Sleeping dogs lie

Hi.

I'm typing quietly (trying to) while Dag, Fizz and Rich sleep.

Haven't checked to see how long it is since I last did anything on here, but some news. Firstly, Dag tried to eat one of the rabbits (he killed him pretty much instantly). Those who know me, know what happened next. I don't like to talk about it, mainly because people think I'm a bit Dexter.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dexter_(TV_series)

So bye-bye, Buja.

What else... went for an interview, for the same job, but more hours. Didn't get it. Felt a bit 'fuck it'. Still do.

Rich got invited to apply for a job in the Black Forest... the job was a back-step in terms of what he wants to do with his career, so it was a no-go. Sad face. Richard also learned how to be a plumber yesterday, when the pipes in the bathroom went a bit shit (they were old) after he replaced the bath. There is no doubt in my mind that he only finished the job because it meant he could buy a blowtorch. He said last night in the pub that his Dad was more proud of him fixing the pipes than working for the BBC... on THIS:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/doctorwho/dw/theadventuregames

In a way, I am too. He's been drawing all his life, it's his natural talent and he's honed those skills for years, but plumbing is a foray into the vast depths of unknown. Plus the gaps were really small and he has proper sausage fingers. (Sorry, honey. It's no secret.)

I went to a hen-do in Whitby, and almost got a tattoo; more on that when I get it. I also went to the wedding: Emily Sandhu is now Emily Hart. And, I suspect, back from her 3-week honeymoon. (She doesn't read this, but: TEXT ME BACK, woman.) It was lovely. I took some photographs for her. Here's one of the lovely bride, who bossed me around for about a year while I worked at Halifax:



And this is one she took of me and Rich. I believe I was saying something like, that's enough, woman, I want it back now.



It made me want to look at pretty dresses. So I did. :) I love this:

http://www.etsy.com/listing/48445489/white-wedding-gown?ref=v1_other_2

- though it's a far cry from the original search I did, which brought up this:

http://nibsblog.files.wordpress.com/2008/11/opt-black-lace-gown.jpg

Ahhh... black lace. Yum.

Anyway, what else... went to see the parents this weekend. That was fun, and brilliant because the dogs got on like they were little brothers and sisters (though technically, in the world of adopted dog children, Hiltz is Fizz and Dag's uncle). Very cute. Hiltz (my dad's dog) is a little poorly but will hopefully be better soon - they suspect he has a duff pancreas so he needs some Creon capsules in his life. One of the kids I work with takes them, so when Dad told me, I was like, ooh, miss, I know the answer! - swot. Got TWO banana bread loaves from Rich's mum Christine (heavenly, that was - toasted, with butter. Unrivalled...) and some cooking apples from my dad, so I'll be baking an apple cake today, I think. We had lunch on Sunday - Jimbo and Rikkitikki were there, with girlfriends I might add - Hello, Kelly and Katrina - and of course, Joe was home too. He introduced me to Jon Mayer, not in person, but via youtube - very talented guitarist. Worth a google.

Last night I drank two halves of cider and I've never been so drunk. It was less than 5%. I blame sleep deprivation. Either that or I'm turning Japanese.

(Sorry about the lack of clickable links... Blogger is being a dick.)

Bat of Nat, Bat of Nat, where have you been?

I've been on the big ship!

A ship so big that Charlie (who's two) couldn't get his head around us being on a big ship, and kept asking to go on the big ship. You just try and explain that one to him.

I haven't been on the big ship all this time. Just last week. Before that I was finishing my creative writing course and working, and spending too much time... oh, heck. On Facebook. I know. Sorry. It's crossed the line, though, and given me a good reason to almost abandon it. Almost, because I'm using it to keep in touch with someone I know through Rich who was diagnosed with Leukaemia recently, plus his fiancée who is in the process of moving to Sheffield. I'll probably miss everyone else's news. (That means both of you, sister-cousins, so when you have your babies, you had better let me know.)

Let's just pause for a moment and say hi to those bumps. Particularly Laura's, who is due TODAY. You're running out of time, bump. Pull your soon-to-be-acquired tiny white socks up.

So, yes, I've been on holiday! A proper holiday, not one that involves rope or rubber shoes or rocks of any kind (well, other than nasty yet expensive ones made of compacted carbon). It was Rich's Dad's 60th so that meant we all got to go on a cruise... I'm not sure how that works either, but I don't look them gifthorses in their mouths, no sir. I am tanned! And I didn't put any weight on either, which is quite phenomenal, when I think of what we ate. Best not to think about it, really, or I will stop writing and simply pine. It was truly a cruise of loveliness. Ahhhhhhh.

But, back to reality. Or to pre-holiday reality, since there's a lot more of that to write about. Like... erm. I'm not sure, actually. All I really seem to do is wash up and brush dogs' teeth. Think, Natalie.

Ah, yes. I wrote a monologue from the perspective of a snail.

It's been marked, I'm not sure whether I can post it yet, but it scored well - just a shame it was too short for the assignment. I was dead set on writing a monologue for as my chosen publication, so that was that. (Read: Didn't have enough time to research something else.) The final biggie mcbiggington was sent via post and hasn't been marked yet. Or has, but is in a batch that haven't. Or something. I dunno when I'll get the lowdown on that one. But I feel rather free, now. I've actually been thinking of things to write in my little red notebook. Not got round to writing them yet, but the thought is present, and that's a start.

Here is a snail.



That's right, it's an origami snail.

Because: Something else I haven't done yet but would like to, is make origami earrings, since this was the only interesting post on FB after a week away from the dratted thing. God bless Wikihow. Hm. So, this isn't the most interesting blog post I've written. But before I go, I'l share two facts that I learned yesterday.

1: Contrary to what you might have read, lettuce freezes very well. It only loses the plot when you defrost it.

2: Lettuce makes surprisingly nice curry.

Ok, that's all for now. I'll go back to the notebook and think of some interesting stuff to write next time.

Hello there.
I've been forcing myself to write poetry all day, so bear with me.
Last proper entry on here - bit grim? Thought so. My apologies. Let's just say, since then, things are improving.. I didn't even panic today with one day to face up to the fact that I've done less than one week of work for the assignment due on Friday.. Still. Poetry. What's it all about, eh? Well, drunk Irish men and my Grandad, actually, but they're both stories to be told with the luxury of a computer, or some qwerty setup, at least. I am in fact typing this in on my bloody mobile, which is held together with a complex assembly of finger and masking tape. It's unique, I'll allow. So. Poetry. Yeah. The word makes me want to smash things. That's bad, isn't it. Lets not dwell.

What can I update you on? I've been to see some kind of tribute act that never was, full of prancers, everyone knew each other, everyone a performer. Some I've seen before. Quite a tight group. But it was funny, and even though the cider has given me stomach ache, and Fizz chewed up my headphones while we were out, I'm glad we went. A fair few of the people there are part of a trapeze group that I really ought to get involved in, and stop grumping about being an outsider. Y'know, people that'll appreciate the hair dye dilemmas (can you believe, my mother laughed at me when I said I was nearly 26 and still debating whether to dye my hair again) and all that shit. Or not. The trapeze stuff looked fun, anyway, last time I watched those people doing that stuff. Except Richard the Gymnast will kick arse at it and make me cross. Which brings me to my next point - I need some drumkit in my life. That's right. The eldest Jordan has no rhythm! I don't know why. He can dance well enough. So I have one chance to excel where he cannot. Other than being able to flex both wrists and straighten both little fingers, neither of which I really consider true talents; more a result of my not knackering myself in my earlier years. The hibernation years, we'll call them. So I'm calling all egg eaters to save their egg boxes for me. Can't have the neighbours putting a stop to my superiority plans. I will reign supreme! Also, I have visions of a cute sibling drum duet. A bit of QOTSA, the Dave Grohl era, oh yes. And whatever else. The sibling doesn't know yet.

Yes, well. Bit tipsy, we are. Sleep we shall. Wish me luck for poetry TMA 3, Y'all, yo?

Hole

It's not working.

I'm still a shit.

Competition

Richard has been blogging more than me. I can't have this. I haven't been doing my OU work, either, which is worse. Work this afternoon. Work is getting better. Still not great, but I do have days where I enjoy what I'm doing. It's when I get home and remember all the little things I've done badly or not fast enough that I start to think I don't want to go back again. I wonder how long that's going to go on for.

As for the stupid pill. It was fine for a while (Richard even commented on how nice I was to be around, if you can believe that) apart from a little side effect that abolished the system of periods and instead established the 'whenever I fucking feel like it, you're having a Dolmio day' routine.

N.B: The Dolmio thing is Laura's joke, I can't take credit.

N.B: Dolmio is a fucking stupid word.

It did say in the leaflet that this might happen. So I waited patiently, and while I waited, I put some weight on, got some bad skin, and got GRUMPY. Not just grumpy. Outraged and emotional. Defensive. Ridiculous. At the moment, I am still functioning like an Italian restaurant, and I have a pizza face. But this is good. This means I have a very good reason to shove the implant up someone else's arse. (For the record, I am aware that this is not where they usually implant the implant.) It also means I've tried enough of the fuckers to demand something better, regardless of how much it costs the NHS. That's what I involuntarily wedge chunks out of my income for, is it not?

Dear me. The topic of my blog has become my battle with hormones.

Sorry about that.

Oh. I got 71 for my first creative writing TMA. Oh, yeah.

The heating is broken, the part for it cost about £90 including VAT and postage and all that shit. Don't even know whether that'll actually fix it.

We got some new (second-hand) sofas. We painted the dining room a lighter colour to avoid depression.

Oh yeah, it's been a while - I'm going to be a Godparent. That's right. And I've just finished reading The God Delusion. Oh, fucking yeah. I intend to smile sweetly in my white flowery dress (and red heels; I'm not sure how they'll go down) and answer all the questions and agree to look after Alfie's religious and spiritual wellbeing. But not mention that I haven't been christened, myself. And afterwards, present him with a massive encyclopedia, hopefully with a really fat section on evolution. And 'The Owl Who Was Afraid Of The Dark', because the dream catcher isn't working and he can't remember what his bad dreams are. Dolmio Laura said this would be the only legitimate time for me to wear wings. Fairy Godmother. I have a necklace on which is a heart with one wing, so that'll be a start. I might save them til later. I might make ALL the godparents wear them, that'd be fun. Richard wouldn't protest, but Shaun might...

Having burned myself in front of the gas fire, it's time to get dressed and walk this gurgling dog. She's being a dogfood snob because I've had homemade pizza for breakfast.

Have happy times. x

Dur Brain

I'm watching videos. I love how Michael McDonald's beard makes him look like his mouth is just opening and closing without forming shapes when he sings. Like a restricted fish. I think it's just the top lip. Or maybe he doesn't actually move his mouth much. Who knows. It's amazing how that voice comes out of such a little escape hatch.

Anyway. About half an hour ago, I was at the doctor's. Maybe more like an hour and a bit ago. Losing the plot. It's a fallacy that your host is able to talk to anyone in any situation. I used to be all wibbly around authority figures but that's largely disappeared from my repertoire now, and I'm known for being able to talk absolute shit to absolutely anyone and feel like I'm making a positive imnpression. I should add that it all gets deconstructed later and I actually become myself and get to know the other, and once this has happened I never remember how I behaved when I first met the person. The one exception to the confident codshit rule is the minute I walk into a doctor's surgery. I immedately feel like I won't be believed and I shouldn't be there anyway. I get so nervous I can't speak and I have to fight back tears. TEARS. From the woman who wishes she cried like she used to, instead of getting angry, which is what she always does now and always used to wish she could do. Self-pitying and self-righteous don't really come into it. I think hormones might. The doctor (Hakes? It's another new one) heard and probably saw enough to recommend changing my pill. They're pushing the implant there, though, and this new pill is constructed very similarly, so it's basically a trial run, and if I don't die, they'll tell me to get a piece of plastic in my arm.

Fuck off.

Anyway #2. My bank balance is, for me, extremely good. Before that provokes an outcry, it's not good per se. It's just really good for me, because I'm on target. And you have no idea how unhappening that happening usually is.

To quote Brook: In other news...

Fizz had her lady parts removed yesterday and is recovering on the sofa. She was a zombie dog last night. She didn't even wag her tail when I came home, which she had done for Rich, who took her to the damn vets' in the first place. My god, the guilt I felt when she left yesterday morning, full of excitement at the thought, could it be? A first-thing walk. Before breakfast, even. As time would have it, the vets' didn't open at half 7 like it said online. It opened at 9. Richard sent me a picture of Fizz out and about, which I must have read in my sleep because I found it last night, looking to delete my messages.

This morning, she ate sardines out of my hand then got up to select the best bits from her bowl, mainly the cheese and liver, and have a drink. Relief. And not just for me, I'd imagine. Her belly was going bonkers last night. The poor thing was just managing to grow her beautiful coat back and now she's got a bald ... bit. I'm not sure what that particular part of her is called. Back belly. Abdomen? Phneh. I know it's necessary. It's just not pleasant seeing your first lady dog in pain, out of it.

Dur brain is what my brothers and I called each other when we were kids. It's how I felt after I messaged Rich to tell him what an utter flid I'd been at the Doc's. And now I know how Joan of Arc felt, la la la la. The image is a total steal but I love it. It's what happened when I typed Dur Brain into google images. It's a sign that I have to turn my dur brains into iron mans. Definitely.

I have many small unconnected things to say.

Which begs the question, why am I doing this if I don't feel like I have anything to write? Well, writing is a pig. Sometimes you stand in front of a closed door wondering why you don't see any action outside it. You need to force something forwards before things start rushing in towards you. So that is why I'm writing on here, and it's also (one of) the reasons I've boycotted facebook. Because I have one of those switches in my head that, once it's on, is happy for me to sit and click - click - click - click - through. Through anything. For no reason. Obsessions are born through tedium and mindless repetition. If it's mindless, it means nothing, including no harm.

WRONG.

It's the most dangerous form of semi-involuntary action there is. I was going to say apart from sneezing while driving, but I don't think that's voluntary at all, unless someone's cleverer than me and has figured out how to do it for fun.

Another reason : I sit and think of one-liners in the third person, arbitrarily. "Natalie just saw a Dalek in Hathersage" was one, the other day, that I caught myself composing. (For the record, I usually put full stops at the end of my status updates because not doing so would equate to shredding the last of my dignity for the online community to see. Not that they'd notice, or particularly care.)

Another reason: I find myself lying and saying I read something on a blog or that someone sent me a message, so that I don't have to say "I was on facebook and my brother's friend said..." particularly to my other half, who thinks I'm a loser internet addict charity shop addict nincompoop anyway. I just googled nincompoop and I now want to watch the nincompoop championships on metacafe. See? SEE? He's right.

Nik is right, too. I was most offended when she called me a loser that spends her whole life on facebook. In my defense, at the time, I was starving and it was a distraction from eating all the food I'd made for friends that were late coming over... it calms the waves of my brain. It's that dull repetition thing again. It's better than tetris, absolutely. But it had to come out some time. Better that there was a valid excuse (not that Nik had any of it) and I could bow out gracefully before it was too late. HAH.

Natalie has not been on Facebook since Nik called her a loser that spends her life on facebook.

I think this is an achievement.

I've also been meaning to write on here again for ages... and I met a girl yesterday who told me she writes. "I used to do that." Yeah, she carries a notebook everywhere with her. "I did that, too." Add to that the fact that she was overweight but didn't care, that day at least (look, I'm a woman, I know, it's knowable, visible, OK?), pretty but wasn't flaunting, and had moved to Sheffield because she was sick of home, with no job, during a recession and just got on with it... I know she didn't realise how much of a happy heroine she was for me yesterday. When I think, actually, back to how much I actually wrote, I remembered that my mam did my washing and I didn't have a dog (or rent to pay, actually, never mind a mortgage). I didn't even wash up. I was just driven insane by constant dialogue, with no mundane tasks to distract me. Mainly through laziness, not because my mother was stupid. Anyway, threads of thought that I couldn't ignore. So you can see how that could be re-shaped to fit the facebook mire. The trick is, to sit down with one and catch it. Follow it. Move it around, force it to stretch, link it up. Do that with the rest, too. It's a mini miracle. It's taking little fragments, and making them multiply and morph. Not very exciting words to describe such a subtle chancy process, I know. But I could definitely feed five thou' or so with my words. Nourish some people. I've heard a similar story somewhere.

Some of the things I've written in the right frame of mind, that have been lost because they were sent in emails or messages to people, have occasionally been quoted back to me (thanks, Robbo) and I'm a fucking awesome word machine! I'd give a specific example, but I'd have to log onto facebook to pick up the quote and I'm still too sensitive. It's too soon. And anyway, I'm stubborn. Even if I have a reason, I'm not going to go back there.

This still hasn't explained why writing is a pig.

I used to call my brother a pig when we were little. I would whisper it in his ear. He would tell my dad, and I'd say I didn't call him a pig, I said he was pink. Writing is pink. No, writing is a pig. My brother was very sweet. Now he's covered in tattoos, but he's still very sweet. And better at drumming than me (but only because I haven't played for 7 years and he has his own drum kit).

Writing is a pig because as much as it clamours, it also stuffs you up. It fills all the gaps like water. Makes you heavy. Sluggish. And it's all there, but you're not making it move, so you don't really know it's there. It is a stubborn pig. And sometimes, it's all come out, and you've not managed to make it bend to your will, so it just looks like you threw some water on the page.

Or something.

Hey, I tried.