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Confessions of a Drama Queen

By mouth{JT}

First of all, I would like to say I have no problems being a Drama Queen, I really don’t. In fact, I like it. One of the real positive things that has come out of me writing a blog was the fact I’m okay with all my strange habits and behaviours. I used to feel a bit guilty about it, and try to be normal, but in reality, inside I was screaming, with all those little twitchy things dying to come out. I like being different, a comment I’m often told, and I like being precise, pedantic, and demanding (mostly of myself.). I don’t like comments such as “Okay, well, that’s good enough,” or, “That will do” – statements to indicate that something is passable, but not really right. I don’t do passable at all, and I would drive myself (and those around me) crazy making something as near to perfect as I can. It’s tiring and time consuming, but it is the way it is, and I like it. A lot.

That being said, it can certainly lead to some odd and funny situations. This month’s drama was the cell phone. Now, I had a cell phone, but it wasn’t trendy. Not at all. It was 10 years old, though still obviously in pristine condition, and it did what I wanted it to do: Make an emergency call if I got stuck anywhere. That’s it, period. I don’t want to take photos with my phone, or even do texts. I certainly dont want it to access the internet, and I dont play games in RT, so that’s out, too. I want it specifically for the car in case I get stuck anywhere. And because I am an old lady, I have no need to update it every year, either. I’m not interested in looking cool. So every once in a while I would charge it up, and off we’d go.

About six months ago, I bought a “swipe” phone as a backup. There was one big snag however: I didn’t like it, and I mean as in, I hated it. My normal phone is a flip top, or clamshell phone – the type with a lid – and I prefer that, so the new phone was relegated to housing music, and that was that.

Until the charger for my flip top broke. The phone was so old they don’t make or sell chargers for it, so there was nothing else to do but buy a new one. Ugh. So ugh. My first thought was to search on the internet for a new charger, and buy a cheap phone in the meantime, which I did. It was just as a temporary measure, so it didn’t have to be expensive. I got about ten seconds into setting it up, and honestly? I didn’t really try. I was already over doing it before I started, so I thought, “Screw it, I’ll take it to a phone shop and get them to do it for me.”

Off I went. The new phone was a push button thing, but – Hm, okay, I didn’t really like it. I would probably pocket dial someone by accident, so while I was in the shop I bought a third phone – a clamshell one, with a lid. I must say, the guy that sold it to me was very, very patient and set the whole thing up for me. He activated it, whatever that means, and kindly activated the other one, too, and the smile never left his face, even when I told him I don’t text unless if I have to (I don’t cope with text speak at all (how RU and i’m gr8 get no response from me. I didn’t learn fucking spelling at school to bastardize the language).

So now, I have four phones. My old one, dead with no charger; my new one to use in an emergency; a backup to sit in the glove box in the car; and a swipe one to play music on (although I mostly use an Ipod for that).

Overkill? Possibly

But I got there in the end.

The DQ way.

-Carrie-
aka mouth {JT}

Confessions of a Drama Queen

By mouth{JT}

They say that pets become like their owners. In our case, that would explain a lot. I have a cat and a dog, that, if truth be told, probably both need a bit of mental help!

Let’s start with the cat. I was always a “cat person”, and when my children were younger, they had their own cat to be responsible for. Now, anyone that knows children and pets knows that isn’t the case, but you believe the lie – or, at least, resign yourself to the cries and promises of “I’ll look after it, I promise!“, coming from a small child’s mouth to be believable for – oh, two days, three at the max. And so it was in our house. The cats became my responsibility but remained “theirs”. I fed them (the cats, that is), saw to their well being, and paid the vet bills, but if you asked the children, it was “their” cat. And they have come and gone with regularity – until this last one.

She is now 17, and I don’t think I have met a more anti-social pet in my life. I mean, I know cats can be difficult, but she takes the biscuit. You are good for food – that is all. Oh, and turning on the electric blanket so she can spend all day buried there. She was always standoffish, but now? Cat? What cat? You never see her, unless it’s tea time. And another thing! How can cats tell time? All day long, she is asleep in the bed, buried under a mound of blankets. Sometimes you can hear her disappear out the cat flap to go to the toilet, only to come to the front door to be let in by a human, but that’s it. But come six o’clock, and there she is, waiting in front of the fridge. And if you happen to be a nanosecond late with the food, you get a constant meow, meow, meow! until you do feed her – then, it’s back to bed without so much as a, “Thanks, Mum!” Nothing – until tomorrow.

It reminds me of those TV programmes where in a hushed voice, the commentator says, “And now,” followed by a dramatic pause, “if we stay very still and just observe, we might just catch a glimpse of the lesser spotted doo dah bird, known to come out only between the hours of twelve and twelve-oh-one on a full moon in the month of June.”

People actually don’t know I have a cat, and if I didn’t have to buy cat food every week, I wouldn’t know either.

And so, on to the dog. To be fair, I adore this animal. He is my baby, and it shows. I got him as a teeny tiny puppy, and he made himself mine. He loves his mama and will willingly come with me anywhere. Unfortunately, there are times when I have to work long hours. I try to take him as much as I can, but sometimes I just can’t and he has to stay home. That’s a problem. He is so keen to see me that he waits at the gate. Never mind that there are a garage with an open door, a dog house, and a choice of two sheds for him to be in (all with blankets inside, I might add). No, he has to sit by the gate in all kinds of weather and wait for me to come home.

Once I do, it’s circles, cartwheels, the full nine yards, and then it’s time to go inside the house – only there’s a slight snag. It has been raining and he is wet right through, and so we have a ritual. He sits down and just looks at me. I then go, “Oh, no, you are all wet! You need a towel down,” and I go fetch one of his towels. (I know they’re his because he got all the blue ones.) He then lets me rub him down while I’m doing the gentle scolding thing: “Oh, you are so silly; look at you! You are all wet. Oh, no, you’ll get dog flu!” Blah, blah, blah as I rub him dry. He then holds up a paw so I can take care of them one by one and wrap the towel over his head, a bit like ET. With only his nose poking out, he lays his head on my shoulder, and I rub his back for a bit. He just loves the fuss.

They say that animals take on the characteristics of their owners. Combine the two of mine, and I’ve got an anti-social drama queen.

It fits.

Confessions of a Drama Queen

By mouth{JT}

Barbecues: The Matter of the Meat

I hate barbecues – I mean really hate them – and it’s all about the food.

Apart from restaurants, which I can be a little bit picky about, I’m not going to eat other people’s food. I’m just not. It’s not happening, period. I am convinced I will be sick. So on that score, barbecues would be the worst form of torture there is. Let’s face it – it’s food of a dubious nature (mostly steak and sausages) being cooked very badly by people that shouldn’t be in charge of a lighter, let alone an open flame.

There are two forms of barbecue meat: Raw to the point it’s running around your plate, or so charred that cinders get stuck in your teeth. It’s accompanied by badly made, tossed together lettuce leaves (that have wilted while waiting for the meat to cook) and – ugh – tomatoes, that kind of – maybe – resembles a salad on a bad day. I can’t eat that. I just can’t, and no amount of bribery is going to put a smile on my face. So I used to avoid them and stay home, pretending I had leprosy – or worse. Then came one I couldn’t get out of, and it hit me: Why not take my own food? Food that I like, and could pretend it was part of a contribution to the event. If I took food I liked, then at least there would be something for me to eat, and I wouldn’t have to pretend to have just eaten – or that I had gone vegetarian for that day only.

And that’s exactly what I did.

Hmmm – what to make.

Oh, I know: Kebabs!

So I would get up early and make kebabs- bacon and banana ones that I could pretend were “for the children”. I’d precook the bacon, chop and soak the banana in lemon juice, soak my sticks in cold water, and get to work threading these guys up. I’d make a pile of them until the bacon ran out and carefully fold them under some tin foil, only to be met with, “Ew! Bacon and banana? Ew!” from the adults. I’d just smile and say, “For the kids.”

“Oh, well, I might as well try one seeing as how I’m waiting for the sausage to – Wow! These are so good. Yum!”

And before I’d know it, the other adults would be hooking into my little guys with cries of, “God, these are good. Got any more?” I’d just smile inwardly to myself, knowing I’d already had mine at home – and I’d kept a plate back for the kids, guarding them ferociously.

I don’t do desserts either. I’m not going to eat tinned fruit. It’s non-negotiable. So, once again, I had to make something. Now, my favourite is cherries, and I could eat my own body weight in cherries – just not the tinned kind. They’ve got to be fresh. So – thinking, thinking, thinking. Ah-ha! Got it: Cherries half-dipped in chocolate. It ain’t even hard to do – warm the chocolate, leaving the stalks on the cherries for holding as you dip, then set aside to firm up. In between eating them myself, I made a huge pile both of those, and strawberries dipped in chocolate, too. They’re basically the same thing. I prettied up the plate with a few basil leaves, and – ta -da!

“Hm. Bit posh, ain’t it?” was the comment I got when the plate was offered around. Um, no! Cherries dipped in edible gold leaf, surrounded by thinly sliced truffles soaked in wine, would be a bit posh – but I said nothing; just laughed to myself as the “Oohs” and “Ahhs” started coming out.

When it came time to collect my very empty plates and go home, I got stopped with, “Oh, hey. Next time, do you think you could do more of those bacon and banana thingies? They were good – and, oh, yeah! The cherries, too. I never had those before. They were really good.”

I laughed as I was driving home, about people not going outside their own comfort zones. They’re so eager to judge something without even trying it, that they settle for less than they want because they’re too scared to try anything new.

Next time I might do a salad as well, and – god forbid! – put some feta cheese and pomegranate arils in a spinach salad.

Even I can eat that.

Confessions of a Drama Queen

The Lengths One Has To Go To

Hello, there! This time Little Miss CDQ is going to write about food – well, a fork, to be more precise.

Let’s begin.

I’m not terribly good with food, to be honest. I can’t eat if I’m upset, and I can’t eat if I’m happy. I have to go for the window that shows up as “medium”, or middle ground. Anything else, it’s sandwiches and crackers at best, nothing at worst, until the middle ground comes back again. Now, to make sure I eat properly in that narrow margin,I like to have everything in place. My own special 3/4 plate, red with white spots, an old blue bowl with a band (and a small chip) on it, any old knife (well, one of the plain ones), and my fork.

This fork turned up at my house one day and settled into my cutlery drawer like it had always lived there. I have no idea where it came from, but it’s cute. My guess would be circa 1960, 1965. It’s like a 3/4 sized fork. It’s bigger than a cake fork, but smaller than a regular fork, with a squiggly pattern on the handle, and the tines are perfectly straight. No one knew anything about it when I asked, and so I took a fancy to it and claimed it as my own. If it was dirty from use, I would wash it and immediately use it again. I don’t use other forks at all, unless I’m out, and that doesn’t feel right – and, well, if I don’t use my fork, the window for eating is gone anyway, so I don’t bother.

So, I decide to make a roast lunch with all the trimmings as well, including yorkies, mushroom gravy from scratch, the whole nine yards. Mmm mmm. My son and daughter get theirs, then me. Gravy, salt, pepper, napkin, cup of tea (I’m uncouth like that), and –

Hold on.

Where’s my fork? My food is getting cold as I root around looking for it. The drawer, the sink, the lounge, the bedroom (well, you never know), and nothing. Zip. Nada. Fork is gone. Elvis fork has left the building and gone back to where he came from. After all this time. Shit. Quite a bit of swearing follows before – I spot it.

Hey!

My daughter is using it to eat her meal with.

“Erm. You got my fork”
“Really? It was just in the drawer, Ma.”
“No, that’s my fork. You know that. Can I have it, please?”
“Ma, I’m eating!”
“Yes, I know that. Swap it for this one.” I offer a regular fork.

At this point we start to eyeball each other.

“No. You can have it when I’m finished if it means that much to you.”
“Aw, c’mon. Please, please, please?”
“No.. Go away”

I go away, not very happy. I want my fork. I can’t eat without my fork. I need my fork, and I can feel that window of middle ground opportunity slipping away fast. Think, think, think. I go in the kitchen to think.

Her cell phone rings. She puts her meal on the table and heads off to the lounge to answer it. No one’s there.

I’m not surprised, because the person that called her is in the dining room, taking back her fork.

Confessions of a Drama Queen

By mouth{JT}

As most know by now, I am a self-confessed Drama Queen, and that’s alright by me. I live quite happily knowing I am making a mountain out of a molehill and really have no wish to change. As with all DQs, I have quite a few obsessive compulsions, and again, me and my compulsions live quite happily together. They are almost comforting in a situation because I know exactly how that situation is going to play out, and one such situation is a regular occurance for me:

Putting gas in my car.

Most people would go down to the local service station, fill ‘er up, and go, but not me. No, Siree. First of all, I calculate when I will have to go, to the day. I do not do the random, “Oh my god, I’m low on petrol; I’d better fill up here,” kinda thing. I actually pass three gas stations on my way to my gas station. There, the boys know me, and they know to fill my car for me. I don’t ever do it because I know without a shadow of a doubt I will fuck it up. Yes, I will. So I go to a station that offers “full service”. A boy comes racing out, fills my car up,and I go inside to pay.

Well. Almost.

On my designated day, I am down to a quarter of a tank and I am getting nervous. I constantly watch the guage and start to sweat slightly if I go below that quarter line. Right. A deep breath, and off I go. I get to the station, watching said quarter line on my dashboard, and turn into the street. Oh, shit, fuck, and crap – somebody’s using my pump. Damn. Don’t they know number 9 is mine? No, I don’t go to any other pump because I know how to exactly park my car for number nine, so – I wait.

I wait in the car park across the road, to be precise. I pull up and wait, watching number 9 in my rear-view mirror. “Holy shit, what is that woman doing? Why is she taking so long? For fuck’s sake,” are words I’ve uttered more than once. Oh, okay, she’s on crutches. Fair enough. But listen, Mister – do you really need to wash your work van now? Shouldn’t you be off fixing someone’s whatever instead of scoffing a pie and washing your van? Sheesh, man, hurry up! All words I have muttered in company of the dog as we wait for number 9 to become free.

Finally!

Okay, now comes the tricky bit. With the speed of a Formula One Racing Car Driver, I am out of my parking spot, across two laners of traffic. and zipped into the spot in front of number 9. (Luckily, I am good at speed but occassionally someone will beat me – fuckers – and the whole waiting process starts over again.)

Me and number 9 wait no more than a minute, minute and a half, tops, before a guy comes out with a huge smile and we exchange plesantries as he fills my car. They know me well and so never have to ask if I want it filled completely. Of course I do. I don’t want to repeat this for at least another ten days. I then race inside to pay so I am ready by the time the pump finishes and have all my guff. Maybe get milk and a lottery ticket. More pleasantries exchanged as we wait for my card to be accepted, and I have that slight nervous feeling in the pit of my stomach. Of course, I know there’s money in the account, but what if the machine breaks down? Or if I’ve smudged the electronic strip on my card? I don’t know how, but it’s possible. Probably. They would have to siphon out my gas, because I’m not doing it. You do hear stories about these things – and then- oh, phew, its been accepted. Yay.

I leave with my stuff, making sure I profusely thank the lad who did the gas, beause I am truly grateful. I jump in and off I go, secure in the knowledge that I am not going to run out of gas – this week, at least.

Like I said at the start of this article, there is a lot of comfort in knowing exactly how a situation is going to play out.

Every week.

Confessions of a Drama Queen

By mouth{JT}
The Ramblings of A Batologist

Generally, the first words that come out of a batologist’s mouth are “Ow,” “Shit,” and “Fuck” – well, they do mine, anyway. A batologist is not, as you might think, someone who collects and studies bats, but a person who collects and studies brambles. And I do.

I pick blackberries. to be precise. It all started on my way to work. I drive past a lovely section of a river where the blackberries grow wild and free, and every year, people go there and pick them. Mostly old folks, to be accurate. They pick the fruit, then have a stall on the side of the road with a great hand-made sign saying “BLACKBERRY JAM FOR SALE: $5”, or words to that effect. Now, God forbid, I dont want to sit in my car on a stinking hot day waiting for someone to give me five bucks, but the thought of picking blackberries was kind of appealing. Reminders of my childhood as a country girl where we’d go out and pick berries, or mushrooms on a frosty day, or the forgotten apple tree and raspberry canes growing in a vacant property (country folk gather anything for free), so I thought, “Why not?”

First of all, you have to find a secret spot.Those old folks are wiley and get up real early in the morning and strip a patch bare. I kid you not, they leave nothing.

So I discovered a secret spot, and let me tell you, I kept it a closely guarded secret. I know other people that pick, who wouldn’t hestitate to nick my spot. As luck would have it, I found my spot across the road from a small railway station. It was an abandoned paintball field, no longer used or kept tidy, and the brambles had grown real high, creating a natural wall from the passing road. I could see them from the road as I drove past and it didn’t look disturbed (batologists trample a lot of the ground down to reach the “good ones”) – probably the “KEEP OUT – PRIVATE PROPERTY” had something to do with it, but no one was around. It was an abandoned field. Yes!

At dusk one night, I parked the car in the nearby railway car park and walked around the field casually. The brambles had to be ten feet high, but that wasn’t stopping me, no siree. I ambled my way around, away from prying eyes, and at the side of the field found a natural opening. A quick glance around showed no rapists or muggers watching and I ninjed my way through a tiny gap. That was my first “Ow shit fuck” of the night as brambles tore at my hair, and not the last, I might add. Note to self: Wear a beanie next time. I got my balance after a while and took a look around. Holy moly, I had found Blackberry Mecca.

Now, as every good batologist knows, two things are needed for great blackberries: Rain and sun. And the enemy of the black luscious fruit reaching optimum growth? Wind. Plain and simple, it stunts their growth. So this ten foot wall of brambles not only kept prying eyes out, but had also created a natural thick barrier against the wind. On the inside of the field, the other side of the ten foot wall, the fruit grew thick, fat, and huge. But best of all? Untouched.

I got my plastic ice cream container and started picking. But there’s always that branch just a little out of reach, a little too far in – so you strain, go up on tiptoes, and plunge your arms into the most wicked spikes around. Rose thorns? The spines of a lion fish? Pfft. They got nothing on brambles that don’t want to yield their fruit. The ground was neglected, and I was soon falling over rabbit holes and tripping over hilly tussocks of what could loosely be called grass, only thicker, deeper and longer, landing on my arse with another of many, “Ow, shit, fucks”.

Blackberry juice stains a nice deep dark purple, and soon the color was mingling with my own blood as the brambles tore into me. I got scratches over both eyes, all down my arms, and I found out later that some vicious looking brutes had even worked their way through my jeans, tearing at my thigh. But no matter! My container was filling nicely. I had to slap the mozzies away as they honed in on fresh blood, as I picked “just one more”.

When it got too dark too see, and my self imposed one container limit had been filled, I stumbled, crawled and groped my way out of the field. No jumping over bracken and brambles now – I couldn’t see them, and I got slapped in the face many times, but finally I was back at the car, triumphant, my container filled to overflowing with great big dark luscious fruit. Ha!

I would go back many many times, swearing the obligatory words over and over to my secret spot, and I would have to say overall, it was a (kind of) pleasant, calming experience.

Now – what to do with the 47 containers of blackberries stuffed in my freezer.

Jam anyone?