of humour sometimes.

LBG*

*Life Before Google.

once upon a time, children, there was no such thing as Google. I know, it's crazy to think of, but people actually had to find things out by doing research, looking in books, going to the library and so forth. And really, that was just for your everyday kind of research. How did people go about looking up a song and artist using three words of lyrics? where did people find out the history of obscure musical genres, or look for pictures of zombies holding kittens? Google is the ultimate in immediate gratification: no longer do you have to wonder about that niggling little question that's been bothering you for the last hour, just type a couple of relevant keywords in and bob's your uncle. Please pretend I didn't just use that phrase.

In any case... I seriously cannot remember what I did before Google. I'm pretty sure I was just uninformed. I guess I read the newspaper and magazines... But no I get to be a well-informed renaissance woman. Or, a dilettante.

Google is also useful for researching your friends. There's no better way to pass a slow day than to Type in their names and peek around the sock drawers of their lives. A word of warning though: don't Google yourself because you'll just become sick with envy at the jet setting, successful lives of the people who share your name.

Interpol! Interpol! Interpol!

I once had this disagreement with Stephen. it wasn't a particularly heated one, mostly because it wasn't him doing his "Amanda is from South America" thing, which got annoying about 6 months in. We were talking in the car (road trip!) about music, because we're both kind of geeky about music (so far he's the only person I know I've been able to discuss my disappointment about the second Mars Volta CD with who doesn't glaze over or get all confused), and we're also both music snobs.

anyway, Stephen doesn't like Interpol. And I love Interpol. According to him, the singles were okay but the CD's were too gothy and too much like Joy Division. Now, for me this is their selling point: sounds Joy Divisionesque, but danceable and with fashion sense. Perfect for feeling more meaningful than your fellow man (or woman), in a bounce around the room kinda way. Also useful for breakups, PMS, black outfits (music as accessory, so chic!) and so on.

I tend to get obsessive about Interpol, and listen to every song repeatedly for about a month. and then I need a break for a bit. I don't think I could sustain that level of cool indefinitely. It gets me into trouble though. I'm a bit of an automatic dancer, and I got some funny looks at the supermarket the other day. It was say hello to the Angels. I at least have that in my defence. People are so conservative here though. Dance for five minutes in the Biscuit Aisle and it's like you pooped on their cupcake or something. I will not be constrained. I will not be reduced to mere head-bobbing or (shudder) toe-tapping.

Also, I must wear more black.

***When I'm feeling lazy, it's probably because/ I'm saving all my energy to pick up /when you Move into my airspace***