I will never be a wine wanker.

And it's a shame. I'm something of a pretentious, pseudo-intellectual twat, so I really feel like I should like wine. Then I could sip it thoughtfully, and murmur approvingly about its bold fruitiness. Or spit it back into the glass disparagingly, and ask in arch tones what vintage that cask purported to be.

But no. To my cultured palate, wine - ALL wine - tastes yuck. Yuck like brussel sprouts to a five year old. Or even wine to a five year old. It doesn't matter how good, or bad, the drop is supposed to be, to me they are all indistinguishable in their yuckness.

Which means there is nothing so boring as a wine-tasting tour for me. I get to watch all my friends enjoy themselves, while I twitch moodily in the background. And of course I'm ALWAYS the designated driver. The best time I ever had in a winery was when we'd come to it after a trip to a candy shop. I walked in gleefully nibbling on a huge stick of fairy floss, and relished the horror in the wine-slaves' eyes.

I'm not a big fan of alcohol in general. It all tastes gross, and my low alcohol tolerance means there's only about a five minute window of merriness before I cross into "want to vomit" territory. So I don't really drink. This causes people to feel sorry for me at social functions. But I find drunkenness quite distasteful, so it's really not a problem.

Maybe I should become a straight-edger. Although I don't know that I feel strongly enough for that kind of dedication. Plus, they might disapprove of me taking painkillers for headaches.

In fitting with my pretentious-wanker leanings, I also feel like I should be brilliant at chess. I'm not though. Maybe I'm really a jock? No, surely then I'd like beer? So confusing. I want a label!

Green Mouse is missing

It's been a grim time for the last few days. Without Green Mouse to distract him, Bersi has been bored and full of discontent - which involves wandering around the house yelling for hours on end.

So today I went to a pet shop to find him a new toy. I stood in front of the cat toy display, staring critically at the range. So many little mice, but none that made a rattly sound, and Bersi shuns the quiet ones. I stood there for some minutes, fondling and shaking toys to test their suitability. But finally, success! A packet of 4 - 4! - rattly mice. And such colours!

I took them home, displayed them on the bed. Bersi was intrigued. I picked one up and shook it. "Are you ready?" I asked Bersi - the traditional precursor to a throw. Bersi crouched low, body tense. He was ready. I threw - he pounced - he triumphantly took the mouse through to LSBF to throw. It was a hit!

So let me introduce... Disco Mice!!!

So there can be too much trust in a relationship...

For example, when your most beloved asks you to give him a shave. With a straight razor. In general, he's reasonably sane, and he's certainly seen ample proof of my uncoordinated ways, so I don't know why, a couple of times a year, he thinks this is a good idea.

Maybe the brush with death makes him feel more alive. Maybe it makes him love life again, and resolve to reach out and carpe diem with all his strength.

Maybe he harbours a secret death wish.

Maybe he's a masochist, and every fumbling cut makes him shudder with pleasure.

Anyway, I lathered him up and hacked away, removing impressive amounts of bristles, and only minimal amounts of face. Nose and lips remain intact. Eventually my nerve broke and I had to run away so he could do the fine details.

On another topic, am I the only person in the world who finds stockings stressful? It's like voluntarily putting your legs into the maw of an anaconda. And just when I've gotten the buggers into a vaguely comfortable configuration, my peanut-sized bladder strikes and I have to undo all my good work. I made the mistake of buying "control-top" stockings once. It took me about an hour to wrestle them onto my legs, where they proceeded to cut off the circulation to the lower half of my body. I was wearing them for a job interview - once the interview was over I raced to the nearest public toilets and ripped the stockings off, then drove home in bare-legged comfort.

Shut up brain!

This is what "being a girl" is like for me.

We went to the shops to fulfil a hot-beef-and-gravy-roll craving for my Long Suffering Boyfriend (LSBF).
"Excuse me," said my brain. "I wanna top!"
"Oookay," I said, and wandered through a few clothes shops. No tops caught my attention.
"Um, brain - what kind of top?"
Silence.
"Brain?"
"Don't know," mumbled my brain.
"Seriously?"
"Maybe a purple one?" my brain offered.
"How bout this purple one?"
"No."
"This one?"
"No."
"This one?"
"Maybe," my brain said grudgingly. I carried the top around for a few minutes while we checked out the toys.
"Scuse me," my brain piped up again. "I don't want that one either."
"Fine!" I snapped, and we went home.

I am a Book Perv

I love books. No, I luuuurrrrve books. And as a result, I luuurrrve going to the library.

The library, I purr, with a lustful, lecherous, libidinous leer. I skulk in, pulse quickening. I dump the last load of books, their appeal already forgotten as I ponder my next victims. I stalk up and down the aisles, waiting for a likely candidate to catch my eye. I snatch them up, stroke their battered covers and shove them into my bag.

Don't forget to cruise past the new books, quivering and shy, their plastic covers clean and their pages as yet unmolested. And sometimes there's a table of books that haven't been borrowed for a while - they're a bit desperate, so you know they'll try harder to please. And on the sorting trolleys, you can pick up books still warm from the sweaty hands of their last borrower.

I plonk my choices down on the counter and hand over my card. I hope that maybe the librarian will nod approvingly at my choices, that we will make eye contact and share a smile. Then I hurry home, barely able to stand the wait, tempted to stop my car on the side of the road and start reading, but no, anticipation heightens the pleasure and I must be patient.

And then I'm home, and all self control is gone. I fumble through the pile of books and seize the lightest, most insubstantial fare, and I tear through it. There's no respect here, I don't draw it out. It's a quickie, and usually by the end of the day that book is finished. But if anything, my appetite has only increased. For the next couple of days sleep, food and socialisation come a distant second to my overpowering need to read.

Then it's over. I've read them all, and there's a void in my life again. I thought this time the books would last longer. I thought we'd have more time. If only I had kept my orgiastic impulses in check...

Might be time to go to the library again.

Aaargh - cats!

I love my cats, I swear - but last night I was very tempted to chuck the buggers out the window.

My Liddle Cat is obsessed with digging in the runner groove of the window, scratch scratch scratch. I have a squirt bottle of water by the bed, and when he goes digging for imaginary treasure I give him a squirt, but to be honest, he's not the brightest star in the firmament, and I don't think he quite understands I'm trying to make him stop. He'll run off, but come back in a few minutes and start all over again.

And Bersi - ugh, Bersi was in full Jerk Mode last night. Around 4 am he started whining. He has the most impressive whine - imagine a combination of a 3 year old child who really wants a lolly, and a bratty teenager trying to talk their parents into letting them go to a party (but all the other kids are going!). Whine, whinge, whine, cry. For no good reason. They had food and water, the house wasn't on fire (I checked). He was just being a jerk. I squirted him with water too, but Bersi is smarter than Liddle Cat - he'll just take himself out of range, and continue whining. Finally I snapped and turned - I kicked them into the hallway, and shut the bedroom door.

Doesn't sound that mean, right? You underestimate how spoilt my cats are. For them, being shut out of the bedroom is like being kicked out of home to live on the streets, or maybe being sent to a Victorian workhouse/orphanage. So there was a shocked silence for a blessed 15 minutes or so, and I started to hope that just maybe I could finally go back to sleep. And then they started scratching at the door. Unstoppable, pathetic scratching - they were willing to keep scratching until they died of starvation, or perhaps fell prey to hallway wolves. Poor, neglected, unloved, abandoned little kitties.

Eventually we took pity and let them back in. And thank all the gods, they were so grateful for being rescued from the blizzards (in the hallway) that they were happy to curl up and go to sleep.

Fitness revolution for my feet!

I bought a new super extra supportive sports bra, and better even than finding a good bra was that I got a FREE sporty headband and FREE pair of sport socks with it. FREE is my very favourite price for things.

And sure, I don't wear headbands, because my head is a munted shape and they slip off, but I wore it for an hour or two just because it was FREE and I wanted to get my no-money's worth.

And today I tried on my socks for the first time. OMG they're like sports bras for my feet! They have built in arch support, and mesh bits for that sexy hint of skin, and they're a sporty white with red trim. I went for a walk, and I think my feet might now be fitter than they've ever been. With these socks, my feet could run a marathon. This is a momentous day.

Look at those sexy devils. Have you ever seen feet brimming with quite so much athletic vigor?