Nameless, Undefined Longing

I'm experiencing an inexplicable wave of bouncy, frisky happiness today! Long may it last! It's very strange, because I've been working too hard and sleeping too little, and am suffering a passionate longing for a vague, unidentifiable something to satisfy my desires.

Do I need more chocolate? champagne? a strippagram? Yes, yes, please send all of the above. But I also crave a huge, smooth, warm, glistening, stout, noble (yet pleasantly stubby), sword-like and assertive (yet respectful) throbbing, pulsating, fulfilling... something...

And yet, instead of being grumpy and frustrated, it feels extremely.... uplifting! and my spirits are bouyant. I may very well take flight and shower little bits of fairy dust and fragments of god-awful porno poetry on you all, like a marauding erotic angel in a (crotchless) gossamer Tinkerbell outfit!

Okay, I admit I've had far too much coffee this morning. "Whatever gets you through the work day...."

But writing this post took my mind off the WILDLY GLAMOROUS tasks I have to accomplish at lunch time - buy mouth ulcer tablets for daughter, egg food for the baby budgies, stain remover for son's sports gear and toenail clippers for Evil Husband.

Will I Ever Be A Lay-dee?

I do aspire to be lady-like and elegant in all my undertakings (arf! arf!), but somehow I don't think I'll ever attain true lay-dee-shipness when I love, love, LOOOOOOOVE lyrics such as these, by Rickie Lee Jones:

Eddie's got one crazy eye
that turns him into a cartoon
when a pretty girl comes by.
And there's nothin' here to do anymore
he sits on the stoop all day,
like there's something he's waiting for.

Cunt-finger Louie picks up Eddie in the alley,
he's got all those guys with him
from that town where they all look like Frankie Valli.
They speak fluently blonde
from her legs to her cigarette,
and Louie told Eddie that he'd fix him up
but he ain't come back yet

I have loved RLJ since 1979 when she sang Chuck E.'s in Love.

Oh, she can be so witty in her agony aunt advice:

Once you find yourself a better man
Treat him special all of the time.
Make him some catfish,
fry it up in bed,
don't leave him hanging on the telephone line

The achingly sweet nostalgia of

The air is talcum,
and my mama's eyes are blue

gets me weepy every time.

Anyone else's nasal, slurred, inarticulate singing would irritate me, but it fits her so perfectly. She sings without punctuation, and it simply flows like poetry.

Maybe I should be a music critic, instead of a lay-dee?

Poo! Tit! Bum!

Oh, the joys of modern technology! I've spent my first morning back at work deleting the 2,242 error messages from my computer that were created by my auto-reply function bouncing a message back and forth between it and a single, automatically generated spam message. Apart from that, there were only one hundred or so 'genuine' spams, and about a dozen serious messages for me! Still, it's rather pleasant to be occupied with such a brainless and undemanding task, while managing to look highly efficient and busy.

The shock of coming back to work after ten days of sloth and gluttony (the chub-ometer is now going in the WRONG direction), has sent my poor brian (yes, 'brian', it truly cannot be referred to as a brain today) to another planet. So instead of my usual wit and sophisticated discourse, I leave you humming this little number, to the tune of "Mambo Number Five":

1-2-3-4-5, Come on, everybody, let's poop and jive!
All da way to the poopy land.
And we can play together in the poopy sand.

  [Chorus]

A litlle bit of kaka in my pants,
A little bit of poop covered ants,
A little bit of kakasha all da way,
A little bit of bull shit in da hay,
A little bit of doodoo; baby, do you want some?
Hey! get the poo off my bum!!

Antipo Gets Her Come-Uppance

I'm quite convinced that most of my readers adore me, and click eagerly on my blog with trembling hands every day, in order to get their literary fix and a few glistening drops of pearly wisdom. However, for those bitter and hate-filled souls (I hereby christen you 'Anti-Antipo Leaguers'), who only come to cast your eyes in appalled fascination at the preposterous scribblings I manage to churn out daily, I'm sure you'll be delighted to know that my smug and boastful declaration of having enjoyed a gloriously, slothful nine hours of child-free sleep yesterday was in fact a sad case of pride coming before a fall.

Alas, yes, my brain seemingly thumbed its nose at me last night. It simply would not turn itself off! It literally buzzed and ticked all night with ambitious projects and completely unrealistic fantasies. Added to this mental torment was an entire symphony of reverberation issuing from French Hubby's respiratory apparatus, and the irritating 'wiss-wiss-wiss' of my every movement against the stiff and overly crisp new sheets he so loves. I prefer the soft, worn and admittedly holey, but SILENT sheets that he has unkindly ditched.

So today I'm back to my usual crotchety and saggy-eyed self! I think my boss should incorporate statutory nap times into every working day...

Murder, She Wrote

Allow me to vent once more about the stupidity of my annoying colleague (the one who sniffs, sings, whistles, hiccups unneccessarily loudly and cracks her knuckles all day long, when some of us are trying to blog work).

Yesterday I proudly announced that I had gained a new subscriber to our report - a famous brewery with a memorable name! - and I even showed her the subscription form which had arrived by fax. I only average two to three new clients per month, so it's a very big deal indeed. All well and good.

This morning she went to get the post, while I was powdering my nose, and as I strolled casually back to my desk she said "Ooh Helen! Great news! You have another new subscriber! I put the form on your desk".

I sprinted feverishly, yet elegantly, to my desk to discover the original copy of the subscription form which had thoughtfully been posted by yesterday's new subscriber.

Fuck, fuck, FUCK! Were I not graced with such a gentle and pacific soul, I would smash her idiotic face in and poke callously at her twitching remains, using her very own earwax-bedaubed pencil (but freshly sharpened).

Advertisement Heard On French Radio Today

Woman 1: When was the last time you had an orgasm?

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Why is it funny? Because Pépito is a brand of chocolate biscuit!

Saved From THE BIG TALK (for now)...

Referring back to the dreaded Very Intimate Chat With My Son ...

Thank you to those who commented and left helpful and/or amusing hints. Come to think of it, most were amusing and few were helpful.

As for leaving it to Kevin's father to explain what may be happening to his body.... Well, when it comes to Intimate Chats, that man is about as useful as a chocolate teapot on a summer's day in the middle of the Great Calamari Desert. So when the day comes, I'll be stepping into the breach, for sure.

But I've been let off the hook for now, by a kindly male friend, who interrogated me gently about the ... evidence... I only blushed fourteen times during the ten minute chat. He then assured me that I was probably jumping to a hasty conclusion, and that it is extremely unlikely to have been what I thought it was and so it's probably best to let sleeping dogs (arf! arf!) lie for the moment, if I don't want to make my son unnecessarily anxious. There'll plenty of opportunities to traumatise him later anyway.

I shall sleep easier in my bed (ooh! I said "bed"!) tonight. In fact, I'm so knackered that I'm counting on getting at least eight hours sleep, hopefully free of dreams, wet or otherwise.

Actually, that reminds me, I'm very curious to know if any of my girlie readers have ever experienced a kind of . ... well you know... um...

.. . oh never mind!

Seriously Evil Freudian Slip

Two days a week my son comes home from school by himself while his parents are still at work. Usually he connects to an MSN instant messaging thingie to let me know he’s safely home.

This morning I was in my usual bleary-eyed, morning rush to get to work.

Antipo [hurriedly]: Darling I’ll be in a training course all day, so you won’t be able to S and M me when you get home...”

Kevin [unconcernedly]: Okay Mummy.

And The Theme Of The Day Is...

Coincidentally, the Delightful Miss Jay of Kill The Goat fame, is also testicularly preoccupied at the moment, although not quite at the same level as I.

Her poor husband’s bijoux de famille have retreated from the Canadian cold in sheer self-preservation, and I believe she is feeling the lack thereof (reading between the lines, you understand. The Lovely Miss Jay is nothing, if not genteel and a totally classy dame).

I heartily encourage you, in the name of Sisterhood, to end the poor woman’s deprivation. Take part in her newly nominated International Ball Dropping Day and ‘Think happy testicle thoughts!’ I just know most of my bloggie friends have got what it takes!

Wet Dream Wednesday

I’ve conducted a few, admittedly simplified, variations on the theme of The Big Talk with both my son and daughter over the years, but today is an historic day....

Tonight I’m going to having to explain ... ahem.... nocturnal emissions... to my son, in a low key and mature fashion, and without giggling, stuttering or blushing.

Help!

Can anyone recommend an Internet tutorial for such a delicate mission?

Many thanks in advance.