I have so many thoughts whooshing around in my head it seems I should try a blog, yes? YES. And luckily, anciently-setup and nearly-forgotten blog-page has blankly and loyally waited. STAY. Good blog.
Thanks to Kate *does 'Kate-side' gang-sign* If you don't know it, you're not in it.
It's just so damn late and insomnia is making the thoughts whoosh and bash into each other. Bette Davis in Watcher in the Woods and Look Around You (module 2) and my friend who finally read One Hundred Years of Solitude and the pretty hat I saw today but couldn't afford, and a limping old dog on the beach... all just whooshing around in there knocking other thoughts off tables.
Should there be a creed, a motto, a mission statement for blog?
HELL NO
It's too late. Get over it. Besides, it's not like any motto of mine would make stupid promises about writing regularly or saving the environment or drawing attention to My STUpid Cause. Any motto of mine would be some bullshit about coffee and having a Mental Illness (scary CAPS yes) and my boring old whooshing thoughts.
On the weekend I slapped myself silly with The Boyfriend's iphone... I know. I won't explain - it's embarrassing. But now I have a dark red mark under my left eye... and a bruise, a green bruise. It hurts when I poke it. In the interest of science I'm going to stop poking it - see if it makes a difference.
In the interest of science I'll use my right eye as the 'control' eye
Science
On Sunday The Boyfriend and I had a picnic in my backyard in the sun. Blanket, strawberries, avocado on crackers, coffee and Monopoly. Monopoly = a stupid idea if you like your relationship. We almost broke up over the Monopoly. You can't collect rent when you're in Jail - or can you? And I have lost one of the dice... we had to roll twice, each time. 'Was that a five?' 'NO. That was a six. Stop cheating!'
Connect Four next time. Monopoly: tester of relationship. Connect Four: untested at time of printing.
This afternoon I noticed I had eggs left over from my humungous tray of eggs (see previous posts). The expiry date says 'hurry up' so I made 60,000 meringues and a cake. Baking suspends old eggs between here and egg-valhalla. It should prevent food poisoning related sickness/death I think. So I am happy with meringues and cake. After noticing my near-dead eggs I cleaned out some other oft-ignored ingredients. The cake has lemon rind, sultanas and cinnamon. I decided against the curry powder.
Also on the weekend I further increased The Flatmates' suspicion that they are living with a crazy insane-lady. After being outside in the fresh air testing our relationship with Monopoly I re-entered the house where The Flatmates were slotted into the sofa watching the box and I said 'I need to open a window in here'.
Into the kitchen to put on the kettle
My brain starts to replay 'I need to open a window in here, I need to open a window in here...'
Have I offended The Flatmates by inadvertently implying they are stale as old eggs?
Have I committed flatting hate-crime?
Made dangerous enemies?
Here starts the nervous kitchen-pacing (imagine that scene from Vertigo where James Stewart's silhouette falls into a big red spiral of madness)
To correct this I burst Kramerishly back into the lounge and breathlessly apologise about the Terrible Window Insult. I explain I will happily close window. They smell daisy-fresh. In fact, they could be the nicest smelling flatmates in our suburb - or parts of unexplored South America even (embellishment is allowed when apologising).
Naturally this is met by six dead-fish-eyeballs on the sofa
FUCK I hate dead-fish-eyeballs
Dead-fish-eyeballs mean The Flatmates have no idea what I'm on about. Dead-fish-eyeballs mean I'm making a scene. Dead-fish-eyeballs mean they think I'm one tiny step off coating myself in maple syrup and proclaiming myself the Duchess of Pancakes.
I might also have been interrupting the rugby
Blog: unspellchecked at time of printing. xxx
