"You want bigger hands? I can do that!"

I've just being watching repeats of Whose Line is it Anyway?

I really used to love that show. But maybe I do see gayness everywhere. Yes, I'm looking at you Caroline Quentin and Josie Lawrence. I saw that sly arse pat, Caroline.

Dear god I need a life.

In other news, GP has gone trekking for a couple of weeks. The sad thing is, I think I'm actually more boring without her here. It hasn't been a case of "Quick, the girlfriend's gone! Break out the strippers!" more "Quick, the girlfriend's gone! Break out the extra salt at mealtimes!"

I think I'll try an episode of South of Nowhere now. I've been seeing articles about for ages on AfterEllen, so it's definitely something I've been meaning to try and watch.

A quicky

While watching episode four, I had the thought: do you think there could have been something going on between Ruth (I really hope that's her name because that's what I'm calling her from now on) and Sarah? Just seems to me they had a vibe in the evaluation scene...but then again I've been accused of seeing gayness everywhere before.


On a lighter note: the evil hair returns! Bravo hair department. You'd be able to spot she has a bad attitude and a penchant for naughtiness a mile off. Run away, bar dude! Can you not see from the hair that this isn't going to end well? Didn't your mother ever teach you not to bed a girl with evil hair?

a break from the bionics

thoughts after watching the pilot for the new bionic woman.

Hmm. Michelle Ryan is pretty.

Katee Sackhoff also pretty.

I can imagine a fem-slash contingent growing up around these two, especially with lines like:

"What do you want from me?"

"Honestly? I don't really know."

But...a few small criticisms (and that's no small thing for me to say that - I even liked 'Catwoman' the first time I saw it. I did regain sense upon repeat viewing, however). Firstly, what happened to Michelle Ryans' face? Answer: Nothing. Nada. Not a thing. Whether dealing with eye and ear implants suddenly revving up or having a deep and meaningful threatening discussion with the head of the lab at the end...there was just nothing going on. I like her, I do, and I know that I could like the show, but I would have liked a bit more...emotion, I guess. A bit more of a feeling like...well. The girl's lost her baby, had half her body replaced by god knows what without her knowledge or consent and has gotten involved with a shadowy government agency who obviously want her to play things their way and...I just would have liked to see some of that conflict. How horrible must it feel to look at yourself in the mirror and know that half of what you're looking at isn't actually yours? And how horrible must it feel to know that some one's been playing around in your brain and adding who knows what?

Also, humour. Maybe I've been spoiled by years and years of Joss Whedon telly but would a little humour kill the writers? A snarky comment here, an inappropriate joke there...I mean, that's how people are. Funny just bursts out. Is it just me who sits here and watches stuff like this and adds funny lines in my head to what the characters are saying? I'd write one here, but I've forgotten them all already. Oh, well.

Oh, final comment: I loved Sarah Corvus's "I've been a bad, bad girl" slicked yet big bouffant hair.

I mean...that's evil hair.

I've just watched the teaser for episode two, so I guess I'll give it a go. It can't hurt, right?

Thoughts while watching the second ep:

How does she afford such a nice apartment?

Has she done something weird with her hair? I know I woke up yesterday with a weird 1920's style side-parting (impressive when your hair goes past your shoulders). It made me feel like I should have been slicking it down and Charleston-ing around the office.

One arm chin-ups...who knew they were so sexy?

Hehe, Ruth - is it? - drives a muscle car. I loved you in Third Watch!


Okay, I must have actually started watching it at some point because I forget to make pointless and/or sarky comments for the last half of the episode. Hmm. Engrossment could be construed as a good sign.

I guess, seeing as I have nothing better to do, I'll watch number three...

Ugh

Well. I've been trying to give up smoking for...well, a while. Actually, that's a lie. I've been talking about giving up, and thinking about giving up, and complaining that I should give up...but as for the actual doing? That's sort of fallen by the way-side.

However, this time I am going to make a concerted effort to succeed in my attempt to kick the habit (mostly because my girlfriend says she'll leave me if I don't). I haven't really smoked over the last couple of days but who wants to think about the last time they had a cigarette when they're trying not to obsess about cigarettes, and instead I shall think about smoking with a sort of fond, detached rememberance. Yes, I shall. I really really shall.

Yes, indeed. I guess it makes it harder that I don't want to give up. It's a horrible thing to admit, but I enjoy it (and I'm sure someone out there will want to smite me mightily for saying that, but it's the truth). I like smoking, I always have. Plus, y'know, the addiction. But I will try.

I always thought I'd be safe from the whole dramatic mood swings thing. I guess I just assumed that people had exaggerated, and that I'd be alright because I know what to expect. But no, it turns out that I am suseptable, and it does not make for a happy me make when you take away the precious nicotine drug.

Also, I was going to go off on a ramble about how I can find women smoking in movies quite sexy, but I decided that I couldn't be bothered to search for a picture. Go search for one yourself, you lazy bum!

I'm not dead

...in case you were wondering. Maybe you weren't. Heck, I don't even know if anyone reads this, which raises an interesting question along the lines of 'If no-one hears a tree falling...'

...You get what I mean. Maybe you don't.

Seriously, if no-one reads your blog, does it - theoretically speaking - exist? Wow, that's just too much thinky for this girls brain. Quick! To the google machine, for a calming search of hot actresses!

(speaking of, I saw some really quite stunning pictures of Michelle Ryan in The Bionic Woman on dorothysurrenders.blogspot.com)

So...What's been happening at number 77? Well, in short: In August/September I moved back to live with my father for a while, to help him recover from surgery (thankfully pre-scheduled, not emergency) whilst also preparing to start a new job. In September started a new job and moved back to 77. New job excruciatingly dull. Keep zoning out and thinking about desk sex (What? I've never worked in an office before - desk sex has never really been an option for me, and day-dreaming about it hasn't lost the novelty value yet...oh, who am I kidding, it probably never will). Also I keep dropping clangers like:

Boss: Okay, you're going to go through the entire database and update every customers contact info, e-mails, fax numbers, everything.
Me: Great! I'll ring them up and ask them for their phone numbers!

Sometimes the brain does not check the words before I speak.

Still, at least one of my colleagues is happy. In her words: "I'm so happy you're here. Now everyone laughs at you instead of me!"

What else? Where was I? September? Oh, yes. New job. Then, October: GP decides we should "be on a break". Two days later she decides we shouldn't, and I start cursing the day The L Word ever allowed provincial lesbians to see how Lesbian Drama ought to be.

That's pretty much everything. Oh, except I had a really good idea for a Vlog (is that right?) for Afterellen, but I know myself too well: I'm all mouth and no trousers. Oh, plus I only have a bog standard webcam and no idea what software I'd need to be able to record and edit footage. Any help or suggestions (preferable pointing me to free software, I still have no money) would be greatly appreciated.

So hopefully, now, life will finally, finally settle down and I'll actually get to feel like I have a steady job and that I actually live here, my house of nearly six months. One can dream, I suppose.

work, life, work, life, work, life

Well, I wasn't actually going to write a blog post today. I've been so busy that stopping to write just seemed like too much of a demand (and I'm in that mood where a blank white page seems like the most demanding thing in the world, just waiting for your words like a great big hungry...waiting thing), but seeing as my browser bizarrely won't load up anything but blogger.com, I guess something up there is telling me I ought to write a post.

But what about? Not having planned to, I've been caught unawares and un-prepared. 'Quick!' says the brain, 'think of something interesting!', but said brain refuses to provide me with even a snippet of an idea as to what that interesting thing might be.

I guess I could talk about my week, although that would possibly involve a re-definition of the term interesting. Possibly so that it meant something more like boring. Okay, so hold onto your hats, lets start typing and see where we end up.

My week. As you may or may not know, I work - at the moment - for a temp agency. This involves them ringing me up and saying 'this company needs someone in their office for two weeks, can you do that?' or 'this company needs someone to mind a showroom for them, can you do that? Oh, and - inexplicably - you'll also be handling all the trade accounts for the company, but we won't tell you that, we'll just let you figure it out.' The life of a temp is interesting, frustrating and involves many different jobs in a very short space of time. I've been temping for a while, and already I've been a shop person, the afore-mentioned showroom handler, a cook, and a few other jobs. My current job, however, takes the biscuit.

Now, after I left my long-term job, I was supposed to go and work for someone else, but unfortunately that fell through. That's how I ended up as a temp - I needed money, having just moved, and temping was a way to get into work quickly. I specifically asked them for office work, but they don't always have office work available and hey, I need to eat, so occasionally I find myself doing jobs that I wouldn't necessarily have chosen given different options. This, at the moment, is one such job.

Can't really say too much about it, as...well, the management are appalling but there should be a standard procedure with the government body that I'm working for that should require me to sign a basic confidentiality agreement because I'm working with (not really with, more around) patients (although they haven't made me sign one, nor have they shown me...well, anything. I didn't have a personal staff alarm till the second week because no-one remembered to get me one). Basically I clean. I work in a hospital that deals with people who are not quite all there. I actually work on the geriatric ward, so there's a lot of dementia and senility, with a smattering of Parkinson's and such-like. To begin with, I wasn't sure I'd be able to do the job. The cleaning involves patients bathrooms, and I, like some people, also find people with mental illnesses uncomfortable because I just don't know what to do. Plus, my mother was a nurse, and having been around nursing environments for a long, long time I became convinced fairly early on that it wasn't what I wanted to do with my life.

Anyway. I've been there for a while now, and it's not all that bad. You soon learn which people to look out for (and which people you shouldn't let trap you in their rooms), which people you can talk to and which you can try and talk to, but it's pretty much going to be a one-sided conversation. Some of them, I love. I won't use names, but some of them are fantastic. D, for example. D is pretty out there - last week she asked me what I was: I said "I'm the cleaner, D, and what are you?" and she said "I'm a fish! Or blue. I'm not sure which one." She always gives me a great big grin whenever I see her, and although she can become sullen and un-cooperative, she always smiles for me. Although I know it's not my place, I try and stop and say a few words with her every day. E likes me too, although he's convinced I'm a boy (the long hair and boobs don't seem to sway his opinion). He's very loud, very aggressive, and one of the ones it's best to keep on the right side of. Mrs P, C and G all make me sad. Mrs P has no out-ward signs of dementia - and I know the unit houses some people who are depressed with no other illnesses - and she and C always want to talk. They just seem to like conversation, be it about what I'm doing, what I did the night before, what they used to do, the weather, the other patients, anything really. All they want is someone to talk to, because the nurses don't talk to them and the other patients they can't talk to. I try and stop for as long as I can, but I have a job to do and the nurses look at you funny if you look like you're too interested in the patients; that's their job, and you'd better not forget it. Only thing is, in the time I've been there, I've never seen them really sit down and talk to the patients. C and I always have a conversation like this in the morning:

"Okay C, that's your hoovering done, you all set?"

"Yes, thank you. Are you leaving? Do you like my flowers? Someone bought them for me yesterday." And then we'll stop and chat about her flowers, or the weather, or whatever she's just bought up.

"I'll see you later, okay? I'll be back soon, remember, I still have to clean your bathroom, so I'll be back with my cleaning products and my rubber gloves in about half an hour."

And she smiles at me. "That'll be nice, dear. It'll give me something to look forward too."

She means it. C is pretty dependent on the nurses for mobility, and they leave her in her chair all day, staring out the window.

There's an art room I've never seen used. Ditto the cookery room. The OCT room is never in use, either. The patients sit in their rooms, or sometimes they're taken to sit in the corridor. If they can walk, they can roam around, and if it's a nice day, maybe they can go outside (E loves it outside. At the first sign of sun, he's out, on a bench, stripping down to his underwear and soaking up some rays. He's got a great tan). Now Mrs D, she can walk with a frame, but everyone knows she's a little unsteady, both mentally and physically. My cleaning supervisor and I were sat in an un-used lunch room having a break when we heard, after a while, a quiet wailing from outside. We opened the door, walked around the side of the building and found Mrs D clinging onto a post by the building, walking frame a good ten metres away on the path, in tears and clearly distressed. We got her a chair and eventually persuaded a nurse to come and get her with a wheel-chair. My supervisor told me, after we'd sat back down, that she'd seen Mrs D walking around the (mostly dis-used) side of the building ten minutes before I'd arrived, walking frame backwards, and not a nurse in sight. Time was, she said, that there'd always be a nurse outside, making sure the less steady patients were always okay, but now the nurses take out-side time to mean tea-break, and can always be found in the same lounge at the bottom of the ward.

Now, call me crazy, but something seems to be wrong with this picture. Which leads me neatly (or, you know, allows me to jump too) the subject of G. Now G is old, really really old. She can't get out of bed, move or do anything without assistance. But that's all she gets. Minimal assistance. She gets out of bed and they put her in her chair, in her room, and they put the television on. At night, they switch the television off, take her out of her chair and put her in bed. In the time (and it's been a while) that I've been there, I've seen her having an in-depth discussion with precisely one person. Now the thing is, it's easy to dismiss G. They do it, I do it. She calls for help constantly (and I do mean constantly). She bangs her table, she yells, she calls a certain name over and over again (the name, if I'm not mistaken, of the woman that I saw her having the conversation with). And when you go into her room, you'll have a conversation with her that goes very much like this:

"Come in, come in, come over here where I can see you."
"What's wrong, G?"
"I'm going to call the police; I have to get out of here. I have to get up and do something."

Or something very much along those lines. And it's easy, if you follow the nurses' lead (which to begin with I did), to dismiss her as yet another poor old lady who unfortunately is going to be in this condition till she dies. But I'm starting to wonder whether she's as poor and unfortunate as they think.

Last week, I had a conversation that went like this. "Hey, G, mind if I come in? I have to clean your bathroom."
"Come in, come in, come here."
"What's up, G?"
"I want to get up, I want to get out. They never take me out."
"I'm sorry, G, I wish there was something I could do. I'll go ask a nurse, okay?"

So I went out, went up to nurse and said. "I'm sorry to bother you, but G says she'd quite like to go out. She's always in her room." It was a gorgeous hot summer day.

The nurse gave me a look, as if to say that I'd over-stepped my bounds: what their patients want is, and will be, dictated by them. "Well, it's nearly lunch, we'll get her some lunch in her room and then we'll take her out. Tell her lunch in ten minutes." I had a bad feeling in my stomach, like nervous/uncomfortable, but I nodded because who the hell am I? I'm just the cleaner.

"They said lunch is in ten minutes, G, and then they'll take you out."

She paused, and then said. "It's a pack of lies."

"I'm telling you what they told me, G, honest."

"I know that you're not lying, you're a good girl. They're lying to you. They're not going to do it. They never do."

And sure enough, twenty minutes later when I passed her room there was no lunch and no wheel-chair in sight.

Today, when I went into her room, she stopped me again. She'd been increasingly agitated in the morning, showing behaviours I'd never seen her display before, and this is the conversation I had.

"Morning, G."
"Hello, hello, come here where I can see you, who are you?"
"I'm the cleaner, remember? I'm H."
"Come here, come here." So I knelt down beside her chair. "I want to get out of here. I...you know what? I'm so bored. So very, very bored."
"I...I'm sorry, G."
"Bored bored bored bored. They never let me do anything. They pick me up and they put me down and then they forget about me. They don't talk to me. I'm so bored I could cry." There were tears in her blue eyes. "No-one knows what it's like. I think I shall go mad."
"I...I wish there was something I could do."
She paused, and very gently took my hand. "I know you do. You're a good girl. Please, let me get up and do something. Let me get out of here. What do you do?"
"I'm the cleaner here; I clean all the rooms. It's my job."
"I want to help. I want to get up and do something; I want to be useful. Please, what can I do?"
"I, I don't know." I was feeling a little upset at this point, guilty and scared and mad and and, "I don't know. What would you like to do?"
"I want to be useful. I want to get up. I want to do something."
I don't know why I said it, but, "Can you sew? Knit? I can't, I'm useless. Can't sew at all."
"I can sew. I like sewing." It seemed to calm her down, thinking about something like that.
"What did you do, G, for work? Where did you live?" All of a sudden, I wanted to know. I wanted to know who this shadow had been. I saw a person, all of a sudden. Someone just like me. Someone who was me, in 50 years.
"I worked, I did. I lived here, in this city," she named it and I smiled.
"I live here too."
Then the smile went when she said. "Please. Won't you ask them if I can get up?"
"I'll try." And I did. I went and asked, knowing it was fruitless and pointless.
And then I did something cowardly. I went back in and said. "I'm sorry, G. I'm sorry, and I have to go. I have more rooms to clean."
"Please don't go. What is that? What is that?" She pointed to the hoover, and I brought it closer so she could see.
"It's my vacuum, industrial sized. I do all the rooms with it."
"Please, I want to use it. I want to do something." She reached out before I could stop her and touched it. "Please."
"I'm sorry, G, really I am, I have to go."
"Stay. I'll pay you. I'm your boss now and you can do whatever you like, so stay." I gently took the hoover away and started edging back.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I have other rooms to clean. I have to get back to work."
"No, please don't go. I'm so bored, so bored and lonely." And she began punctuating her words with slaps to her own forehead. "I worked, I worked my whole life for this. What can I do? Please. I want to be with you. Take me with you."
"I don't know, I don't know what you can do, G. I'm sorry."
"I could scream."

And later that day, as I was rushing between jobs, I heard her screaming. I passed her door and saw her calling for help, hitting herself on the forehead. Both these actions - the scream and the slaps - were new for her, or at least new for me to see from her. And the nurses didn't go to her. The only one who did was a new student doing an work experience segment, who I'm sure, by the end of the week, won't go in to her anymore.

Call me mrs koo-koo crazy pants, but what was wrong with the picture now becomes clearer. Seems to me that if you work - and this isn't an indictment of all those in the mental health caring profession, merely of the nurses in that particular place - with these people too long, you seem to forget they are people. And it's easily done. I can feel it creeping up on me every time I block out G when I walk past, or M who yells everything three times, or Mrs D who mumbles, or the Michael Jackson music which is one of the only things that seems to calm down D. There just seems, in my eyes, to be something wrong not only with the attitude of the nurses, but with the whole system. It's not just that there's no inclination to spend time with the patients: I'd place money on the fact that half the younger nurses were not trained or encouraged to in the first place. I know that it's a very human reaction to be, essentially, lazy. To not put ourselves out there when we could, or to shy away from the hard in favour of the easy whilst telling ourselves that that's not what we're doing at all. But I can't even believe that if I worked there, I would get so inured to the surroundings that I would ignore another human being who just wanted what we all so desperately need: companionship, kindness, and someone to complain about the weather with.

My top ten women in sci-fi.

[warning: this is a very long, picture heavy post.]

Here it is, the post I mentioned I was thinking about possibly maybe getting around to:

Ah, sci-fi and fantasy shows. How many hours have I wasted glued to a television set, entranced by your charms? The space-ships! The aliens! The swords! The vampires! The comedy! The drama! Dear oh dear. I'm sure, when I'm about 80, I'll look back at my life and regret every second I spent in front of the television when I could have been outside, fortifying my health for my old age with brisk walks, but until that bitterness descends let me take a minute to introduce you to my top ten women in sci-fi and fantasy.

There will be omissions: from shows that I never caught or didn't like to characters that I just didn't take to while others did.

But why bother? Well, women in sci-fi have always been important to me. Mostly because they wear a lot of leather and some of them wear uniforms, but there is also a slightly less important reason too: Women in sci-fi were strong, powerful, progressive and interesting, and it seemed to me that there were a lot more of those kinds of women in sci-fi shows than anywhere else. Women who fought for what they believed in; women who had morals and were honourable and did the right thing no matter what; women who were complicated, difficult and real. Women who I wanted to be, and as I grew older, women who I wanted to be with (seriously, it's all that leather). Oh yes, sci-fi definitely helped me recognise my inner toaster-over deserving woman. Without any further ado, lets get into the top ten:

10. Aeryn (Farscape)

One word: leather. Lots and lots of leather. Oh, and a gun.

9. Zoe (firefly)

Zoe's the no-nonsense second in command of Serenity. She's tough, beautiful and looks good with a shotgun. What more could you want? Wash is a lucky, lucky guy.

8. Major Carter (SG-1)

Oh, Major Carter. How I used to adore thee way back when I was an avid Sg-1 fan. Did I mention that aside from leather, I also love uniforms? In-fact, probably more so. Not only did she wear a uniform, however, she also had a gun. Hot! So far, I realise, there have been no deep and meaningful reasons for choosing these women. You were expecting any?

7. Captain Janeway (Star Trek: Voyager)

I remember sitting down to watch Voyager for the very first time so many years ago, and having such high hopes of the series. Well, however I was disappointed by the show itself, Janeway kept me tuning in week after week. A strong, confident , commanding woman in charge of a space-ship? Who doesn't love that?

6. Ellen Ripley (Alien/Aliens/Alien 3/Alien Resurrection)

The only entry from film, but then again Sigourney Weaver is so commanding she's all the entry you need. Nothing can describe my admiration for her single-handed demolition of the xenomorphs, the impact made all the more powerful for the fact I hate horror movies and they scare the shit out of me. Plus, Alien: Resurrection was not the best film ever, I admit, but how buff was Sigourney? Yes, I will admit to the typical lesbian fascination with a great pair of arms (what is that about?).

5. Fred/Illyria (Angel)

I admit it: I love geeks. And who was more geeky than Fred? Winifred Burkle, the girl from the portal who came in, stole everyone's heart and made toasters which also decapitated people. Her arc, from shy, screwed-up girl to commanding member of the team (yet still cute, with the run on sentences and Dixie Chicks posters) was made all the more poignant when she snuffed it in order to be taken over by by an ancient demon/goddess called Illyria. The reason I included Illyria on the list as well as Fred was because I loved her too. Yes, I hated the fact that Fred was gone, but I always had the feeling the Amy Acker really enjoyed flipping the script and trying something a little new, I liked the character, and...well...I thought Illyria was kinda hot. I'm shallow, I know.

4. Laura Roslin (Battlestar Galactica)

Okay, so I'm a little behind. I never watched Battlestar Galactica when it was television here, and missed it the second and third times around too. It was only when I managed to get broadband that I really started watching the series. Now, I'm about three or four episodes into the second season, and I have to say: Wow. I could have made this entry for all the women of BSG, but to be honest there's been one that's stood out from the start: President Roslin. Thrust unexpectedly into a position of power, she's been calm, graceful and hard-working, she can stand toe-to-toe against the miltary men, and all this while - sadly - dying. She's the sort of woman I would love to grow up to be (I'm not considering myself grown up until I have a mortgage and children, thankyouverymuch). Plus, she's one good-looking woman.

3. The Slayers (Buffy/Angel)

To begin with, the forth entry was going to be inclusive of all the girls from Buffy: The Vampire Slayer. I loved Tara, for being so darn cute; Anya, for making me laugh so much; Willow, for being such a cute little geek and then such a kick ass witch, but I decided that I was just going to stick to my absolutely favourites for all the entries. So, number 4: the Slayers. So many good episodes, so many favourite moments. "Bad Girls", "Graduation", "This Years Girl"...I could name so many, but I'm not going to because those three titles are the only three I can ever remember. I remember, way back when, being quite transfixed by the slashy undertone (and from the amount of fan-fic, I wasn't the only one). And then Faith appeared on Angel, and her redemption arc has been fantastic to watch. I remember one of the guest appearances of Buffy on Angel (the episode where he becomes human for 24 hours after accidentally coming into contact with some demon blood) making me cry so much that I went all red and puffy. But, of course, they would be nothing without Joss Whedon and team. What a fantastic man. I could write more but I'm in danger of gushing about him, I can feel it coming on, so on we go without further ado.

And now, we rather controversially have a tie for first place:

Joint first: Susan Ivanova (Babylon Five)

Oh, Commander Ivanova, how I love the: let me count the ways. You were my first sci-fi love; you were funny, abrasive and stubborn; you looked fantastic in your uniform; you drank a lot of vodka. And oh, your lines were always the best:

Sinclair and Ivanova: Sinclair: 'Morning Lt. Commander. Problem sleeping?' Ivanova: 'Sleeping is not the problem. Waking up-that's the problem. I've always had a hard time getting up when it's dark outside.' Sinclair: 'But, in space, it's always dark.' Ivanova: '*sigh* I know, I know'.

it wasn't just what you said, it was the delivery too. Ivanova was a ball-breaking career officer whose past hid a dark secret, oh, and she fell in love with a woman. That didn't hurt my mid-nineties obsessive love for her. Personally, I felt the series really suffered after she left and I pretty much stopped watching.

Joint First: Xena (Xena: Warrior Princess)

Stereotypical I know, but how could she not come out on top? (Hehe). Xena: Warrior Princess. Singer, dancer, can handle a sword a little. Lucy Lawless was always so much fun to watch in the role: whether cracking me up with laughter or tears, she was always spot on. The campy tone of the show suited my sense of humour, and the serious heroic moments made me bite my nails (although not really, because I don't bite my nails, but you get what I mean). I've always been easily drawn in by shows, and Xena was no exception. I laughed, I cried, I got called a big gaymo (but in a nice way) when I insisted that my best friends dad tuned in at his house so that I didn't have to miss an episode, and in the process of making him always watch it I made him a fan too. He even liked 'Bitter Suite'. In terms of strong, powerful, do-gooder role models, I couldn't have done much better - between Xena and Susan Ivanova - at that point in my life.

Women of sci-fi and fantasy: yay for you! And, of course, the people who created you. I know you're not really real. Shame.

(Honourable mentions go to: The other women of Buffy and Angel, B'Elanna Torres, Jadzia Dax and Major Kira, Janet Fraiser and all the others that I forgot)

Ook

For those who would like to know:

"The first Discworld Jamboree will be held just outside the town of Wincanton in Somerset from the 3rd - 5th August 2007.

If you would like to join Terry Pratchett, and the other Discworld scouts in a fun filled weekend camp, then drop us a line, give us a call, send a runner or check our website:

The Cunning Artificer's Discworld Emporium,
Wincanton,
Somerset,
BA9 9JU

01963 824 686

www.discworldemporium.com"

My wonderful mother picked up this flyer for me when she went shopping in Wincanton not too long ago. I will definitely be there: I wouldn't miss it! I haven't read a Discworld novel for a while, but at one point I'm fairly sure I owned all of them, and his were the first books I remember reading at age 7 or so (I don't really remember that much before the age of 7, and to be fair I haven't really remembered much since).

The good thing is, she lives not too far away from Wincanton, and I don't actually live all that far away myself. It's certainly drivable: no more than a couple of hours, I would think. Wow, this feeling must be the smug feeling people get when there's a convention that they really want to attend visiting their town. Needless to say, I'm very excited. In an understated cool way, of course.

I was going to do a very interesting post about women and sci-fi and...well, women in sci-fi, but I haven't yet collected any of the pictures I wanted to use so that will have to wait. Oh well. Tomorrow is another day. Which reminds me, tomorrow I have to cut the grass, clean the house and apply for jobs. When did my life get so mundane?

Inexplicable spasms of the tounge.

Life has certainly been interesting the last couple of years. I fell in love and had my heart broken (I always thought that was just a phrase, but no) and even did that whole stereo-typical break-up-in-an-airport thing. Of course after that I bought six Krispy Kremes doughnuts (blueberry, cinnamon, cream (or 'kreme'), jam, chocolate and something random. A Boston something?) and ate them whilst driving home. Of all the many things I regret about that day, number one is eating a jam donut while wearing my best white jumper.

I also left my long-term job. I thought I had something else lined up, but unfortunately it fell through which is a problem seeing as I look fairly un-employable on paper. I work hard. I work diligently. I'm flexible, adaptable, energetic and personable (ok, those aren't so much the skills I use in a job, more like the skills I employ to get a job. Flexibility, especially). The problem is I don't have any qualifications. It's funny: when I was in school I didn't realise how important all that bumph would be, and it was free; now that I want to learn, need to learn even, I can't afford to. And I can't earn enough to learn without learning enough to earn enough to learn. Or something. See, I need an education!

Anyway. What I was actually going to blog about was the interview I had yesterday. I got up at 6:55am, went to work, left at 9:10am, got to my interview at 9:45am (well, actually 9:46, I was a minute late because I panicked a little while parking and backed my car into something. I think it was a parking meter but it might have been a dog or a small child: I was running into the building when I looked back to check so everything was a little blurry). When I arrived, they ushered me into a little room for a spelling test, a word processing test and a something else test. Then I had the interview, left at about 11am, and went home to find my front door wide open, which caused me to have a minor heart-attack. Luckily, it was someone who was supposed to be there but I'll cover that in another post. I didn't mean to stop at home but I was so hungry that when some cheese accidentally fell onto some toast, slipped under the grill and came out a perfect shade of golden-brown, I felt like it was divine will that I was meant to have cheese on toast and appease my hunger, so I couldn't help but stop and eat it. I got back to work for about 12pm.

To be honest, I don't really remember much of the interview. I was so shocked to have been asked to go along for it in the first place that I was in a bit of a daze. I'd applied for approximately ten to twelve jobs the previous week and had had rejection letters from eight or nine, so I was, I admit, losing a little bit of hope. Not much, but just a little. I have little flashes of memory, like thinking during the spelling test: "Crap, how can I not know how to spell (something like) liaise?". That devious second 'i' gets me every time, the sneaky little thing.

Onwards to the interview. I was sitting quite happily in the waiting room after the test, unfortunately engrossed in my book ("The Queen's Fool" - Phillipa Gregory), when the interviewer came to find me. You know what it's like when you're reading and you have to dis-engage and go back to the real world: I did a double-take, wrenched myself away from the page and accidentally nearly swallowed my gum (I know gum does not make a good impression, but it's my one concession to stress). Good first impression: check.

They started by explaining aspects of the job. I hope I chimed in with pertinent and interesting comments to show that I'd listened and understood, but I worry that I was over-enthusiastic and over-bearing. It's never a good sign when you catch yourself, pause and stammer apologetically to the interviewer "I'm sorry, I cut the end of your sentence off there. Please, do carry on."

I talked a lot, I remember that. I also remember making some jokes, and I really wish I could remember them. I do remember making a joke about a cup of tea and then nervously laughing at myself and I may have snorted a little. I'm cringing a little just thinking about it.

I remember being a little too honest at times (why?) and then not honest enough. I was repetitive yet interesting, serious yet funny. I think. I'm not comfortable with the whole attitude toward interviews which is: talk yourself up. Lie if you have to. Don't say anything negative and, oh yeah, you're the best thing since sliced bread. I find it hard to walk that line between honest self-evaluation and gratuitous self-promotion and so occasionally feel like I'm...well...talking out of my ass. Mind you, I guess it's like every interview: you walk out regretting the things you didn't say and the the things you did say.

I wish I could remember more specifically what they said to me, and what I said in response, but my memory is one big hour-long blur. The only things I can remember are: 1) vaunting my people-skills so much that if I remember this when I'm old, all I'm going to remember is me squawking "People skills! Personable! People skills!" to answer every question asked of me like some sort of demented parrot and 2) being asked the question "If we were to contact a previous employer, friend or colleague, what do you think they would say about you?" to which my near instantaneous response was: "that I'm a bad dancer."

I may have laughed at myself a little bit after that too. A horrible geeky laugh. With a snort.

Life, the universe and everything

I get to a certain point every time I start a blog (and there have been many: I am a blog ho), and that point is: why am I doing this? I don't really have anything interesting to say; I'm not really an interesting person. My spelling isn't fantastic (bless you, spellcheck) and my grammar is worse. I'm not really a fan of unburdening my soul, so it's not going to be a deep, insightful and soulful blog; I don't really do anything interesting, so it's not going to be a must-read blog. So..why? What is the compulsion that drives bloggers to share anything and everything through the impersonal medium of the internet? This is a question that plagues me. Do you know what some other questions that plague me are? Well if you don't I shall tell you.

1) Is Jodie Foster gay?
2) What is actually good for you anymore? A glass of wine a night helps stave off illness, but it also causes illness. Personally, I'll go for the glass of wine every time. I was always taught that a diet filled with everything in moderation was healthy, but what's healthy these days when even fresh food is covered in god knows what?
3) How do CDs and DVDs work? I know nothing about technology, but it kills me that I can have a flat disc in my hands and from it comes heart-breaking music...or a film, a whole film, with colour and sound and pictures and words and...how?
4) Who invented language? Who decided a tree was called a tree?
5) How do Firefly and Futurama get cancelled and yet shows that (in my opinion) are a little inferior get renewed?

and, most important:

6) Is The Princess Bride the real abridgement of a real book? And if so, can I go to the Fire Swamp?

Please, help if you can. A poor, confused (and currently sick) girl needs answers.

Movie Love

Movie love: I have it, you have it, everyone should have it. I love movies. I decided that since I have very important things to do that cannot wait even a little bit, I'm going to blog about movies instead. (A movies name links to the corresponding IMDB page)

Since moving to number 77, I've discovered to my financial detriment that there's a video rental place about two minutes walk away. Wow, city life is fun. There's a general shop thirty seconds away, a Chinese take-away (oh Singapore rice noodles, my sweet downfall) twenty seconds away, and many, many other pretty shops that are so, so close. You can tell I'm from the country when I consider all this stuff a privilege, rather than a right.

So having a video rental place close is fantastic. We've hired quite a few movies between us (Tuesday is movie night) , although our rental history is very eclectic due to our differing tastes. The last time we went down we got 'Strangers with Candy' (my choice), 'Mission: Impossible III' (her choice) and a joint choice of 'Shortbus'.

Shortbus was interesting, to say the least. I had no idea what it was about beyond the blurb on the back of the DVD. I'd never even heard of it before. Certainly I wasn't expecting people having real sex on camera (nor was I expecting three men indulging in oral sex while one sings into another ones ass), but once I'd stopped going 'Oh my god! Naked people! NAKED PEOPLE!' I could actually get into the film. It made me laugh out-loud a few times, and that always wins me over.

Anyway, when I returned that one, Korean horror-comedy 'The Host' accidentally came home with me. I loved it, and I hate horror movies...so to be honest I'm not actually sure why I rented it, but oh well. Anyway, today's recommendation is...

The Host. If you like big scary monsters, unlikely heroes, blood, a few laughs and subtitles, then this is the movie for you.

Brain thinky no

I meant to write a celebratory post about how finally, after many weeks of waiting for phone-lines to be activated and waiting for the broadband to be activated, I have the internet at home. That's what I meant to do, but I'm so tired and ache-ridden that I can't think. Still, in the spirit of trying to remember to update this blog and not let it fall by the way-side as is my wont, I will relate the events of last night. [Edit: That's originally what this post was supposed to be, but it turned into a mammoth entry about the problems getting broadband since we moved. Gosh, I'm interesting.]

So, I recently purchased a wireless thingy from my broadband provider. This was mostly for GP, as my computer doesn't have wireless connection facilities and I was quite happy with my broadband modem. Still, I got it delivered while I still lived at the old house, and decided that I would set it up when we moved in.

Issue the first: when we moved in we had no phone-line. This was because the previous occupants of the house had had a phone/broadband package deal and hadn't bothered to cancel it when they left. We needed a specific provider to use our broadband (with no option of another because I get unlimited speed/download broadband through a package deal with my mobile phone operator) and it would take a week for them to clear the line and then re-activate it. Or so we thought.

Issue the second: Re-activating the phone-line (is phone-line hyphenated? I suddenly realised that I'm not sure) didn't take a week. The provider wrote us a lovely letter saying that it would, in fact, take two and a half weeks, but that they loved us and valued our custom.

Issue the third: We couldn't activate the broadband until the phone-line had been active for forty-eight hours. Since the phone-line was activated on a Friday, and the phone company didn't do whatever the net provider needed them to continue doing on weekends, this meant a five day wait (apparently Monday didn't count either). My question, stemming from utter utter ignorance of the workings of phone and broadband companies, is: what takes 48 hours? Surely your phone-line is done and dusted as soon as you pick up the receiver and hear that lovely dial tone? And why can't dial tones be more interesting?

Issue the forth: Once the phone-line was active for the requisite amount of time, and the broadband account re-activated for the new address, it apparently takes fifteen working days to start the broadband account? What? WHAT? THAT'S THREE WEEKS! At this point I unpacked the new wireless thingy and, although I didn't even look at connecting it to the computer, I did connect it to the phone-line and I turned it on once a day to check whether or not the connection was active yet via the pretty flashing lights on top provided for just such a purpose. Luckily, it only actually took two days, but still. Thanks for the mini heart attack, broadband provider.

Issue the fifth: Okay, lets recap. Phone-line active: check. Broadband connection active: check. So, imagine if you will, an internet starved geek getting very excited and putting the wireless modem set-up CD into her hard-drive. Wow, that kinda sounded like geek porn. "Put your CD into my hard-drive, baby! Yeah that really makes my RAM work!" or something. I probably got that all wrong: I know nothing about computers, which will become very evident. Where was I? Oh, yeah. Set-up CD in the hard-drive. Right. So, I'm following the on-screen instructions, and then I go to connect my computer to the wireless thingy. Apparently it goes in the network hole, so I get down on my hands and knees and look on the back of the PC for such a hole. There is no hole. (There is no spoon). Damn, damn, damn. Don't you just hate it when you get so close but something goes wrong?

Luckily, I remembered that I lived in a city now, and cities have things like PC stores that don't close till 8pm. I ran out the door and was half-way down the road when I realised that I'd forgotten the offending cable. I considered going on, but then realised my legendary failure to articulate my needs would probably mean that I'd come home with a new graphics card or some other improbable item, rather that what I actually needed. So, I trogged back up the hill (I hate hills) and retrieved the cable. I got to the store fairly soon after that and explained my plight to the nice man (who luckily did work there) who stopped me, presumably because I looked very, very lost. He understood immediately and took me to the aisle where the adapters should have been, but they were sold out. In that case, my only option was to by a thingy that I would have to open my computer to insert into a slot, and that would provide me with a network hole. After a few moments of panicked debate with myself, I decided to give it a go. So, sweatily clutching my new purchase in my hot little hands, I hot-footed it home.

When I got there, I un-connected everything from the computer and carried it carefully down-stairs. Then I examined the new thingy. It had words like 'Ethernet' (eh?) and sentences like 'Connect the NIC and the PC motherboard with the WOL cable (if adapter supports WOL fuction' (buh?) on it. I stared at it for quite a long time, but the words didn't even resemble sense. Still, I thought, the guy told me how to install it: how hard could it be? And you know what? It wasn't hard. Not even a little bit. I popped out the bit of metal, popped the card in and wam-bamma-jamma! Had broadband! (after, of course, I'd put it back together, carried it back up the stairs and re-connected everything). I still don't know what a single one of those words means, but I have broadband and that's all that matters. Now, we just have to put the CD into GP's computer and set up her wireless internet. Whose betting something's going to go wrong with that?

I am not panicking.

I am not panicking.

There's a random nest of some sort of creepy insect living in the bin we inherited. I am not panicking.

There's a random smell in the kitchen that must, surely, have a source...but I cannot find it. I am not in any way shape or form indulging in panic.

I have no money. Not worried, nope.

I cannot get the internet for another (excuse me while I count on my fingers) five to six days. No panic here. This is a panic free zone.

You know what I need? I need to hot-foot it down to Blockbuster and rent me some pretty lady movies (no, not those sorts of pretty lady movies). I think a tub of chocolate ice-cream and two hours of Jodie Foster/Diane Lane/some other of my celebrity crushes would do me the world of good.

Actually...you know what I really need? To leave here right now because of just checked the time and my parking ticket ran out two minutes ago. Damn! Damn this wonderful newly discovered cyber cafe with it's comfortable chairs and high-speed connections and keyboards that make that lovely muted 'thuck-thuck' sound, so unlike my keyboard that goes 'CLACK-CLACK'.

You know when you're addicted to the internet when you realise that you have to go but you finish your blog entry anyway.

Sigh.

My struggle to ascend

Alas. Still no Internet connection at home, so still no regular blog posts; no watching of my favourite shows; no surfing for hours at a time keeping up to date with all the new lesbian hoo-ha at AfterEllen and no regular e-mail checking (not that I'm too good at that anyway).

Still,living at number 77 is proving to be fun. There's all the attendant experiences that come from moving into a new and unfamiliar property with someone you've never lived with before, and my current issue is something I haven't had to deal with for a long, long time. A towering problem, one might say. A hill to climb; an uphill battle. That's right. I'm talking about stairs. I haven't lived in a house with stairs for a good five years, and I just seem to be completely un-equipped to deal with the concept of ascending at an angle of x degrees by the power of foot locomotion. I've already ripped off half a toe-nail by mis-judging a few steps, launched my face at the wonderfully maroon carpet at speed on a number of occasions and been reduced to using my hands as well as my feet once or twice. Most memorably, I seem to have a wonderful blind spot regarding the existence of the final three steps when i descend, causing me to fly past the dining room doorway and into the front hall in a slap-stick comedy manner. Although, I do remember, the last time I did that I managed to catch myself on the banisters with my elbows, a most athletic feat.

I don't know what's wrong with me, I really don't. Ninety-nine percent...well, okay...ninety-five percent...okay, okay...eighty percent of everyday tasks, I have no problem with. I can usually feed myself, dress myself (although, not well: two years of living in a uniform twelve hours a day will do that to a girl, especially one who had no fashion sense to begin with. Now, the only things I can be trusted to co-ordinate are my pajamas and my slippers), wash myself and perform hundreds of mundane daily events without fear of injury or, you know, horrendous embarrassment. Which, frankly, I think is worse. There's nothing more horrifying than starting the descent as dignified as Audrey Hepburn and finishing with a comedic flourish that would have a place in every slap-stick movie ever made.

GP is quite used to having to run from one room to another after hearing a horrendous crash, only to find me crumpled in some inexplicable position with no serious injuries and no idea how I'd come to be there, holding triumphantly to an unbroken vase/television/kitten that in and of itself is, again, inexplicable. It's like my tremendous talent for holding onto an inanimate object, only to have it become oddly mobile in my hands, wiggling and slipping from my grasp so it can enjoy that one moment of freedom before smashing on the floor into itty bitty pieces. Many a glass/mug/plate/bowl has experienced it's last moments in that manner.

Now...what on earth did I start this post to write? Any idea?

No...I don't have a clue, either.

where does the time go?

Thank goodness for work. How else could I check my e-mail and catch up on my web-surfing? I still don't have a connection at home. Sigh.

Despite the tag-line for this blog, I still haven't met my neighbours. Perhaps they knew we, the gays, were coming. Maybe they wait for us to leave and then make a run for it. In fact...come to think of it...I haven't heard anything through the walls yet. Either they're spectacularly light-footed neighbours, or they're dead. Either way, I'm happy: I don't like people disturbing my television time. Oh, I'm kidding. I've heard them through their kitchen windows when I've been in the garden, so I'm fairly sure they're not dead. Having said that, what I mostly heard through the window were very odd bird noises...lots of them...so either they keep birds (inside their kitchen) or I really really don't want to meet my neighbours.

This weekend, GP and I decided we're going to walk into town for a drink and maybe some dinner. It's going to be such a novelty! I've never actually lived anywhere where I could go out and get an alcoholic beverage /and/ a meal that I didn't have to cook. I'm very rural, this I know. The town we moved into is the same one people from my neck of the woods (literally) visit on special occasions - birthdays, pay-days, etc etc - and it feels, after years of taxi-ing to and fro, very odd to be able to say "Do you fancy going to the such-and-such pub?" without it having to involve money, a long taxi ride, nice clothes and badly applied make-up. Odd, yet exciting. Like I've said before (see previous post) it doesn't take much to excite me.

Tonight, GP and I are going food shopping. Well...you know how well I deal with that. Is it sad that i'm excited about going food shopping for the new house for the first time?

The AfterEllen.com Hot 100 List

I admit it: I was excited. Not so much by the list, but by the anticipation of the experience (I know, I know. It doesn't take much to excite me, okay?). I couldn't wait to open up the list, see who was number 1 and have the whole experience of "Where are the people I voted for? Why is she at number X?! What? What?! Lucy Lawless is 36?!" and so on. I was excited at the prospect of seeing a list that...well, frankly, that had lots of pretty ladies on it, but also I wanted to cheer and mope when I read it. Not everyone is going to agree with the list (personally I don't agree with the number 1 spot, but I have to say after watching S4, Leisha Hailey has really grown on me. Number 3, I think), but everyone has their favourite women, and everyone's taste is personal. I can only hope people don't comment dis-favourably on the list simply because their favourite lady didn't get the position they felt she deserved. For me, it definitely wasn't about the women I voted for winning. It was about putting my votes in and seeing where they came out; seeing who other people thought deserved high spots on the list and grinning when I went through the finished product. It really was the taking part that counted.

Well...that and the looking at all the hot women. I'm shallow.

Newsflash: Lesbians have evolved into people!

Well what do you know? Hot damn, I've always wanted to be a real person.

Whilst surfing the AfterEllen website during my lunch-hour (like all my other hours sitting here, just with less work and a horrible habit of answering the phone with my mouth full) when I noticed a new post on the AfterEllen blog. It had the header "Showtime: "The L Word" no longer about lesbians, but "people"." Well goodness golly gosh (no, really), I thought, you mean lesbians aren't people? Who keeps the toaster oven business alive then? Who buys tank-tops and Subarus? And has anyone told Ellen this yet?

I know, I know, I'm going overboard. I agree with the AfterEllen blog poster, who started the article: "In a blatent attempt to woo emmy voters...". This is a blatent attempt to de-gay a show in order to win votes. It's sad. For all it's faults, The L Word is a lesbian show. It's, in a way, our show. Foolish, foolish me for thinking that they would try and protect their status as a much-beloved (or at least, much talked about) show that stands as a mile-stone for lesbian entertainment rather than selling out for award kudos.

Another thing that bothered me about the ad that proclaims the de-lesbianising (not a word, I know) of The L Word (reproduced on the AfterEllen blog) is the quote from the Chicago Tribune. "No longer a show about lesbians, "The L Word" has evolved into a show about people."

Evolved? I get what they were trying to say. A show should evolve; as the actors get more comfortable in their roles; as the crew learn the methods involved for that particular show and studio; as the directors and writers find their voices and solidify their vision, yes, a show should evolve. It should evolve into something greater than that which it was at the start.

No, I just have a problem with the quote itself. It started off as a lesbian show, and now it's evolved into a show about people? To me, the word evolution has always been synonymous with the idea of betterment. Something evolves into something else: something bigger, stronger, smarter, better. The quote, to me, seems to suggest that the lesbian show was inferior and that it has evolved into something less gay, therefor better. Me picking at straws or unconscious homophobia? Boredom driving me to pick fights or a sad indication of how, even now, 'straight' television is seen to be something preferable to 'gay' television? You decide, because I can't: I'll freely admit that I don't know whether my argument is justified or whether it's me.

Anyway, back to work. Speaking of, what did I do? What did I do that people keep ringing me to complain about the state of the company? I'm just keeping an eye on a small regional show-room, I'm nothing to do with head office and I don't even really work here! And yet 'my' company is a disgrace? Your company is a disgrace! And do you really think I'd be sitting here if this were my company? Somehow, I like to think that if this were my company, I'd be out swaning around in a silk suit (why not?), driving my hellishly expensive Subaru (of course) and seducing poor little rich girls with my money-laden charm (why not indeed?), not sitting in a showroom which no-one ever visits all by myself, drinking so much tea my hands shake and using the very expensive display furnite to play Lesbian Tea Party (no, no Lucy, you sit next to Elizabeth: Angelina, have you met Clea?).

Anyway, I suppose I'd best get back to work.

All settled and ready for sleep

So...the move actually went very well. There were no problems; no incidents of the kind that I would normally associate with my life when something important happens (nothing caught fire, nothing got broken, no babies were dropped during the making of this motion picture). The downstairs is now furniture ridden and box free - it looks good. Better than I was hoping it would, even if it did take two very long days to make it work. The upstairs...well, the bedroom is a mess (GP has so many clothes I thought...well...I don't know what I thought. The clothes precluded thought. It's like sleeping inside someone's walk-in cupboard), although the spare bedroom is better - it's where my clothes live, and what can I say? Jeans and tank-tops don't need much organising.

I have to say, though, I'm very tired. I have bags under my eyes that look like...well...bags (which is handy - at least I know I won't lose my new house keys). Betty, my wonderful little car (so named by a friend of mine on our deluded 'day' trip to Paris back in January. She's an international car of mystery. Up to that point I'd spectacularly failed to find her name - nothing stuck) has been fantastic, and it's amazing how much crap you can fit into a tiny car. Can't say I'm a big fan of manual labour though. Everything aches. I'm a wimp, I know.

Anyway, the hardest thing has been not having the internet for four days. Four days! Four days of no e-mail, no procrastination, no blogging and no watching episodes of the show I missed when it first aired and so am now catching up with (BSG if anyone's interested). No wonder I've got things done! We still don't have the internet at home (home!) but I'm back at work for a few days, so I'm getting all the important things done (catching up with AfterEllen, answering e-mails and wasting time) before I actually do any work. Am I a bad person? I guess I should go and do some wo- oh, hey look, it's lunchtime.

Where was I? Oh, yes, no internet. We have to wait for the phone line to be something'd before we can set up the 'net, so that's a wait of at least another 6 days. How will I survive?

Moving day

Tomorrow is moving day (at which point I will official be a resident of number 77 - yes, it's a real place). I'm so bored yet excited by packing. The house is a mess, I can't find anything and I have no idea what to do next. I have so many priorities my priorities have priorities and I can't prioritise them!

Anyway, I'd best get on - I have (in the best tradition of British movers) tea to drink and boxes to drop.

Ahh...I miss the good old days of chakrams, sword-fighting and subtext

Ah. Procrastination, how I love thee.

And how better to feed my procrastination habit than mixing up two of my favourite things into a wonderful, funky puddle of fevered joy?

Question: Why (how) did I not know that Lucy Lawless took part in an American show called Celebrity Duets? Why? Why would life deny me that precious, precious knowledge?

Oh well, no matter. I know now, and have whiled away quite a few minutes watching clips at work on Youtube, giggling and squeaking like the geeky heartfelt Xenite I always will be:



Ahh...Xena and singing. Two of my favourite things. I feel complete.

Although...I do need to ask a few questions.

When did she get so...so...hollywood-ised? She's made-up to the hilt and flawless in every shot. Am I too used to grungy, blood-spattered Xena? And wait...why am I complaining? She's stunning! Scratch the question from the record.

Has her hair always been that big and blonde? Secretly? Did she tame it throughout the filming of Xena with the odd well-timed threat and steely glare aimed at it in a mirror?

My girlfriend, last christmas, offered to buy me a life-size cardboard cut-out of Xena. I was so, so, so close to accepting. It was the restrained dis-belief permeating her face that she was actually making the offer that made me think twice. She must love me lots. (GP, not Xena).

What is it with me and cookies today?

Okay. I admit it. I've been procrastinating. After surfing AfterEllen.com, I went to the blog and couldn't resist doing the band blurb generator that I found there:

A history of metal icons: Oobly Boo
Emerging from the cesspool known as Bristol, Oobly Boo roared onto the metal scene in 1982 with their debut album, I Hate You And Your Co-Dependant Cat Too. The band's latest album, You Ate My Cookie And It Tasted Good, fuses Bilbo's ominous howls with thunderous drums to cook up an effort bursting at the seams with sludgy anthems. With standout tracks like "Tounges Are For Kissing, Not Verbally Abusing Minorities," dominating radio airwaves far and wide, Oobly Boo is an essential addition to any music lover's library.

Work? Eh.

http://www.bumbershoot.org/band-bio-generator.htm

Addiction, oh sweet addiction

Do you ever get those days where you're at work...and it's not that you're a bad worker, or irresponsible, it's just that...you can't be bothered. Not at all. Not even a little bit. I know that I have things to and yet feel slightly less than compelled to do them. I'm not a bad worker. I'm not irresponsible.

Well. I say not. Is it wrong that I just abused my power and shut the shop for two minutes to run down the road and buy myself a cookie which is now sitting on the desk next to me? Damn the previous post. Damn the sandwich shop eight doors down. Damn them and their tasty raisin and oatmeal cookies the size of a large, tasty coaster!

Or maybe damn me for being irresponsible and giving in to a needless urge? I keep thinking I should be better at this, 'this' being life, the universe and everything. Oh god, now I'm going to go off on a whiney guilt trip. Where's a cookie when you need one? Oh...wait...

Things That I Love 1

Today, My Thing is...

Cookies.

Having been obsessed with cookies from a very young age (starting with Rusks, maturing on through my bland Rich Tea phase, wandering worryingly into the realm of dog biscuits and then returning to the world of the normal through Digestives), I'd just like to take a minute to salute the humble cookie. What other food item can provide joy, comfort and pleasure in such a compact, many flavoured package? (Probably hundreds, don't answer that).

But there is an area where, at least for me, the cookie surpasses all other food items:

What other foodstuff can you eat whilst pretending to be the Cookie Monster?

So please, take a minute out of your day to contemplate your friend, the humble cookie.

man-sex = calorie burning fun!

I knew it was a mistake to talk about food. I don't know what it is about this job, but I always get hungry really early...although, I have to say I'm a little bit suspicious of my eating habits now, seeing as I was surfing through blogs earlier and I found an entry about how lesbians are more likely to be overweight than straight girls. Wow, what a choice! Either sex with a man or a stomach that doubles as a knee-warmer. Could it, perhaps, be insidious straighty propaganda?

NEW STUDY SHOWS WITHOUT A DOUBT THAT MAN-SEX IS ONLY WAY TO KEEP OFF POUNDS.

A new study funded by the US Government today found that in order to keep from a life of being air-lifted out of bed, all women should indulge in (preferably post-marital) man-sex. This study, endorsed by the President, suggested that
women should look to a life of happy and healthy man-woman relations in order to keep trim and attractive.

"We're not saying any other life choice is wrong," said a leading scientist, "only that for the happiest, healthiest life-span, it's dick all the way."

When faced with evidence that lesbian sex burned off just as many calories as hetrosexual lovin', the same scientist replied, "Ah, but are they the right kind of calories? Lesbian calories, as we've proven, are less healthy than straight ones, and harder to shift. We recommend, to any and all lesbians, a hardcore diet of man, man, man. Yummy."

-

Oh god. The lack of food is affecting my brain. Quick, someone get me a man before I eat my pain!

In all seriousness...I know I can be a little snarky. I don't mean to be so, and I'm the first one to admit that I have weight issues. In this day and age, it's difficult not to (hence my running battle with the cake isle). It's an issue I do take seriously in my private life, and I would never poke fun at someone personally. Disclaimer done.

Tea for two

Does anyone else talk to themselves in food shops? Especially the gigantic superstores?

This trait of mine has really come to the fore in recent years. I can't go food shopping by myself anymore...Or, really, I shouldn't be allowed to. I mutter, I wander, I pick up things I have no intention of buying and study them intently as if trying to devine some mysterious property that would make them attractive. One of the last times I went, I actually has this conversation with myself:

"Cake. There's cake. Not that I need cake. I don't need cake. See, I walk past the cake. I ignore the cake. But maybe I could just have a little one," pause, contemplates cake, "no, no. I am leaving the cake isle," leaves the cake isle, "wayhey!" And at that point I threw my hands up and nodded at a job well done, having avoided every and all cake items.

I swear, it's like I'm in my own private food store where no one else can see me. I spend a lot of muttering to myself along the lines of: "Okay, so I need baking soda. If I were baking soda, where would I be? I already looked down there...hmmm...where oh where is the baking soda?"

I have a problem, I'm aware of that. The only issue is...I like food shopping. Where some girls can spend hours in clothes shops or bookshops, food stores are my playground. I love searching out exotic items that I'm never going to buy, snearing at the latest designer gunk and yet cooing with joy over the latest designer gunk that takes my fancy. I'm that person, you know the one: The one you send out for bread and milk and who comes home with North African Koala Berries and a lump of squid and doesn't know why.

Although, I'm getting better: now I bring home bread and milk and the berries and random square of marine life. As long as I write bread and milk on my hand, I'm good to go.

In other news, I watched 'Stick It' last night, having heard a lot about it and/or the lead actress here, and here. I loved it. What was not to love? Lead with dykey overtones: check. Feel good message: check. Gymnastics: check. Slap-stick comedy: check. A killer set of abs on said lead: check. What can I say, it checked all my boxes!

Why aren't I an alcoholic/useless bum? Then the government would pay my rent for me! Hurrah!

Okay, okay. Do not panic. Everything is going to be fine. You're a strong, confident woman who does not need to smoke. Heh, I do so love Friends flashbacks. Reminds me of how much I loved that show.

• Clothes packed [x]
• Pictures removed from walls and collected [x]
• Exorbitant amount of money raised and ready for deposit [x]
• Lesbian house parties planned and ready [x]
• Lesbian house parties admitted to be fanciful and deluded day-dream [x]
• Books packed []
• DVDs packed []
• Car cleaned []
• Computer equipment ready to dismantle at the very last minute [x]
• 41 piece deluxe kitchen set with wooden knife block bought, packed and ready to go [x]
• Food bought []

I'm doing okay. I have no food yet bags full of clothes; no money yet rent in advance and deposits and parking permits and bills waiting to be paid. I think I might cry. Or, at least, watch an episode of The L Word: Jenny bringing on the crazy always makes me feel a little bit better about myself. Is that wrong?

But now, I must flee. I have to go into town and sign the tenancy agreement and then go and beg the council for a parking permit so I actually have somewhere to park when I move in. Everywhere I turn, everyone wants my money! Which, in itself, is nothing new. But I do get very frustrated when I work a six and half day week like last week and yet people who do nothing get everything paid for them. Argh, but that is a rant for another day. I need to be a lot more focused about the whole issue before I go running my fat mouth off. Oh, who am kidding: GET A JOB YOU LAZY BUMS. PAY YOUR DAMN TAXES BECAUSE I'M SICK OF PAYING THEM FOR YOU!

Grrr. Rowr.

Meow?

"Do you find this too bouncy?"

Oh, how I wish it was anyone but my mother to utter those funny, funny words.

Although, in her own way, she is a comedy genius.

My mother took me bed shopping on Monday. It was, I have to say, a wonderful and frightening experience. Wonderful, because I will ever be thankful to have a mother who takes her daughter out and loans her money to buy a bed for her and her girlfriend when they have nary a bed (nor a pound) to speak of - frightening, because it involved me lying on beds in many a showroom while my mother lay on the other side uttering such phrases as: "Now, turn over! No, properly!I want to see what it feels like!" and "Hmm...I think this bed is a bit too bouncy for us..."

Once I figured out what she was doing, I have to say I was both strangely touched and a little relieved: she was making me do the bed dance in all the showrooms in the southern United Kingdom so that she could make sure GP wasn't going to be bounced out of bed everytime I fidgeted (I'm a huge bed fidget, I admit it). It's not like she was making me cuddle her, no: she would make me lie far on one side, with her on the other, and then note the amount of movement the bed recorded whilst I fidgeted like Lindsay Lohan waiting for another dose of love dust. I love that my mother gets so invested in her daughter's (daughter's?... I always forget what the rule is...does the ' go before the s or after?) welfare that she's willing not only to buy a bed, but to also test it to make sure that it's acceptable for both of the people who'll be sleeping in it. Please forgive my gushing...but after having sat through lectures about how homosexuality is second only to pedophilia in terms of wrongness from other family members...her willingness to help me out and provide for my partner made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. I do love my mother.

When good girls go bad

Hey hey. The reason I started this blog was...well, because the option was there, I suppose. Why not, when the realm of internet expression is so free and ripe for the taking? However, I've never felt comfortable expressing myself in the impersonal realm of the blog, and now I discover that has not changed. So why, I hear you cry, start now? And didn't you want to create a blog full of pop-culture, snark and sarcasm? A blog that was totally removed from your life and your situation? So why bother when you know that you're useless at separating impersonal posts from your day to day life? Because...well, because I can. And because everyone deserves an 'because I can'. And because I thought it would help me to document my changing situation; to focus on the 'what can I blog?' as apposed to the question 'what can I freak out about because I feel so wonderfully unprepared for this?'

I'm moving away from home from the first time. I feel it's a little late in life, but hey, that's probably just me. In a world where 30 is the new 20, who can say what's late and what's not? (If you're wondering, check my profile for my age). Ah ha, but not only am I moving away from home (well, my father, at least) for the first time, I am moving in with my girlfriend, henceforth known as GP. She is a wonderful, caring individual, and I love the fact that we're going to be living together. I'm just worried. I worry. It's my thing. I don't like to admit to it, but hey, who does? It's like not admitting to liking ironing, or cleaning (and no matter what GP says, there is nothing odd or obsessive about my love of freshly ironed bedlinen or a nice clean sink).

And in case you were wondering, the name of the blog references the number of the house - number 77. This blog, I suspect, will be neither informative or insightful; wise or well written, but I won't apologise for it. This is what you get when Suzy Homemaker goes gay, finds a girl, rents a U-Haul and tries to build a home.