Monday, 8 November 2010

Ass kicking, cardboard phobia, the Andrew Neill photo

My search for crack ponies continues. Where does one find a crack pony anyway? It turns out it's way harder than it has any right to be. I could get you a wallaby or the Grand African Duke, but no crack addled equines.

In the meantime I must turn, sadly, to other topics. You may have noticed I do not limit myself to posting when I have something interesting to say, a piece of advice you often hear about blogging. No, I feel distressingly compelled to write even when I have nothing to say and my head feels like it has been placed in a vice, possibly one of the ones in Mr Easton's woodwork workshop of terror in Quaker School, and squeezed until there is not the tiniest drop of creative thought left in it. More's the pity.


News. Or rather "news".


1. I have signed up - with no little trepidation - for a session of "Laser Focussed Ass-Kicking". I'm not sure how laser focussed it needs to be, really. He could just roundly abuse me for all my myriad failings for an hour or so while I cringe on the floor whining and making lame excuses and it would probably do some good. My initial concern is that it is a telephone session. I don't "do" the telephone. I fear it like a lost Amazonian tribe might. But God knows, I need kicking, and Doctor Capybara has taken his pointy little hooves elsewhere for the winter. I feel sweaty and terrified at the thought of revealing the full extent of my pathetic neuroses to someone I met once at a party last summer and I am currently stalled at the first hurdle which involves setting out briefly what particular brand of lameness I would like him to focus on. It is so hard - and so shaming - to choose. Everything I have written in this last paragraph will be like catnip to him, I know. I am supposed to be filled with rockstar positivity, but my head hurts, HSBC own my soul and this miasma of self-loathing is so cosy.


2. The dog has developed several new neuroses of his own. They include: me opening the cellar door, anyone trying to sit on the large inflatable spider cushion and the sound of cardboard boxes being opened, all three of which reduce him to a yelping trembly wreck. I suppose it might be because since the children have come back, they seem intent on trying to ride him like a camel. I am monstrously impatient about it, anyway, and trying to resist the temptation to practise my laser focussed ass kicking on him. I also need to resist the temptation to dress him up like this. Maybe I would resent his diva freakouts less if he looked a bit more diva-esque? Unlikely, I concede.


3. Failures of the day: Revising the four times table (my father the scientist must be so proud). Breaking a coffee machine in someone else's office. Continued failure to engage with the Christmas Question (where, how, can't I just go into witness protection and avoid the whole thing). 'Fessing up to cutting my son's fringe myself at the hairdressers:

"Did you do the back too?"

"Errrrr .. just a tiny bit?"

(I had to. It was getting mullety).


4. Microscopic triumphs: the assassin's dishwasher fixing seems to have worked. When my landlady saw me today I was in looking totally respectable and carrying serious work style papers, rather than muttering to myself in a tracksuit with a freaked out, cardboard-phobic weepette on a piece of string. The illusion that I am gainfully employed is maintained, for now. My first born no longer has a bowl cut.

Also:




Pretty close, right? RIGHT?

(I had to cut J out of this picture, not only because he deserves better, but also because - even though it doesn't really look that similar - it made me think of that famous Andrew Neill picture they used to run in Private Eye weekly, with me in the Andrew Neill rĂ´le and J as the girl. Too much wrongness for a Monday).

15 comments:

soleils said...

You simply have no idea how much this post has cheered me up. Thank you!

irretrievablybroken said...

The clock behind you shows that the party was an all-nighter, n'est-ce pas? Belgian politicians are rock stars.

Excellent, most cheering picture. Thank you.

Margaret said...

E, you look so happy and pretty and pleased with your costume--love it!

WrathofDawn said...

"No, I feel distressingly compelled to write even when I have nothing to say and my head feels like it has been placed in a vice...

Is this not how one is supposed to blog?

Oh.

wv - wingeely - how I blog

Fat Controller said...

That's a rubbish fancy dress...Di Rupo looks nothing like you.

Mother Theresa said...

Don't you just hate how hairdressers have that way of making you feel guilty if you've done something yourself? When I go to have my hair cut and the girl eyes my home done dye job, I feel like saying,"Yeah I did my own dye job...15 euros vs 70, you do the math". But I don't...because she is, after all, armed with scissors. ;D

carolinefo said...

Ass-kicking sounds inherently a good thing, Waffle,but $147 just to be told to Get A Grip?? Think how much cheap confectionery you could buy for that amount...enough to see you through the whole winter, to lighten up the lentils.

Am also economising and resorting to lentillery, because My House Eats Money, and therefore I, too, must eat lentils.

But this is entirely faux virtue because I actually like lentils. That's an advance confession for this month's confessional, although I'm not sure it's worth confessing if SOMEONE forgets to give you the penance after..

Not that I want you to feel guily about it or anything. But you might add that to the list of things he's going to kick your ass about. For $147, you need to get your money's worth..

WV = knestry. Almost certainly something to do with falcons.

Miss Whistle said...

Simply brilliant.

Nina said...

Well even if you have nothign to say, there is no one who says nothing as entertainingly as you.

$147 for an ass kicking seems a bit steep, even with the weakened state of the dollar taken into account. I mean if it works, it's a terrific investment - probably one of the best you will make, but I can't help thinking there are likely to be much cheaper variations of this.

Or maybe it means I'm not charging my therapy clients enough. Ho hum.

Kate said...

Gosh, your skin looks beautiful!

Betty M said...

I could do with an ass kicking too. Not sure I can face paying for it though. Perhaps we should do a bloggers ass kicking exchange in lieu of Xmas cards etc.

Waffle said...

I am not actually paying the $147 mes amis. But I will test it out and tell you whether it was worth it.

Kate - you are lovely. I was wearing exceptionally heavy make up because that is the Di Rupo Way. He is famous for wearing a lot of make up.

carolinefo said...

Ah, well that puts an entirely different complexion on the matter: we can all sit back and enjoy the story of your ass-kicking without worrying that the Dark Minions of HSBC are going to abseil in through the windows of the Salmon Palace and repossess the Weepette because you are wasting their money on non lentil-based activities.

If he's good, and kicks SERIOUS ass, perhaps you could get him to do a gig as Guest Confessor on the Waffle Confessional.

wv = kagrati. It's when origami goes bad.

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