My mother, the incredibly accepting and wonderful person that she is, is by nature, quite a straight laced and conservative lady. This has resulted in some interesting conversations over the years the most recent of which was a request to remove my silver hot pants complete with purple rubber vagina stitched to the front of them from above the entry to my kitchen because “It’s embarrassing when I have to explain it to your Grandmother when we come over.” It’s like a figurehead on a ship…in my kitchen. Meant to ward off evil vagina spirits and wish safe passage upon all those that travel here or something.
Through fits of laughter I politely declined. It’s an award winning item of clothing with sentimental value after all. First place at a ‘Homemade Super Heroes’ party for a sparkly spandex ensemble complete with fake vagina stitched to the front of my hot pants, one on the end of a broom handle as my sceptre and voila; Cunteato, absolutely counts as award winning. Besides I’m sure Nanna knows what it is, being an owner/operator and all, so no. No I won’t.
I was helping my Dad install a new oven and whilst I was working to undo a tab with a screwdriver the treacherous little bastard slipped and, valiantly, my knuckle leapt into the path of the oncoming oven housing. One “oh shit” moment later and I’m bleeding quite impressively all over the place. Cue me wrapping my hand around the cut and holding it up while Mum is handing me paper towel and asking where my medicine cabinet is.
The only medical supplies I have are all kept upstairs in my room with all the other…supplies. Relief washes over me as I remember there is a tiny one in the pantry with Band-Aids and some Dettol. I direct her there while I run upstairs to go wash out the cut. Thinking “HAH! Here’s my chance” I dart into my bedroom to grab some saline solution, steri-strips and gauze. Well, that’s what I would have done had I remembered that I wasn’t really in a position to grab much of anything as both of my hands were occupied with trying not to bleed everywhere so all I’d managed to achieve was kicking open the door. Well fuck, at least Mums not…
“What are yo…oh”
“Ahh just ignore the ropes and the belt and the meat tenderiser looped through the belt, can you pass me some solution, strips and gauze please?”
Mum begins to reach for them but hesitates. We’re both a little caught unawares. Oh well, can’t stop now, finger’s trying to abandon ship.
“Yes, no, that’s it. They’re in the box below the belt with the tenderiser, next to the cane and the chain flogger…and the crop. Yep, the white box with the drawer, yes that one, next to the box of needles. No, you’ll have to move the scalpels out of the way to get to the gauze. Great now let’s leave here and go fix this finger shall we?”
Yep, this isn’t a big deal, everything is fine. My Mum is digging through my kink cupboard…everything is completely normal and fine and there’s nothing strange about this at all and there is absolutely not a shelf of dildos and lube and harnesses just above your head. Normal weekday evening right here.
To her credit not another word was said nor jibe made throughout the rest of the evening while we were cleaning it or when we realised it was worse than first thought and we were off getting stitches and tetanus shots. Wheeee! Shock is such a wonderful gift sometimes…for us both.
...Bet those pants aren’t looking too bad now, are they Mum?
Saturday, 30 August 2014
... perhaps I should elaborate. I'm convinced that I have two brains, or at least two separately functioning parts of my conscious brain, only one of which is under my control. The larger, consciously-controlled brain - for the sake of the argument let's assume there are two - is a polite (mostly), intelligent (arguably), caring thoughtful sort of brain that knows about things like professional demeanour, and logical thought, and verbal restraint. And then there's the other one. The one that's funny but more often than not gets me into trouble with things like shlong-handled squeegees and snails (more about that later).
As my last post probably more than illustrated, I'm somewhat prone to those moments. You know... those moments. The ones where my mouth wrenches itself free of any remaining vestiges of neural control and just freewheels to the point when my own eyes, in desperate defiance of anatomy and, indeed, the basic premises of both time and space, point themselves down through my nostrils to stare directly at my mouth and go "what the fuck are you DOING, dude?!" THOSE moments.
I had one yesterday.
Took my cat to the vet, regular checkup, nothing out of the ordinary. Vet waiting room setup is fairly standard - semi-circular desk immediately opposite door, plastic chairs lining front wall and right hand side, pet food and kittens for adoption on the far left. I'm sat at the far right corner, facing the desk and door. I've been there awhile and since daytime TV is boring as shite I'm amusing myself by idly people watching. To my left is a young guy with a puppy and we start sporadically chatting. People are coming in carrying crates with cats and rabbits and suchlike, or leading dogs on strings. There's not much conversation. Pretty much what you'd expect from a vet's waiting room.
I'd been there maybe an hour when the door opened and in stepped a woman with her left arm extended out behind her. I'm sure I heard everyone in the room think "dog that doesn't wanna come in". It's what you'd expect, after all.
She takes a couple more steps in and we see that rather than a pet she's leading (dragging, really) a reluctant and recalcitrant toddler.
Now, in my defence, my good brain immediately thought "oh she's obviously picking up a pet, or maybe buying medications, or pet food, or shampoo, or just booking an animal for surgery, or maybe she wants to adopt a cat..."
Somewhat unfortunately perhaps, while my good brain was busily thinking this, the bad brain was clearly off picking flowers and admiring the pretty scenery and it must have loosened its grip on the reins of my mouth, because I was suddenly aware of an all-too-familiar voice saying quite audibly to the waiting hush of the entire room:
"Surely a paediatrician would have been more appropriate?"
Cue 2 agonising seconds of slightly stunned silence then uproarious laughter while the mother looks around to see who'd said it. I'm sure that even if everyone else in the room weren't looking directly at me, the radioactive glow of my ears and face would have given her a clue. I was hoping the vet nurse would distract her but she was no help at all, she went poker-faced and escaped out into the back office. Didn't help because I could still hear her snorting with stifled giggles.
Whatever gods may be were (belatedly) smiling on me though because the lady clearly had a sense of humour and laughed along with everyone, although I'll be honest I totally expected to go outside to the car park and find my tyres let down and her waiting with a Tickle-Me-Elmo baseball bat and a snarl.
It's so disheartening because the larger of my brains really DOES try but that other one? *sigh* ... political correctness really is just a random collection of syllables...
Tuesday, 22 July 2014
The thing about me (she says, breezily refusing to acknowledge almost a year of inactivity) is that my embarrassing moments are usually staggeringly public. I never seem to have the good grace to humiliate myself in the privacy of my own home with a few close, compassionate and understanding friends.
And the people who know me know this and are gently sympathetic when it happens and are, it must be said, remarkably tolerant of my many bad habits (I suspect because the entertainment gained from my hilarious cockups far outweighs them). These people are my friends.
And then there’s a select few - and they know who they are - who appear to feel it their bound duty to not only laugh hysterically 3 inches from my face when these little moments occur, but to REMIND me of it later with monotonous regularity and reinforce what a colossal dickhead I really am, deep down and also not really so deep at all. These people are my best friends and I love them even though sometimes they make me wonder - what’s a little vagina punch between friends, really?
This story takes place at an anonymous large warehouse/showroom type store that sells some sort of Scandinavian modular furniture, let’s call them "Blikea". I’m wandering around in pursuit of bedroom furniture (as one does). Pondering the difference between black and beech. Taking measurements. Assessing the durability of shelves by applying them to the faces of the screaming kids running around the aisl... no wait sorry I think that bit was just a lovely dream. I get further through to near the kitchen section and I see a big cubic crate of squeegees.
Now, it’s winter here. I leave for work early in the morning and so far my method of getting the condensation off my car has consisted of “drive really fast and see if you can outrun it” (not so much). So I think “a squeegee! That’s what I want!” and I go over to them.
They’re all short-handled ones. I kinda want a long one so I don’t get my clothes soaked wiping the water off my windscreen. So I’m thinking about this.
(... It’s worth noting at this point that the peanut that I call a brain isn’t very good at handling multiple things at the same time. I might appear to be doing one thing and talking about another and that much I can handle but as soon as you throw thinking about a third thing into the mix it’s a slippery slut... sorry slope into a world of inadvertent double entendres and Freudian sluts. Slips!)
So this is what’s going through my mind when the middle-aged Blikea saleslady starts heading toward me to see if I need any help:
“Short-handled squeegees! But I want a long-handled one. Maybe there will be some long-handled ones in this crate. Hmmm no, I think they’re all short. Would a short do? I don’t wanna get my clothes wet, probably a long one is better. But then long are harder to handle. Short would be easier to store in my car seat pockets. But I really did want long. Short. Long. Long. Short. Short long long short.”
I vaguely notice her presence short long but I’m carrying like eight things in one arm because I didn’t get a basket (one thing, fine) and still sifting short short short LONG! Damn, short through the squeegees with the other hand (2 things, ok) so I don’t really react until she speaks. shortlonglongshortshortlongshortshortlongshortlong (3 things - DISASTER.)
“Are you looking for anything in particular?” she says.
Shortlongshortlongshortshort “I need a shlong-handled one.”
My brain belatedly registers what I’ve said and I freeze. I’m sure the sound of all the blood I’ve ever made in the lifespan of my spleen rushing hell-for-leather to my face briefly overpowered the tinny elevator music coming through the ceiling speakers throughout the entire store.
I glance at her.
She knows what I’ve just said.
She knows that I know what I've just said.
To her enormous credit she doesn’t laugh in my face as she struggles to conceal the smirk.
I give up and own it. “Okay! NOT what I meant. I need a LONG-handled one.”
She says “Right. We don’t have any.” (Still smirking.)
“OK THAT’S FINE I’M JUST GONNA GO THEN OK THANKS VERY MUCH SEE YOU LATER BYE.” *cue whooshing sound as I hightail it outta there to the sound of her almost imploding in the distance.*
Honestly, my fucking brain...
Tuesday, 6 August 2013
I openly and happily admit to being a creep. I’m not ashamed of being totally weird and highly inappropriate at the best of times. I have little to no filter and I’ve always pictured my inner policeman as being on a rather long vacation reading a rather large book, however I fear that Charlie's recent description of “your inner policeman is dead”, may be far more accurate.
Small child: Mum, whatever happened to Uncle Terry, the policeman?
Mother: Hush child, you know we don’t speak of that.
Small child: But Mum, I miss his funny moustache and blue hat.
Mother: Enough now. Go and colour in...
Small Child: Mum how come he hasn’t come over in forever and why is Aunty Mertle always crying?
Small Child: Mum why are you quiet? Why do you look like Aunty Mertle does when someone asks about milk?
Small child: Mum?....Mum….Mu-uhmmmmmmm
Mother: BECAUSE UNCLE TERRY WENT OUT FOR A BOTTLE OF MILK ONE DAY AND HASN’T BEEN SEEN SINCE AND YOUR AUNT MERTLE IS VERY SAD OK?! NOW SHUT UP AND COLOUR IN THE FUCKING BOOK!
Small child: *blinks* I wonder if elephants can wear pants?
I pretty much wear all of my weird on my sleeve for the world to see and am damned proud to have friends around me who not only accept this weird but complement it so well; kind of like how gasoline complements fire or how sudden shocks complement a heart condition.
With all of that said, knowing me or being a friend of mine will eventually mean that you become privy (whether you want to be or not) to the random thoughts I’m having like “Do you think sexual misadventure is covered under a life insurance policy?” or “Does blue have a taste?” and “Do you think the size of someone’s nostrils is directly proportionate to the size of their lungs?”. I have questions and those questions need answers people.
I like to know things. So when I send you shit like this because I’m having a bath and have just finished Hubert’s naming ceremony…
And all I receive back by way of response is:
Charlie: *has heart attack* That was incredible
Charlie: This is why we’re friends
It makes me happy to know that I’ve got friends who get me.
So if you find other people who are just as bat-shit as you, or at the very least understand that your strange and their strange is complementary, then keep them. Collect them like the colourful and mental butterflies that they are. Catch them in a giant net made of candy and caviar and lobsters, and also probably some net, and keep them. Don’t keep them in jars though, that’s less good, unless there are lots of air holes and a little twig for them to stand on and some grass so it feels a bit homier and some water for when they’re thirsty, then that should be totally fine, but most importantly make them friends for life! Because life is exactly what we’d all get if we didn’t have our crazy friends around.
Friday, 28 June 2013
So, for those of you who actually read this blog, you may have noticed that posts from old Facey have been few and far between lately. I've been suffering with the worst case of word constipation ever. No, I'm not going to use the phrase “writers block” because well for one thing I don’t think that “block” gives quite a vivid enough mental image for you. Yep, I’d rather you be thinking that I’m sitting here with a really sore creative gland because it’s busting at the seams with shit, clearly because I've eaten far too much word fibre, and now I’m kilning the literary equivalent of my own house brick.
I've found myself in a particularly strange head-space of late that hasn't really been an environment conducive to producing Because Carrots blog post material. I've had lots of thoughts, lots of ideas and lots of things to say but none that really fit comfortably in the vein of the material that you see gracing the pages here. I’m sure ‘gracing’ is the correct term to use anyhow.
So in lieu of a usual post from myself, and no this absolutely doesn't count as a “normal post” because so far at least I've only sworn once, you get to play an active part in helping me apply my mental enema. So thanks, thanks for allowing me to have a place to push firmly but gently onward whilst spreading my brain cheeks for me.
And if this doesn't work I’m going to find me some fucking glitter to write with.
Thursday, 27 June 2013
So I’ve got this thing, right where when my friends are leaving my house and it’s night, I ask them to text me when they get home to let me know they’re home safe. It’s a thing. And sometimes I ask for it in the form of a limerick, or a haiku, or a joke, or whatever. Just to keep things interesting, you know? So this evening I asked Rapunzel to text me a joke when she got home and she asked if it could be an interesting fact instead, which was acceptable.
Half an hour later I received this:
When I replied that I was glad she said estimated because wouldn’t that be the most shit job in the world? Her reply was as follows:
So now all I can think of is a group of marine biologists standing around on a deck discussing the logistics of this:
Marine Biologist 1: Morning lads!
Marine Biologist 2 & 3: Morning.
Marine Biologist 4: Have you had a look at today’s schedule then?
Marine Biologist 1: Not yet, why?
(Marine Biologist 4 silently passes a piece of paper over)
Marine Biologist 1: ... they can’t be serious.
MB4: Oh yes.
MB2: “Whaling for research” again?
MB3: You knew this was a risk when the company was bought by the Japanese.
Marine Biologist 1: Well yes but I never thought it would come to this. What, are they just making up shit for us to do to justify the “research” part of it? So then they can kill them?
MB2: Basically, uh... yes.
Marine Biologist 1: Well I’m not having it! I never became a marine biologist to have any part in killing sea creatures! I quit! (storms off)
(The three remaining biologists look at each other)
MB2: Well that tears it – he was the only one who knew how to drive the submarine.
MB3: I don’t suppose...
MB3: We got any scuba suits?
MB2: If you try to make me do this I’m quitting as well.
MB3: Relax, I wasn’t thinking of you.
(Marine Biologist 3 looks over at the deck where a work experience kid is mooching about, looking extraordinarily like a young Ricky Gervais)
(All three of them grin wickedly)
MB3: Hey kid!
Work Experience Kid: Yeah? Hi! Have you got something for me to do?
MB3: You want to be a Marine Biologist, is that right?
Work Experience Kid: Oh yeah absolutely, life’s dream and all that. What’s going on?
MB2: Well you know it’s not all swimming with dolphins and getting world cup tips from an octopus...
MB4: There’s a lot of dirty work involved as well
Work Experience Kid: I know I know... I’m, you know, prepared to do my share. Chip in. Get my hands dirty.
MB3: We’re glad to hear you say that, we really are. We’ve got something that is big and important and you know, we thought we’d give you a chance.
MB2: You look like an intelligent kid, we wanna see what you’ve got.
Work Experience Kid: Fantastic! What do you want me to do?
MB4: You fancy working with whales?
Work Experience Kid: Oh brilliant! Yes!
MB2: Come on let’s get you kitted up...
(Fifteen minutes later)
MB4: OK you’ve got your scuba kit and gear, and there’s a microphone in your helmet so you can talk to us back on the boat and tell us what’s going on.
Work Experience Kid: Great! I’m so excited about this.
MB3: Righto, you’re all gassed up and ready to get in the net with the whale.
Work Experience Kid: ...I’m sorry?
MB2: Oh don’t worry it’s been sedated...
Work Experience Kid: Oh ok... so what am I doing?
MB3: We need to study the whale reproductive system, you see.
Work Experience Kid: Yep, right...
MB4: We need to measure how much volume the whale ejaculates...
Work Experience Kid: Ok, yep... what?
MB4: We need YOU to measure...
Work Experience Kid: .... you’re not serious!
MB3: It’s for science!
Work Experience Kid: But I don’t want to wank off a whale!
(All three Marine Biologists share a glance)
MB2: ... what?
Work Experience Kid: That’s disgusting! And probably illegal!
MB4: ...I guess you’re not serious about this as a career choice then.
MB2: I really thought this one had the right stuff... (shakes his head sadly)
MB3: OK well get out of the suit then... I’m sure we can contact the uni and get another student flown out... one that’s a bit more committed to the cause...
Work Experience Kid: (hesitates) No, alright, I’ll do it... (squares his chin bravely) I'll do it for Science!
(Ten minutes later)
Work Experience Kid: OK I’m in the water with the whale! His... thing is enormous! I don’t know how I’m supposed to do this?
MB3: This is a world first, kid! You’re a research pioneer! However you decide to do it is going to be how people will test this in decades to come!
Work Experience Kid: ... don’t say “come”!
MB2: Just keep us in the loop, don’t forget to relate every single step you’re taking there, we’re taking notes, this is for posterity!
Work Experience Kid: Alright... I’m swimming underneath and up to the top of his massive knob and I’m hanging onto the sides of the net... I think if I kick my flippers against his helmet that’ll do the trick... I’m kicking... I’m kicking AND OH GOD IT’S GETTING BIGGER!!
MB4: Just keep going lad! You’re doing great!
Work Experience Kid: OH MY GOD IT’S ALL PULSATING AND MASSIVE IT’S GETTING CLOSER TO ME WHAT DO I DO??
MB3: Just keep on it lad!
Work Experience Kid: OK ARGH IT’S PUSHING ME INTO THE NET NOW I’M HANGING ONTO HIS COCK WITH ONE ARM AND RUBBING IT WITH THE OTHER AND KICKING MY FLIPPERS I THINK SOMETHING IS GOING TO HAPPEN SOO.... AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRGGGHGHHHHHHHH OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD THAT’S DISGUSTING I THINK I’M GOING TO VOMIT (horking noises) OH GOD IT’S ALL OVER ME CAN I PLEASE GET OUT NOW PLEASE PLEASE I DON’T WANT TO BE A MARINE BIOLOGIST ANY MORE PLEASE...
MB4: You’ve done great lad, that’s brilliant! We’re hauling you up now, don’t worry, everything will be fine, you’re a hero! (flips off microphone)
Wednesday, 5 June 2013
Yes, I know that's the incorrect spelling but to be fair, you've no idea what I am about to say. I could well have been desserted. You never know. Don't judge me!
Returning to at least the approximate vicinity of my intended topic... I feel I have been abandoned to rot in sugary solitude by my inspiration. My counterpart Facey McBones may well be suffering from the same thing. Winter is upon us, friends, and the plummeting temperatures are sapping the creativity from my bones.
... You know what though I'm liking that metaphor more and more. In my day I have supped upon the dry and tasteless scone of writer's block and plunged face-first into the warm, gooey, chocolatey pudding of inspiration. On occasion I have even been attacked by the ballistic cupcakes of self-realisation. Once when I was drunk I threw up the overly rich shortbread of shame and regret. But that's another story.
If perhaps actual desserts were involved I'd be happier. Each emotion or scenario should come with its own dessert. And why not? People tend to cry when cutting onions... so it can therefore be assumed (shut the fuck up, Science) that onions are the direct cause of sadness. And if onions then why not other foods? Conversely, if this is true - and I'm assuming it is - then we could potentially avoid certain scenarios by the avoidance of the associated dessert! (Science, I told you to shut up.)
The heartbroken could dry their eyes and go on their merry way if they simply avoided icecream. Imagine how much happier we'd all be if once a month women left the chocolate in the cupboard and forgot their PMR (Pre-Menstrual Rage)? Victims would be totally fine after car accidents and suchlike if so-called-helpful people would stop giving them hot sweet tea for shock! WINTER WOULD CEASE TO BE COLD IF YOU BASTARDS JUST STOPPED MAKING NOURISHING STEWS!!!
... OK that's it Science, I'm getting the bat.