Sometimes, a girl just wants to look . . .

When you're out with your friends and you see two young men who are rather fine to look at, but young enough to be, well . . . your younger brothers, sometimes a girl just wants to look.

I can describe it best by using the following analogy.

So, you are walking down the street, and happen to pass the Porsche dealership. Inside you see a shiny new Cayenne.



It's beautiful to look at. You press your face up to the glass, and close your eyes and just for one moment, imagine running your tongue from it's sunroof to it's shiny bumper. Then you stop, and shake your head. Back to reality, back to 4th grade algebra, Btu's and building plans.

It's not like you will never have a Cayenne. It's just that you are not ready for the Cayenne right now. And when you are ready, maybe you don't want a Cayenne anymore. Maybe you would prefer an X5, or maybe something shinier and sleeker, or maybe you're into a hybrid by that time.

Buying a car is a HUGE commitment, it's an emotional commitment (shudder), how do you know when you're ready for it?

Cyanide and Happiness

I haven't been able to read C&H for a while due to restrictions of my internet access at work, so I was just reading through some of the posts now, and when I read this one, I truly did L O L.


Cyanide & Happiness @ Explosm.net

Edited to add : I know it doesn't fit properly - I spent like 1 minute trying to fix it and then gave up - click it. - Never mind!!

Just an FYI to spammers

To all the advertising spammers of the world. The chances of me responding to your cell phone ad spam is slim to none. The chances of me responding to your badly written, terribly juvenile ad spam is less than zero.

At least the e-mail advertising spam I get is mostly well written.

I'm just saying.

My lifes mission

I swear, even if it kills me, I will make sure at least one person in this world thinks logically. It is my mission in life to force others to think logically.

Day after day people come into my office and tell me something like "the plotter is not working" and then look at me with this look on their face. This look that says "I have thought long and hard about it, but despite my hours of contemplation, I cannot see any way forward from this dilemma. I have come to you, oh great knower of all, for you eternal wisdom and knowledge."

There was a time I would glance in my pocket, then under my desk, and proclaim loudly "the plotter repairing fairies are not hiding in my office at this time." But my magical wit was usually lost on them, and their brows would furrow and their heads would tilt about 15° to the left and a wave of confusion would wash over them like a soft and comfy blankie.

So I just gave up with the sarcasm, and now say "Well what did THE PLOTTER REPAIR PEOPLE say when you phoned them?"
Which is technically still sarcasm, but might actually get a point across.

It only takes about five minutes for them to get it.

I live in eternal hope that one day someone will walk into my office and say "The plotter is not working, the repair guy will be here tomorrow. Just letting you know"

Why? Why can people just not take the next logical step in situations such as this.

You know what I don't get?

Seriously, you know what I don't get?

People who say they don't have time to eat.
Just to be clear, I am studying for a degree, trying to build a house, work full time and I'm a single parent. But do you know what I still make time for? Yup, eating. It's not like it's that a time consuming endeavor. I mean sure, I don't have time to cook, but that's what I have a mom for (love you mom) and I get that other people don't have a live-in-mom, but there are always alternatives (hello, Woolworths :-)).

People who don't use their indicators (flickers, turn signal, whatever).
It's the flick of a finger people - not rocket science. Just do it. Do it for my mental health. Do it to keep from eventually snapping and shoving a indicator where an indicator should never be shoved.

Twilight, et al.
I will admit having seen both Twilight and New Moon. I will also admit that they are not the WORST movies I have ever seen. I will even admit that they hold a certain appeal . . . . . to children. Ciara LOVES Twilight, and that's okay. Because she's nine. Anyone older than, say 11, who loves Twilight must be sat down for a good talking to.

Justin Bieber hate.
Look, I think the kid is an arrogant little baby, who sings terrible songs in the voice of a girl. I just don't care enough about him to summon any hate. As they say, this too shall pass.

Well, okay, so my second blog post for 2010 is done (go, me). Grief, I'm trying to be more attentive to you, my wilting blog, but it's just not that easy . . .

It's a fight to the death

Over at Nerdmag there is an Auction for charity. I initially read through it but wasn't too interested in any of the goods on Auction (I'm not a part of the Social Media group, so a lot of the stuff was over my head.)

But I did happen upon "a batch of 12 chocolate cupcakes with a creme-caramel secret-centre and chocolate fudge icing". This item spoke to my very soul.

So I started off at a very reasonable R201-00 for the 12 cupcakes, but I have competition. And it will be a fight to the death. I will have those cupcakes!

I'm currently on R354-85, and I won't give up.

I'm not actually sure when (if) the Auction ends, so this may get heated . . .

Coming up next . . . . Do I, or do I not get the coveted cupcakes?

I'm 15 again, with the internet at my disposal

So, the blog has undergone a bit of a facelift. I'm really going to try and be better at this. I have SO much to say, and a limited number of times my friends will keep accepting the long winded "news" letters I keep sending them . . . .

But anyway, ya, back to the title. I LOVE Fall Out Boy. The nonsensical lyrics are really of no real importance when you listen to the music, because, well, wow.

But I've always thought FOB = Pete Wentz, who while a cute little thing is really not what I fancy in a boy.
So on the weekend I'm visiting with Kim-O and we watched "Sugar, we're goin down" on YouTube, which I've never seen before and I thought to myself "that lead singer there is quite nice too".

So what do I do. I spend five hours on Saturday night Googling Patrick Stump, who while a little chubby, four inches shorter than me and eight years younger (exactly eight - we share a birthday), is still the stuff my dreams are made of.







So you see, he's not conventionally good looking, but man he makes me warm and tingly where it counts.

I seriously feel like I'm 15 again and this strikes a remarkable resemblance to my "Vanilla Ice" phase of the early 90's . . . .

Thank God I didn't have the Internets available to me then!

So I hereby declare Patrick Stump as my Secret Boyfriend (phrase stolen, with credit to her.)

Why's that my fault?

So, if you are a person who is driving without a car kit and I phone you - and you answer, and I ask you if it's okay for me to ask you a question and you say yes and then a cop pulls you over for talking on your cell phone why do you blame me and get all pissy and tell me that it is my fault?

Hey Asshole - if you don't want to get a fine either :

(A) Don't answer your phone - I would have left a message which you would have ignored and I would have to keep phoning you back until I got hold of you hopefully not driving.
Or
(B) Get a fecking car kit.

Sheesh Dude, not cool, not cool at all.

Dear Dreams

Dear My Dreams,

I really appreciate you popping around every night, and allowing my mind to not only work the 18 hours I'm awake, but also the 7 hours I sleep*. Thanks. No really, thanks.

I also appreciate the fantastically bizarre things you bring to me each night. I now have the reassurance that I am not only exceptionally intelligent, but also amazingly creative. So Thanks. No really, thanks.

I guess I should apologise for trying to drug you away, because clearly this doesn't work. It just makes you bring weirder things.

But please, please oh blessed dreams, could I ask you this one small favour? If you are not going to be about Wentworth Miller and I having naughty, sexy times, then please, please go away.

I know this is hard to hear, but I don't actually like you.

I'm sorry.

I thank you in advance for you adherence to my terms set out above.

Regards,

Kerryn






* I know that there are only 24 hours in a day and not 25 . . . . this is just a further indication of how tired I am.

A day in the life of me . . . .

Long time, no blog . . . I've been furiously busy, but just slowed down to hectically busy, with a strong possibility of only really busy, so I may, or may not blog more often.

This morning while travelling to drop Ciara off at school on the N1, it occurred to me that I must be possibly the only living being who is not a millionaire.

Let me explain further. On this particular part of the N1 there is some sort of construction going on. One theory is it is for the Gautrain. Another theory is highway widening to four lanes. My theory is to for Tshwane Metro to make a shit load of money.
The speed limit has been reduced from the previous 100km/h to an amazingly slow 80km/h. Now I know that this reduction of 20km may be a mild annoyance to any sane person, but apparently it brings out masochistic tendencies in others.
There was also a report on the news, in newspapers, on interweb news sites and on the radio that these reduced speed areas would be speed trapped by them lazer camera thingies.

Me, personally, I don't have R500-00 to R700-00 to flush down the toilet like yesterdays Nando's. No I like my geld safe and sound in my little purse tucked into my ample cleavage - Not in the bank account of Tshwane Metro. Thank. You. Very. Much.

I am clearly alone in my inclination to hold on to my hard earned cash. Because every other asshole on the road things it's a free for all - they react to the yellow of the reduced speed signs like a bull to a badly dressed matador!

I had a gasoline truck tail gating me for about 5km the other day. Now that would have been fun if I had to stop suddenly. Fun like kicking your baby toe against the corner of that fecking end table you always walk into.