Love you long time folks,
Love you long time folks,
Xanga Username: Katiefinger … always has been, always will be. Oh, except for the time when some pretentious tart was annoying me and I created another account to write (creatively) about the situation. (And then just continued to use that particular username to write creatively about other stuff too.)
Xanga Birthdate: July 2003. Giving you an exact date would mean toddling off to look for it, and I really can’t be arsed.
Xanga “Statuses”: TRUE, but I had to ask for it. That really irked me. I wrote a post about it … yep, it irked me that much. Also Premium, but I doubt I’ll bother rekindling that fire when it dies down. Xanga isn’t what it used to be. *sigh*
Xanga Profile Picture: I have one … you should be able to see it over there … *points haphazardly towards the right of your monitor*
First Xanga Friend: Um, possibly Lyns, closely followed by Zoë and Polly. None of them post here anymore.
Subsequent Xanga Friends: Many. There was the lovely Chris Sexie, the punky Jason, the quirky Susie, the bookish Karen, the elusive Chris who couldn’t get a job, the Internet-seller, the bi-sexual teenager, the butcher, the baker and the candlestick-maker. Oddly enough none of them post here anymore. More recently there’s you, if you’re reading this.
Xanga BFFs: If I like you, you’ll be my friend elsewhere. I don’t need a Best Friend Forever on Xanga. Thanks.
Xanga Family: Family? I don’t spend Christmas with anyone on Xanga. Nor do I sleep with anyone on Xanga. I also never had a bath as a child with anyone on Xanga. There might be somebody on Xanga I would have a bath with now, but that wouldn’t be because I wanted to be his sister. If I argued with anyone on here they wouldn’t forgive me in the way that family can, the sort of forgiveness that comes from knowing someone inside out and outside in, from shared experiences (both good and bad) and from real love.
Other Close Xanga Pals: Didn’t I cover this? If not, just re-read the above.
Other Xangans Worth Mentioning: Probably most of the people I subscribe to. I shan’t list them.
Xanga Likes: The … nope. The … um, no. I’ll come back to this one (one day, possibly.) *
Xanga Dislikes: Pleading, pulsing, arse-licking, religous nutters … Those who whine and those who have no sense of humour. Also, those who love themselves. It’s no surprise that Xanga is full of folk like that.
Official Xanga Achievements: None. Go me!
Unofficial Xanga Achievements: I know I’ve made people laugh in the past. I know that I’ve emotionally touched people in the past. I was somebody’s unofficial Mom for a long while. Awww … Damn, I should have kept that quote. I stayed when most other folk left for pastures new … I think that deserves some sort of recognition. I shall make myself a badge.
Recommending Habit: I don’t. Or I did, once.
Commenting Habit: I comment on most posts posted by folk I subscribe to. I think it’s rude not to (which isn’t to say that I only comment because I feel I should; it actually means that I like the person and am interested in all the things that occur within their lives and their heads and therefore I like to show that I care, or otherwise.)
Timestamping: I’ve never done it. It’s a silly feature and serves me no purpose.
Protected Posting: I used to do it a bit more. Now I don’t care. I’m anonymous enough for it not to matter.
Xanga Themes: Black on white (or white on black) always does it for me. Oh yes.
Xanga Pulse: I have Facebook for that. Oh, and Twitter now, but I keep forgetting! Silly me.
Xanga Plugz: I have no idea what Plugz is, pleaze.
Xanga Hopes: I want all the groovy people to come back. There are only a limited number of groovy people left. We’re a dying breed …
Last Words: Oh Xanga. You used to be so good. You used to be so fine. I used to run home from school to see what delights you’d thrown my way! My days were a blur of Xanga thought processes and flirtatious commenting with folk I had never met in Real Life. You’ve taught me that nothing Good lasts for ever, that people come and go (and sometimes disappear) with increasing ease, and that I’m … hmmm. I’m just a teeny-tiny speck in the Great Big Blogosphere of Life; I’m just not as important as I thought I was. Blogging used to be for the cool kids, but now it seems to be for every Tom, Dick or Harry and, perhaps unfortunately, every Tom, Dick and Harry these days seems to be the sort of Tom, Dick or Harry who is exactly the same as every other Tom, Dick or Harry who thinks they have something interesting to add to the Great Big Blogosphere of Life.
Nothing is sacred.
(with thanks to Lucy, whom I snabbed this from)
*the funniness of some (fundamentalist) ‘Christian’ folk who post on here. (I thought of something for Xanga Likes. Yay!)
please God bless Xanga and make it merry xxx Elsabeth
I dreamt about the end of the world last night. I’ve been doing that a fair bit recently; it must be all those horror films I watch (we watched Mum & Dad at the weekend, which was deliciously disturbing and had nothing to do with the end of the world.) This goes against my reasoning that dreams are less the by-product of my imagination and more the real lives of other folk.
(Unless there are some other folk in the world who decide that it’s ok to get bitten by a flesh-eating Undead because it’s easier to join forces with them than have to keep running from them.)
I had just been bitten on the arm when my alarm beeped frantically at me. For a brief moment I was exceptionally happy that I wasn’t living in a world inhabited by zombie creatures, but then I remembered that today was my first day back at work after the two week (and one day) Christmas break. Yay! It took me a while to get up, mainly because Tabatha was sitting on my head and it was all warm and cosy. She’s taken to doing that just recently, which I usually find quite comforting, but sometimes it’s a little annoying, because she steals my pillows and my neck aches in the morning.
As today was a training day, we had a lady in to speak to us about stuff we already know. She has the job I want, minus the having to speak to large groups of people aspect. To do the sort of thing that she does, I would need to do some more studying, which is a frightening prospect. I graduated from university in 1997 following five years of study. Study back then involved copious amounts of alcohol, very late nights and flirting with random strangers. And I didn’t spend most of the week working. Still, I’ve found a course with the Open University which is supposed to ease you back into studying (minus the alcohol, very late nights and flirting) and The Blokey has kindly said I can use some of the Tesco Clubcard vouchers to pay for it, so …
I must speak to the lady who came in to speak to us about stuff we already know; I want her to assess me fully. I’d like, once and for all, to know if I have ADD. Obviously I won’t get the result I want, but at least I’ll have an answer. I thought that I had a ridiculously feeble short term memory, but we did a test (one of many that she does) using numbers and it turns out that my very short term memory is excellent (I scored 121 where most people scored the average, which is 100, and only a very few tend to get beyond 115) so I am officially labelling myself a Conundrum.
I really don’t understand myself most of the time …
please God bless my tired head xxx Elsabeth
(I have never been to the United States of America and I can count the number of American people I have spoken to – face-to-face – on one hand. But I won’t let such a triviality stop me from writing this post.)
My knowledge of the United States is plentiful. Everything I know, I know because I saw it on the tellybox, or I heard it on the (BBC) news, or I saw it in a film, or Judy Blume told me. More recently, if I know it, I know it because of you, Oh American Reader on an American blogging site primarily used by American folk.
Some of what I know is very mundane. I know that when you say you’re going for a walk along the sidewalk, you really mean you’re taking a stroll on the pavement. I know that when you speak of that bum sitting on his fanny in the subway, you really mean that tramp sitting on his bum in the underground. I happily forgive you your laziness when it comes to omitting the ‘u’ in words such as favourite or colour, but I know that you know that when I say ‘I couldn’t care less’ I trump your ‘I could care less’ (and I know that you know that mine makes more sense.)
You went to elementary school, I went to primary school. You Thank, I Box. You drink in bars, I drink in pubs. You balance your checkbook, I balance my chequebook. You drive on the right, I (don’t) drive on the left. You have a back yard, I have a back garden. Your uncle is Sam, my uncle is Bob.
But some of what I know is very important. I know, for example, that you all own guns. Not only do you all own guns, but you all use them to hunt animals in mountains. When you’re not using them to hunt animals in mountains, you’re using them to shoot each other, often in public places. I’m aware that most of you, even those who are professionally trained, are not Good Shots though. Phew!
I also know that you’re either popular in school, or you’re a nerd. Popular (rich) kids ridicule nerdy (often poor) kids, but it’s ok because the nerdy (often poor) kids always come out tops, usually with the help of lots of blood and gore. Staying with the teenage theme, I know what kids on Band Camp get up to …
Everybody who lives in Queens is Hispanic. Everybody who lives in Brooklyn is the member of a gang. Everybody who lives in Texas is a cowboy. (Jessica Fletcher is the killer.)
I know that religion is very important in American society, apparently as long as it’s something safe (like Christianity or Judaism.) It’s fine for a Christian in America to spout hate and judge people in the name of God, but woe betide if a Muslim even attempts to open his mouth about anything.
When the Day of Judgement/End of the World comes along, America is going to be the country that gets all the action. But that’s cool, because you have the means (and money) to save yourself from destruction. Aliens seem to like America more than any other country on the planet … it must be like having that odd family member that nobody likes, constantly visiting you (but without the
I know that America rules the world. But Scientology owns America.
(I’m not sure which is scarier.)
please God bless America, for she is lovely xxx Elsabeth
Two Thousand and Eight was a pretty shite year. The fact that it followed on from another pretty shite year wasn’t particularly … well … pretty.
I didn’t learn anything in Two Thousand and Eight; I just realised many things.
I realised that my MiL would always assume the worst, that I’m spectacularly good at my job and that Bad Things have a wonderful knack of happening to Good People. I realised that being special warrants no more than a card with an impersonal message, that I can paint walls and that sometimes it’s just best to let Blokey do what his heart desires and get that new car, and all the expensive gadgets that go with it …
Bite my tongue? I realised that I can.
I wouldn’t have scraped through Two Thousand and Eight if it weren’t for my Mumsy, either. I want to be just like her when I is all grow’d up. Except I’d like to able to take better photographs.
I was hoping that Two Thousand and Nine would be the year when Things started looking Up. Then I woke up yesterday morning and discovered that Tabatha-Cat’s New Year celebrations must have been far more exciting than mine (I don’t actually ‘do’ New Year) for she had obviously had a poorly belly, which made her poo everywhere. Or in at least six places, anyways.
Yes, I spent the first morning of the New Year on my hands and knees, scrubbing.
It can only get better … (surely)
Happy Two Thousand and Nine!
please God, bless this year and make it nice xxx Elsabeth
I always think that Christmas is a very sneaky time of year. There’s oodles of preparation for it; the shops are full of mince pies in September, the radio stations start playing festive songs as soon as Hallowe’en is over and people start asking you what your plans are before the month of November has reached its last day.
And then … poof! … it’s over. Where did the month of December go?
Father Christmas loved me (again) this year. He left me copious amounts of presents to unwrap. These included such lovely things as Little Big Planet for the PS3 (WooHoo!), a Sigma 70-300mm lens for my DSLR, Dogma on Blu-ray, Police Squad! on DVD, some Chanel No. 5, clothes, a slow cooker cook book, a couple of photo frames and a couple of decorative perfume bottles.
Gosh, I love Christmas!
We entertained Mumsy and The Baby Brother, who arrived on Christmas Eve. Having bought the last copy of Buzz! (special edition) from a local shop, it was only right that we play it. And play it we did. We even played against Erroll online. If you ever play against Erroll online be sure not to pick anything scientific or technological or food related. S/he is very very very good at those topics. Obviously we still won. I don’t win when we’re not playing online. My reflexes are so slow that I may as well have been born a snail. Plus my head doesn’t work. *sigh*
We ate out on Christmas Day … expensive, but worth it simply because there’s no washing up that needs doing afterwards. We had turkey and gammon. On Boxing Day my MiL cooked lamb. On Saturday we spent the day at Mumsy’s (with the Naughty Nephews) and had succulent beef.
I’m happy not to be a vegetarian. I make no apologies for this.
Some snapshots …
Mumsy waits patiently for her Christmas din-dins.
Mmmm, flakey chocolates.
A toddler contemplates.
A boy with his Star Wars annual.
An older boy reflects on a wonderful day spent with his fantabulous auntie.
I hope you were all as blessed as me!
please God, thanks xxx Elsabeth
Tonight I shall not be tracking Father Christmas as he flies through the air visiting all the countries in the world. It’s not that I don’t want to, it’s just that I’ll be entertaining others.
It occured to me at some point last week that I don’t remember that (surprisingly unpainful) moment when the jolly (Coca-Cola) giant with his white beard and red suit became someone I didn’t believe in. My nephew is now at that age where he knows Father Christmas doesn’t exist, but he’s not fully sure and thus he has to pretend that he still believes. I think that’s such a magical moment; it’s the moment in life when you realise that you’re a little bit more grow’d up than the previous year, but you know you’ll always be able to experience the magic of Christmas and the myth of Father Christmas just makes it all so much more exciting. What’s the point of life (and Christmas!) if we can’t savour the magic of pretence and child-like belief? Not to mention the presents and the tinsel, the baubles and the (yucky) mince pies, the abundance of alcohol and the Christmas carols.
Yes, even adults can hear that jolly Ho! Ho! Ho! as Christmas approaches.
So, XangaLand … May your Christmas be magical and your tree brimming with delightfully fandangly presents. Enjoy!
Love, KatieF x
(my imperfections … between me, and you, and the whole wide world)
I’m amazingly good at my job. I’m efficient, organised and very much a perfectionist. I make lists and tick them off, which is something I never do at home. I’m also very quick, and something that would take normal folk a morning to do only takes me about an hour. Because of this I play (BMX) games whilst pretending to work. I do draw the line at sites such as Xanga and Facebook though.
(with game sites I can pretend it was the students who were playing)
When The Blokey was hospitalised (twice, for a grand total of twenty-eight nights) this year there was a miniscule (probably as big as half the fingernail on my little finger) part of me that enjoyed having the house to myself. The bed was made everyday, the curtains were pulled and the hoovering was done. I had control of the tellybox remote.
(can you imagine if it had been me in hospital?)
I masturbate. God (if S/He exists) doesn’t kill a kitten when I do. I rather think that if S/He hadn’t wanted me to masturbate S/He wouldn’t have made my arms just the right length. If S/He wants to discuss the wrongness of it when I get to heaven (and I am going to heaven, or somewhere nice) then I’ll happily look forward to that.
(bring it on)
I can’t abide the word procrastinate. I always assume that those who use it are ridiculously insignificant, or just ridiculous.
There are certain words I can’t spell without a dictionary. There are also certain words that I can’t even say. I find the apostrophe to be hard work. My brain gets very muddled, but I hide it well.
(despite being a grammar/spelling Nazi)
Sometimes I get the later bus home because there are always less people on it, and I hate people. Shivering at the bus station on cold winter evenings make me happy if I know I’m not going to have to listen to inane chatter or be squashed against a dirty window, barely daring to breathe.
(please don’t talk to me)
I know that The Blokey thinks I’m a little bit crazy. I find myself to be incredibly normal. I may be paranoid, have (annoyingly) quirky OCD tendencies, lack common-sense and find myself switching off far too easily, but that’s my normal. It doesn’t make me crazy in my world.
(my head is fuzzy)
I get bored easily. It’s usually people who bore me, but sometimes Tabatha-Cat does too. I love her so much, but I need my space and she always wants cuddles. I think I’d make a terrible mummy because of this, and that’s why I’m subconsciously putting motherhood off.
(enticing a baby to go outside in the dark with beef treats is probably frowned upon)
I would never (ever) cheat on The Blokey because I love him to bits. But I might if I was propositioned by one particular person.
(and thankfully this person will never cross my path … maybe)
When I was twenty-one I went to Brussels with some friends from university, and I naughtily ‘borrowed’ a small item of jewellery from a very nice shop. One day I’ll visit Brussels again and I’ll find the shop and buy something, in atonement for my sin.
(*hangs head in shame*)
Father, forgive me xxx Elsabeth
I adore Christmas. I love the sparkles and the silly songs and the cheesiness of the occasion. It’s my most favourite time of year. I can forgive anyone anything at Christmas … yes, even you PC Do-Gooder folk who like to be seen to be ethically correct.
It usually takes me a while to get into the Christmas spirit though, and this year was no exception. Although we went shopping last Wednesday (a perfect day, not least because shopping on a Wednesday before schools finish for the holidays is oh, so quiet) and are now [nearly] sorted with regards presents, I had no real Oompf! when it came to the whole Yay! thing.
Then I woke up early this morning and wrapped fourteen presents before half past nine.
We put our decorations and tree up this afternoon whilst listening to Cheesy (Christmas) Songs on some Cheesy Songs channel on the tellybox. I was – naturally – delighted when East 17 started singing about wanting me to Stay Another Day. I joined in very heartily, remembering most of the words – this was despite the urge to laugh uncontrollably at the chavviness of the video. Nice.
I’m slightly perturbed by the tree though. Every year I buy three or four new decorations (this year I picked up some non-sparkly ones in France) and yet every year there appear to be no more decorations on the damn thing than there were the year before. I blame the Christmas Pixies, who must surely be stealing them for people less fortunate.
Pictures? Why not.
Yes, myself and Orton have been playing.
We went to Woolworths on Thursday night, hoping to grab some bargains in the (up to) 50% off We’re Closing-Down sale. After that experience I have decided that it’s only fair that the company ceases trading; there were no bloody bargains. Woolworths was only ever good for its cheap cafés and its old-fashioned photo-booths, which were perfect for wasting an afternoon at when we should have been in school, learning things. The orange curtain always suited me more than the blue one. I therefore feel no emotion at the (apparent) loss of such an old institution which has graced our High Streets for far too long. I make no apologies for this, despite it appearing that I’m possibly the only person in the whole of the British Isles who really couldn’t care less.
And now, ’tis time for tea.
please God bless my last week at work this year xxx Elsabeth
In a room, working hard.
Dotty: Have you been watching I’m A Celebrity … Get Me Out Of Here!?
KatieF: I don’t lower myself …
Dotty: You’re such a snob!
KatieF: I know! *laughs and puffs boobies out*
In a room, teaching.
Cheeky Kid: Have you been watching I’m A Celebrity … Get Me Out Of Here!?
KatieF: I don’t lower myself …
Cheeky Kid: *blank gormless look*
*ssshhh* … Listen to the sound of the *whoosh* as it goes over his head.
In a room, teaching. Again.
KatieF: Just read that phrase for me again … what does it say.
Biker Boy: Carrot cake.
KatieF: Are you sure?
Biker Boy: Yes.
KatieF: Just humour me and read it again.
Biker Boy: Carrot cake.
KatieF: It says currant, not carrot.
Biker Boy: Oh yeh!
*KatieF writes out the word ‘currant’ and the sentence it’s in. She then asks Biker Boy to write the word ‘currant’ three times.*
Biker Boy: *writing* Current. Current. Current.
KatieF: *goes into long spiel about the difference between ‘current’ (as in electrical) and ‘currant’ (as in bun)*
Biker Boy: So why did you spell it with an ‘e’ then? *points*
In a room, having a meeting with Mrs. Big Boss.
Mrs. BB: Can you make me a PowerPoint by Friday?
KatieF: Of course, for I am a PowerPoint Nerd.
Mrs. BB: Would you like to work from home tomorrow so that you have time to get it done?
KatieF: Oh, it won’t take me all day, for I am brill.
In the living room, at home.
The Blokey: She offered you a day at home to get it done? And you said ‘No’?
KatieF: *sheepishly* … yes.
The Blokey: You’re an idiot!
KatieF: I realise that now …
please God bless KatieF, the idiot xxx Elsabeth