I don’t remember where I found this, it’s probably been sailing around the internet for 100 years, and god forbid I should post anything at all, let alone something original.

Work has been kicking my ass, kids have been on holidays, none of which really amounts to anything but, you know, any excuse is a good excuse, right?. Whatever. New medication is….interesting. Can anyone say Effexor?

Anyway, read this, and tell me what you think.

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A Spanish teacher was explaining to her class that in Spanish, unlike English, nouns are designated as either masculine or feminine.

”House” for instance, is feminine: ”la casa.”

”Pencil”, however, is masculine: “el lapiz.”

A student asked, ”What gender is ‘computer’?”

Instead of giving the answer, the teacher split the class into two groups, male and female, and asked them to decide for themselves whether ”computer” should be a masculine or a feminine noun. Each group was asked to give four reasons for its recommendation.

The men’s group decided that ”computer” should definitely be of the feminine gender (”la computadora”), because:
1. No one but their creator understands their internal logic;
2. The native language they use to communicate with other computers is incomprehensible to everyone else;
3. Even the smallest mistakes are stored in long term memory for possible
later retrieval; and
4. As soon as you make a commitment to one, you find yourself spending half your paycheck on accessories for it.

Before you accept their reasons, read what the female group has to say. This is, indeed, becoming more interesting

The women’s group, however, concluded that computers should be Masculine (”el computador”), because:
1. In order to do anything with them, you have to turn them on;
2. They have a lot of data but still can’t think for themselves;
3. They are supposed to help you solve problems, but half the time they ARE the problem; and
4. As soon as you commit to one, you realize that if you had waited a little longer, you could have gotten a better model.

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So there you go.

I just was given an award.

By Red! Who is like, totally one of the cool kids.

I never get given anything. Ever.  So…awesome!

I feel like Miss Universe. The Australian one, not the US one who falls over all the time, and while I MAY be klutzy? I’m not THAT klutzy.

Here is the bling:

And now for the rules:
1) Choose 5 blogs that you consider deserving of this award based on creativity, design, interesting material, and overall contribution to the blogger community, regardless of the language.
2) Post the name of the author and a link to his or her blog by so everyone can view it.
3) Each award-winner has to show the award and put the name and link to the blog that has given her or him the award.
4) The award-winner and the presenter should post the link of the “Arte y pico” blog, so everyone will know the origin of this award.
5) Please post these rules.

So, now that  Red has given me my virtual tiara and sceptre and and shoved me up onto the podium, I need to pass the award on to 5 other deserving candidates.

So here goes…

I choose…

Trish

Jayne

Kelley

Cellobella

Tiff

So get to it girls! You all deserve some bling!

And if anyone wants to donate me some internet bling - please do. I need all the help I can get!

I’ll give you a link!

I’ll pay for your children’s college or uni education…

OK maybe not that. But I’ll be happy for about 30 seconds, so that’s gotta be worthwhile, right?

Of course it is!

There are some seriously angry people in this world. I came across one yesterday. Asshats united at Saturday shopping.

I dropped Elder Spawn at work. He works in Coles a few hours a week at the local large shopping centre. Actually, when I say large, I mean it’s bigger than a single shop, but smaller than a mall type thing. Which is totally irrelevant really.

Elder Spawn slinks out of the car, looking furtively from left to right because freakin’ hell! A public place? With your mother? At 16? The shame and humiliation! Even if there is money involved.

I drive on to the opposite end of the shopping centre to buy some magazines for MOTH, Younger Spawn and Step Spawn.

The place is packed. It’s the Saturday afternoon shopping frenzy in full swing. I see a spot in the next row, so drive around there. Before I start to turn into the park, naturally I check I’m clear.
There’s a car coming toward me, but he’s going straight ahead and past me so I throw on the indicator, and start to drive into the spot. A parking spot, two places away from the door of the shopping centre on a busy day. Cool, right? Wrong.

I get out of the car, and there’s a car sitting behind me. It’s the ‘no indicator, going straight ahead car’. I wonder what they’re doing, but start walking. Their window goes down.

The screaming starts. Apparently, I am a fucking, selfish bitch. Apparently, I have no respect for my elders. Apparently, I am a lazy, fucking lowlife scum with shit for brains.

I take a look at the car. Hanging out the window is an elderly gentleman (and I use the term loosely), red in the face, screaming it me at the top of his lungs.

I start to speak, calmly. To explain.

He shouts “Oh come on, we both know that’s bullshit!” proving that along with being a dickhead, he must be psychic, as I didn’t even get the sentence out, yet he knew what I was going to say.

I give up, and just walk off toward the shops. He drives off around the corner, with a few more choice expletives.

As I cross the road to the shops, he throws his car into reverse, and comes straight back at me. People stare.

I keep walking, albeit faster. He screams at me some more, and I say “Have a nice day” wave, and go into the shopping centre. I don’t know where he went, and I didn’t much care by then, although hell would’ve been nice

Shaking a bit, I stand in the newsagents.

*breathe* *breathe*

I don’t do confrontation well at all. It scares me. A therapist type told me once it probably dates back to memories of my dad beating up on my mother when I was 7 or 8. She thought the child in me equates shouting with violence, hence the panic.

Whatever.

I don’t care if he was older. That doesn’t mean he wasn’t a rude bastard. He seemed to think I owed him something because he was grey with wrinkles.

Although I have a huge amount of inherent respect for the elderly, respect is still earned.

That bastard, doesn’t deserve any.

Working sucks.

I was thinking the other day, about the things that are going on in my life, and I have decided the main problem is that I work. 5 days a week, 52 weeks a year, for the term of my natural life. Or so it feels.

It doesn’t help I work with asshats. My boss is fine, if not an ‘interesting’ personality to work for (similar to Fatty Vautin, for you Aussies), but the accountant is a pig, and the highlight of the other staff members day is working out how many bread rolls my boss would like for lunch, then trotting out to buy them. He takes his roll run very seriously. Too seriously really.

This guy is a 45 year old man in a 94 year olds body. Seriously. If I get to the stage where I huff and puff just from walking up a few stairs, if I get to be that overweight I have gout and other assorted ailments, shoot me. Please.

But enough about other people, and back to me, the only one that matters.

I don’t want to work.

I want to stay home in my Pj’s, spending time on teh intermaweb, polishing my php and css skills to maybe make some wordpress themes, pottering in my vegetable garden, learning photography, making my own soap and candles, baking up a storm, and generally doing whatever the hell I want. Rather than what I have to do.

Taking in foster children would also be awesome. My ex and I did that a few years ago, but had to stop because we split up and blah blah. It’s most rewarding thing you could do for a little person.

When I was younger, I wanted to be a writer, presumably as did 75 percent of the internet. In primary school, I’d spend a good proportion of my holidays wandering about with a notepad furiously writing. About what I don’t recall. I still look back and wish I had pursued that.

If you didn’t have to work, what would you do instead? Take up crochet? Macrame perhaps? Open up a brothel?

What did you want to be when you were a kid? Before you growed up?

1. I am awkward. I will probably at least break a wine glass or trip over one of your kids. The chances of me walking into a wall are ridiculously high, no matter how well I know the layout of your house. I walk into our study wall all the time.

2. I’m an only child. Do I need to say more? I can be selfish, but if it bothers you, there’s a chance I may not care because duh, I’m selfish.

3. I’m inclined to be moody. If I’m in a bad mood, I won’t want to talk to you much. Just leave me be, I’ll be fine in a short while if left alone. If you don’t leave me alone, I may shout obscenities at you. Probably not, but it sounded good.

4. I’m slow to make friends. So I’m shy. Deal.

5. Chronically lazy. What it says. I don’t want to do house work and I probably won’t be bothered to come over to your place if it’s pretty cold out. In fact, if it wasn’t for work, I may never leave the house in winter.

6. I may will drink all your red wine (or your white wine, and definitely your Baileys).

7. I can say really stupid things. Not because I’m stupid, but because I don’t think before I speak.

8. I’ll promise I’ll do things for you, them promptly forget I said anything. Or who you are. I am very forgetful. I had forgotten I had this blog for the past few days.

9. I’m a smoker. Yes, a social leper. And while I would never smoke near children (particularly in a car), and do not smoke in my house, and respect your right to have a meal smoke free, I still like a good fag. Or 10.

10. I can’t stand shopping centres. Or malls. Or whatever the hell you want to call the damn things. They’re crowded, full of people I don’t want to know, and crap I don’t want to buy. I suffer them occasionally if I have to, but don’t ask me to come shopping with you every weekend, becasue you’ll be going alone.

11. I’m insecure. According to one therapist type person I spoke to once, this stems from “the frightened child” within me, that saw my dad beating up on my mum years ago. Therefore, I loathe confrontation as that child is afraid. Whatever.

12. If you have an excuse for everything, and can’t accept you just plain fucked up sometimes, I’ll have no patience. I am totally sick of this “blame someone else mentality” that is so prevalent today. Suck it up, take responsibility, learn something and move along.

13. I hate crowds. They freak me out. In a claustrophobic, “get me the hell out of here” kind of way. Maybe that’s connected to the shopping centre thing.

14. I hate, loathe and detest reality TV. Seriously, you can take your lowest common denominator dross Big Brother and shove it. If I wanted to watch a bunch of loons sitting around on the couch doing nothing I can just walk into my lounge room. Hate it that show, hate it, hate it. And mostly all other reality TV shows. Dancing with the Dickheads, Australia’s Got No Talent - they all drive me insane. There are some exceptions though - The Biggest Loser, anything with Gordon Ramsey in it, and this show on SBS at the moment The Nest which is about some 20 somethings living out of home for the first time.

15. I’m a slack blogger. There’s a surprise for you all.

What would I hate about you? Or are you perfect?