Soap made of goat's milk doesn't lather

Somebody linked to this blog (always a surprise)

Oh dear.

I hate shopping

Have I mentioned that before?

I especially hate underwear shopping but daughter number two had claimed the need for new bras so I took her to Best and Less. Yes, I know, nothing but the best for my girls.

She wandered around choosing, discarding, assessing and reassessing and I stood around, wanting to hang myself.

I reluctantly decided that perhaps I needed some new bras too, if I was to be working again and that they'd better be cotton because I'd be operating in up to 48 degree Celcius heat and I needed something to mop up the sweat. Sorry to be gross, but in that heat it just wells up and trickles constantly down your body. Uniform, no matter what company I end up with, will consist of 'Steve Irwins' (lighter beige shirt and darker shorts) and the shirts tend to cling and highlight my nipple rings if I'm not wearing a really good cotton bra.

Then some demon got in my head and I actually bought panties, for the first time in years. I don't like them, I don't wear them (except for the waxer and the gynae) and to me it was another symptom of my life being over and me being middle aged, ready to be widowed and living on my own for the rest of my life. I wasn't happy.

Fucking Ron, look what his dying is doing to me. It's turning me into one of the silver haired grandmothers that were croning over the bins of bulk panties, all eagerly debating the crotch itch factor of lace top navel to knee passion bloomers in either white, beige or racy black. I hate him for that.

I looked around to spy the back of my teenager's head, still debating the merits of spots versus stripes in a  bra, and bitterly announced the mark of my descent into middle age hell.

"Look, Claire, I'm buying matching damn underwear!. It's bad enough that I'm giving up refreshing breezes by even buying panties at all, let alone contemplating wearing them in tasteful sets! I haven't worn panties for nearly twenty years and I can see me being into Granny stylers by Christmas - I hate my life!"

Except it wasn't her at all. It was some middle aged woman with exactly the same hair style and she looked like she'd been into granny panties since she got out of training pants, judging by the way her pursed up lips met her hairline.

She also looked as though she wanted to report me to the nearest Mothering Authority and revoke my licence.

Doesn't matter. My daughter thought it was hysterically funny and anyway she should have her Daughtering Licence revoked too, because she tried to converse with a swan that afternoon and nearly got us both killed, rather than just disdained.

Swans and no airconditioning down below. It's all Ron's fucking fault.

Why he's the guy for me...

Because I can travel half way around the world and give him these as presents and he just laughs:

The book is because he needs to understand some of the native vernacular expressions that I use. (He reads it and stores away various phrases to bring out at the correct time in his natural environment, much to the mystification of his friends and work acquaintences, who find these Australian sayings peculiar, to say the least).

The Scotch is because we both like sipping very good whiskey late at night, whilst talking and snuggling up together.

The cigarettes?

Well, they are empty packets, for a start. Last time I was in the States I couldn't get people to believe just how crass and 'out there' our anti-smoking warnings actually are. So, this time I brought the packets. Also, because R told me that he smoked half a cigarette two weeks ago and I totally flipped. Smoking is a deal breaker with me, and he knows it. In my mind you either smoke, or you don't. There is no such thing as only every so often.

But the packets were more because I knew he'd appreciate the sense of humour that inspired me to collect them. The lovely girls at work are smokers, all three of them, and they collected the packets for me.

H made me laugh so much because she told me that she actually goes in and requests packets with specific pictures on them when she buys cigarettes. She asks for a packet with a picture of a little girl in an oxygen mask on it, rather than gangrenous toes!

Because, you know, a dying child portrait lets you enjoy the cigarette so much more than rotting teeth or fat being squeezed out of arteries does.

The fact that I can laugh at this, and the fact that that R knows exactly why I laugh at this, is the reason that he's for me; for now and always.

I got distracted

By this blog entry.

This outfit makes me think of that poem 'Leda and the Swan'.

Is that just me? Because that top seems to shout out  'Avian rape has occured here!'

By the way, I always resented the way Zeus was able to turn himself into various animalian forms in order to cheat successfully on his missus. It still counts as rape, buckaroony, and it's still infidelity, no matter what size or shape of penis you have (or how retractable). Hera should kick your ass.

My daughter has a new friend

I think he's going to be rather important in her life.

As such, she wanted me to meet him. it is immensely gratifying to me that my girls place me in such a position in their lives that my opinion mattters to them.  I want them to be happy and I am predisposed to like anybody they do, simply because they do, and I trust their judgement. They're not stupid, they can perceive characters and personalities, and they have the right to make their own mistakes along the way, because that is part of finding their own place as future adults in our modern society.

Of course, they're not always to going to get it right: I don't, most people I know don't always, either. But part of being a parent is biting your lip and learning to step back. Even when you know that things might not work out perfectly.

I don't want to betray the privacy of Emmy's friend, so I won't talk about him in too much detail, except to say that he has to deal with issues that nobody of that age should have to deal with and that he is coping welll and so is she.

But I will say that I like him tremendously, as a person in his own right, rather than just a friend of my daughter. He is a person I would like to be around, regardless of whether he's with her or not. She brought him over for breakfast the other day.

He's polite, considerate, sensible and very caring of her.

But the moment that clinched it for me was the following conversation:

(Background: my daughter LOVES shoes and T knows that. Most of the shoes I buy are for her future benefit once she is able to live in a less repressed environment and wear them, or even just have them, without associations being attributed. Collecting shoes, most of them opshop specials, is for her and me, a lovely shared hobby and has the advantage of a shared shoe size. She likes to display them, not necessarily to wear them.)

Emmy to T: 'Oh yeah, and I don't know what shoes to wear to the ball. There's this pair and that pair.... (listing lots of different pairs).."

T: (valiantly pretending an interest): 'Well, those ones are nice."

E: (enthusiastically) 'Oh, but you should see my mum's stripper shoes!"

Beat.

Beat.

Beat.

T: starts laughing hysterically, chokes on  his mouthful of coffee and spits it out all over his shirt.

God, I love a sense of humour in a guy.

This one's worth having around.

I have something to look forward to!

More of my sordid past

Courtesy of the photo-mad Gorgeous Redhead.

Ms GR seemed to remember that we were at some vaguely sixties/seventies themed party. I am sincerely hoping so, or otherwise it's just too pitiful for words.

I won't spare you.

I don't know what was in that bottle in front of us but I'm willing to bet it wasn't water or, at the very least, that there was also some sort of non-water liquid comestible around.

Otherwise, how to explain this?

Ms GR couldn't remember exactly why I was outraged enough to write in bright maroon lipstick all over some ex-boyfriend's car, but I think I was just extremely irritated that he turned up at a party where he had only originally been invited to as my date. Dumping etiquette says that the dumpee (me) has right of uninhibited relax at social grounds where there is a common interest.

Otherwise, it can lead to the dumpee trying to pretend she doesn't know dumper,

the dumpee drinking an inordinate amount to facilitate this illusion,

the dumpee possibly pashing on with numerous other boys in order to demonstrate that the dumper doesn't matter a damn to her, NOT A DAMN, AND ITS JUST WONDERFUL TO BE KISSING OTHER GUYS AND HE WAS A BASTARD ANYWAY WHO WAS NO GOOD AT SEX AND WHO WAS ALWAYS PLEADING TIREDNESS *, and, oh God, how I miss him.....

And it can also, apparently lead to the dumpee writing incredibly heartfelt messages in lipstick.

You get the picture. And so did Ms G.R.

P.S.

* All true.

When we were dating, I used to greet him naked at the door when he came to pick me up, simply so that I could entwine myself around him and then at least I'd get some that night. Otherwise, the end of the evening usually had some resentment about it (mine) when the tiredness factor was used as an excuse (his).

Because I don't want to bring other people down, the cemetery in the rain post left out some afterwards detail.

Further to the last post

Remember that my boyfriend is an artist? A tattoo artist actually, although he is currently working in a very different field. Anyway, one of these artistic types who loves to draw and paint and create on any canvas. Including me.

As a result of my last post, he wrote: "I will paint your toenails. I am good at painting tiny things. I will paint sunshine and smileyfaces on them if you like... we'll make an evening of it."

My response: " I know you are good at painting tiny things and any surface of my body is available for your detailed delectatious decoration,in any form, but as far as toes go, nobody but you would be close enough to see the detail so what's the point?
 
Except maybe artistic satisfaction for you. And quirky amusement for me. And wonder and awe on the part of my children when I send them emailed pictures of my detailed and exquisite painted toes.
 
Ok, I've switched 180. I totally see the point. We are so doing it as a fortnightly ritual. And it is going on the internet."
 

I told you that I don't get this whole 'being a woman' stuff

Emmy is colouring my hair. She picked the colours, begged to do it for practice (remember she's training to be  a hairdresser) and specifically initiated and orchestrated the whole affair. I find this process tedious in the extreme. Other females would be happy to sit there and be pampered; I just sigh a lot, fidget and make sure that there's a dvd  that I really want to see. That's hard, too, considering I would never watch tv or dvds at all, given my own way.

 I don't like going to the hairdressers, either. I never, ever let them blow dry my hair or do anything to it apart from cut or colour, and there's been more than one occasion when heated words have been exchanged because I insisted upon my right to walk out with wet hair, rather than stay and waste extra time. Get me tanked and I used to stay, way back in my uni days, but duty of care cast its repressive pall over that little pastime and now I walk.

 So, to let my daughter colour my hair is a real labour of love for me. A sacrifice I make because I am her mother and she wants to practice her novice skills and I love her tremendously and will do anything within my power to help her out, if I can.

I've just spent nearly three hours having foils put in (I have a LOT of hair) and now I am sitting here with a treatment conditioner quietly simmering away under a shower cap. She's giving her hair a deep conditioning mask also and also expressed regret that we didn't have any facial mask products available.

Quite frankly, to apply any of these things just wouldn't occur to me so it is very good that I have my daughters around at times to raise my own personal benchmark of beauty and grooming. Left to myself, I fear that my current low standards of gutter level would sink even lower. For a partner, though, I will make an effort. For somebody special I am delighted to do so but for myself, my sense of selfworth is not at all linked to my personal appearance or grooming standards and habits.  However, I am the girl who brushes her hair and puts on perfume and makeup for phonesex with her lover, even when said phone linkup doesn't include any sort of viewing of each other at all.

It's all about the motivation.

Tonight, motivated by beauty proximity, I have shaved my legs (well, seriously, I wear pants all the time: why bother?), bikini line and filed and painted my toenails. Which leads me to a beauty question to all the women out there.

How hard is it to paint your own frigging toenails? To cut, file and shape and paint them? I hear so much guff these days about 'needing a pedicure urgently', about  indulging in 'a relaxing pedicure', about pedicures as a means of feminine bonding. I don't get it. I can just about see that fingernails, on hands that are displayed a lot more, that are up close and personal, and in lesser distance proximity to anybody else's eyes, could use the services of an extremely practiced professional if you are looking for detailed and excellent results. But toenails?

Nobody is that close to toenails, except for foot fetishists or brand new lovers who might like to include a toesucking routine in their repetoire to impress before subsiding gratefully into the comforting folds of familiar established sex, and in either case I support a big effort being made to prepare the feet for such ardent attention. However, toes are a long way from most people's discerning eyesight and quite frankly, not that interesting anyway. It's an all over impression thing and a slash of colour on all the grounded piggies is all that is required to give a well groomed appearance. Paying 10 to 25 dollars for somebody else to do it seems ridiculous.

Or it does to me, anyway. Even a beauty moron/lazy slut like myself can manage it myself and it genuinely puzzles me why so many women these days seem to be regarding a pedicure as an 'essential' luxury.

Once again, proof that I lack that definitive grooming gene. Oh well, at least I am cheap to keep, if anybody intends to do so in the future.

Boring day at work

So I started reading the list of motivational points my manager keeps up on his noticeboard (he's out today so I can slack off but it's really dead, anyway). Then I changed them a little and added some more of my own.

I present to you Kitty'sLife Lessons.

Because I've done so well with my life and I am just so generous in wanting to share so that everybody can benefit from my wisedom.

1.  Give people more than they expect, or ask, and do it cheerfully, without wanting acknowledgement.

2.  Don't believe all you hear, spend all you have or sleep all you want.

3. When you say, "I'm sorry", look the person in the eye.

4.  Never laugh at anyone's dream. People who don't have dreams don't have much.

5.  When arguing, fight fairly. No name calling, no swearing, no bringing up of past incidents.

6. Slow down your speed of talking but try to speed up your thinking, using 'this leads to that' rationale and following through to conclusions.

7. When somebody asks a question you don't want to answer, smile and ask them "Why do you want to know that?"

8.  When you lose, don't lose the lesson.

9. Remember the three R's: Respect for self and others, Responsibility for all your future actions and Regret for past actions that have hurt others.

10.  When you realise you've made a msitake, take immediate steps to correct it.

11. When picking up the phone smile as you say hello. Your caller can hear it in your voice and it makes for a better conversation.

12. Spend some time alone and think of yourself and your needs every so often. But don't forget you are NOT the most important person  in the universe.

Looking for ways to make extra money

I'm struggling a bit financially at the moment. The job I'm working is  very low paid (only slightly above waitress level actually) and I'm trying to keep my head above water. Part of the problem is helping to support my children. I'm not going to go into details but let's put it this way: I pay a LOT more child support than I should legally have to, because if my girls need things I will do whatever I can to make sure I can help with it. The ex knows this and, I think, plays it. I've always been that way and I try not to resent the fact that he works  lesser hours than me and yet gets paid approximately double what I do.

But be that as it may, they are my children and I would give up every last dollar if they needed it. If the ex ever asks me to pay for extra things (school fees, uniforms, clothes etc) then I will if I can, even if it means giving up luxury things myself. So I shop in secondhand stores for me and retail for them. I think several times before treating myself to bought ready prepared food or beverages because six dollars here or there adds up. The ex gets very tight with money and doesn't discuss shared contributions very easily without getting defensive and sometimes aggressive about it. He cites bills to pay, phone and car and power and stuff like that but  I have those bills too! The last thing I want to do is make my girls feel that their value in my life comes down to money. It's always me who backs down because it is simply not worth it to me.

These days life seems to be financially a struggle for a lot of people, including my ex. I'm not trying to suggest that he's living in the lap of luxury; just like most people, he has to think about budgeting  and bills. I suppose this is a bit of change for him because when we were married and sharing a lifestyle there was a comfort financial zone there. That isn't there any more for him and it must be a change. I've had a couple of years nearly now to experience being poor and down to one or two food items left in the cupboard until next payday and I suppose I've gotten used to it.

Does mean that I am constantly looking around to try and find alternative sources of income, though. Phone sex operator is out (although I did actually go as  far as a semi-interview process with that one), because, well, I don't want to taint the good times that I currently have in that particular sexual medium. As an aside, its interesting how I have adapted to unusual paths of intimacy and how I find them a very viable alternative, given my current lifestyle choices.

Call centre stuff is also out because of my shifting roster at the main job. I'd love to get a writing job I could do from my own home, like  a lot of the bloggers out there, but I accept that I am simply not good enough for those opportunities to come my way.

Then I was reading over at Emma's place (Mommy Has a Headache; sorry, Emma that I can't link; this blogger service really should pull their finger out and fix it) and came across the fact that there is a market out there for selling your soiled panties, over the internet. This intrigues me. Not because I am prudish but because I can be very blinkered and tend not to think too  much outside my own little sexual habits.

But I would be surprisingly okay about sending used panties to anonymous strangers for money.

I wonder how much they pay. And what type they like. Because, you know, I'd have to actually go out and buy some first.. I only own two pairs: one is my matching bra and panties set for the gynae, and the other is my very pretty lace pair for the waxer. I don't even know how much panties cost any more!

What think you?

Am I weird?

I guess I am; my daughters tell me I am.

Specifically because of a smell aversion.

Look, we all have smells we absolutely can't stand. Fish, raw meat, bathroom odours, too strong perfume, spices and essences..

The sense of smell is probably the most highly developed of our five senses and it's the most evocative for reminiscense. It makes sense (heh!) that olfactory receptors are highly tuned, probably initially evolved as a survival tactic along the lines of 'that meat smells stinky, don't eat it and therefore you won't die of food poisoning; meanwhile, pass the tyrannosaurus rib Fred).

My incredibly disliked smell is the smell of the inside of my own nostrils.

That sounds weird, just writing it. But it's true. I can smell that smell and I absolutely loathe it. People say that there isn't a smell but, trust me, there is. It's not there all the time but it definitely shows up if I blow my nose, scratch inside it (that was not meant to be a euphenism for picking it by the way; I did mean scratch), or even sometimes just rub it vigourously.

I can't possibly begin to convey the frustration this smell aversion causes. If YOU find yourself in the proximity of an offensive odour, you mostly have the opportunity to move away. I move away and the stinky nasal miasma is simply enjoying  a travelling experience. Like an extremely unwelcome guest , who you have to be nice to for future reward reasons, the smell choses when it will arrive and depart.

Sometimes I actually dip a Q-tip in vanilla and paint the insides of my nostrils.

God, I love the internet and its capability for enlarging the general population's knowledge of my idiosynchratic habits. Where would I be without the ability to have (potentially; I'm not that vain) millions of people know this incredibly endearing thing about me?

Totally random and gross. Stay away.

Does anybody else think Chokitos look like a big, fat turd?

A big, fat turd of somebody who eats a lot of high fibre, particularly corn, and doesn't drink enough water.

And I'm displaying way too much unhealthy interest in faeces here so I'll just go away quietly.

Internet, aren't you glad I get days off to write this crap?

(heh, heh, sorry, couldn't resist)

Hey, guess who went to the hairdressers yesterday, a rare and wonderful thing?
 
Also, very educational.
 
Hairdressers are very keen on trying to upsell me to protein treatments for my somewhat dry hair. They massage in a couple handfuls of goop and leave it there for ten minutes. I agreed and then I started thinking. Wondering if it mattered what sort of protein was used. The hairdresser seemed to think not.
 
Can you see where I'm going with this?

 
I absolutely love it when sex can be useful as well. Aim high, baby!

There's only one type of exercise I like

And currently I ain't getting it.

I just started doing some, however, as a prophylactic against craziness. I decided that every time I had a sad or mad thought,  I would make myself do something physical. Sort of aversion therapy, I guess.

This afternoon I went jogging. It was actually mostly walking because I was shit scared of doing myself another calf injury. Granted, I tore the muscle on sand but I wasn't even running at the time. I stretched beforehand and took it VERY easy, slowing immediately at the first hint of muscle pain. Paranoid? Yep.

I was in the running phase of my therapy when I passed a mother and her around 12 year old son. I was dressed in jogging sort of gear and I had a sports top on, but my bosom shelf was still merrily bouncing away. This little turd made an 'oyoyoyoy' noise at me. His mother said nothing (told you I live in the most horrible suburb on the planet).

All I could come up with was "Oh go fellate a toadstool", which, while pertinent due to the heap of them around us in the grass, probably didn't make an impact due to the fact that bogans don't understand the Queen's English terribly well.

I was only preaching yesterday, to my Number 2 girl, the virtues of politeness and courtesy to other people. I feel ashamed now, I really do. He was only a kid.

Alas, no guiding job

The woman I was interviewing with just called to tell me that she was going to go with the guy who would do the whole season. I had been upfront about my plans with her.

I don't blame her at all. It's still very gratifying to be wanted, purely because of my personal reputation.

There are quite a few guiding jobs around right now but I'm still not 100% better and I am taking it easy with my health. That is most important right now, then my girlies, then my Ron