Women Skids

toilet

noun toi·let \ˈti-lət\

: a large bowl attached to a pipe that is used for getting rid of bodily waste and then flushed with water

: the act or process of washing and dressing yourself


Now we have that out the way I just wanna express a few thoughts on the subject.

Having a crap is something none of us can delay or avoid. It doesn’t matter who you are, laying a cable is inevitable and sometimes occurs at the most inconvenient times. We all know that.

Using a toilet that has been inconveniently used by someone else, prior to you entering the bathroom has to be the pinnacle of being on the ‘arse-end’ of inconvenient craps. Limited stalls in a communal bathroom often means using a stall that should be a quarantined area, just to bang out a pee. Inspecting a bowl before you sit is important. Skiddies sprayed around the bowl resembling something like what six ducks would leave behind had they been sitting on the rim of the bowl and dropping a load down the side. How do people, particularly WOMEN, get shit in these areas of the bowl without spraying their arse cheeks with their own feces? Surely you know you’re sitting all cock-eyed with one leg crossed or something to enable you to hit the rim of a porcelain bus with excrement? And, whats with fucking leaving the shit there? How hard is it to use the brush BESIDE THE FUCKING TOILET to clean your arse-bomb-mess up?

Sitting in a stench that you can chew on is bad enough, whilst holding your breath with your jumper pulled over your nose and mouth for double ‘protection’ – yeah don’t bust my false sense of security there – let alone while washing your hands after your pee as someone else enters the bathroom and is confronted by the smell you’re chewing on… AWKS! “It’s not mine, I swear” is plastered across your face as your darting eyes avoid contact with the other party through the mirrors. Holding your breath only makes your facial expressions more exaggerated and guilty looking, and looking guilty is actually better than breathing in that fecal air. Lesser of two evils wins hands down while the entire building complex has decided to have a pee while you’re looking guilty of chewing on poo stink!

I thought that working along side 12 male truck drivers with just the one toilet was bad. Some days at the depot was pretty surreal and the angles of skiddies in that bowl were pretty incredible… but I was wrong… dead-animal arse-stink wrong. The building complex I now work in has a female communal bathroom with two stalls. You would think the words female and office to be security enough to believe that it would be relatively clean, yes? Uh UH!! Nope, it’s the bloody worst. What the hell are these women eating? Daily you will be confronted with a skiddy that runs the length of the bowl, and if you’re lucky enough, you might even get a skiddy with sixteen skiddy mates who are sprayed around the entire bowl. Really skiddies are harmless right? It’s the smell that gets trapped in the bathroom the size of a pantry that you can’t swing a cat in that frightens me. Why is there no industrial extraction fan? Or even a can of Glen20?

Today, just 30 minutes after I had been to pee and admittedly they were spotless when I was in there, (of course lol) my colleague used the bathroom to find old Henry the Skidburger laid out fresh in the toilet. In that 30 minutes, some chick has been in there and dropped a cable leaving her mess. I just really don’t understand it. Can someone please explain it to me? Why don’t they brush after they flush, and then flush again? Just plain old fucking lazy or perhaps a form of denial, like a conscious thought “that’s not mine, I wouldn’t do that”. Either way, Andy, It wasn’t me! Ha ha!!

 

While I was Sleeping?

I turned forty today.

Yup, I actually made it to an age I once thought was ‘old’. I actually remember thinking, as I watched my parents make speeches about two decades ago at their own fortieths, that they were fucking old. In reality its really quite young. Sure forty years sounds like a long time, and I guess it is, but when you add the fact that we sleep about a third of it and that most women live to around 85 years of age, I’m not even half way there yet… Bonus right!?

I don’t even feel thirty, and that’s a fact. What is it to feel thirty? Or even forty for that matter? You don’t physically feel your arse start sagging, that shit just happens when you take off your firm hold tights. Nor do you see the wrinkles and lines form on your face, those fuckers just turn up in the mirror after a night on the red wine when your face has been mashed against a pillow for eight hours. Not that I’m whining about it, I’m not actually, I have embraced the whole process and appreciate the few lines I have around my eyes and (under my breath) my mothers jowls. The sagging arse isn’t so great but at the end of the day, I love my curves and if sagging is a part of that, then so be it. The Earths gravity is still working!

The grey hairs don’t bother me either, not that I have many and I think I am pretty lucky compared to some others younger than me who are salt and pepper already. That’s what’s great about ageing, the whole randomness of it all and the unpredictability of it, even the genetics involved and how our bodies and minds morph to cope with it. It really is a miraculous process in my mind. Why fight it? It’s a battle we shouldn’t fight so just go for the ride.

So my question was, what is it to be forty? I believe it is more about wisdom and life experience, the knowing who you are and being happy with who you are; and the where you’ve come from because it is this one thing that keeps you centred and grounded; and perhaps even knowing where you are going, but to me this isn’t so important, because living in the now is what matters.

Forty is fucking fabulous. Today has been the most amazing day and not because I received some beautiful gifts and was spoiled rotten (and I was!). It was hands down one of the best days of my life because the people around me told me so, they showed me so and to have all of that love and energy flowing around me, near and far means more to me than anything else in this world.

Being a part of something beautiful is rare and what I have is truly beautiful. My forty years has revealed a whole bunch of amazing things; it’s grown strong bonds with my sisters through love and adversity, over half of my life has included the one love of my life and he STILL rocks my world 23 years later, I have two awesome kids who make me so very proud every day, my golden nugget is my best friend and soul mate of 33 years who means the world to me, I won’t forget circle of friends I hold true and are many and very varied but I am so blessed to have such a loyal and honourable nest of friends in my life.

Is there really anything not to be thankful for?

Thank you everyone for my beautiful life. Humble.

Make sure you turn the teapot twice clockwise and once anticlockwise!

Nom

Silver Balls

I was prepping for a cake today, working out what I needed to get from my suppliers, ruffling through my “cake decorating cupboard” in the laundry, because clearly I have so much cake decorating shit that it all needs a cupboard of its own to house it all. Anyways, I stack up a pile of mini plastic containers similar to the round takeaway tubs you get Chinese food in, full of varying sized and shaped little silver balls. Cachous balls. It was the leaning tower of cachous balls, which I managed to move from one shelf to the shelf below easily. Phew!

Shazzam!! My fucking hand has a Tourette moment and flicks the cachous tub tower off the shelf onto the floor below.

FUCK!!!!!

CCCCCSShhhhhhh, all over my laundry floor. I look at the floor in horror. Silver fucking balls rolling all over the place. My first thought was, how the hell am I going to clean up all these balls? They’re in the linen closet, under the washing machine, under the cake cupboard, scattered through the basket of clean washing next to the cupboard because they fucking bounce! Did you know they bounce? Yup all the way out into my dining room, under the dining table and computer table on the other side of the room. A thousand silver balls lying all over my tiles. The house we live in is ageing and ready to be regrouted. Deep cracks lay between many of the existing tiles as there is little or no grout left between the tiles, so all those groutless cracks now have lines of pretty little silver balls, all lined up in them… Cachous grout, oh yeah!

Shaking my head and half laughing to myself I reached for the brush and shovel to start the clean up. You know those little kids loot bag party favours, with the little silver balls inside the sealed box, where you have to get the little silver balls into the little randomly placed holes, or through a maze and they roll around and near and over and then around again and you can never get them in the fucking hole? Well, this is EXACTLY how sweeping a thousand little silver cachous balls into a plastic shovel with a brush is. They flick into the shovel, hit the back wall of it and bounce back out… repeat the process for another whole half hour as I crawl over the laundry floor and dining room floor sweeping and chasing the thousand silver balls all over the place and from between the tiles.

Yes, I was laughing, scoffing at myself sweeping balls up and watching them miss this hole the size of a shovel and watching them bounce back out like a GAZILLION times! FML right now. If I didn’t laugh I would have been crying or rocking in a corner in a foetal position.

Half a shovel of cachous balls later, I finally decided to give up and wait for the vacuuming tomorrow! I need to finish this cake…

Make sure you turn the teapot twice clockwise and once anticlockwise!

Nom