routine

Plainly; Men Suck.

PMS makes everything more intense in my world.

Everything.

I can munch my way through the contents of the fridge, finishing the gluttonous deed by licking my fingers and moaning with delight and/or guilt.  My moods become, well … moodier.  Where one moment I can be happily giggling because of something The Blokey is doing or saying, within nanoseconds I can be haughtily telling him that it ain’t funny, quit it!  I don’t mean to hurt him.  My body and mind become more lethargic than usual, and I tense up.  I open iTunes and find myself listening to Justin Timberlake or Avril Lavigne, through no fault of my own.  Sometimes my fingers may as well be doing their own thing, ignoring any signals from my brain.

At the best of times my concentration and memory are absolutely appalling, but when PMS toddles by they may as well be non-existent.

This Blog Now! page has been open all day.  And I do mean all day

So, I’m the person who regularly walks into a room and has to immediately walk out again because the reason for entering the room slipped my mind.  In truth, this often happens on Xanga too.   Opening a page and staring blankly at it for a while is not particularly entertaining, but my mind seems to think it is, such is the frequency with which it occurs.  I start doing one thing and often turn my mind to something else, which frustrates The Blokey.

I’m quite a stickler for routine.  It’s incredibly important to me that my days are mapped out – none of this impulsive behaviour for me, no thanks – and that everything is put in its rightful place [even if I’m the only person who is aware of the rightful place].  I also have OCD tendencies.  If the floor needs hoovering, it must be done NOW!  If we’ve watched a programme that was recorded through Sky+ it must be deleted off the box post haste or it looks messy and somehow that gets into my head.  I did lock the door didn’t I?  I can’t let The Blokey clean and tidy and cook and make the bed and hoover and dust and everything else, because he wouldn’t do it right.  He wouldn’t [and besides, he’s not complaining]!

So, you can imagine what life must be like in the World of Katiefinger in the run up to The Bloody Massacre.  Take a teaspoon of poor concentration, a dash of memory loss and a pinch of too much routine, shake it all up, and then wait for it to explode spectacularly.  Let the bedlam commence!

It’s pure torture.  I lost my rings on Friday afternoon.  I took them off to do the gardening, and they weren’t where they should have been when I went to put them back on.  After fifteen minutes of panic we found them in a place I never would have put them in a sane moment.  Yesterday morning I lost my phone.  It takes a long time and a huge amount of panic to find a phone that’s been hiding in Gym’s bag for two nights. 

It sounds trivial.  It sounds normal.  And in my world, it is normal.  But the intensity with which I lose things, both objects and memory, and the rate at which I forget something I did only three minutes ago, and the scary way I let my routine suffer … it’s bloody freaky.  Surreal.  I can’t even begin to explain it, really.  Still, at least it only happens for one week in every four.  And the other three weeks?  I can just about cope with the way my mind works …

Of course, drinking lots of wine doesn’t really help.

please God bless my memory xxx Elsabeth

Every time I find the meaning of life, they change it.

I find it difficult to cope with change, particularly in routine.  I spill toothpaste down my [clean, grrr] top in the morning and the very act of having to change it will affect me negatively for the rest of the day. 

In my Ordered Little World everything is precise.  On a weekday I get up, I do my business in the bathroom, I get dressed, I pull the curtains in the hall, I swear at the cat if she’s done her business, I put the kettle on and whilst it’s boiling I feed the cat, fluff up the cushions on the settee, pull the curtains in the lounge, put the tellybox on, open the door into the garden.  I then put my cereal in the bowl, at which point I get the milk out of the fridge and put it into the cup, so that I can make my coffee, and into the bowl, so that I can eat my cereal.  I then sit on the settee and eat breakfast while stroking my pussy and reading the news on that Ceefax Thing, which is always different to the news on BBC Breakfast.  I get up from the settee at the same time each morning, clean my teeth, have a wee, kiss The Blokey goodbye, in a while crocodile, put my lippy on and leave the house.  I double check that the door is locked, and then check it again. 

My coming home from work routine is also very precise, but I shall spare you the details.  The only time either change is when I have to get the bus to or from work.  For some odd reason I can cope with this, perhaps because until Chav Who Drives Me To And From Work started to drive me – to and from work – I had to get the bus anyways.

Speaking of the bus I was on it last night and spent much of the journey imagining that myself and the Good Folk on it with me were from the past.  There was the extremely sexy young man that all the girls would lust after, the posh young squire travelling home to his wife and baby, the common as muck dirty paupers, a woman of the street and the travelling musician who wished the giggly girls would lust after him.  This is what happens when your brain gets tired and the only thing it can remember is trawling through census returns from one hundred years ago.

But back to change, particularly in routine.  I’m the girl who will panic if the bus is two minutes late, if the cat chooses to use the litter-tray just after I’ve freshened it [I have a picky cat – she won’t use her litter-tray more than once which can create problems], if there’s a traffic jam, if the phone rings when I should be in the shower.  I actually panic about everything.  This morning I was watching the car in front and began panicking about having to drive and how I can’t do it – this is despite me not having driven for over eighteen months and having no intention of ever getting into the driver’s seat of a car again, and not forgetting the fact that I don’t have a license anyway. 

Yeh, I digress.

There is some point to this.  What is it? 

*places chin in hand and drums fingers against cheek whilst gazing blankly at the ceiling*

… it’s ironic that I work in the place that I do.  There appears to be some secret motto, probably written in Latin and hidden in a locked box with no key in the boiler room, about how important change is and how it should be a daily occurrence.  Last academic year I knew my timetable off by heart.  This year I daren’t commit it to memory because it’s likely to change before the week is out, not once, not twice, but at least three times.  One minute The [Unable To Manage Anything] Boss wants TAs to be classroom assistants.  Then suddenly she wants us to teach 1-1.  No, we can’t do that, we’re incapable.  Oh, but now teachers can’t have TAs in their rooms because they should be able to cope.  So what to do with the glut of TAs?  I know, they can teach 1-1!  And then, when it becomes apparent that they suffer from some form of dyscalculia, I can accuse them of being incompetent as they obviously can’t teach GCSE Maths.  Oh, I’m waiting for her to say something about that and I expect that this quiet little mouse will really let rip when that one comes.  Let’s do this for the naughty children.  No, not with him – he’s special, we must not treat him as we do the others.  Everybody do this.  No, do that.  Oh, do this again. 

I wish I could spin my head round like that girl in The Exorcist.

please God, thanks … xxx Elsabeth