Sick Girl

After a good night out on Friday, I've spent the rest of the weekend in bed with a stinking cold. And I still feel shitty today, hence me posting from home.

When I was first working, I used to pull the odd sickie just for a day at home. But now, I find being at home all day excruciatingly boring. Especially when I am actually ill, because I haven't got the energy or motivation to do anything except lower my IQ with truly terrible daytime TV.

He, of course, has been angelic and patient in taking care of me and bringing me regular doses of Lemsip and trashy magazines all weekend, but as it's Monday he's back at work, so I am alone and bored and feeling physically weak and rubbish and mentally frustrated. Terrible combination.

So basically, I am here just to moan. So I will stop now before you all get bored of me.

Bleurgh

I feel really rough. I wouldn't mind, but it isn't even fun-induced roughness, like a hangover or after-party exhaustion. Nope, I just have a sore throat, a headache, and feel like crap for no reason at all.

Other than that, stuff's okay. But right now I feel too ill and shivery to talk about it.

All You Need is Love

****WARNING - THIS POST CONTAINS SEVERE SOPPINESS. DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE OF A CYNICAL DISPOSITION (UNLESS YOU HAVE PMS, IN WHICH CASE YOU'LL LOVE IT - BUT HAVE THE TISSUES HANDY)****

I have had an absolutely fantastic weekend.

On Saturday, we woke up really early and decided to go into town and have breakfast in our favourite coffee shop which overlooks the river and has nice French pastries and big leather sofas... just a gorgeous start to the day. He then patiently followed me around while I went on a hunt for new trousers. Unbelievably, it was a raging success and I got a pair of wonderfully seventies black flared cords from the sales rack, for a mere tenner! Then compounded that achievement by finding a pair of supercute black ballet style flats for a tenner hidden in amongst all the chavvy stilletoes in New Look. And then we had to go to HMV because He was worried that if He spent any more time in girls' shops, He'd start growing ovaries.

Saturday afternoon was spent playing with my wardrobe and trying on lots of old clothes which are getting closer to fitting again... I've lost at least an inch off my waist thanks to all the exercise torture, so I might as well make the most of it!

Then, in the evening, we curled up on the sofa and listened to music, and talked, and snogged like teenagers, and it was just... (SEVERE SOPPINESS ALERT - YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!)... gorgeous. It feels like by planning Brighton and breaking away from all the shit that's happened over the last year with His family and money and everything else, we're finally able to get back to being 'us' again. Now that all the stress is melting away (and okay, we still have stress, but it's easier because it's all based around Brighton, and we know that it's going to be worth it... if you see what I mean) I can remember why we're together, rather than seeing Him as a sort of team-mate in the fight against the crap being thrown at us. I'm remembering all the reasons why being with Him, marrying Him, was a good idea, and it feels fantastic.

And so, although yesterday was vile, and no-one is speaking to me (and only grudgingly speaking to Him) I don't give a shit. They can all fuck off, because they're miserable, we're happy, and really, what more proof do you need that we're doing the right thing?

Taking the Rough with the Smooth

So, okay, this blog has been a little bit... shall we understate it and say 'negative' this week, yes? So I will try hard with today's post to keep it a bit more cheerful.

That might be hard though, considering we have MIL's birthday dinner with the full Munster clan on Sunday. We have to pay for a roast dinner (ick, my LEAST favourite food unless it's home cooked, and certainly something I despise when it's one of those 'go up and help yourself to meat that's been sitting out for three hours' type affairs), and won't be able to afford enough drink to make me able to stand spending a day with The Narrow Minded Ones. BUT it is a good opportunity to dress inappropriately, grope Him under the table and flirt with waiting staff, since the outlaws already hate me and therefore I can enjoy living up to my reputation as The Harlot Who Stole His Christian Soul. See? I'm putting a positive spin on it!

Okay, try to think of some proper good news...

Well, I cashed in some old premium bonds I found lying around and am now £65 better off. That's good. Especially since my combats have finally died, leaving me with just ONE pair of trousers (jeans) to my name. I feel a shopping trip coming on tomorrow...

What else? Um... After some laziness in the last couple of weeks, I've got back on track with exercise and did Cardiobox on Monday and last night, and Core Stability on Wednesday. That's three workouts in four days - I am an exercise goddess! (And we'll ignore the fact that my stomach muscles ache like fuck, shall we?!)

And finally... (desperately trying to think of something else good)... Oh, I know! We had a fantastic shag last night!

And on that note...

xx

Valentine's Day-bacle

I started writing this yesterday, but got interrupted. So here you are...

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So, the plan for last night was for He and I to stay in, have a pizza and a bottle of wine, watch a DVD, and while not buying into all the Valentine's bullshit, just enjoy some time alone together.

But, at quarter to 7, just as we'd poured our first glasses of wine and settled onto the sofa, MIL rang for Him.

Over an hour and a huge fight later, the phone call was over. As was any chance of us having the nice relaxed evening together that we'd planned.

That woman has no comprehension of how much her fucked up little delusions are upsetting her son. We all know that her ideal would be her and Venus and Cuck and Him all living together in one big house with no husbands/wives around, so that she would be the bloody centre of attention and have her kids (that's 'her' as in property of her) where she still thinks they belong. I mean, for crying out loud, two of them are pushing 40, the other is 25, they're all married, and the older two have children of their own! And yet in her extremely small brain, they should not be permitted to live their own lives or do what makes them happy.

The source of the argument last night? She is throwing a strop because we don't want to spend 3 out of the next 4 weekends doing family shit just because they all seem to have birthdays on top of each others. MIL's, then His, then 007's. All He has said is that He wasn't planning on doing a family thing for His birthday, because we've got MIL's just before and 007's the week after! And yet MIL takes it as a personal insult that she won't see her precious baby boy on his TWENTY-SIXTH birthday! And of course, this all ties into the Brighton move etc etc...

So, big fight, Him really upset, everything ruined as far as our nice evening goes, and why? Because MIL is selfish and deluded. Great. And on Sunday we have to pay money we don't have to go and eat Sunday lunch at some pub with her and the rest of the Munsters for her birthday. Fabulous, just fabulous.

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So, thought for the day: If I blew up a house with all of my in-laws inside, would the police ever believe it was an accident?

Pear Shaped

Not, not me (I'm the top heavy type), but life in general.

Looks like there may be further delays with The Money, hence no move til probably May or June, which is shit. There is a possibility of getting some kind of advance payment, but it doesn't look too likely. Grrr. I'm going to go and try and get it sorted out this morning, but I hold out little hope!!

Have also been enjoying some harassment from a company called Global Vantedge. They are dirt, the scum of the earth, and it's ironic because that's what they obviously think the people they're paid to telephone are, as that's the way they speak to them. These people have rung me at home and at work, harassed me, Him, and my colleagues, and why? They supposedly work for one of my credit card companies. Or at least, they DO work for them, but when I phoned said credit card company this morning, they couldn't explain why the bastards were calling me, as they are satisfied that my account is all fine. Therefore please see a new addition to the 'People I Hate' section on the sidebar. If they ever ring you, don't try to be reasonable with them - just scream "Fuck off, you bloodthirsty lying c*nts!" down the phone and hang up. It won't stop them calling you, but you will feel much better about it...

However, it is Valentines Day, which is an utter pile of poo and purely an excuse for Hallmark to make money, but nonetheless love should be all around and blah blah blah, so in the spirit of this...

...big love to all my readers! I still don't understand why you like reading my inane rantings, but I'm glad that you do.

Mookmoo xx

Hurray for Friday!

I am SO glad this week is over!

I'm going home tonight to clean the house, so that I can spend the rest of the weekend in a state of relaxation doing lovely things like drawing and writing, and not think about any of the following:

Moving
Money
Career

except perhaps in lovely ways like thinking what furniture I want to take with us to Brighton, and how we can buy lovely new things and throw out horrid old ones.

But I am NOT, repeat NOT, going to let myself stress about anything.

Yeah, and we'll see how long that lasts...

2 Big Hard Choices

Big Hard Choice Number 1

Well, we just passed on the flat.

Finally heard from the solicitor this morning, and due to her laziness, papers haven't been signed that should have been, and so it will be at least another three weeks before we will have access to any funds. Add to that a couple of whopping utility bills on the matt last night (sewerage: £112 - never knew shitting was so pricey) and the decision had to be made.

So it's back to the original plan of getting jobs first and a flat later. It's the more sensible choice, sure, but that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt.

Big Hard Choice Number 2

Mookmoo's three career options:

1. Teach at university level
2. Teach English as a foreign language
3. Teach at secondary level

Now, those are pretty much in order of preference. BUT:

Option 1 involves finding the funds to do an MA while still working a 'normal' job, and even after I get the MA there's no guarantee of employment.

Option 2 involves finding the funds to do an EFL teaching qualification, while still working a 'normal' job, and there's no guarantee of finding English teaching work in the UK, or of persuading Him to go and work abroad.

Option 3 involves being paid a £9000 tax free bursary plus a student loan by the government to train, followed by a £2500 Golden Hello after my first year of teaching. So in theory I could do the training (being paid more than I currently earn), teach for a year or two, and if I didn't like it or changed my mind, quit without having lost anything financially, and having gained valuable teaching experience, paid off some of my debts, and generally be in a better position.

Put like that, it's a bit of a no-brainer isn't it?! I think I keep forgetting that I'm only 25, and therefore 'wasting' a few years teaching secondary won't really make much difference overall. And if it lets me pay off some debt, gain some experience, and come out in a financial position to go back to uni and do a full time MA... well, where's the harm?

Solicit This

Not in the best of moods today.

Still waiting for news from the solicitor about the funds. Deadline for the decision on the flat in Brighton is approaching, and unless the incompetent cow pulls her finger out and does the job she's being paid for, we'll have to pass on the flat without actually knowing whether that's really necessary or not. Knowing our luck, the deadline will pass, we'll turn down the offer, and then the stupid bitch will ring with good news. But anyway, I'll throw her off that bridge when we come to it.

On the plus side, I'm going out for dinner with Little Miss C tonight (no, not in that way, I don't sleep with girls anymore) which should be a laugh. At least it makes a change from staring at the phone and willing Dumbdumb the Solicitor to ring.

I've got a real downer on the solicitor today - can you tell?!

Busy Little Bee

Everything is suddenly moving terribly fast.

We may have a flat, as I have already explained, and now I have started actually applying for jobs. Oh, and I'm waiting to hear back from the solicitors about when I might expect to come into funds to make this move happen.

On the negative side, He told Venus about the move to Brighton, which triggered a five hour screaming argument, and now they're not speaking. I'm torn between being secretly quite glad (because the Outlaws need to butt the hell out) and being very upset for Him, who is terribly upset though trying hard to hide it.

I feel like we have moved back into the fast lane after being stuck behind a caravan in the slow lane during a traffic jam. It's exciting, exhilarating, and not a little scary... but it feels like at least we're heading in the right direction at last.

Scary But Good

So, this morning, out of the blue, I hear from a friend (actually Mockley's sis in law) who lives in Brighton. She tells me that they're having to live away from Brighton for work reasons, so do we want to rent their lovely flat from them? We would, I tell her, but we're not going to be able to move til April at the earliest. April's perfect, she says.

So we're going down to see it asap, and if we like it I think we'll commit to it and frantically job hunt. Which hopefully will work out, considering we were planning on doing it the other way round (job then flat).

I'm scared. But in a good way I think. Relocating has suddenly become really real. And I still want to do it (and so does He!). Eek!!!!

Fear and Loathing in Essex

Pub dinner last night was a bit of a nightmare in the end. Having looked forward to it so much, it was ruined by the kind of intolerant fight-hungry chavscum cunts that are so prolific in this dirty hole that maps call Essex. Let me explain...

Got to the pub, ordered some drinks, picked a nice table for two in the almost empty front section of the pub. Sat down, had a good chat, looked at the menu, went up and ordered, enjoyed yummy starters and got started on our main course... and then it all went wrong. Two stereotypical blonde, thick-as-pigshit, whorey chavs came and sat at the table for six next to ours (despite the room being all but empty) and started talking, or should I say shrieking, at each other as loudly as possible. So far, so irritating. But you know, I'm a live-and-let-live type of person, it's a pub (though not normally the sort of pub that attracts the real dregs of 'society'), it's Essex, this is a risk that you run. So, we carry on eating and try to block out the common caterwauling to our left.

But, here comes the heavy artillery. Ten minutes later, three stereotypical scummy male chavs come over and start asking the whorey chav girls if they can sit down. My heart drops. “Only if you have cigarettes” they reply. Classy. But again, you know, live and let live, risk you run, blah de blah, they're only going to make the shit conversation louder, and we can deal with that if we have to. And yes, they're looking round the room like they own the place, and their aura is pretty intimidating, but hey, maybe that's just my paranoia...

But no. As his mates continue to scan the room, we all get to enjoy a loud monologue from Male Chav 1 about how he and his mates have just been released from two years in prison for robbery and assault. Apparently while burgling people's homes they enjoy giving them a good kicking as well, just for the hell of it. They also enjoy attacking people at random while out and about because 'it's fun'. Lovely. The whorey chav girls are actually enjoying this, and it seems to be acting as an aphrodisiac. For Him and I, however, it has a completely opposite effect.

Imagine sitting in an environment that was safe as anything five minutes ago, and is now a danger zone. The eyes of self-congratulatory violent scum are travelling round the room just looking for prey. You find yourself mentally noting every single thing about yourself that marks you out as different from this human filth, everything that marks you out as a good target. I’m not blonde, I’m not thin, I don't have a common voice, I wear more than a bikini top and a miniskirt, I drink wine… It’s the most horrendous feeling.

And so, as quickly and quietly as possible, we left. And I tried to block my ears to the fact that the scum we'd left behind us found it very gratifying that they'd made us go.

And now, fifteen hours, two flood of tears, another sleepless night (I'm having insomnia, I'll tell you some other time), and a long blog entry later, how do I feel? Well, the main thing I'm actually thinking about is how it can be possible not only that people similar to He and I (by which I mean not chav scum) actively choose to live in Essex, but how His family can defend this place to the death, and honestly not understand why we wouldn't want to live here.

Well, here's why: because it's built on a stinking sewer of human filth that bubbles up into every public place it can and taints everything with its foul excrescent stench of violence, ignorance and hate.

Will that do?