Soap made of goat's milk doesn't lather

A new allergy

It's no surprise to those of you that know me in real life to be reminded that I get very allergic to things. As a baby I was given adult doses of a powerful antibiotic that destroyed all of my intestinal system, to the point of near death, several times. I did eventually recover but was gluten allergic for years and still have an intolerance for it.

Other things I am allergic to include: bees, bandaids (it's the glue; don't snigger), various patent medicines, antibiotics, plants, some shell fish etc etc. Also, very allergic to iodine dye in CAT scan contrasts but that didn't develop until around the sixth one so these allergy sucker things can be sneaky.

But the latest addition to the stable of lame is something I've only noticed today.

I think I'm allergic to my own tears.

Not as in red nose, blotchy face, puffy eyes and sniffles type of reaction. We all get that terribly typical reaction. But as in, "Oh, my fucking God, somebody replaced the saline in my tear ducts with hydrochloric acid and neglected to tell me!" reaction. They burn.

Not sting.

B U R N!

I have red track marks all down my face and under my chin, where they've puddled together into a coagulation of flesh-eating sop. My tears are dissolving my face. Skin layers are peeling off.

What the fuck?

Is this normal?

Trouble is, a moot point. The only way I am not crying at the moment is if you managed to sew my eyelids shut and even then I think you'd find seepage.

Not fair, right now, thanks God. Lay off, for  just a bit with the physical AND mental anguish together thing, and we'll square it up later, okay?

What the hell?

Am I ahead of my time or what?

Just read this article.

Subtle-but-painful white-ink tattoos are the latest trend gaining momentum in Hollywood.

Actress Lindsay Lohan and supermodel Kate Moss have both gone under the needle and now sport designs which are barely visible on the skin.

Lohan's has the word "Breathe" inscribed on her wrist in white ink.

The 22-year-old Mean Girls star had the tattoo applied as a permanent reminder of her asthma attack on New Year's Eve in 2006.

White tattoos require a higher quality, thicker ink to be injected into the skin using a very sharp needle and the ink often needs to be applied several times because it is not absorbed into the skin as easily as black ink.

Although white ink is designed to stand out on its own, the it is prone to fading — especially when frequently exposed to sunlight.

Supermodel Kate Moss has a trail of white-ink hearts up the side of her body, according to Daily Mail.

Moss already has a collection of black-ink tattoos, which includes a small heart on her left hand, a crown on her left shoulder and an anchor on her wrist.

Keeping Up with the Kardashians reality TV star Khloe Kardashian has jumped on the white tattoo bandwagon too.

The youngest member of the Kardashian clan headed to a tattoo parlour in July, en route to jail for her drink driving conviction, and had "KK" inscribed on her wrist

I've had my predominantly white ink tattoo on my wrist for around 18 months now. I hate it when I do something which later turns out to be 'popular'. Plus, it doesn't hurt at all. Stupid pathetic whiny cry-babies.

Forgive me but I feel very cranky today.

American invasion of culture

Something I noticed a lot when I was first in the States, and which seems to be creeping into our culture here, is the prediliction for people to assure you that they are 'good' people.

I can't tell you how much this annoys me.

You're good, are you? What makes you think so? Just stating the obvious, but saying something doesn't make it automatically true. You believe that? Based on what?

Your own opinion is hardly non-biased. And other people saying so is little more than a verbal hug or encouragement in negative situations. It doesn't make it true.

Stop being so goddamned conceited! You're NOT good! I'm not good. Maybe one person in fifty is truly helping old ladies across the street, nursing cancer victims, donating a huge amount of income to charity, good.

I'm not that person and neither are you, based on everything I know about you. But at least I'm honest enough to admit that I'm a bad person.

For fuck's sake.

Wet, early and disgruntled

I'm here at work and the boss isn't. It's pouring outside so I'm avoiding going out to count vehicles in the rain, and reading the paper instead.

Of course, the front page has a mention of my least favourite poitician, whose name always makes me clench my teeth. I was at college with this guy and the knowledge he is now a politician, with a position of relative trust and authority, makes me grit my teeth.

I loathed him at college; he was a sarcastic, rude, unpleasant misogenist, whose personal qualities got much, much worse when he was drunk, which was often.

And now he's leader of the Opposition! My, my!

I was interested yesterday to read another article about how he is not being put forward for a safe seat because the wives don't trust him and he has a very low popularity rating with them. They can't have all gone to college with him! Obviously, his natural personality is still shining through.

I don't like forms, either

Especially intricate American forms. They annoy me especially because all the dates are back to front.

That is, the format goes mm/dd/yyyy instead of the more logical dd/mm/yyyy.

I keep forgetting and doing it the other way around and having to change it and then the whole online format thing freezes up and I swear a lot and curse all Yanks who've ever devised forms that I have to fill in online. And if there happens to be an American that I know online at the same time, then they get cursed also, simply because they are American, and to the hell with the fact that even knowing that they are online means they must be a friend of mine and therefore shouldn't be cursed at all, let alone for something that they had nothing to do with.

But good American things I can currently talk about include the dvd of Lonesome Dove I am watching at the moment. Very faithful to the book and Gus McCrae has me just as much in love with his onscreen character as his paper one. Plus, Emmy told me that there is a shop in Kala that sells Reese's Peanut Buttercups, which are the only type of chocolate I willl knock down old ladies for.

I am sort of wishing that she hadn't told me that.

I hate being teased; I really hate it

I hate potentialities being offered to me, tantalisingly, and then held just out of my reach.

(As a TMI aside, do not ever tease me during sex. Don't pull away and not follow through, under the guise of foreplay being more effective if the waiting is drawn out. Don't extend things over the course of several hours of stop-start, if there no practical reason that continuation shouldn't happen.Trust me, foreplay is already effective enough. Having started down the original path, you'd better damn well better continue or you are likely to get stabbed. I get very singleminded.)

So, yeah, I don't take to teasing of any sort well.

Remember that job I was agonising over? They have frustratingly done the big 'maybe' and its driving me insane. I can adapt either way. But I've pretty much decided to take it if they would take me.

Except they won't.

Or they will.

I can settle to either job and be at least content, one way or the other. It's just that in the touring job I also have the opportunity to be deliriously happy at over twice the pay.

I saw this quote on another blog somewhere (sorry,can't remember. I have this huge file of snippets I copy and forget to attribute, so sorry other random blogger).

Happiness is always a by-product. It is probably a matter of temperament, and for anything I know it may be glandular. But it is not something that can be demanded from life, and if you are not happy you had better stop worrying about it and see what treasures you can pluck from your own brand of unhappiness.

-- Robertson Davies

I am not demanding happiness but I either want it or I want to settle.

But this company keeps teasing with suggestive employment emails and yes, maybe, a good stabbing would force them to reconsider their behaviour also.

In the meantime, panties anybody?

I don't sleep well

I never really have.  As far back as I can remember, nights were for thinking, not dreaming. I've tried, sure. I must own the largest flock of mental sheep in the Southern hemisphere. I've tried all the remedies, the behavioural modifications, the diet/exercise things, hypnotism....

The only time I can ever sleep a whole night through is if I'm taking very very strong sleeping tablets and we all know that isn't good. Not to mention, most doctors won't even prescribe them. And when I say thast I don't sleep, I mean that. Not the usual description of tossing and turning, and waking from a light doze and generally fitfully sleeping, the sort that makes your eyes feel all prickley and hot in the morning.

When I say that I don't sleep I mean that I am very often awake all night, or I might get one to two hours. I can live of this for a while but every so often I cave, take a pill if I can get one and sleep the sleep of the damned for 12 to 14 hours. I don't do that and I can decend into lack of sleep psychosis and that is not pretty.

Interestingly enough, physical exercise and tiredness make no difference. I've always maintained that if you get tired enough you WILL sleep and I hold to that. Except in my case, it means I still don't sleep much at night but I manifest the ability to power nap at any time of the day. Last year, touring was an exhausting job and I worked at two speeds during the day: vertically upright, active and fully switched on and occupied or horizontal and asleep. There really was no middle ground. The power naps then could anything from 15 to 20 minutes and I would awake refreshed and ready to go. (If you remember from some of my earlier blogging, I used to lie under my truck under the guise of checking thesuspension; a feeble excuse which used to amuse my passengers as much as me; they encouraged the napping because they could see for themselves how hard I worked.)

I haven't slept well for four nights now. The first night it was because the male interest called, and our days and nights are exactly opposite. I'd rather talk to him than sleep anyway. After our conversation had finished I was too glowly and energised to go back to sleep. He has that effect on me.

The night after that, staying up late talking to my girlfriend who was staying a night. The night after that the damn woman next door who has a terribly irritating and penetrating voice and she WOULD NOT STOP TALKING. Our bedrooms back onto each other and the walls are quite thin. I quite often hear her carolling her joy of sex to the world, although not as much as I would if I was lucky enough to have a live in guy.  But sex noise doesn't bother me and they don't go on long anyway (again, if it was me, I would feel shortchanged but whatever works for them). I couldn't hear what she was saying but I could hear every word, if you get what I mean and she wasn't particularly loud or drunk or anything so I didn't feel I could go around at 2 am and tell her to stop talking!

And last night? I woke at 12.45, couldn't get back to sleep, read a little, wrote a lot, eventually got dressed and ready for work and  was ready to leave at 5.20. Except it was actually 4.20. This new computer's clock is out by an hour and I'd forgotten.

Hence, sitting down in the massage chair, using my laptop and having my back rubbed. I have cleaned the unit, I have packaged up lunch and made a triple caffeinated coffee.

Total hours slept in the last four nights: 10.

Feeling of accomplishment in having got boring stuff done: high.

Enjoyment of mechanical back massage: high

Pleasure in talking to the guy: extreme.

Head: fuzzy.

Eyes: sandpaper.

Liklihood of stuffing up at work: top notch.

Fair trade off: hhhhmmmmm. Not sure.

(on reflection, no. But I wouldn't give up the guy for sleep_)

Very tired right now

It's hard going back to 12 hour days when I've been sitting on my backside for months.

Plus, my feet hurt.

I'll get around to an entry sooner or later but right now I'm pushing it to even stay awake past 8 pm. Not so good for the relationship either, as our hours are almost diametrically opposed.

I'm trying to stay away from the unhealthy eating habits that going to work in an office environment seems to encourage. As I don't like cooking for myself I've been taking in salad and fruit and trying to eat that, on the premise that I AM a grownup and I should be eating healthily, getting all those vitamins and fibre and all of the other grown up responsible food.

But I don't like it much. I've never really enjoyed fruit or salad or vegetables and I don't feel they fill me up much and I still want carbohydrates and interesting food, which my current diet is currently not.  Plus no booze, no sweet stuff. I'm operating under the assumption that if I have to do a job I don't really like at all, then I might as well go the whole hog and make my days really miserable by eating like a health nut.

It only works if I don't go anywhere near the shops. Saving money that way, too; just as well, as I have horrendous bills to pay and two very expensive teenagers to keep in hair products.

I feel a bit ashamed now

I've got time on my hands currently so I'm transferring some blog entries (the lighter ones).

The one below is kind of amusing but, at the same time, rather sad, because the woman I used to be tried harder to be nice. It's a definite side effect of the ECT but it will sort itself out. At least, I hope it will. I still haven't got a definite diagnosis of my condition yet but it does look like it could be classified as mild rapid cycling bipolar 2.

The thing is, I always would have been annoyed in the situation below: I just wouldn't have shown it so obviously. I always hope for peaceful supermarket queues but that wasn't happening that particular day.

Not when the woman in front of me was trying to take through 11 items, three of which were loaves of bread. I just lost it.


She has fingers on her hands. She should be able to count up to eight.

Apparently not.

From this, I can assume she is either:
a) in the wrong aisle
b) retarded
c) in the wrong aisle because she's retarded
d) God's attempt to see JUST how shitty he can make my day by annoying the hell (heh) out of me

Normally, I'd let it go. I wouldn't want to make a scene.

Not today, buckarooney.

Trying to make it something that doesn't bother me is NOT an option today.

So I initiated a conversation.

Kitty: Excuse me
Kitty: Do you have some sort of a mental cognitive or spatial defect?

Woman: What did you just say to me????!!!!

Kitty: I'm sorry.

Kitty:I'll try to use smaller words.

Kitty: Are you retarded?

Woman: NO! How dare you talk to me like that?!


Kitty: I just assumed you were too stupid to either read the sign or to count up to eight.

Kitty: This is the express line for people with eight items or less. You should be in the lane marked "15 items or less. Or people with brain damage".

Woman: I don't have over eight items. See? (Counting them and finishing up with "seven....and bread makes eight".)

Kitty:Yes. Bread. One, two, three  bread! Just because it comes under the same species rule doesn't mean you get to bulk count it!

Woman: I've never been so insulted in my life! How dare you be so rude to me?

Kitty: Because the supermarket rules back ME up, not you.

Kitty:And as for the insult thing, I shop a lot around here these days. There's a high chance that standard supermarket aisle ettiquette will change on my beat.


She didn't move to another aisle immediately but it was tremendously satisfying. 

However, if I see her again, I am going to apologise. It was totally uncalled for and the excuse of illness is no excuse at all. I resolve to return to muttering under my breath in future when this sort of thing happens.

My girlies are gorgeous

Their father is an idiot, though. He genuinely isn't interested in what's best for them and I can't make him change his mind, either. They should see more of their mother.

I am not quite sure what has made him change his stance. I was talking to Ron about it and he was surprised as well, because S was actually rather welcoming to him, which he didn't have to be. I want to be as near to my kids as I can but I can't rent out my place in Wembley until I've lived there a year, otherwise the CGT thing kicks in.

If I could find a job up here in Kalamunda, and a place to rent, I'd go for it. I'm only going to be here for three months anyway and it would be worth it to see more of my girlies. They hate that horrid little flat as much as I do.

I suspect that he is having girlfriend problems and he's taking it out on me. And on them.

I'm having a love/hate relationship with my phone right now

See, I have very strong feelings about mobile phones. I honestly don't believe that we need to be THAT switched on and available all the time.

But at the same time, I am very aware that me having a mobile lets my guy call and talk to me at all hours of the day and night. I don't ever want to be doing anything that I can't immediately discard when he calls. (Incidentally, we have to get married, because it will be cheaper!).

Hearing my phone ring next to my cheek is always a delight, even in the wee hours, because I just know its him on the other end of the line.

I've become soppy and sentimental. I suppose I can make a concession for love. All lovers are allowed unlimited phone access, excepting in certain circumstances where it might impinge upon my right to NOT hear a damn phone ringing if its not for me.

For instance, hate them in theatres, on buses, in classroom situations. Turn the damn thing off! The world can get along without being in contact with you for a tiny taste of time.

I was reading someone's blog and they mentioned a professor they had once had who made the miscreant answer the ringing phone, with an "I love you". I thought that was pretty funny.

It reminded me of my touring days in Europe though, when time and time again the passengers would not pay attention and just leave their cameras in plain view on the seats. We told them and told them that it would attract gypsies so we started to exact a terrible penalty.

If we saw a left behind camera, we would use up the film. On taking pictures of questionable bits of the anatomy at odd angles. Like an early MySpace angle, I suppose. I often wondered what they thought when they had all their films developed.

Please, people, switch off your phones in the movies at least. You are not that interesting to me even at first glance and I definitely don't want any further revelations about your character.