Monday, 21 February 2011

I want to be this woman

Strange times, my friends, but I will not let that distract me from low level whining and photographs of baby animals. This is my (worthless, lying, unsolicited) pledge to you.



Microscopic tragedies this week:

I think all my teeth are about to fall out - my gums are all puffy and sore. I probably have scurvy. I will be a medical curiosity. Maybe they can make me whalebone teeth to go with my fifteenth century ailment. Yes, I know it's just gum disease, I'm being melodramatic. Go with it.

I still have hair like Glenn Hoddle but I am resigned to it. I have decided that for all sorts of reasons the universe has decided I DESERVE to look like Glenn Hoddle. I accept my punishment. I think the universe is right. I am almost starting to like it, in a perverse sort of way. Shortly I will probably move on to a full '80s German footballer coiffure. If only I could grow a moustache to go with it!

I started and ended yesterday shouting. Start: "FOR GOD'S SAKE DOES NEITHER OF YOU KNOW WHERE THE BIN IS? LOOK AT ME WHEN I'M SHOUTING AT YOU!" (to, incidentally, universal indifference) End: "I ABSOLUTELY DID NOT PROMISE TO READ TWO CHAPTERS, AAAAARGH!". I hate days like that. I absolutely hate being the screeching harridan. I resolve not to be a screeching harridan, but half-term is lurking over my shoulder its fetid breath hot on my neck, and clearly any such resolution will be shattered into a million pieces as I futilely attempt to work and wrangle the children. I am, however, taking them to London for a couple of days, when I will not even attempt to work. I will just stand in the Science Museum shop with my wallet open, I expect, that should do the trick.

No-one has given me a koala to hold. I accepted a new Fessebook friend request from someone only to discover that his profile picture is him HUGGING A KOALA. I have been in a frenzy of indignation ever since. How is this even possible? Why was I not informed? Consider yourself unfriended until that Koala has me in its fluffy, eucalyptus stuffed embrace, person with enviably large hair AND A MARSUPIAL ON YOUR CHEST.

Generic angst, sturm und drang. Occasional fits of squalor related weeping. Inconvenient outbreaks of inarticulacy and phone phobia. Confusion. The usual, boooring.


Petits bonheurs

Janelle Monae was pretty magnificent last night. They released black and white balloons during Tightrope, which was a great moment in an otherwise crapola weekend.

Daim Milka eggs:

This pisspoor photograph is included as evidence, because the internet denies their existence. I promise you they are real, and I have eaten them. All of them, both bags. I had to fight Lashes for the last few, but he's still smaller than me, so it was fine.

We discovered them
on a Friday night trip to Carrefour (weekend high points: trip to Carrefour and watching Panique au Village twice, it was not what anyone could describe as a vintage weekend.) and they are filthy, filthy good. If they are widely available I will be 30 stone by Easter. I was hoping that they would only be available in far flung stores, but the discovery of an online wholesaler of Easter confectionery, including these
crunchy
ersatz caramel beauties, heralds dangerous developments for my jawline and other fleshy parts.

Baby tapir. I am obsessed. I have met a baby tapir once, from a distance, but I am frustrated by these animal-centric zoological times that mean I am not allowed to cuddle one, maybe take it home for an hour or so to play with. Maybe make it wear a bonnet. I am not serious, obviously, animal welfare is primordial, and all that, but DAMN. Look at its little hooves. I have become slightly obsessed with the injustice of not being allowed to take an exotic animal home with me, since stumbling across an archive of old photographs of Twycross zoo, here. In many of the pictures large, wild animals appear to be in people's front parlours. I know it is not a good thing, but god, it looks so fun to have a seven month old Indian elephant in your house. Momentary wistfulness.

Great Granny Webster by Caroline Blackwood
(I have not used my stupid Amazon link to this, because I cannot be arsed, frankly, which is one of the many reasons I will have a pauper's grave. Or possibly just be incinerated without ceremony by the staff at the cruel, neglectful nursing home in Flanders where I will be placed by the authorities). It was pressed upon me
by B's lovely fiancé and I am so glad he did, it is tiny and brilliant. I particularly like this description "that special miscellaneous Anglo-Irish rubble of unopoened and unpayable bills, tennis rackets with broken strings, stone hot-water bottles without stoppers, stuffed pheasants in cracked glass cases, old yellowing copies of horse magazines, torn pages of the London Times".

I am getting my brows done tomorrow. Ok, that involves needles, but it also involves my forehead looking less browny orange and Spocklike and it involves Sophie who is a goddess and makes me homesick for North Yorkshire, even though we both fled it approximately a million years ago.

Fingers read his first full sentence this weekend. It was, (and I paraphrase, the original was in French of course, he will no more communicate in English than he will, well, find the bin):

"The DS cartridge has been removed"

I am so proud, ahem.

Any minor whines or tiny triumphs to share with me tonight?

26 comments:

Alison said...

You do know the absolute most interesting fact about tapirs though, don't you? Well you've seen the Rossellini videos so I'm guessing there's nothing you haven't heard about the sex life of critters.

Miss Underscore said...

My triumph is that I am 3 days into half term and I have had NO afternoon naps. Not one. I am terribly proud of myself. I have also watched NO daytime television (except Judge Judy, she is allowed, as I oft channel JJ when dealing with junior miscreants at the School of Hard Knocks).

You know, weepette is truly as sweet as those baby zoo animals. Have you tried feeding him from a bottle? Would you really trade him in for a baby Tapir?

Waffle said...

Miss Underscore, I would trade him LIKE A SHOT. Would the tapir wait until I was 3 plastic beakers of cheap white wine to the wind to strew the contents of the bin far and wide across my ground floor? Allow me the luxury of imagining it would not. You can adopt weepette if you like. If you need me to remove one of his legs first, that can be arranged.

Alison - I have no idea what you are not telling me, but I imagine if I google 'tapir sex' nothing bad will happen right? RIGHT????

Waffle said...

Ah. So now I know tapirs are impotent. Well. This has been most enlightening.

Miss Underscore said...

This is a crazy, hair-brained scheme that can only end in tragedy. Have you seen what tapirs grow into? Grunting great hippo-esque behemoths. I expect it would do a lot worse than a bit of bin-raiding. Plus, you cannot buy jaunty pink fleece pyjamas for tapirs on EBAY.

I expect if weepette could talk he would paint a different picture of life at Chez Waffle.

'Mam was pissed on Cava again, she had forgotten to feed me, so I was forced to scavenge through the bin for my supper. All that was in there was a few Daim Milka egg wrappers though.'

I have always wanted a whippet you know, but, I already have 2 lurchers, and they have their full quota of legs (sadly).

Katy said...

My whining involves being trapped in the house trying to force myself to write a legislative competence note on Sexual Offences. It has been awful. I have got nowhere. I am in total despair over it.

I have also failed to phone the plumber despite the fact that water may be dripping through to my neighbour below me. I have to admit part of the reason for this is that I am scared the plumber will also adversely comment on my new hair.

But, this trailer for a genuine film called SHARKTOPUS made me feel a lot better. I hope you like it:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U87zVkIXNI0&feature=player_embedded

Waffle said...

SHARKTOPUS! Can we organise a blog outing to go and see this meisterwerk? Amazing. Katy, were we separated at birth?

Katy said...

A blog outing to the cinema is a must! I'm thinking we go dressed as sharktopuses for maximum enjoyment.

x

DaringPeach said...

Surely you have read 'Death and the Penguin'? All you need to do to adopt an animal of your choice is move to the Ukraine. Sharpish.

Sara Padrusch said...

I had a whole bit on Facebook this week about how I absolutely would breastfeed a baby gorilla if I were still lactating and had access to a baby gorilla. I was met with scorn, but really! A baby gorilla! Want!

Margaret said...

I have seen "Sharktopus" and, let me tell you, it is a fine film. It has a weirdly porno vibe to it, although it was made for American TV, so there is no nekkidness or even simulated sexual behavior. The dialogue, the special effects, the directing, the acting, it is all a beautiful amalgamation of extreme terribleness.

Sadly, I don't think it ever had a theatrical release: It was made for the SyFy (formerly Sci Fi) network here in the U.S. However, I did some research for you, and on March 7 Amazon-UK will be selling it on DVD for L3.99:

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Sharktopus-DVD-Eric-Roberts/dp/B004AFK7UY/ref=sr_1_1?s=dvd&ie=UTF8&qid=1298338168&sr=1-1.

kath said...

Oh Sharktopus trailer is super, that is what should happen at the end of all bungee jumps.

Vast puppy is a bit like a tapir, that pic is hauntingly familiar, except I am usually trying to get some tiny plastic toy out of his jaws. But her house is very neat. We have bits of chewed wood scattered amid giant muddy pawprints.

Miss Underscore I might change his name to Grunting great hippo-esque behemoth, it certainly would suit him.

Alison Cross said...

I harbour a sneaking desire to cuddle a fully grown tiger, like, ALIVE and wearing its own skin. I realise that this fantasy will only come true if I a) manage to get my hands on a tranquiliser gun or b)marry David Attenborough.

I bet you HE'D let you love a baby tapir.

Ali x

Flora Fauna Dinner said...

Tapirs are my favourite animal at the zoo. I leant a bit too close to the baby once and the mum weed at me.

You must read the Lady & The Panda: http://vickicroke.com/theladyandthepanda.aspx

kath said...

ooh you CAN be that woman. Just get down to Bristol. http://www.telegraph.co.uk/earth/earthpicturegalleries/8333986/Animal-pictures-of-the-week-18-February-2011.html

Johnners said...

Kate Humble always got to cuddle the baby tapir on Animal Park (daytime TV addiction while bfeeding). (However she is a horrendous, grinning bouncy-haired troll so maybe they had to let her, or she would eat them.)

Veronica Wald said...

You might enjoy Diane Ackerman's The Zookeeper's Wife. It's based on a true story of goodness, and involves a lot of lovely animals, baby and otherwise.

Nimble said...

My six year old, after I asked her to get her pjs on, ran around half naked. All was giggles until she slipped on the bathroom floor and fell hard. I helped her up and patted her back while she cried. I worked very hard not to lecture her about not running when it's bedtime. I held it back until she was all tucked in and then just mentioned it in passing. Do I get a medal?

Laurel said...

Or, along the lines of the above book rec (but much lighter) is Julia Stuart's The Tower, The Zoo, and the Tortoise. It is written in a sort of stilted style at times (trying, I think, to evoke magical realist writers) and it is not Great Literature, but it was fun, and there are lots of animals.

If tapers are impotent, how do they reproduce? Do they divide like amoebas?

Dara said...

My whinge is coming off a horrible bout of flu and then having to entertain my in-laws during winter break, because their son had to work. Ugh. I stayed in my PJ's and was this close to going braless, but I have some sense of common decency, so I put on an old nursing bra. In-laws were good about taking the children away for fun and games so I could sit on the couch and watch the Kardashians, so there was that bit of good news.

Lola said...

I've been to Twycross Zoo. The elephants look much the same, but they don't let the chimps drive the trains or drink tea any more, and nobody was in bed in the giraffe house.

littleanomaly said...

My dearest Waffle.. I took this picture just for you at the zoo this weekend..

http://tinyurl.com/capybarasmile

Fat Controller said...

I WANT Dajm eggs!!! You couldn't send me a crate could you next time you are in Carrefour?

It seems that the selfish Swedes keep all the best choccys for themselves, including the chocolate bar with the enticing name of 'Plopp' which, strangely, I have never seen on sale outside Sweden.

Val said...

You would be almost as well-satisfied w/a mini-pig...
Their little hooves are so precious; once you scrub 'em off you are compelled to massage their lil' trotters & kiss their precious little snouts ;-)

Alison said...

I'm sorry I left the tapir comment so vague. The main fact I know about these beasts is that they have an impressive body-to-male-sex-organ ration. I didn't know they were impotent.* Seems a bit of a waste.

* not according to Levi-Strauss, who paraphrases a South American myth thus: "The Tapir is also marked by ambiguity: with his big penis, he gives more satisfaction to women than their husbands
do"

Waffle said...

Alison, I am most relieved. I googled something like 'tapir sex facts' and it just told me about the impotence. Well, PHEW. Maybe they just have difficulty manipulating their vast organ? Oh, this is wildly inappropriate for 8:55 am, I am giving myself a stern talking to.