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!

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?

It’s this time of year when a young girls thoughts turn to Wimbledon. If she likes tennis that is, and I do.

I love a good tennis match. The problem here in Australia though, is that we have no decent players in the mens draw to support hence my undying love and devotion to the ever charming, likable and immensely talented Roger Federer. How dare Pat Rafter retire.

Because you see, the best mens player we have left is Lleyton Hewitt. What an ass. What a snotty little prat he is, and always has been, even when he was something close to being good.

I can’t stand him, and I’m sure my dog wouldn’t either. How can you like a guy that thinks the world (well, Australia, anyway) owes him admiration and respect because he’s a tennis player. He’s rude, he calls linesmen “spastic”, he screams “C’mon!” mainly just to try and piss off the opposition, and always has an injury excuse ready to trot out should he not do well.

And don’t get me started on the Lleyton and Bec circus. She’s an ex-soapie star (and I use the term loosely), and he’s, well, he’s just him. A pain in the ass.

They got married, and sold the pictures to a magazine for some ludicrous amount.

Then, when they managed to do the unthinkable and pop out a kid, - they pimped the first year or two of the poor things life to a womens mag for a cool million or so. Imagine that? Having a child. How the hell did they do that? No one else does - they were the first. Or so it seemed.

But it all went sour. Becs and Lley-ley weren’t getting the adoration they wanted, people were saying things like, oh I don’t know - he’s a asshat? SHe’s trashy and thick as a brick? And suddenly, they changed their tune. They wanted privacy. They resented the media intruding into their lives.

AUSTRALIAN tennis star Lleyton Hewitt has lashed out at the media over the amount of coverage given to his soap-star wife Bec and their young daughter.

Oh for fucks sake. They prostituted themselves and their infant daughter across any magazine or newspaper they could…and then when the money dried up, cried invasion of privavcy????? Give. Me. A. Break.

Now the media’s in overdrive because Bec’s up the duff again. Seems they must be low on funds because apparently? They’ve sold their story again for over 100 grand.

The supposedly now publicity and media shy Hewitts didn’t just announce the pregnancy to friends and family, then go about their private family business that Lleyton whined was so important to him. They rushed to OK! Magazine and announced the impending arrival with a 8 page spread. That just coincidentally paid a rumoured $100k.

Someone make them stop.

Bloody women’s magazines make me sick. But not as much as Bec and Lleyton. Money can get you a lot of things, but it cannot, and will not ever, buy you class.

And Lleyton? It won’t ever, ever, make you as good as Roger Federer, who last night gave you an absolute tennis lesson.

I can’t blog about anything at the moment, because I realise now after reading this post at Red’s, I have too much shit in my head at the moment, and my brain wants to explode and I don’t want to let it, and therefore it’s bloody hard to write a coherent blog post.

So there you have it. I am certifiable. Today, at least. Tomorrow? Who knows?

Cool, huh?

How do you deal with crap like that? Or are you totally together and awesome all the time? If you are, don’t tell me because I will most likely call you a freak and hate you. Seriously, though, how does one clear the cobwebs?

P.S. I will get back to answewring comments. One day. I’m slack like that. So…deal with it I guess. Or not as the case may be.