Friday, February 24, 2012

Made me spit my drink out!

Thursday, February 23, 2012

Important. Need Help. Urgently. Please Write.

I’m engaged in a raging debate, and while usually these kinds of things get resolved before they get physical, this time I can’t seem to come to a reasonable understanding with myself.

The subject of the debate: how will I get my Dowager’s Hump? (Because, obviously, it’s inevitable.) Currently I’m split three ways, and someone needs to intervene before I hold myself over the edge of our balcony by my ankles and threaten to let go.

Theory number one: Dowager’s via vacuuming.

An evolutionary (or perhaps genetic) default has made me incapable of vacuuming in the manner of a normal human being. Irrespective of how fancy the vacuum cleaner, how extendable and sturdy its tube or how versatile its end, you had better believe that when I turn it on, I will bend to half my height and waddle around the house pushing my whole bodyweight into it.

Consequently, it’s just a matter of time before I’ll stay that way.

The comforting thought in all of this is that I am not alone. Simon is also tormented by the affliction, which means that when I finally succumb to the Dowager’s Hump, Simon will be right there with me; bent in half, unable to get up and shrugging his shoulders like, “it was only a matter of time.”  Once it happens we’ll barricade ourselves inside the house and spend our days wearing headscarves, talking about headscarves and ordering Mark to rub ointment into our butt-cracks (so they don’t get chapped).  

Theory number two: Dowager’s via walking

Walking isn’t really dangerous to most people. But since I’m not most people, walking has caused me lots of hurt and humiliation. And, as it happens, it is also the source of one of my greatest failings as a human being – the inability to tear my eyes away from the ground while in motion. 

Clearly some part of my subconscious thinks that if it just watches the three centimetres of pavement directly in front of me, everything will be fine. I don’t know how many kneecaps I have to bust to prove that theory wrong.

More to the point, however, aside from looking incredibly stupid, my downward gazing becomes a pain in the neck. Literally. So I’ll be looking like a pruned-up banana any day now. Why pruned up? I really don’t know. Just because.

 Theory number three: Dowager’s via sitting

When I was nine years old my mother pointed out some pretty swan-like child and gushed about proper posture. It needs to be noted that nothing is higher in a mother’s list of desires than a child who can sit straight. But since I had a few other things to contend with – huge teeth, frizzy hair, large glasses, an unfortunate taste in clothing – my posture wasn’t all that high on my list of priorities. So my poor mother, for all her goodwill and encouragement, never got to experience the true heights of parenthood.

I don’t know what became of the swan girl. We can only hope that she’s raising a fleet of straight-sitting ballerina children. Yes, I said “a fleet”. I think you’ll agree it’s completely appropriate.

As to my posture, it never improved and now whenever I sit, I hunch in a way that makes virgins all over the world sing my praise. Why virgins? I don’t know. Just because. If the mother of my youth could see me now, she’d surely nail boards to my back. 

The big question:

Which is it that’ll cause my ultimate demise? 
Suck it now, suck it good, vacuum this carpet just like you should. My neck, my back, "Hey Mark, I need ointment on my crack."
My back is bananas B-A-N-A-N-A-S, my back is a banana B-A-N-A-N-A ...ass!


She bangs, she bangs. Oh baby when she moves she moves; she goes crazy'Cos she walks like a weirdo, and ploughs into a tree, like nobody else in history... 

Tuesday, February 21, 2012

Nose twin!

The other day I looked at myself in the mirror and thought: by golly do I have a huge schnoz. I mean it is powerfully wide. Seriously, put it in a tuxedo and it might just be elected president of the world. It’s kind of strange that I’ve missed it all this time. Then again, considering my aversion to mirrors and my deep sense of denial, perhaps not.

The point is that since my startling discovery it is all I see. And, let me tell you, it is panic inducing to realise – completely out of the blue and without a psychiatrist present – that your nose is kind of monstrous.

I was so scandalised by the whole affair that I spent a good 30 minutes looking through old photos in search of evidence that my nose used to be smaller, and somehow exploded with age. You can imagine my astonishment when I discovered that it’s always been this way. Always! And all this time nobody had the decency to pull me aside and say, “Hey Agnes, you bear an uncanny resemblance to a person who had a potato jammed into their face and decided to keep it for decorative purposes.”

Hey friends, what happened? To think all this time I could have been hanging laundry on it or using it as a cooling rack for baked goods. And we’ve already bought a clothes horse, so loads of wasted opportunity there.

But among all of this world-shattering, life-changing stuff, I have discovered a ray of sunshine. Completely by accident (though I prefer to think of it as a calculated intervention by fate), I found something very special. Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like you to meet my nose twin: 



She’s just like me but younger, thinner and more tanned.







On second thought, I’m not sure how I feel about this.

Thursday, February 16, 2012

The Toilet Fiasco

Let me preface this by saying that I am not some sort of raging alcoholic. Actually the rough opposite of what I do with my days involves drinking alcohol and partying. Unless, that is, you consider forcing a frantic and cold-hearted bird-beast with no feelings and a beastly heartless bird body to love me as the height of revelry. In which case you need to get out more (or, if you’re Dumpling, you’re NOT EVER going to get out until you freely feed from my hand and love me).

Right.

So, in short, the story that I’m about to tell you about my weekend bender should be taken as evidence to support – not contradict – my non-partying, non-drinking ways. Were I a seasoned alcoholic, none of the events would have taken place (or at least not in such a terrifying manner).

Here it goes:

As many of these stories tend to, mine started off innocently with Swedish-themed feasting and a couple of homemade cocktails. Unfortunately things unravelled rather quickly and – some memories missing here – I ended up at a little gay club with Simon.

Furthermore, since the events leading up to that moment involved pounding down what turned out to be an entire bottle of gin, I also found my bladder calling for sweet relief. So I politely excused myself from the company of a giant bunny and made my way to the ladies’ bathroom, my body tingling with the thought of the elation I would soon feel.

Then the worst possible thing happened: the door was locked. Locked! Can you imagine? I thrashed the handle in disbelief, and then promptly inspected the walls for possible secret entrances, muttering madly under my breath. Observation: I get a little paranoid when I’m drunk.

I even gave a broom closet a try (beggars can’t be choosers).

When this failed I had an epiphany. Right then, for no logical reason, I became convinced that the female toilet had been locked by the staff on purpose. I was sure of it and the realisation forced me into a kind of panicked desperation. Why would anybody ever do such a thing? I clawed at the door hoping that maybe somehow I’d get through. Then, finally, thought about tearing my pants off.

Luckily good sense prevailed and instead I walked back into the bar, accosted the first stranger I could find, and in drunk, slurring, broken German explained that I needed to pee pretty badly, DESPERATELY actually. The pee baby inside me was ready to storm screaming into this world and anybody attempting to stop it would inevitably have their head kicked in…and by some mix-up, the female toilet was locked. Then, like a savvy woman of the 21st century world who knows what’s what, I concluded with the German version of, “izzz pruuubly locked khhoz I’m dee only woman in heeere.”

As good fortune would have it, the stranger was as delighted by my German as he was moved by my plight, and followed me into the female toilet hallway to help me thrash at all doors in the vicinity.

This didn’t work so, feeling understandably outraged, he thundered over to the bar and with Law & Order conviction demanded that the female toilet door be unlocked. Immediately! Surprisingly this didn’t have the intended effect; the bar guy merely shrugged and, ignoring the theatrics or the dangerous way in which I was looking at his sink, claimed that the toilet was open.

It made no sense. If it was open why couldn’t I get in?

Then my answer walked out and briskly made itself scarce.

Not for one second had I entertained the notion that someone might have been using the coveted female toilet. I hadn’t considered the possibility that while I was thrashing around like a banshee on crack, a frightened German woman was squatting over the toilet bowl paralysed by the thought that I might actually get in.

Under normal circumstances I would have died of embarrassment or at least started digging a shallow grave before encouraging my friends to hit me over the head with a shovel and bury me in it. But since I was rather drunk, I found the woman’s curious behaviour delightfully puzzling.

“Why didn’t she just shout?” I laughed, as if though she was the crazy one. “Did you see the way she shuffled off?”

Yeah. Good stuff.

ummm…The End.

Friday, February 10, 2012

Just today

Dumpling was all, “pee, pee, PEE.” And I was like, “I know Dumpling, but there’s no need to use that foul language.”

But in a way he was right; watching a woman breastfeed an eight-year-old is kind of disgusting.

I’ll stop now, Dumpling. I’ll stop.


Thursday, February 9, 2012

This just in:

Owls are the best!

Wednesday, February 8, 2012

Mystery solved!

Do you know how to separate kittens from people in kitten suits?

Like this:



Obviously the bastards not in pots by the end of the whole delightful exercise are frauds.