I had an afternoon nap earlier this week. It was hot, I'd overeaten for lunch (on salad - can you believe I overate on bloody salad??) and felt unspeakably tired after lunch. It was as if I was being sent to sleep. I had decided to read for fifteen minutes after lunch but couldn't keep my eyes open, and lay on the sofa instead.
I dreamed of Mum, and I do wonder if she sent me to sleep for that purpose. I'm sure she still hangs around here.
Anyway, in the dream I was sorting out the broom cupboard. Last weekend G and I bought a new long-handled dustpan and brush (we do SUCH exciting things together) and I promised to move the old one out of the cupboard and take it to the garage for use down there and on the path and driveway. Lazy me, I hadn't done it at that point.
But in my dream I picked it out of the cupboard, and had the new one in my hand too. Mum was standing next to me in the hall.
"I'll just sweep the kitchen floor," I told her, brandishing the new dustpan.
"No, you don't have to do that right now," she said, a little mysteriously. She was hiding something.
"But it's dirty."
"You won't want to go in there."
"There's a spider, isn't there?" I said anxiously. I loathe spiders - specifically the big bastards such as the Huntsmans we get occasionally clinging to the ceiling.
Mum nodded. I peered into the kitchen and looked up. No sign of it; I went in slowly, around to the cooking area. Aaargh! There it was, above the oven. I squealed and ran back out to the hall and Mum.
And woke up about then.
Honestly, the dream was so vivid I was sure Mum was still alive and with me. And that there was a spider in the kitchen. I wish the former were true with all my heart. I was so convinced I'd had a spider warning I went into the kitchen warily and looked everywhere. I've been checking every ceiling in the house since then.
I think earlier in this dream I was on the patio. I'd had a cigarette and oh heck, Mum was standing at the door. I must reek of smoke, I thought despairingly, knowing how much she disapproved of smoking. I was being very edgy and trying not to get too close to her so she wouldn't smell it on me. I think I had a broom in my hand and was sweeping up outside. Mum was saying something about cigarettes but I can't remember what. That part of the dream wasn't as real and vivid as the spider bit.
Although it's been a stinking hot week here I haven't had that desperate urge to sleep, the sense that I can't stay awake, since the spider dream. I do believe Mum visited me. Lovely warm feeling!
Friday, January 23, 2015
Wednesday, January 14, 2015
Mess and Mr Turdiman
My husband G is away for a few days for work. After spending almost three weeks solid in his company over the Christmas break, it feels both odd and a relief. Love him as I do, it's nice to have the place to myself for a bit.
He does try hard to pull his weight. He usually does the washing up in the morning (and leaves the sink area a total wet mess afterwards) and helps with the hoovering (but not under furniture or on the top of skirting boards or those other little dust gathering places). He helps hang the washing out and is quite OCD about it: he has to pair all the socks together and drape them in pairs over the line before pegging them, likewise all his undies he has to hang over the line first instead of just grabbing a handful and pegging them. It drives me nuts watching him as it's double handling. When he hangs his shirts out he doesn't always check the sleeves aren't turned up, so he gets a surprise to find that some sleeves on his shirts aren't dry as the cuffs are turned in. I mustn't grumble. Most women would be delighted to have the help.
I've been cleaning the house today. I don't think G realises how messy he can be. Crumbs all over his end of the kitchen table and under his chair. Shoes strewn in several places in the bedroom (despite me fixing up a bigger shoe rack for him in the wardrobe), drawers not closed fully (ooooh, that irks me!), papers left everywhere, and worst of all the pee drops on the loo floor.
Why the hell do men dribble? Can't they wipe their willies with a bit of bog roll? G doesn't even realise he drips. I've pointed it out to him and he's been astonished, but he still dribbles. And it smells. If I get in there quickly enough after him I wipe the floor with loo paper but I still have to mop it at least twice a week.
I have a nose which can be pretty sensitive to smells; on one hand it's nice to get a whiff of someone's perfume and be able to identify it, likewise the scent of a flower while walking along the footpath. But I'm very sensitive to bad pongs.
Which brings me to the other bad pong. Shit. G is a shitter. Some days are double dumpers, some are triple turders. The bloke just can't go once a day. We only have one toilet, so while the holidays were on I had to time my own daily dump between the numerous loo visits of G. I secretly call him Mr Turdiman. He doesn't know this. I've never met anyone who needs to crap so often.
So for a few days I have a clean, tidy house and a toilet that doesn't stink. Everything is in its place. I feel calm. It's like a holiday after the holiday.
He does try hard to pull his weight. He usually does the washing up in the morning (and leaves the sink area a total wet mess afterwards) and helps with the hoovering (but not under furniture or on the top of skirting boards or those other little dust gathering places). He helps hang the washing out and is quite OCD about it: he has to pair all the socks together and drape them in pairs over the line before pegging them, likewise all his undies he has to hang over the line first instead of just grabbing a handful and pegging them. It drives me nuts watching him as it's double handling. When he hangs his shirts out he doesn't always check the sleeves aren't turned up, so he gets a surprise to find that some sleeves on his shirts aren't dry as the cuffs are turned in. I mustn't grumble. Most women would be delighted to have the help.
I've been cleaning the house today. I don't think G realises how messy he can be. Crumbs all over his end of the kitchen table and under his chair. Shoes strewn in several places in the bedroom (despite me fixing up a bigger shoe rack for him in the wardrobe), drawers not closed fully (ooooh, that irks me!), papers left everywhere, and worst of all the pee drops on the loo floor.
Why the hell do men dribble? Can't they wipe their willies with a bit of bog roll? G doesn't even realise he drips. I've pointed it out to him and he's been astonished, but he still dribbles. And it smells. If I get in there quickly enough after him I wipe the floor with loo paper but I still have to mop it at least twice a week.
I have a nose which can be pretty sensitive to smells; on one hand it's nice to get a whiff of someone's perfume and be able to identify it, likewise the scent of a flower while walking along the footpath. But I'm very sensitive to bad pongs.
Which brings me to the other bad pong. Shit. G is a shitter. Some days are double dumpers, some are triple turders. The bloke just can't go once a day. We only have one toilet, so while the holidays were on I had to time my own daily dump between the numerous loo visits of G. I secretly call him Mr Turdiman. He doesn't know this. I've never met anyone who needs to crap so often.
So for a few days I have a clean, tidy house and a toilet that doesn't stink. Everything is in its place. I feel calm. It's like a holiday after the holiday.
Tuesday, January 13, 2015
New Year's Resolution: Grow Some Balls
If there's a problem client roaming around looking for a contractor they are sure to find me. It's as if I have a sign on my back: Use Me And Don't Pay Me.
After giving up hope of getting any money out of The Scarlet Pimpernel - a cunning, conniving cow who racked up thousands of dollars of web and design work with me and didn't pay me, then proceeded to do the same to at least two others - I now have another client who wants me to do work urgently but doesn't have the money to pay.
A friend of mine nicknamed him Mr Twat. I call him Fer-ANK or Fuck Off Frank. Not to his face as I'm a coward. But when I see his name come up on my phone I want to scream or self-harm (keep me away from sharp objects!), so I yell Fuck Off Frank to it several times before I take the call.
Mr Twat is running a conference. Or rather, I'm organising it for him. He wants it to be an annual event. I'm in the throes of organising the third annual conference and he still owes me for the work I did on the first two. He is paying me off whenever he gets a new sponsor for the current conference.
As a business plan goes, it sucks. "I can't pay you unless the conference makes a profit." It's rather like a commission-only sales job, and that is something to which I have never aspired.
Well. I spat the dummy last week. I have been extraordinarily - some say stupidly - generous in the time I've allowed him to pay me off. I've been called daft for still doing work for him but if I stop now I don't like my chances of getting paid as the conference needs to go ahead and make a profit.
The end result of the dummy spit is that Mr Twat rang me yesterday and told me that regardless of whether or not the conference made a profit he would pay me even if it had to come out of his own pocket. I suspect the concept of loaning your own company your own money to pay contractors or bills has only just occurred to him. The rest of us do it all the time.
What really irritates me, aside from the slow payments, is that Mr Twat will phone me on an almost daily basis with more tasks for this wretched event. He will talk on hands free because he's driving, which means essentially he shouts down the phone at me. I hate being shouted at. He also asks if I am in front of my computer or at my system, which truly pisses me off. Apparently I have no right or reason to be anywhere else, as he is often surprised if I tell him that I'm actually not sitting in front of a computer. People seem to think I spend 24/7 at the desk. Perhaps they believe I sleep with my computer, holding my laptop like a lover. I bloody don't.
This year my intent is to grow some balls and spit the dummy at problem clients more often. I have eye problems which mean I can't realistically do a full day's work sitting in front of a computer. My eyes get tired, the left one gets painful and stings. I am now picking and choosing who I work for, and will be moving Mr Twat off my client list once he has paid up in full.
Life's too short.
After giving up hope of getting any money out of The Scarlet Pimpernel - a cunning, conniving cow who racked up thousands of dollars of web and design work with me and didn't pay me, then proceeded to do the same to at least two others - I now have another client who wants me to do work urgently but doesn't have the money to pay.
A friend of mine nicknamed him Mr Twat. I call him Fer-ANK or Fuck Off Frank. Not to his face as I'm a coward. But when I see his name come up on my phone I want to scream or self-harm (keep me away from sharp objects!), so I yell Fuck Off Frank to it several times before I take the call.
Mr Twat is running a conference. Or rather, I'm organising it for him. He wants it to be an annual event. I'm in the throes of organising the third annual conference and he still owes me for the work I did on the first two. He is paying me off whenever he gets a new sponsor for the current conference.
As a business plan goes, it sucks. "I can't pay you unless the conference makes a profit." It's rather like a commission-only sales job, and that is something to which I have never aspired.
Well. I spat the dummy last week. I have been extraordinarily - some say stupidly - generous in the time I've allowed him to pay me off. I've been called daft for still doing work for him but if I stop now I don't like my chances of getting paid as the conference needs to go ahead and make a profit.
The end result of the dummy spit is that Mr Twat rang me yesterday and told me that regardless of whether or not the conference made a profit he would pay me even if it had to come out of his own pocket. I suspect the concept of loaning your own company your own money to pay contractors or bills has only just occurred to him. The rest of us do it all the time.
What really irritates me, aside from the slow payments, is that Mr Twat will phone me on an almost daily basis with more tasks for this wretched event. He will talk on hands free because he's driving, which means essentially he shouts down the phone at me. I hate being shouted at. He also asks if I am in front of my computer or at my system, which truly pisses me off. Apparently I have no right or reason to be anywhere else, as he is often surprised if I tell him that I'm actually not sitting in front of a computer. People seem to think I spend 24/7 at the desk. Perhaps they believe I sleep with my computer, holding my laptop like a lover. I bloody don't.
This year my intent is to grow some balls and spit the dummy at problem clients more often. I have eye problems which mean I can't realistically do a full day's work sitting in front of a computer. My eyes get tired, the left one gets painful and stings. I am now picking and choosing who I work for, and will be moving Mr Twat off my client list once he has paid up in full.
Life's too short.
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