. . .that keeps leaving comments like, “I couldn’t understand some parts of this article xxx, but I guess I just need to check some more resources regarding this, because it sounds interesting.” just really needs to get fucked because he is a lame-ass can of spam and I am TIRED of him.

DANIEL! MATE! WHOMEVER THE MOTHERFUCK YOU ARE! STEP OFF BITCH!

Why you ask is Nicole going bonkers?  *87% of her spam comments are from a Daniel person that says something like, ” I didn’t understand what you were saying about  BLAH-BLAH-BLAH (insert random blog post title here) but I will check and—– aghhhhh Nicole shoots herself in he head in the first case of self-inflicted spam-rage.

Spam-rage. I warn ya- It ain’t pretty. Had a friend that made a joke about the gooey jelly gunk surrounding the meat product that is spam. . . He called it after spam. I wonder what Daniel, that spamalishness spam-stud freak will find to say about after spam. . .”

Something tells me it would be. “I couldn’t understand portions of your article about after-spam but I need to look into it more. Happy Tuesday!**

**Those of you that don’t blog do not know the pain that those of us that do go through weeding out the BS from the 1% normal folks that are real actual living breathing creatures and not spiders. If you don’t know what I mean by spider, look it up. I’m too tired (drunk) to explain. . .

Until tomorrow. . . And– Happy Tuesday.

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Nicole: You realize that our friendship is based on whinging and beer?
Al: That’s not quite fair.
Nicole: You’re right.
Al: Thank you.
Nicole: There is also chocolate.
Al: XXXXX the slag from XXX is here.
Nicole: How come?
Al: Dunno. Maybe she’s looking to have some more extra marital sex.
Nicole: Timely that the health e-mail about getting tested for Syphilis was just sent out then.
Al: She went to her hotel at lunch and changed clothes.
Nicole: Maybe she’s going out tonight.
Al: She dressed down.
Nicole: Or she spilled soup or sperm on her skirt.
Al: Mark is asking why I’m laughing.
Nicole: I dare you to tell him.
Al: I’m going to let it pass.

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I’m working on the seating plan for the party. (Seating plan was not my idea. I wanted to people to sit wherever.)

I am trying to control an evil urge. I really want to put all the people that have had one night stands together at one table.

Cross group collaboration indeed. . .

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people that don’t know how to walk down a crowded pavement holding an umbrella without nearly poking the eyes out of everyone around them should be shot.

People that carry big fuck off umbrellas that a Catholic family of twelve can fit under should have their arms and legs ripped off and then be beaten to death with them.

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Our client facing holiday party was at Somerset House last night. You can assume that since I am alive this morning, I did not ice skate.

I decided to dress like a girl and after a bit of vino we were all really flirty with each other. Rav and I did our usual pretend to be lesbian thing for the camera.

Colm looked at the view finder, “Why do I feel I have seen this picture before.”

At one point when we were dancing, one boy who is terribly shy normally and has a partner and I know full well is not even slightly into me was dancing all close. I was surprised, “Don’t do that. Come on, I don’t want to end up on Facebook.”

Lately there have been photos on Facebook posted documenting our team’s Bacchus moments.

It ain’t pretty.

We kept dancing. Why is flirting so fun with people you have zero interest in? At one point, he did the lean in– (again. . . Sooooo not like this guy) and I don’t know why I did this. . . I leaned in too, nipped his bottom lip, pulled back, laughed, then spun away.

Even though it was totally innocent, I am mortified this morning.

The next big party I am helping organise and I think I am going to stay (mostly) sober.

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Eighth grade. Burkholder Junior High. 1983-84. That’s a long time ago. It’s so long ago, Michael Jackson hadn’t become a freak yet.

Time has smoothed out most of my memories and the only thing I remember about that year, besides being generally miserable, is I didn’t have breasts yet and everyone else seemed to, I didn’t go see Van Halen in concert and everyone else seemed to and I didn’t have a Flashdance shirt and everyone else did.

I also remember getting caught changing the grades on my report card because my name wasn’t in the newspaper.

I’ve always been a lazy student and was able to get by because I still got good grades. That all changed in Eighth grade. A few weeks before the first quarter report card came out, I discovered I had three C’s. I couldn’t have C’s! I wasn’t a C student! How was I going to tell my mother?

One afternoon, I somehow got the courage to tell her about one class to gauge her reaction. Would I be killed, seriously maimed or just not spoken to for a very long time?

She was. . . shall we say. . . not pleased.

After, I knew the smart move would have been to tell her about all three C’s at the same time rather than drag out the torture. I also knew there was no way in hell I could tell her about the remaining classes.

Being a creative girl, the answer presented itself clearly. All I needed to do was to change the grades.

In those days, the report card was given to us on a flimsy bit of paper and the grades were printed with a light dot matrix. I took a pencil and lightly ran it over all of the lines on the entire report. The C’s became B’s.

My death was avoided.

How my parents didn’t see the report card wasn’t sound, I don’t know. Foolish trust? I was a ridiculously good kid. It bought me some currency.

You would imagine that I buckled down and made sure my grades went up. That would have been the smart move. The next quarter, I earned C’s in the same three classes and I decided to change all three C’s to B’s this time. The problem was if this were my actual report card, I would have been on the honor roll.

I knew my mom. She would be telling my grandparents, the neighbors and random strangers in bathrooms that I was on the honor roll. The accomplishment of your children was serious currency. This in itself would not pose a problem. The problem was where we lived.

Henderson is a small town just outside Las Vegas, Nevada. Now, Las Vegas sprawl bleeds into Henderson, but in the 1980’s city lines were much more distinct. It was like living in a small town with one Catholic Church, one high school, one junior high, one elementary school and one little local paper called The Henderson Home News. The HHN would print such note worthy articles about the turnout at the rodeo, the minutes of the American Legion and Burkholder Junior High’s Honor Roll students.

For weeks after the second forged report card, I grabbed the paper and scanned it for the honor roll. It wasn’t there. I started to breath a bit easier. I had gotten away with it.

One morning, my sister and I were running a bit late and my mom drove us to school. I was in the front passenger seat and there on the floor was the latest edition of The Henderson Home News. I thought about trying to take it with me when I got out of the car but I didn’t see how I could do it without getting caught and having to explain why I wanted it. I ran the odds in my head. What was the likelihood that the article detailing the honor roll students was in this paper?

I knew I was seven out when I was called out of my first class to go to the office. The councilor sat me in a corner. I can’t remember his name, but I remember we saw him and his family at Mass each Sunday.

“Nicole. Do you know why you’re here?”

“No.”

“Your mother called this morning–”

Fuck.

“—and she wanted to know why your name wasn’t on the list of honor roll students printed in the paper. So we pulled your report card—“

Fuckidty-fuck.

“–and told her your grades and it was a complete surprise to her. Do you have any idea why that is?”

I did what any reasonable person would do. Deny, deny, deny, deny. I kept that up for a good hour until my mother showed up.

Not a good scene.

Later at home she told me what really upset her was all this time I had been taking communion while I had been living this lie. I suspect that this was the beginning of my leaving the Catholic Church, but that’s another story altogether.

The next year, my freshman year in High School when I received my first report card, I earned five A’s and one D. The D was in Math. I would be a liar if I didn’t say there was a part of me that didn’t want to try out my art skills on that D but I didn’t.

It was a good thing, because my High School Councilor called my house after seeing the report card. Five A’s and a D was a bit of a red flag and he wanted to make sure there wasn’t a problem.

My mom and I told him no. I just really sucked at Math.

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I will sometimes read the horoscopes of people that I am actively not speaking to and am always a little disappointed that there isn’t a blurb telling that specific person how crap they are as a human being and that they really should just give it all up and throw themselves in front of a train.

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Because one of my favourite past times is driving myself crazy, I like to look at houses I can’t afford and imagine that I can afford them. I’ve done this for years. Here it is worse because even the houses I can afford are out of reach because Stuart doesn’t want to buy. He says that I can buy a place and charge him rent. I may very well do that. I will have a house with a 1950’s diner style kitchen before I die. I will have a red Smeg fridge.

This is the house that I would buy today if I had a spare million pounds. It’s in a fantastic location. Right near Wandsworth Common, walking distance (I think. Stuart would disagree) to Balham, Wandsworth and Clapham Junction stations. Near Northcote Road.

While I love this house on paper (or Website) for its four bedrooms, for the garden and the cellar and the period features. . . what I really love about it is one of the bathrooms. . .

I would spend entire weekends in that bathtub reading. My skin would be perma pruned from lounging in the tub.

I want that house. Hey, we could do it. It’s only £5,400 a month for the mortgage.

Sigh.

Note to self. Buy a lottery ticket.

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*

I blame myself.

There was an ad in a local magazine asking people to either adopt a greyhound or help take them out on walks.

Stuart loves greyhounds so I showed it to him. One of the pictures is a Santa’s Little Helper look alike with huge brown eyes.

Stuart looked at it. “Ohhh!”

“Maybe we could volunteer to walk them.”

“Ohhh!”

“They have a Wimbledon branch.”

“Ohhhhhhh.”

“Sweetie?”

“But then we would want to take one home.”

“We can’t take one home. We can’t have pets and we don’t have a garden.”

I wish we could adopt a dog. I miss having a fuzzy. What was great about my cats was you could leave them alone all day, go out for dinner and they’re okay as long as they have food and water and a clean litter box. Sure they may not be happy with you that you weren’t there worshiping them, but they will be ok.

Dogs, you can’t leave alone in a flat for 12-15 hours unless you like everything chewed up and smelling of poo. Not unless you have a garden.

Yesterday Stuart decided we were going to adopt a greyhound.

“Honey our lease.”

“Leave that to me.”

“What does that mean?”

“What do you think it means?”

“I think you are just going to bring a dog in here when we aren’t supposed to have one.”

“Pffft.”

“And we don’t have a garden.”

“We’ll hire a dog walker.”

I did a quick bit of research and I found a walker in our area that charges ten quid an hour. Times that by five working days and you are talking about fifty quid a week.

All day long Stuart was making plans about the dog. I started to be a bit caught up in it and did some research online and looked at dog personals. But I just knew it would end badly.

“Honey, we would never be able to meet after work for dinner. We’d have to come home first to let the dog out. I think we should wait until of lease is up and then move into a flat with a garden. If you are willing to get a dog walker than you should be willing to pay an extra 200 pounds toward rent.”

“Okay. . .”

He looked like a little boy and I felt like a mean mom.

*This is a picture of Charlie. This is the doggie that I fell in love with looking at the pictures.

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There are certain things for which I am thankful. Like, I have never, not once done the mackarena. See? I don’t even know how to spell it! That is how little I know it.

I am thankful that I now have a DVR once again so I can fast forward and rewind Ugly Betty to my little hearts content. (Can I just say- how fabulous was that series finale? Dad stuck in Mexico with bad things brewing, Betty’s almost boyfriend has to put the brakes on because his just broke up with her girlfriend is up the spout but wait! She has been having an affair with Betty’s Dentist so maybe it isn’t the love of her life’s baby who of course is doing the right thing and moving back with the conniving bitch to Tucson. Alexis rushes an ODing Daniel to the hospital in her/his (she has had a sex change you see) Father’s car.. They are travelling down a long windy road which is strange since the magazine is in Manhattan, but you think that maybe they are going to run into their mother who is making a prison break on a dark road very similar to the road that they are travelling on, but No! All is not well because THEY REALISE THAT THE BRAKES HAVE BEEN CUT! – See, the thing is, Alexis paid a hit man to kill her /his father. He/She didn’t know how, didn’t know when, (Can I just say, not a smart time to borrow Daddy’s Porsche). CUE BIG CAR CRASH. Are they alive or dead bloody but still attractive shot, which is a miracle of physics given how fast they were going on the WINDY ROAD WHEN THEY REALISED THE BRAKES WHERE CUT! The receptionist discovers she is the daughter of the murdered Fay Summers. . . not to mention the shooting of Santos. I got a bit teary, I don’t mind telling you, although that might have been the 2nd glass of wine hitting my blood stream. It was just too much along with the junior high acting scenes of ‘West Side Story’ (Okay how fucking cute is Mark Indelicato?)

The third thing I am thankful for.

No matter how sloppy I may look.

No matter how schlumpy.

I will always remember to wear pants/trousers.

I’m funny that way.

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