Yup

EEP!



[Via]

Resolve

I seem to have lost weight over crimbo which is INSANE given that people have been trying to force feed me roast dinners every seven minutes (this is a joke I keep making with my fam and they're like 'actually Sazz, how many roast dinners have you eaten over the last two weeks in truths?' and I'll be all 'umm... well two I guess' and then I get that look that suggests I've taken the exaggeration gene I was blessed with and run A MILLION MILES with it (more jokes)) but I have consumed a shit load of cheese and wine which is rarely listed in the Rosemary Conley Diet book [sub-title: to give you an overly firm body for a woman your age and a frightenly stretched haggard look on your face making you an inadvertant walking advertisement for staying plump] which is a roundabout way of saying - the usual 'lose weight/be miserable' new years maxim is out for 2010. I'm going to try this revolutionary thing of eating 3 meals a day and exercising when the mood strikes rather than feeling constantly guilty for not wacking on the lycra and doing 1000 sit ups a day. Not yet anyway. Plus, I'm pretty happy with how I look at the mo (except for my tummy which is the cause of ALL my worries and sadness and problems and depression. Science. If I ever manage to get it flat I'll be perfect and unendingly happy. Fact. You guys know how joyful Amy Winehouse and Kate Moss are right? Exactly) and the dudes may not be lining up but they don't seem to be throwing up in my face either (and isn't that the ultimate goal girls? To have your existance validated by the mens finding you sexually attractive? RIGHT?! YAY FEMINISM!). So what are the goals of 2010 then? Well, I wanna DO stuff. Stuff that I wanna do cos I wanna do it. This is similarly revolutionary stuff I know.

On the 'for shiz mniz' list is
- go see a ballet (cultural!)
- go see an Opera ('alright Alain de Botton we get it!')
- go see a musical (Michael Ball touring Hairspray coming to a city near me did you say? HOLLA ATCHA BOY!)
- get through my ever-lengthening 'films to watch' list
- write write write lots and lots and lots. A children's story about Gods that pull the wings off of flies. Falling into other dimensions through knots in oak trees. That kinda thing. Plus blog. Must be more enamoured with blog. Have started off well I hope you notice.
- CRAFT! Finish biggest cross stitch the world has ever seen (Grandma: 'maybe you could use it to cover something? Have you got a pouf that needs sprucing?' Me: 'well... yeeees')
- Socialise. With people. Outside of my house. Willingly and smiling.
- Finally, and most importantly, continue being awesome if not more so. Last year I severely deprived the world of my magic and for this I can only apologise.

Plus other shit but you don't want to know about my financial situation (do you?? Weirdo) or finding a pair of trousers that hides my belly but doesn't sag on my ass (LITERALLY IMPOSSIBLE). Now I am off to achieve my hopes and dreams. Wish me luck!

Oblig end of/start of year reflective post

The last year has been the biggest pile of shizer I've experienced since records began. I hated it and myself for most of it. Though it started off all nice and in head-over-heels love it went rapidly downhill from about on January 1st... And just kept getting progressively worse from that point on. (Really, when you think things can't get more stressful or dramatic God lols heartily and likes to prove just how silly you are. THANKS GOD! 'No problemo Sazz!')

What's worse is that I actually said things like 'he's the only one that's ever really understood me' (WITH MY VOICE! TO OTHER PEOPLE!) which is cringingly embarrassing now I've started falling in love with my friends again. And they are pretty kickass. One of my resolutions is to continue recognising that and to see as much of those peeps as I can (partick the ones that I have not seen enough of in recent months/years). Bros before hos you know?

Enough of that icky lovey dovey shit.

I stand at the edge of 2010 a changed woman. Like, for one thing, I can refer to myself as a 'woman' unironically. That's a change. For seconds I'm actvively trying to untangle all the threads that have been tangled up for so long and making it difficult for me to like myself and do right by myself. It's sort of daunting in a way that makes me feel like throwing up if I stop and think about it too much (like when you start learning to drive and think you'll never be any good -- some of you aren't btdubs -- because it's too stressful learning everything at once and having to be aware of all the other stuff going on around you that doesn't stop just because you're new to it and you make mistakes and some people are annoyed but you keep at it cos of independence! and awesomeness! That's what this is like) but I think I just have to keep chipping away and getting those uncomfortable tummy feelings and letting myself feel those feelings. It seems important in a way I haven't been able to quite articulate yet. Regardless, although I don't know what is going to happen within the next 365 days I'm going to take a good go at it nonetheless. Three months ago being plucky and determined were not emotions I could have imagined experiencing ever again. That's another change.

NEWAYS! Whatevs! I just simply MUST catch up on my correspondence...

Dear 2009,
Boo you whore. You sucked. Good riddance. Etc.
Love
Sazz x

Dear 2010,
Please don't be as lame as 2009. I am not joking about this.
Love
Sazz x

Happy new year everyone! Continue being awesome and remember you're perfect just as you are even if they try and convince you differently.
xoxo

Presents I like

My grandparents (big Lady Gaga fans btdubs) just get me ya know? Noone else woulda picked out this little gem of a head wear piece for me



Now I wanna join the circus.

Oh snap!

I am naturally proficient in this already (we're gonna need a bigger 'OBVS!') but in case any of y'all need some hints and tips, the internet is now providing lessons in it. I'm not sure why the school system has not yet taken it upon itself to teach us the basics of snapthology but at least we now have some guidance on the correct etiquette when dealing in this ancient and life-affirming practise. Listen up divaettes:


(Via)

This is an important day.

*No Jokes

Sazz Style

There is something about the clocks going back (or is it forward? I have time-dyslexia so have trouble figuring shit like this out. I know this is my favourite clock change cos I get an hour extra in bed so... back. Right?) that makes me want to get into my PJ's from about 4pm. I love jimbly-jamblys a LOT (at the moment I have pink plaid PJ bottoms with silver thread running through them which are HELLA comfy, a yellow t-shirt with a kitten that says 'you suck!' on it and a black cardi with sausage dogs and love hearts all over it. To be honest, this is probs my most stylish outfit in a closet CHOCKED FULL OF STYLE) but in the last week it's all I wanna be wearing. Today, in particular, I sped home as fast as humanly possible (till I get that fighter jet I'm gonna have to settle for Corolla speeds) and was actually a little anxious because it was 5.37pm before I could wack the jim-jams on. Tomorrow I'm going to a halloween gathering of sorts and seriously considering how I can work the jim-jam angle into a viable 'going out' outfit. Given that it's halloween and all I figure my chances are pretty high. I might work the 'Lady Gaga before midday' angle. Or possibly don my red wig and go for the 'Angela Chase on Saturday night before Jordan Catellano knew her name' option. Or just 'Charlotte Church in Heat*'. Although, you know, maybe just turning up in jim jams is enough and people will just assume I'm 'crazy cat lady' with no further exposition required. To be honest, they pretty much assume that from the off anyway. Whatever time of year it is.

*As in the magazine, not like, 'Charlotte Church being horny'. Though that'd probs work too.

The Wedding Singer

I have one wish. It is not that I was a little bit taller or that I was a baller or even that I had a girl that looked good I would call her.

It is to be in a wedding band.

Only because I went and accidentally just gate-crashed a wedding reception (it was my local, the back gate was open. Not my fault) and got sub-par renditions of Robbie Williams, Ricky Martin (both major hits in case you were wondering) and Gareth Gates (well, Spirit in the Sky. Assume they were doing the Gates version). Plus Status Quo. Lots of Status Quo.

It was awesome.

If I was a singer in a wedding band the set list would be as follows:

- Skee-Lo 'I Wish'
- Will Smith 'Getting Jiggy With It'
- Jay-Z '99 Problems'
- Britney Spears 'Toxic'
- DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince 'Fresh Prince of Bel Air'
- The theme song to the tv show 'Clueless'
- The theme song to the tv show 'Blossom'

Ad infinitum for two hours. Sit back and enjoy. Am expecting to be busy so book early to avoid disappointment.

[Encore at premium rate = DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince 'Boom Shake the Room']

And yes, in case you were wondering these do happen to be the only songs in the world that I know all the lyrics to. So what of it?

Betty and me

Today I realised a thing and it was the sort of thing that, once realised, can never be unrealised if you see what I mean. I am now partly obsessed with the realisation of this thing and I'm not sure how it's going to impact on the rest of my life.

The thing is this: I would totally wear all the outfits Betty Suarez has had on this season.

Back in the day, the day of yore, a time when we were all a little more naive, our instincts were a little less developed, a new campy fun show started and it was called Ugly Betty and I looked a lot like the title character. I had long dark hair and glasses and I was a bit goofy and chubby and wore... let's say 'unconventional' outfits. Not like, Edie Beale unconventional but just, a few clashing prints here and a hint of quirkiness there. Nothing that'd make you throw up in your mouth necessarily but it might have made you pause for a second before shaking your head and continuing your journey. And even then, only occasionally did I put together something that would have shown up on your 'weird radar' (weirdar, similar to gaydar but for weird).

Before a show called 'Ugly Betty' I hadn't really thought about all of this too deeply but then a show called 'Ugly Betty' did exist and she did look like me and we both did dress a bit queer and I did think about these things.

Then I kind of got on with it.

However, today I realised the thing. The thing that means now Betty has become the master and I the languishing disciple. You see, before, Betty used to dress like she was a mental patient who had twirled round and round in her wardrobe and whatever stuck itself to her body was what she decided to wear that day. I employed a similar system myself at one time. It was tragic. Very slowly, (and I'm not sure if this is a deliberate sort of 'just as Betty wears off on the fashionistas, they have started to rub off on her' type thing. It would be awesome if it was. The right path always tends to lie somewhere in the middle of two diametrically opposed viewpoints) Betty started to get a sense of style. Not a style that fashionistas would be thrilled with but a street style of her very own. The sort of thing that could show up on either the 'Do' or the 'Don't' pages of Vice (I can never tell immediately if it's supposed to be on one page or the other, it's best to just accept their ruling regardless. A logic is employed on some level but it's not a level I'm familiar with). However, whereas I toned down my outfit choices so that I now feel 85% happy with the clothes I own and have (dresses mainly) for every occasion('1920's tea party in spring' dress, 'a day at the races' dress, 'showing off my boobs' dress etc etc) Betty has learned how to layer and to mix and match so that the point at where we both started - the point that makes the tragedy makers cry - I have become duller and she more vibrant. Whereas I could previously see that if she just wore a slightly different scarf or a heel with that skirt or burned the sweater vests to the ground TO THE GROUND (for the love of God burn the sweater vests to the ground Betty) she now puts these outfits together with ease. She knows the right scarf to make the outfit go from 'mentalist' to 'trail blazer'. As I say, the student has become the master.

That doesn't sort out the problems this show has with being unable to decide if it wants to be preachy about 'beauty is on the inside' etc etc (bullshit, btw) or is in fact in love with looking good (hint to the show writers: we all are. Don't fight it). Or the fact that Betty is supposed to be strong and smart and ambitious but still has the same job she did two years ago. (Why isn't she a staff writer by now? She could still look after Daniel and be jealous of his new assistants and have all the hilarious japes she does now just a little further up the ladder. Writing change is writing life, writing statis is... just a bit lame. I demand character development!) Or the fact that Gio was the best bloody thing that ever happened to her and she treated him like shit. But Betty dressing the way she does now, compared to how she did before makes me feel like my fictional little girl on a show that doesn't in any way relate to real life has all grown up. Betty did gone and make mama proud. And also a bit jealous because now I think everything I own is boring. Goddamn you Betty and all your hot love interests. Anyway, I just got a bit nostaligic so let's journey through time and space and have a look at how our ugly duckling became a no-less-ugly-but-slightly-less-insanely-dressed swan...

Betty Suarez's Hall of Fashion: An illustrated journey from fugly to style icon


Picture 1: DIE SWEATER VEST DIE. What's weird is I find them incredibly erotic when worn on boys. I think this just gives me flashbacks to what I would oftentimes end up wearing as a charity shoppe enamoured school girl.


Picture 2: I actually quite like the dress but why the jumper underneath. The Betty of today would wear a clashing pink or maybe green cardi and a printed belt and make that look work *snaps fingers*. The Betty of then just wanted to make her arms look fat for some reason.


Picture 3: This would work if the hat was black and a bit slouchier (she looks like a Constance Billiard reject) and either:
- her dress was plain; but it would have to be black which isn't very Betty, OR
- her coat was plain; a lush green would work but I would rock a military gray just to be on the safe side due to my tendency to err on the side of caution.
As it is she looks like she's been doing the mental patient twirling thing I referenced earlier.


Picture 4: The exact point where our axises interject. These days I wouldn't wear something like this but I wish I DID have the balls to do so. If you take this apart then the sweater vest must burn BURN TO THE GROUND, the tights are so 16-year-old-me-wishing-I-had-thin-legs it's unreal, the belt is something I would pick up in the bargain bin at Claire's and briefly consider buying before putting it down again and leaving empty handed. But I genuinely think this outfit works when it's all put together. Helped by the fact the dress is insanely kickass (but if I bought it I would have such trouble accessorising it, it would never end up being worn).


Picture 5: It would not be too hard for me to go put together a similar outfit right now from the items in my own wardrobe. Including the red belt and flower doobry.


Picture 6: I crave this outfit like I crave Tuc biscuits. Deeply and endlessly.

Life choices

I can't decide if I want an ugly dog or an ugly baby more.

Ugly Dog:


Ugly Baby:


Either way I'll be calling it Perry Como and making it wear neckerchiefs.

Nope

Not only did I add it to my facebook page but I also got that tattooed on my face.

No place left to hide

I've had nightmares the past two nights and it's freaking me out.

The first, I'd rather not talk about but let's just say it's not too difficult to work out its genesis as people have been RUINING my denial mantras by discussing my ex on facebook and making these discussions appear in front of my eyes where my eyes INSIST on reading them. Stupid facebook and it's stupid smug facebook face needs a good face punching and needs it fast. Thinks it knows what's best for me by sending me email notifications about stuff I DON'T WANT TO KNOW ABOUT. I guess I could turn these notifications off but that would mean logging on to facebook which leaves me with a vague feeling of self-disgust at the best of times. But anyway, icky dream with obvious characters being icky I can work out. That's fine. But the second dream is horrific BEYOND BELIEF*.

I was having a normal, fairly enjoyable dream. Sex had been involved at one point. It was nice. It bordered on lucid without it being completely lucid which is the best balance I can have as my lucid dreams make me more exhausted than when I went to sleep. After a bit of adventuring through the streets of not-London-but-London (you've had dreams, you know what I mean), I found myself walking along in a shopping centre with my mother and suddenly a flock of pigeons flew towards us (this would normally be bad enough on it's own but wait, there's more). She ducked and pulled her jumper over her head and, for whatever reason, this made me the target of the pigeon's wrath and they attacked my lower back with their ugly pigeon beaks (!) and then wouldn't let go (!!!!!) despite me trying to beat them off as best I could. I had to wake myself up to get out of that one and my back really hurt. It felt like I'd been pinched loads of times and every time I've closed my eyes since then I've felt the pigeon beaks grabbing hold of my back fat and refusing to let go. Leaving me to ponder, WHY DOES MY BRAIN HATE ME? This is what it conjures up when I'm not there to keep an eye on it. You've got pigeons (my mortal enemy), pain, and back fat. The three things I would rather live without were I given the choice. I don't even get where the pain came from, I was sleeping alone on a soft mattress. I'm not even a princess so, even if there were a packet of Birds Eye Petit Pois underneath aforementioned mattress (and I'm obviously not ruling that out), sleeping on top of them wouldn't cause me to bruise my delicate princess skin. Because I'm not a princess (just a bitch).

I wouldn't mind so much were dreams not one of my favourite things ever. I love going on dream adventures, or watching my dream movies (I have seen both There Is No Blood and Milk in my sleeping head before getting to view them at the cinema), or getting to have dream sex (I seem to have quite a lot of dream sex. My dream brain is even more of a slut than my waking brain). My dreams are always really vivid and I always remember them really well. It was one of the few joys I have left in life. And now I can't even close my eyes without feeling like a pigeon has a chunk of my lower back clamped between it's pigeon jaws.

The pigeons have invaded my dreams. There is no place left to hide.

* Not to be confused with 'Beyond Belief: Fact or Fiction' presented by 'Commander William T Riker'** aka Johnathan Frakes
** I swear on Paris Hilton's chihuahua I had to look that name up. But then, if I'm honest, it was just to double check he was a commander and not a lieutenant so maybe I'll just shut up.

What did you do today?

I totally got interviewed on a community radio station by a woman called Mildred French FOR MY JOB.

My job is so weird.

But yeah, for realz. Mildred French of Angel Radio interviewed me and played some kickass old person music and now I am kind of in love with Mildred French. She was one of the coolest ladies I have ever met. You know how there is only a select number of people who are as awesome as you and me? She's one of the few that get to share our limelight. Think the looks of Bea Arthur tumbled around with the sensibilities of a feisty Countdown contestant. One of the ones that isn't intimidated by being on telly and jokes around a little with Carol (post-Carol Countdown isn't actually Countdown so don't even worry about it) when selecting the letters and numbers. You know the ones I mean? The humble ones who are ridonkulously sharp and win all the fucking time but in a very pleasant 'I'm not taking this thing too seriously but I kind of know how good I am' way. Now you are approaching Mildred French levels of cool. I basically want to be Mildred French when I grow up and will definitely be stealing her name for my sitcom.

Also, I know right, ooh a middle-class white indie girl getting all cited bout a Spike Jones/Dave Eggers production based on a beloved children's book that made you wanna draw strange and beautiful pictures from a very young age even though you couldn't even stick that out once you started 'cos you FAIL AT EVERYTHING. Yeah, well, fuck you 'cos eeeeek!

Internet thing

I've been on match.com for like, EVER now (one month) and my initial enthusiasm (not enthusiasm) has dwindled to the point of disgust (that one's true). Am I a dick for immediately discarding someone as a potential life partner because they spell it 'careing'? Ooh look at me, I can spell [most] words, I must be so much better than those people that haven't attained the level of literacy that I have. That's a dickish attitude right? I shouldn't judge people on whether or not they spell it 'careing' should I? Can I judge them on the fact that they look like bouncers who would happily kick in someone's head if that person made a joke at their expense? Is that an ok judging system?

I don't get why the guys who look the way they do and have the literacy powers that they have are the only ones contacting me. My profile has been written with the idea of attracting like-minded individuals. This is not occuring. I think the being blond thing has a lot to answer for.

Either way, I haven't located the man of my dreams yet. Well, I have. He's a blogger from New York and looks like this and makes videos like this:



(In actuality I would happily run away to Rio with either of those young gentlemen. They are the perfect representatives of my two ideals, sarcastic/intelligent/skinnyhot and funny/sweet/chubbyhot)

I just need to work out how to get someone that's way out of my league and lives in a different city located in a different country to me to be my boyfriend. Of course, I have supergood luck all the time with the mens so I don't even know why I'm sweating it. This type of thing is real easy for me so I'll just sit back and wait for him to come to me pretty much. Yeah, ON OPPOSITE DAY.

Boast

I love my job.

It seems wack but I do. Until the end of this month I'd spent five months getting money for walking into a jobcentre and signing a piece of paper every two weeks. Even that took it's toll, but here I am, ready and raring to go, jumping out of bed with wild abandon at 7am every week day morning (that may be a slight exaggeration... stumbling, grumbling and wearily dragging myself around for half an hour until I am conscious enough to be trusted with a bread knife and then making bitchy comments about the breakfast tv presenters until I could officially be classed as 'awake' - it's weird how much being a bitch to the tv does perk me up though).

To be fair, I have only been there two weeks. There's plenty of time for me to start hating on it. Also to be fair the last two weeks, three days out of five, I've been training in Winchester - far removed from where my actual job will take place and sat in a room with two other women looking at bits of paper while one of them explains the words that run the length and breadth of these A4 sheets; which is far removed from what my job will actually entail. Regardless, I've been present, my mind has kept to the task at hand, I've not spent time looking at the window or felt my eyes start to droop after lunch. I'm interested in what I'm learning. I love the fact my job was created to help alleviate child poverty (I try and drop this fact into conversation as much as possible because I think it makes me look good). I'm fired up to start and fear I might actually end up being quite good at this and that it might lead to doing other interesting things.

Here's why I'm excited:
- I get to make my own hours. As long as I work 37 hours in a week it doesn't matter when and it doesn't matter (too much) where this takes place. I am not stuck at a desk in a cubicle wishing my life away and willing a clock to move it's hands faster so that I can go home.
- I get to talk to people from all walks of life, I have to make contacts in my community with people who I wouldn't normally even know existed, I get to help people who really need it and find them options they didn't know they had. I am basically a demi-God now.
- I'm not based in one place. I get to move around and visit loads of different 'settings' (as they call it in the outreach worker biz).

Here's why I'm scared:
- I get to make my own hours. How am I supposed to keep track of everything if there is noone standing over me ensuring I do my allocated time?
- I have to talk to people from all walks of life. I have to make contacts in my local community
with people I wouldn't normally talk to. Even if I am kickass at hiding it when I need to, I am naturally socially awkward and prefer standing on the periphery. I get to help people who really need it. What if I fuck it up? This isn't filing a late TPS report. This shit affects real people in their real lives.... What if I fuck it up?
- I'm not based in one place. I don't know how I'm expected to cover all this ground. There's fuck loads of settings in my designated area, where the fuck do I start?

The other slight issue is that I'm still not entirely sure what my job is. I know I'm an outreach worker for the county council. I know the area I look after is south east hampshire. I know where my 'base' is and that everyone who works there is (for the most part) lovely. But as for a day-to-day thing there is no set guide, there aren't any particular rules to follow. I kind of have to make it up as I go along. The thing I fear and crave is doing my own thing and making the best of it.

Be careful wishing for things, they might come true one day and then you actually have to deal with it.

I'll be fine, I'll be fine, I'll be fine. I'll be fine. I hope.

Would Like to Meet

I totally joined match.com.

Stop looking at me like that.

So, you know how I was in love and all googly-eyed and annoying? Well, yeah, my heart has been smashed into a thousand tiny pieces like everyone predicted it would be (though in an infinitely more fucked up way than anyone could have imagined). I mean, there's been no official announcement or conversation to this effect but when the last words you say to someone are 'if you're going to throw up do it in the toilet or the bin but not on the floor' and stalk off to your hetero-life partner's pad to knit and watch movies instead of looking after the person doing the spewing then that means it's over right? And when his last communication with you is 'I may die' via a text message, that's basically the selfish alcoholic version of 'you're dumped btw' right?

Right.

Tip of the day: Do not fall in love with terminal fuck ups, however tempting it may be and however much it may piss off your moms.

So yeah, less than a week later I joined match.com. Too soon? I don't care. I want to be over this debacle quick smart and, ironically, the eternal single gal found out something really rather odd... I like being in a relationship. STOP PRESS! I mean, I didn't like the whiny, self-pitying, selfish aspects of my last partner (apparently that comes with the territory of being an alcoholic-in-recovery-oh-whoops-not-so-much) but I did like the snuggling and the sassing. I did like sharing all my deep dark secrets and the long conversations about nothing. I did feeling like I might burst when I hadn't seen him for a while and then the release when we were together again.

So sue me. I know I'm a total girl.

I want that again and I want it to last.

I have to say the whole internet dating thing (the entire day I have devoted to it thus far) is a little depressing because I just don't think I'm going to find someone I fancy and respect and love and want to be with as much as I did the other guy but I've sent some funny emails and had some in return. That's never a bad thing. I'm doubtful as to whether I'm actually going to meet anyone though. For one thing, my other coping strategy in times of woe is making endless lists and tick boxes for those lists. I have too much stuff to do. Like knitting rectangles (it was supposed to be a scarf but I made it too wide and it's too narrow to be a blanket so... I'm knitting a rectangle). This is important work I have to do here, completing arbitrary tasks for the express purpose of ticking a box. Someone has to do it, might as well be me.

Shit yeah

I stayed up all night, I've cried three times (from joy/relief/lack of sleep/whatever) and all I can think is...

Thank fuck for that.

Definition of a vicious circle

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I want this

I want it so bad I can't think straight.

I've been had

They got me.

The Oreo's adverts got me. In 25 years, despite more than one trip to America starting at the age of 3 (which I remember clearly for getting to experience my first - though not last - earthquake) I have never been lured by an Oreo before and then suddenly, without much warning, I turn around and Oreo's are everywhere. They blink at me all welcoming in soothing blue packaging and stylish monochrome outfits. Children sit on stone steps and teach their dogs how to eat them in EVERY SINGLE Tru Calling advert break (not that my life is based around being sat in front of Sky1 at 2pm every weekday to watch this abysmal show that even the combined powers of Zach Galifianakis, Eliza Dushku, and Jane Espenson couldn't save, I especially don't do this considering I've seen all the episodes at least twice before and couldn't even describe it as a 'guilty pleasure' because I derive no pleasure out of it - just shame and unending embarrassment for all those concerned in its production... I digress...). All I see, wherever I look (in my, admittedly narrow, field of vision) is Oreo's. A girl can only be so strong for so long.

Now all I do is think about when I can next eat an Oreo. Peel off the excitingly dark first biscuit and dip three-quarters of it in my tea for exactly three seconds whilst holding the accompanying biscuit-filling combo aloft in anticipation of the rest of the ritual. I then allow the dipped three-quarters to dissolve on my tongue. It crunches a little bit whilst it melts and tastes like nothing else. Every single time I am reminded of the Oreo's milkshake I once tried in Lori's diner in Fisherman's Wharf. I can see the red vinyl booths and silver tables. I remember the tiny blond waitress looking like the emo offspring of Lucy Ricardo. I feel the misty sea air when I step outside the restaurant. The greyness engulfing me in a smell unique to San Fransisco. With such Proutisian powers is there any wonder I fell in lust with these crunchy little tea-time friends?

The ritual however is far from over. Next I have to lick all the filling off the other biscuit. Ideally it just peels off but sometimes I have to scrape with my teeth and feel the sweetness start eroding enamel. The texture is like toothpaste. That's the only way of describing it. Culinery delights are rarely likened to toothpaste but, trust me, toothpaste is da shizz. Especially sweet sweet candy toothpaste that they've put in this delicious-yet-bizarro chocolate sandwich. I then repeat step one with the second chocolate 'cookie' layer. Sometimes I have to cow-tongue the toothpaste side (a technique that can *clears throat* be employed in other endeavors) to make sure all the sweet sweetness is off. At no time must any of the layers be consumed together. This is SICK AND WRONG. If I wanted to get puke in my mouth I'd stick my fingers down my throat. Eating the cookie as a normal cookie is EVIL ON EVERY LEVEL. Just make sure you bear that in mind.

If all of this sounds a bit labourious then you obviously don't understand what it is to really enjoy your food. This is why the French take two hours for lunch. Food should be savoured and enjoyed. Admittedly, when people say shit like they are rarely talking about the delights of Oreo's but still; the point is valid.

Anyway, yeah, I like Oreo's now. Just so you know.

P.S. I have just seen The Beautician and The Beast is on in a minute. I have seen this film more times than any other and in more countries than any other. This is not a joke. I repeat, this is NOT a joke. It follows me around. If I were a religious or superstitious type I'd think God or The Fates were trying to communicate something to me in a Fran Drescher vehicle with an ill-advised turn from Timothy Dalton by her side. But I'm not. However, maybe just to be sure I'd should watch it again and look for clues to my future or my destiny. You never can tell with these things can you?

Thundercats are go

There are certain, seemingly inane moments in your life that you know you're going to remember forever and a day. Moments that shine through the fug of memories you collect and you know with absolute certainty that in ten, twenty, thirty, whatever-years time you'll still be able to remember everything about them. The sounds, the smells, what you were wearing, how you felt. All wrapped up in this pocket, tucked away in a little neuron in the back of your brain ready to be accessed whenever you need it. Whenever you need to travel back through time in your head and think clearly about the person you were versus the person you became.

I had two of those moments yesterday. It's rare for you to know in advance but, in this case, I honestly do.

Saturday night had involved a failed cinema plan that was usurped by drinking instead. Although I wanted very badly to see The Orphanage (which, strangely I've already sat down and watched in a dream. This happens sometimes, the last time that happened it was with There Will Be Blood and, as I recall, I was puzzled when I went to see it in real-life as there were certain scenes I didn't see that had been in my dream previously. I have the very definition of an overactive imagination and, as such, a wildly vivid dreamscape on offer to me most nights) going to a cocktail bar that can only be accessed by winding your way up a spiral staircase made out of an intricate bronze moldings is always worth it. I'm still in awe of this cocktail I had (of which I've forgotten the name) that involved vodka, apple juice and peach schnapps. Anything where you get to say, 'mmm - nice schnapps' whilst bitching and admiring the various clientele is always worth the effort.

Anyway, suffice it to say, Sunday I was just planning to sleep in and then spend the rest of the day in jim jams and bathrobe. Possibly, at some point in the afternoon, throw on some fake eyelashes and new wig and drink ice water out of a martini glass whilst listening to The B-52's. You know, the usual. However, instead of sleeping and being left to continue a dream where I was riding around in a taxi that was paid for on my expense account (I'd just reached the taxi depot and was trying to find the red wellington's I'd left somewhere in the back) my mother burst into my room with the following announcement:

'[Step-sister]'s had a 7lb 4oz baby boy and it's snowed'

I twisted awkwardly around and sat up to throw open my curtains and by god, it had snowed. Flakes that were the exact size that spiders have to be before I find them really scary were slowly meandering down to the ground. The world was a 3D 'paint by numbers' just waiting to be filled in. It was stunning. But, as if that wasn't enough to take in, step-sister had had a baby boy. This precious little cargo that had been a kind of ethereal concept before (albeit one that was looming fairly obviously right out in front of her at all times as a constant reminder that 'Hiya! I'm here! I'll be born one day!') was now out of her belly and in the world and real. Just like with the snow, I'd been told it was going to happen. On Saturday night when even my beer/cocktail/wine coat couldn't keep me warm the evidence had pointed towards it snowing. Just as the fact that step-sister had been fairly obviously pregnant for ever and ever had sort of tipped me off that a baby would be born eventually. But now the snow had laid and the baby was born. To coin a phrase; it fucked my shit up well bad dawg (in a good way. In nothing but a good way).

The snow was awesome. For maybe the first time in my life I gave up on sleeps to go play outside. The dogs loved it until their fur made it so they got snowballs instead of feet (which was HIL-AR-I-OUS) and went absolutely mental. The sun was straining to make it's way through the clouds but the thick greyness hung heavy in the air and stood its ground - for a little while at least - and I made the most of it while it did. But that moment, of being awoken with those two little facts on a normal Sunday in April when all I'd been looking forward to that day was some Columbo and a cup of tea or five and reading the paper uninterrupted, and looking out my window and it dawning that those two facts were indeed truth. That will stay with me always.

Later on, in the sunny evening (seriously though - wtf) when all the snow had disappeared and all that was left to prove it had not in fact been part of one of my elaborate dreams was unmelted-but-looking-to-be-in-some-distress snowman and the occasional white roof top, we drove to the maternity ward to see the baby. I had to sit outside for a while with the new dad (only two visitors allowed in to see mama and baby at a time). You want to see someone the happiest they'll possibly ever be? Go hang out with a new dad. I can't put into words the feeling of terror and joy he was emanating from every pore. He was utterly exhausted, completely overwhelmed, and frankly 100 per cent elated; 'I know you two are going to be kick-ass parents for shizz' is how I chose to comfort the sleep deprived, starving hungry, emotional 19 year old that now has a child of his own to care for. But, on reflection, I think it was kind of perfect to say that. It's exactly what I would want to hear in his shoes. And the best part is that I really believe it. Him and her are funny and silly and clever and awesome. They will make kick-ass parents.

Mama looked no less elated but infinitely more exhausted. Yet also strangely calmer, like she just knows she's got to get on with this now. Baby is as yet unnamed and baby is amazing. Baby has wrinkled hands and feet which are too big in comparison to his tiny little body (my mum likened it to how labradors often have limbs that are too big for them which makes them all clumsy and cute whilst they're puppies but signifies their eventual height in the meantime. I said it may be best to not liken newborn baby to dog in front of newborn's new mum). Baby has a conehead where she stopped pushing at a critical moment (alas I've been told this will soon correct itself as how cool would it be to have a constant reminder of a Dan Ackroyd movie in your family? Plus, as the new Dad said, 'Conehead the Barbarian would make an awesome name for him'. I suggested 'Columbo', middle name: 'Isawesome' but I don't think they're going to go for it. Which, thank God, cos that's totes what my first born - boy or girl - will be called). But whatever they call baby, when baby grows up something is going to click in my head every now and again and I'm going to remember looking down at this weird looking sleepy little guy with his tiny finger-and-toenails. Looking into his eyes which seemed to be conveying a feeling that pitched itself halfway between bewilderment and pissed-offness (wouldn't you be?) and at his tiny toothless mouth and button nose, and thinking 'dude, you're so awesome'. And you know what? I really think he will be.