I just got a note (okay I got it 2 weeks ago) asking me to “thumbs up” something on StumbleUpon. It was an article about procrastination, and how to deal with it and what it all means, etc. I did give it the “thumbs up”, but not because I agreed with a single word of it.

So, back to my “Quick Tips”! Haven’t done one for a while.

Quick Tip #5: Dealing With Procrastination

If you’re procrastinating (i.e. not doing something) it’s most likely because you’re trying to make yourself do something you really don’t want to do in the first place. Quit doing that, and that ooky feeling (called “guilt”) goes away!

You know, life doesn’t have to be so complicated.

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I’m probably the only one in the world that can get tickled walking around Tesco. As you leave, the certain doors have signs on them saying “This door is alarmed.” I’d like to have a t-shirt with a picture of that sign, but changed to say “This human is alarmed.” But then I’m easily amused, and it really wouldn’t matter to me if no one else thought it was funny.

So I realise recently that I’ve been getting alarmed about all the wrong things. Not that it’s something I do all that often. I’m a fairly laid back kind of girl. The other day the veins in my knuckles turned black (in a rather rapid and sci-fi sorta way) and then my fingernails turn purple, and the palms of my hands go blue and then, being slightly alarmed, I go show hubby, who decides to call the hospital (where I’d just had surgery). Meanwhile, WHUMP, I’m unconscious. Drama drama fun fun.

So what do they say? Oh, that’s what happens when you’re going to pass out. If it gets worse (Umm, like how?) then call your General Practicioner. Okay, sure. To be fair, I was two days past a general anaesthetic, which makes one prone to faint and also makes one particularly gullible.

I went ahead and made an appointment with my GP and told her about the Star Trek hands, and she frowned the way she does, but didn’t comment much beyond that except to say, “Hmm, bad circulation.”

And then… and this is the whole point here….

“I’m alarmed at how much weight you’ve lost since I last saw you.”

“Alarmed?” says I, “I’m fricken overjoyed!” Okay, I didn’t really say that, but I thought it. I make a habit of never smarting off to people who control my health, my food, or my money.

I’ve been struggling with my health for a little while, and I make a huge point of not whinging and just getting on with things. Because, in fact, no one else cares, and I really don’t like sympathy. So we’re all better off this way. But at this I draw the line. The ONE good thing that’s come out of this ordeal, (me dropping 25 pounds) and it alarms her. #-o

I’m starting to suspect I’ve spent my entire life getting alarmed at all the wrong things. Like, the fact that the UK has had 5 men held hostage in Iraq for 6 months, and we’re JUST NOW hearing about it, because the hostage-takers released a video. The Foreign Office is condemning the kidnappers for this, but I want to send them a thank you note (the video thing, not the kidnapping, duh). Because our own government doesn’t seem to want to tell us what’s going on. Am I the only one that thinks this? I must be, because the news agencies didn’t bother to bring it up.

I’m alarmed at the fact that my son was not given any books at school, but instead seems to be expected to look everything up on the internet for himself. But the Minister for Education keeps talking about how much money they’re spending on schools and how much better things are getting. So apparantly I have nothing to worry about.   Alarm misfire #2.

And yes, I confess, I was alarmed at the Star Trek hands. But no, according to medical science (and the woman behind the big desk) it’s the fact that I’m 30% less tubby that I should be worried about.  ???

I wish someone would just give me a manual to go with this alarm system, so it wouldn’t keep firing off at all the wrong things.  But as a side note:  screw that… 30% less tubby! Woohoo!

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I dunno what it is about blank books, all nicely bound with pretty covers in cloth or leather or sometimes cork or fancy paper.  And I dunno what it is about people who use words that make other people buy us these blank books.  I guess they figure we need someplace to keep them.

I probably own at least half a dozen of these things, all of which, I’ve recently discovered, have the first ten pages filled in, usually with something annoyingly boring and un-wordless-book-worthy, such as dreams.  It’s somewhat interesting to read a dream that was so horrible, so beautiful, so damned meaningful at one time that I felt the need to write it down.  But it’s also like reading a recipe with ingredients I’ve never heard of.  You’re sure if someone bothered to write down a recipe, it’s something good, but if you don’t know what a chizzywhoot is, you really aren’t sure what it’s going to taste like.

I was looking for a blank book recently, because I had an idea for things to write in one that wasn’t actually lame.  Since all of my blank books had the first ten pages taken, my efforts were temporarily stymied, and this case of the heebies that Englebert Ichabod, the reknowned heebie surgeon, operated on last week has thus far kept me indoors.  I’ll figure something out, no fear!

But the point is I was looking for a blank book, and I happened upon one for which the first ten pages were devoted to 1996.  Good grief.  Well I can now confirm, it’s true…. if you run into your past self, it does cause a rift in the space time continuum.  I also ran into the term <bg> which was funny, because that alone dated the document from BSA (Before the Smiley Age) although it’s much funnier than I actually wrote <bg> in a freaking journal.  I guess I thought future me would need to know I had been grinning.

I’ve never been very good at journal upkeep.  On the news recently they did a human interest story (as opposed to what?  caterpillar interest?) on this guy that had spent something like 40 years cataloging his life in 15 minute increments, writing down everything he did from peeing to dreaming, to um, writing in his journal.  According to his wife, he got up often in the middle of the night to write in his journal, which now holds the world record as the most tedious document ever or some such as that.   My hubby saw this story and couldn’t believe someone would do such a thing.  No, no, I replied…I’ve read blogs like that.

In the past I’ve always had trouble with the idea of throwing blank books away.  I don’t like throwing any books away, actually, unless I consider the writing so bad that it would be a bad-karma-inducing event to allow another human being to endure it.  But blank books even more so, I suppose because they imply so much potential.  But after meeting 1996 me, I think I have a date with the shredder.  Some things just don’t need to be remembered.

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I woke up this morning to the truly wonderful aroma of momma’s home made chicken soup. Okay I slept really really late today. Having endured a minor procedure on Monday, my internal clock, and my body, are all messed up. So I thought… mmm… soup. And then I thought… surely hubby isn’t in there cooking?!? Awww. He’s not really a gourmet, so I thought maybe he bought something pre-made-up at the market and just warmed it up. But still! Sweet!

The closer to the kitchen I stumbled, the hungrier I got. I tell ya, this soup was really starting to make my mouth water! Anyway, in the tradition of action movies, I’ll cut to the chase. I shuffle to the kitchen, slavering, only to find that indeed, he had been preparing a meal… for the cats. What I was smelling was Friskey’s Chunks O’ Chicken.

For just a moment I really really missed the hospital drugs. Good stuff that.

So this minor procedure involved a couple of stitches in the mid-section. And suddenly, I wake up in the middle of the night, in absolute agony from just trying to roll over, and I think… dammit… if I was Bruce Willis, I would have been able to take a bullet in the gut and get back up and have a fistfight with someone… and win.

Granted that I couldn’t win a fistfight against Bruce Willis (Or Segal, or Stallone, or Jolie or whoever is popular for pretending to kill people these days) on the best of days, but seriously. Life just isn’t like an action movie. If someone looked at me funny in a dark alley I’d be out of commission for a couple hours, but taking a bullet (or a couple of sound kicks even) would not leave me racing through the streets of Bejing after the notorious drug smuggler who killed my family and burned down my grandma’s house. (Sorry, Gran)

Also, I find myself completely out of one-liners right now. Dammit where is Segal when you need him!

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As many of you will have heard, David Beckham has recently been hired by Georgio Armani to model underwear…. for £20,000,000. Yes, that’s twenty million pounds. Not bad for standing around getting your picture taken and trying to look blase, constipated, and interesting all at the same time. (Models do have it tough!)

Which brings me to my point, that my husband is a big, fat liar.  Okay, this isn’t actually my point, but it’s a way-point.  He said to me, upon hearing this news, that, hell, he’d let someone take pictures of him sans trousers for 20!  And I said, of course, you idiot.  Anyone would model underwear for twenty million pounds.  He said, no, I mean twenty POUNDS.  Well, deal, said I.  So I went to get my wallet and camera, only to find he had sprinted off down the hall.  If he had actually been sans trousers at the time, I would have snapped the shots anyway, but sadly, he made the deal with breeches intact.  Hmph!

So… now the actual point.  How much would it take?  Sure, twenty million is enough, and twenty quid is too little, but what exactly is my ass worth?  Now, keep in mind, that although my BMI is about 28, I do have a little bit of pride.  If someone is going to snap my 28 ass, it’s gonna cost them.  But how much?

Well, ten grand isn’t enough, I think.  That would pay the rent (um, maybe) but not buy me any chocolate (an ass like this has to be maintained, mind you.)  I’d need enough to make up for the fact that I wouldn’t be able to face my friends, and would have to make newer, tubbier friends.  So… the question is really how much are my friends worth?

I think a hundred grand ought to do it.  So how much is your ass worth?

Georgio, if you’re reading this… you can reach me at the email address above.

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Note to bitter friends:  Will be unavoidably unable to blog for a few days.  Hope to be back toward the end of next week!  Girl-Fren might be convinced to keep you company while I’m gone.

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