Days 12 and 13: Pets Control

Yes, you read right. I did not have a dyslexic moment. The major portion of this post is going to be about my friends’ pets, and how furry, feathered, and scaled companions have made lockdown easier for many, including myself.

For those of you that are inclined to have Seriously-Sensitive-Susan moments, a great deal of this post is written tongue-in-cheek. The idea is not to offend, but to bring humour, and hope. Please read (and accept) it in that way.

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Rain, Soup and Handcuffs

Just before the annual arrival of the Northerners to our little town last December, the municipality imposed water restrictions due to continuously lowering dam levels.  For me, it isn’t such a serious thing, because I’m at work during the day and the most water I use is to shower daily Continue reading

2020 is Here

New year, new decade…no resolutions, just goals:

Blog more and grow my blog and Facebook following.  My dream is to establish Reflections of a Misfit as a brand of sorts.

Drink more water and get some sun, because according to some memes, I’m nothing more than a houseplant with complicated emotions.

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I’ve already decided what the theme for my birthday, which is nine months and twenty days away, is going to be.  I would love to say that it came to me in a dream, but the truth is that a friend shared something on WhatsApp that spurned the wheels of creativity.

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Toothy Tears

A while ago I wrote about knowing your emotional triggers. But, what happens when something you used to love, turns out to be a trigger? This is what happened to me earlier this week, which took me by quite a surprise. The Bean and I were watching an Elvis Presley tribute show and every song stirred sadness within me, even Burning Love which used to be one of my ultimate feel good songs. Bring on the love songs and well, I was close to bawling like a child whose favourite tricycle had been chopped up for firewood.

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It didn’t stop there. Night before last I was under the covers watching Covert Affairs for the millionth time and Annie and Auggie finally kissed, the tears were running rivers down my cheeks.

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Knowing that tears are cathartic, I decided to up the ante so I watched the episodes of Bones where Mr. Nigel-Murray and Sweets die, followed by the last episode of Elementary. The latter series holds special meaning for me. The tears though felt less sentimental, but more heartfelt.

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I found myself thinking What the hell is wrong with you, Woman? And then it hit me. I’ve had toothache since the day before Elvis’s crooning.

Now, I am not a lover of the dentist. At. All. So for me to go, out of my own, on a Friday during my holiday and sitting five hours at the local Walk-In dentist and not being helped and then having to leave because of another appointment, and then finding another dentist on a Saturday, must tell you the amount of pain I was in. Turns out that it’s not my tooth at all, well technically not. More than a decade ago, my wisdom teeth were extracted, in the dentist’s chair (I think childbirth must be as painful) and one’s root broke off, staying behind in my jaw. I’ve not had trouble with it. Until now.

The dentist (who has the most beautiful blue eyes) took an x-ray and it turns out that the jaw bone on the one side has healed perfectly, but not on the other (where the problem is). He explained to me in terms I could understand what the issue is and sent me off with a prescription for antibiotics, so large they resemble suppositories.

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He gave me strict instructions that if I was not feeling relief by today, I was to come back, so he could cut into my gum, check inside and sew me up again. I thought, hell no, there is no way I am having someone choppity-chop my gums and then sew me up again. What is the stitches hurt more than the cut? What if lips swelled, making me look like a badly botoxed celebrity? Would I have to get anesthetic? Because that in its own right poses its own challenges – I come out extremely unpleasant. So, instead I smiled (well kind of), telling him I would return if I was still swollen or if brushing my teeth felt torturous. Thank the Pope I woke up this morning feeling a lot better, and looking less like a mumpy chipmunk.

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I even have colour in my cheeks again 🙂

I have a notion that the antibiotics may be playing havoc with my stay-sane meds and that may be why I’m feeling all teary-eyed like an overly-hormonal-pregnant-rabid-dog. I only have three more days left to drink them, so after that I’ll test my Suspicious Mind by getting caught in a trap with all the characters that have made me cry this week. I like to think that what I’ve experienced is a false trigger (if such a thing exists). After all, who doesn’t love The King of Rock ‘n Roll? Or Holmes and Watson being two people that love each other?

Or Piper Perabo kissing a shirtless Christopher Gorham?

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‘Til next year!

Wishing all my readers, and followers a great end to 2019, the best start to 2020. Here’s believing it will be one to remember – for all the right reasons.

Cheers!

Sleepless Mindfield

Now, I am meant to be sleeping, but despite taking a full sleeping tablet (I usually only do half during the week) and my other medication, I’m still awake. Charming!

My legs feel like lead. Steve pushed me to leg press another 10 Kg more than last week. That I could still handle, but hip lifts… Good Lawdy, them things are in a league of their own! My thighs are going to probably be stiffer than a corpse tomorrow.

Tarryn, my hairdresser (aka The Fairy because she was the most beautiful pregnant fairy ever) was at the salon on Tuesday when I went to Elena for my nails. She asked me quite bluntly, Where’s your ass. I told her it’s there, but because all my clothes are getting a little baggy, it doesn’t look like it. Truth be told, I don’t really have a well-rounded derriere, because my butt cheeks are on my chest. I’m very aware of (as Charlie put it) my great rack or as my Capetonian friend, Allan refers to them, The Girls.

Anyway, my bustline wasn’t originally what I planned on writing about when I started this post. Love was. Or rather the sacrifices one makes for those we love. When faced with a situation where you would have to either cause- or suffer heartbreak to save the one you love, would you really do it? And I’m talking about relationships between two adults here, not a parent for their child because that’s on an entirely different plain.

On the subject of plain, why is plain yoghurt apparently healthier than its flavoured counterparts? Is it because it’s free of colourants? Or is it just because it doesn’t taste pleasant? Like Chaimberlain’s cough medicine – tastes like battery acid, but my Grandmother swore by it. That, and cod liver oil. Blegh!

Personally, I believe almost any ailment can be fixed with warm salt water. Sore throat? Gargle. Sinus? Inhale. Constipated? Drink a glass of warm salt water and you’ll be shitting through the eye of a needle in no time. Guaranteed!

Okay, so this post went from tits to shit in just a few paragraphs, but at least my eyes are starting to feel heavy. Here’s hoping for some REM because if I don’t get any soon, I will not only have lost my mind, I may very well be Losing my Religion too.

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Deathly, not Deadly Thoughts…and Fish

I’ve been thinking about suicide a lot this past week.  Murder too.  And no, I’m not planning on taking my own life, nor that of someone else (although I’ll admit, as a wannabe writer, I’ve come up with some plausible, but not-yet-perfect ways to get away with it).

My curiosity stems from excessive screen time over the Easter weekend.  I have to push my limits a little, and I think I did fairly well, considering.

I spent some time with my folks.  The Bean was watching a movie called A Father’s Nightmare which I only caught the last fifteen minutes of but was able to pretty much piece the story together without much background info.

This was followed by Bird Box, starring Sandra Bullock (who at 54 could still pull off the role of a pregnant woman).  Now, I hate spoiler alerts, so I’m not going to be a tell-all and ruin the movie for those of you who may want to watch it.  All I’m going to say is that it’s not the best movie to watch if you’re on medication that may exacerbate suicidal tendencies nor if you’re prone to overthinking.  I’m still wondering why some people became zombie-like, immune to the unseen force that drove others to kill themselves. Despite being in both categories, I quite enjoyed it.  My rating is 7.2/10

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On Monday I saw Chanté for a quick cup of Chai.  She asked about The Sperm Donor and what I’d done the weekend.  Turns out her hubby also wishes she’d change the channel off Crime and Investigation; she reckons she’s becoming clever.  We’re both in agreement on one thing:  We believe everyone has a breaking point where they can snap and commit murder.

The same evening, I saw Martha for dinner.  We didn’t discuss murder or suicide.  Damn pity, because she often has a very logical take on things so it would have been an interesting debate.  She did tell me about a book she’s reading about people’s near-death-experiences.

Last night I had hake in coconut cream, with salad, sweet potato fries and rice.

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The friend, Esmeralda (whom I dragged out in attempt to make her feel better about a crap situation) had pizza.  I obviously can’t go into detail as to what said shit-storm entails, but she did say I am so tired of it; that (wo)man is going to drive me to suicide.  I don’t think I’ve ever heard her utter the word suicide in the fifteen-plus years I’ve known her.  She kind of changed when the situation started, but every time I see her, she seems more emotional, whether angry, sad, or frustrated.  Like me, I don’t think she’d ever put action to her words, but as her friend I feel helpless as I watch her fall deeper into a fit of self-doubt.

One thing I do know is if she had to commit murder I’d probably be the one she’d call to help her bury the body, like Gabby did with Bree and Lynette, because at the rate we’re both going, we are our own brand of Desperate Housewives, living in our very own Wisteria Lane.

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It’s Been a While…

…since I read an article which I could write a humourous response to, but thanks to Cosmopolitan online, I came across this article entitled Danger Phrases as well as Bad Ways to Get Over Him.

The former deals with being careful when a close friend begins a sentence with the phrases in bold print. My tongue-in-cheek replies in blue:

No offence, but… Oh joy, here we go again! She is going to  tell me that I should have worn the dark brown snakeskin boots instead of my sassy red heels…doesn’t she realize they’re just easier to take off in a moment of unadulterated lust?

Well, in my expert opinion…Well, you are not an expert are you?  If you were, you’d be rich because real experts charge by the hour, and they sit behind a desk, as opposed to lying spread-eagled, naked on top of it…

He seems like a nice guy, yet…there is something you just can’t get your finger on.  Yes girlfriend, he has red hair, he did experiment with the same sex in college, he is 10 years older than me, but believe me, he knows his onions – both in the kitchen and between the sheets.

Trust me, I know what I’m talking about. I watch Tyra. And listen to weird “psychics”…

I had this bizarre dream about your relationship. If it involved strawberry cheesecake, space pods, Dr Who, elephants, champagne and Venice, I want to know all about it.

I’m not trying to tell you what to do. Still… you’re going to anyway.  Sorry, I wasn’t listening; I was too busy daydreaming about David Tennant doing unspeakable things to me.

This is going to sound crazy, I know…crazy is normal for you my friend, don’t worry.

Please don’t be furious, but…you took my Ferrari for a spin around town.  I know, my butler saw you, my pool guy saw you, my attorney saw you – even my dentist saw you.  Don’t you know that we live in a small town?

Heidi on The Hills was actually in a similar situation, and…Who?!

According to my psychic friend…is her name Tyra?

The second article is entitled Bad Ways to Get Over Him.

Decide to celebrate your new single status with an Under the Tuscan Sun holiday, but due to financial limitations, wind up on a trip that’s not filled with amorous foreign men, but kids screaming ‘Marco!… Polo!’ in your budget-hotel pool.

Rather go on a 5-day cruise.  It’s affordable, fun, as good as an Under the Tuscan Sun holiday and there are enough gorgeous, single, eligible guys on board to flirt, swim and get lucky with.  What’s even better is that what happens on board, stays on board.

Wallow in self-pity and listen to every song Chris Isaak has ever written.

Rather put on some feel good music like Walking on Sunshine, I’m Still Standing and I Will Survive.  After all, it’s his loss.

Get a cat… then two… then 30.

Having pets is expensive, especially 30 of them.  Rather spend some money on some sexy shoes, lingerie or a nice handbag.  All these things will come in very handy when you go on the cruise holiday.

Donate all the gifts he’s ever bought you to a second-hand shop, only to buy them back the next day.

Donate the stuff you really never liked in the first place, sell the really expensive stuff, use the money to buy some good wine or champers and have a bonfire with your girlfriends using the really cheap stuff he gave you for tinder.

Immerse yourself in new hobbies – drinking, smoking and staying out all night – until you not only forget about him, but also forget you have a job, leading you to show up at work in a cocktail dress and purple, sequinned stilettos.

If your boss is a woman, you could negotiate a no-warning-for the-stilettos…  not!

Indulge in retail therapy and buy a dress that’s so expensive you have to live without electricity for a month.

See – they talk about a dress here.  I said you should buy sexy shoes, lingerie and a nice handbag.

Leave him a message to let him know you’re so over him. Then, call a dozen more times to re-emphasise that you’re so over him so big time and you just wanted him to know for sure.

Girl, you can spend your airtime on somebody worth it.  Hell, the less calls you make, the more money you’ll have for the cruise and the accessories.

Rebound with a guy who looks just like your ex – except he’s five inches shorter and 50% balder.

Trust me, this one is right on the money.

Take a break from the tyranny of male standards of beauty by refusing to remove any of your body hair.

Hairy legs and armpits are not going to score you points when some virile twenty-something comes up to you with a margarita asking you to show him your tattoo in his cabin.

Show him you’ve truly moved on by sleeping with his best friend, his boss and the bartender at his favourite watering hole.

Best revenge if you live at the coast is to get some red bait, get his car’s hubcaps off and stick the red bait inside.  Alternatively parmesan cheese all over the engine works just as well.  The smell will be so bad that he will eventually have to sell the car – and we all know how men feel about their cars…