Pyjama Party

I turned to Lilsister earlier to tell her that we really must get together to work on our stand up comedy routine, but she was busy scratching her arse, through her completely awful pyjamas – which are white with green trees on them, and the trees say ”smelly”.  I myself am a firm believer in good pyjama wear, particularly as I am wearing aforementioned pyjamas from about 6pm onwards most weeknights.  My current attire is matching top and bottoms that say ”fabulous” over and over again.  Hopefully the incessant message will get through to somebody, anybody, and they will confirm it, and my ego will soar (assuming I can find it, it has been buried rather deep lately).

Life plods on as it generally must, and flits between days at work and days of joy when I am not.  I am getting the hang of it, and find that lately I have ceased to dribble at the end of the day in sheer tiredness, and can generally manage to say words and stuff to my comrades, as I bolt out the door.  And I mean bolt.  It has actually been commented on about how quickly I move when I am going home.  There is simply a flash of light, some flames, and I am no more.

I am trying to see the beauty of life after the news of my sick friend, but stupidly, before he told me he was dying, I ordered a book by a writer who was diagnosed with cancer, and wrote about his experiences with the end of his life.  This book arrived about two days after my friend told me his news, and it has been pretty much impossible to read without being upset.  For some insane reason, I bought the book to stop me moaning so much, and hoped it would make me appreciate what I (don’t?) have but the idea has backfired in a spectular fashion, so I have a sick friend, an expensive book I can’t afford, many tears, and still bad humours about work.  Success!

I’ve also bought a big bag of jellies, which I can’t stop eating, and now that I have approached the sweet press (have I told you about our sweet press?  So many calories and cures for depression, stuck in between two shelves – our happy place) and tucked in, Scarydancer is following suit by raiding the sweet press himself and locating his own snake shaped jellies, and Lilsister is contemplating eating crisps.  Domestic bliss.

Hotel Loo and Pigeon Poo

Bumping into Scarydancer in the hallway on Saturday, both of us in our crazy party clothing (pyjama bottoms along with whatever top you happen to have worn that day) we discussed the presents we had both given each other.  Upon rising on Saturday morning, I was thrilled to discover that the end of the loo roll had been folded into a triangular shape, giving that lovely ”hotel” feel, but without the discomfort of leaving your home.  Lilsister advised me afterwards that this was Scarydancer’s gift to us before he departed for work.

Whilst he slaved away, myself and Lilsister visited a housing development which Lilsister and Sisinlaw swear blind they will live in one day, and priced three different types of houses, before finally settling on a three storey brick monster with centralised vacuuming and two bedrooms with built in wardrobes and ensuites (perfect because at the rate I am going I will probably have to move in with the happy couple when they leave our little apartment).  ”Your gift from me,” I advised Scarydancer in the hall, ”is the knowledge that my sister is fully committed to signing you up for a mortgage for the rest of your life.  Enjoy.”  We shook hands, and parted.

Our quiet weekend followed a long week, which was made all the longer by the sad news of my friend Isabella Bangin telling me about his brain tumour.  He reminded me that I was the only woman he ever went to bed with, after one of our nasty wine nights, where we picked up two bottles of something awful whilst out, brought it back to his place, tasted it, winced, drank it all, passed out on his bed and only woke up when it was discovered that he was quite literally climbing the walls and making a racket at first light the next morning.  He had no idea what he was doing, but we agreed that his gaydar was highly sensitive to the fact that a woman was about and it was best to get the hell out, be it up the walls or whatever.

We also had a visitor to the apartment on Saturday night, an extremely fat pigeon who sat on the bars of the balcony and did not move, even when Scarydancer went outside and puffed his partysmokes all over him, and I got close with some breadcrumbs.  As pigeons are usually grouped together, we decided that this particular one must have some issues that he needed to work out solo, and I declared that he must be gay, and feeling like an outcast.  It was at this point that I called him Georgemichael.

We got up on Sunday but no Georgemichael – just a long line of bird poo which was all over our balcony, the balcony below us, and the balcony below that.  Scarydancer swore if he ever saw him again he’d throw rocks at his head, and I told him not to be so homophobic.

But Georgemichael DID show up last night – outside my own window, just sitting there, looking at me, whilst squelching about in a pile of new poo.  Quite disgusting, and I told him he might be gay, but he was NOT stylish.  He flew off at some stage and we are still not friends.

 

Break out the Big Hair

In what should be noted under the ”moving on from the end of mine marriage” chapter of my time on this planet (and allegedly the point of this blog), three things have occurred which convince me that I may be doing just that:

1. Whilst discussing food preparation with Scarydancer at the dinner table the other day, I mentioned the way my ex cooked a certain item.  Lilsister helpfully pointed out that this is the first time she has heard me refer to Exhimself as my ”ex”.  The actual name never even sprung to mind.

2. This morning, I followed an extremely handsome man around the supermarket.  Not something I normally do, handsome or not, and especially not in supermarkets, as they are full of food, and I like to look at food longingly whilst browsing.  It was also prior to beginning my working day, so for me to be even up and about, let alone stalking a complete stranger, was a miracle in itself.  Anyway, I saw him whilst I was browsing (but not planning on eating) the cake section (a girl needs something to cheer her up on a Monday morning) and once I had finished smelling the almond croissants, I followed him down to bread, cleaning products, gardening equipment  and eventually to the till, where he failed to even look up at me, even though I cleared my throat really loudly, and really manfully.  Sigh.  I tried to follow him outside but the bloke on the till INSISTED I pay for my goods (half healthy multi grain rolls if you MUST know).

3. A very good friend is dying of cancer.  Younger than me by a couple of years, he has less than 12 months with us living souls left.  After my immediate thoughts of why him, anger, shock, memories of him performing ”Don’t Cry For Me Argentina” in full drag in a club in Sydney one sweaty Friday night, thoughts of friends that I am grateful for came to mind, and encouraged me to send more texts and thoughts than I normally do.  Some responded, some not.  But not until a few days later did I think of Exhimself, and even then, only because his hometown is near my ill friend.  If he had any importance would he not have been the first face that came to mind?

Could it be?

Time?

To sing Whitesnake??????????????????