Owie. Yuck. And also, yay!

It's been a torrid few days here in the Ysabel-MadCat household. Apart from the big announcement at my work and the rush to wrap up the last few days at the office (and the consequent cramming of a month's worth of communication into less than a week by my esteemed colleagues in the other city, less said the better), my department was also introduced to our new manager, who'll be starting at the end of January. We all knew she was coming, of course, but it's nice to finally have official confirmation.

Then, last Monday, 13 December, the department went out for our year-end lunch. Nice enough, although - unlike every single other department in the entire company - we had to fork out of our own pockets because our acting head doesn't want to run foul of the compliance department. Which sucks, quite frankly.

It was a tasty lunch, quite filling, not too expensive, and we followed up with a stroll around the shops that dot that particular restaurant's precinct; not to my taste, fairly whitebread, I'd say, all French Provencal and fake-rusted garden ornaments, that sort of thing - pretty enough, just not my kind of style. I wasn't enjoying it very much, frankly, because I was feeling rather over-full - quite Christmas-lunch-full, in fact, which was rather odd, considering all I'd had was a lamb roast, mash, a glass of wine and a few spoons of chocolate mousse. After a final cup of tea, we headed back to my colleague's house for a couple of cocktails, which I mixed (quite weakly, as we still had to drive back home that night) while we chatted and kuiered quite convivially in the balmy evening air. As MadCat was on night shift last week, he saw to the animals and when I got home at 9pm, all I had to do was go straight to bed, to toss and turn uncomfortably all night.

Tuesday was a bit of a nightmare of discomfort, as my chest hurt all day and I was quite the moaning Minnie, annoyed with my arrogant colleagues from that distant port city and snowed under with silly bits of work that, quite frankly, were streaming in because people had only thought of these items at the very last minute. That night I lay alone in bed, thinking I was having a heart attack, the pain was so excruciating. I tried to phone my mom - as I tend to do in all such situations - but the phone just rang and rang, unanswered. So eventually I got up and wrote my funeral wishes - rather dramatic, I know, and thank goodness I didn't post them to my blog, but really, that's the sort of thing that makes me feel better - writing out my will before a long journey, or setting out my funeral wishes when I'm all on my own, or something else devilishly superstitious.

Wednesday was sheer hell. I just couldn't muster the strength to do anything. In between bouts of getting ready for work, I had to keep lying down. It was sheer torture. Eventually MadCat came home from work, and convinced me that I needed to go to the doctor. I called both my bosses, and they were both sick as dogs, too - both had been vomiting all night. In total, four of us had been struck down by some virus at that restaurant. It wasn't the food - that had been delicious, and perfectly cooked; someone was carrying a virus on his or her hands, and passed that to us through the meal, either through cooking or delivering.

But there was more. Before heading to the doctor, I'd taken delivery of Deafboy and Adventure Girl's pups - because it was bucketing down, and the pups needed a dry spot for the day, as there was nowhere else for them to go; they couldn't spend a third day outside in the rain. You can imagine what awaited me when I came home from the doctor, with four excited dogs stuck in the lounge and the patio, sleeting rain driving in and the four of them rushing around dragging water everywhere. Poo piles. It was lovely.

Eventually I managed to drag my carcass through to the bedroom, order the dogs through to my room and passage with me, and pass out. And that's how we spent the day, with me occasionally getting up to let them all out for pee breaks, then back into bed,. then out again when MadCat awoke, then out again when Adventure Girl came to fetch them, and back to bed for me for the rest of the night.

So it's gone since then, with the occasional foray into the world to test the waters for Candlewick's kitchen tea, and a fabric shopping expedition with BellyDiva. But I still haven't recovered, and in fact had a relapse this weekend - this time with added puking. Wonderful. I'm still queasy, and very unhappy. I hope this does not bode ill for Christmas Eve, and Day, and Boxing Day, too.

Tomorrow (today?) I'll post about the quite nice afternoon we had on Friday, with the geeky photographers, and how that perked me up somewhat. It was good. A ray of sunshine in an otherwise awful week. And there'll even be pics! It's a plus.

Bite me, if you can

Really, Kristen Stewart? Really? You honestly think that (to paraphrase Alex Dobuzinskis) being dumped by (your) vampire man, sinking into depression and later flying to pursue him, is setting a good example to girls? 

Tonight - New Moon star Kristen Stewart says "be extreme" 

Let me tell you what I think: You're full of shit. And the fact that you're trying to make it seem like your lovelorn, pathetic, angst-ridden, whiny character Bella, is a rebel pursuing what she most wants in life, is a disservice to those strong women in history, literature and movies who were rebels and who actually did pursue their goals and dreams (Amelia Earhart? Mary Shelley? Hermione Granger or Ginny Weasley, both of whom would kick Bella's arse so hard her butt would come out of her nose?). Here's a hint: attainment, in those cases, didn't revolve around desperately seeking the love of a manipulative, passive-aggressive, stalker of a 'vampire' (and I use that term loosely) who's so pathetic he can't even nut up and use his fangs!

Oh wait, I forgot: he doesn't have fangs!

In fact, I take your bullshit downright personally! Because I would rather crawl on my belly through broken glass tipped with industrial-strength acid, than be associated with the idea that being a passive ninny like Bella, is what true love is all about. Oh yes, true love is about sacrifices. But it's also about knowing when someone's playing you, about knowing when someone loves you enough not to fuck with your head, and about knowing when it's time to walk away. Then again, I tend not to live in an old-style Mills & Boon romance.

Ooh, and you know what, you know what, Bella must be a real rebel because - *gasp* - she's in love with two guys! Hell, even Anita Blake is more of a rebel, and she's not only in love with vampires, werewolves, wereleopards and the like too, she's actually screwing them! (Often at the same time.) Of course, let's instantly dump the werewolf who's always loved you (and later develops an unhealthy, paedophilic attachment to your newborn daughter, by the way) for Sparkleboy and fly to his rescue! 

But, I am preaching to either the choir - as I know there are thousands who agree with me - or to the deaf, dumb, blind and stubborn. After all, say Twihards, "(Shakespeare) was a ripoff artist who knew how to market", and Stephen King's just jealous because he'll never attain success like Stephenie Meyer (newsflash: oh wait, do I actually need to give a newsflash about one of the most successful writers in modern history?). I'm not even shitting you about the Shakespeare quote.

I don't know what riles me more; the blatant stupidity rampant in these Twitards and their overwhelming love of the sparkleverse, to the exclusion of all other viewpoints ("You're just jeaaaallllllous! You don't understaaaaaaand! It's a masterpiece, better than than idiot Harry Potter! Waaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh, stop being mean to my Eddiekins!") or the sheer stupidity displayed in their arguments. I mean, and I'm sorry I can't let this go, but DID THAT TWITARD ACTUALLY CALL SHAKESPEARE DERIVATIVE COMPARED TO STEPHENIE FUCKING MEYER? (Don't miss the other part of her comment about Mary Shelley's Frankenstein: "A teenager wrote it with the help of two accomplished authors. Give Meyer a break, and some credit."

The mind actually boggles. A red mist rises before my eyes, and I cannot even think coherently to muster some form of rational argument. Which, I suppose, may well render me nothing more than an over-emotional anti-Twitard.

And that, my friends, is why I would rather rip out and chew on my own liver, than read more than the chapter of Twilight I slogged through, or subject myself to more than the New Moon trailer - which I can't avoid these days anyway.

Not to mention that ripping out my own liver and eating it? Would make me more of a man than Sparkly-bum the pretty boy. 

But don't let me spew all the venom by myself. Masswyrm has already said it all so eloquently: 

"Bella Swan is one of the most detestable, obnoxious, mentally unstable characters in modern American literature. She is a character so over the top that she borders on satire; and were she some sort of Holden Caulfield-like, deliberately unlikable character written with the intent to openly mock the ideals of modern romantic literature, she would be acceptable, if not perfect for the part. But Stephanie Meyer isn’t that self-aware. Instead, she has woven together a cloyingly insufferable romantic saga – a junkfood and cheesecake epic, if you will – centering around a woman who revels in, nay celebrates, how damaged she is. I dated a girl like Bella once. Thank god they make medication for girls like that now."

Go, read. Then read his earlier column, about the sheer creepiness of a 90-year-old man lusting after a 17-year-old girl. Or is Eddie 109? After all those centuries, the years blur together, I suppose, and school kind of starts looking the same. 

Or, you know, don't bother, if you're a Twi-fan. Either way, I'll just continue my un-dazzled existence over here, wasting my time on romances.That Romeo and Juliet. So derivative!

You're on my shit list

These early, early mornings have been a boon with the massive project I have going at work (which ends tonight, yay!) but ... not so cool on the getting-out-of-the-door front. Especially not when one's runt of a Great Dane decides to expel steaming piles of shit in various spots in one's lounge.

Yeah, see, that gets old really, REALLY fast. Sometimes it's Madcat who deals with the clean-up; sometimes it's me. Oh, and just for added fun, there's usually a warm puddle the size of the Atlantic, too.

I won't go into too much detail because ... it's just too gross. Okay, I started, but I decided to spare my one reader the ookiness. My pleasure, Madcat.

Suffice to say, it involves a) swearing at the dog, who slinks off and looks appropriately ashamed that lo, she could not hold it in ONE SECOND LONGER even though she'd woken you up at midnight to get outside and empty her innards; b) the use of lots of plastic, not to mention Vicks under the nose to keep the smell at bay; c) swearing; d) mopping of slate floors, lovely!; d) SWEARING, did I mention?

Oh, and in the trek to get rid of the mess in the outside rubbish bins, we have to go through the front door instead of the back, so that we don't set off houseguest's annoying little yappy Satan Spawn ("affectionately" known as Fucker). I cannot wait until HIS whiny trap is no longer a hazard when going out the back door!

Yes. My first blog about poop. I bet there'll be many more. But hey, at least I'm not alone!

I'm working late tonight (and blogging). It's been a freezing day, with the bonus of rain. And with both MadCat and I at work - the dogs have been given free rein in the lounge and on the patio, behind the security gate.I don't want to know what was waiting for MadCat when he got home tonight ...

Induhviduals

One of our VPs asked me to send an e-mail without allowing forwarding, copying or printing.

"OK," said I, "but I can't stop anyone from taking a screenshot and printing that instead."

His reply: "My understanding is that unless you physically take your laptop to a photocopy machine, it is not possible to make copies; please talk to our email experts to get your facts straight."

I'm trying not to slam my face into the desk.

Shake your booty

Second session withe the belly-dancing DVD. I didn't sweat as much (maybe the chilly weather had something to do with that), and I'm getting a little better with my timing. My joints aren't aching as much, though I can feel that my back is going to be stiff tomorrow. Still not up on the arm movements, and those two left are definitely around for a long while!

Heheh, MadCat is considering teh Comrades! Well, he wasn't - he just wants to be able to sprint 10 000m - but being the little obsessive that he is, he's getting that gleam in his eye ... only if he's able to win, though!

Run out of dog food for Mo, and only get paid on Saturday. Guess the girl's going to have to eat rice, lentils and giblets for a while!

Oz aerobics - Bellydancing 1

My first use of this DVD. Can I tell you how hard this damn thing is? It all looks so deceptively simple - just gentle movements, side to side, a few hops, leg twists and lots of hand movements. How hard could it be?

Hard enough that there were rivulets - not drops, rivulets! - of sweat running down my face halfway through the DVD (about 25 minutes in). As I type this, my T-shirt is soaked through, there is sweat running from my hair and my capris are sticking to me.

I found the instructions simple, but no easy. And thankfully, even though they're beautiful bombshells, I didn't feel that sense of YES! YES! YES! that I get from normal aerobics instructors. Maybe it's because they're Australian?

Anyway - so far my belly-dancing is shameful. Nessie would be horrified if she saw me now, just six months after I stopped the classes. I have no sense of rhythm, I can't even walk with the hip swings, and my shimmying is pathetic (but when was it not?). Not to worry! A few weeks of this on a daily basis and I'll pick up the steps again fairly easily - I hope.

And now, I'm off to bath - before my fresh sweat turns to a miasma of stench. Phew!

The making of a legend

Picture the scene: MadCat has taken Pod and Ferret out for drinks with his friend Iaculus, so they can all listen to Iaculus's favourite live band, White Rabbit (a very good cover band, by the way). They're dressed über-casually, and end up in a rather spiffy restaurant (Voodoo Lounge in Linksfield, perfect for supper club, ahem). To ease their nerves at being woefully under-dressed, the ladies drink a couple of glasses of wine over a rather lovely dinner. Later, they all move into the pub where Pod orders several tequilas for herself and Ferret - after all, it's a Mexican night, and MadCat is driving, yay! I mention the amount of alcohol consumed as some sort of (lame) explanation for the events to follow

They get down on the dance floor, listen to some pretty good covers (and I don't mean simply 70s or 80s here, either). Some Good Charlotte, a bit of Green Day, Violent Femmes and apparently they even do Offspring and System of a Down (although not that night). Great stuff. Suddenly, hark: what is this they hear? A jalapeño-eating competition for the guys, prize a R300 bar bill. Well! Pod and Ferret are incapable of passing up jalapeños at the best of times, never mind when there's a decent prize at the end. Scoffing at the notion that this competition is only for guys, the two step up onto the stage and prepare for a feast - after all, Ferret used to eat these out of the bottle with a fork, and Pod can put away a goodly amount in one sitting. Should be a breeze!

The MC steps up, bowl in hand, filled with deep-fried, crunchy-looking chillies.

It's at this point that I, MadCat, being of sound mind and judgement (yeah, right!), must add my point of view. I had been energetically called to the stage by Pod and Ferret, and found a decent spot from which to note the (doomed) proceedings. When the bowl was passed to Pod and Ferret and they'd both removed a chilli each, time seemed to slow down for me, as my brain, having zeroed in on the "jalapeños", immediately set to work figuring out why those "jalapeños" didn't look like jalapeños. "MadCat," it said, "that's not a jalapeño. Jalapeños are long and thin, and green.". "Ah," I remarked, "Pod and Ferret eat these things all the time; they know what a jalapeño looks like; I'm sure you're mistaken." "No," my brain retorted, as my mind was filled with images of jalapeños vs. habaneros, "do I have to draw a bloody picture for you?" Immediately, my thoughts turned to me running up onto stage and slapping the offending chillis out of the hands of the two hapless babes (all in slow-motion, of course), while frantically nodding my head sideways and shouting "Nooooooooooooo!". By the time all this had registered, Pod had already inhaled two of the bastards, and Ferret was already reaching for a third. It was at that point that Pod gave the cutoff signal and vacated the stage with vigour. Ferret stayed, but only for a few moments longer, before she too succumbed to the habaneros' overwhelming firepower. "I told you so," said my brain, smugly. Ferret then also exited the stage with the vertiable determination of a crusading knight. Well, that's my story, and I'm sticking to it. I shall now let you continue reading the rest of this sorry saga.

A vague notion crosses Pod's mind that these are rather small and fat jalapeños, but the countdown begins and there's no more time to think. Pod, Ferret and the three male contestants each pop a pepper into their mouths, chew rapidly and swallow. Down the hatch, and time for a second. As Pod pops it into her mouth, and bites down, her mouth suddenly sends a warning - this is NOT a jalapeño! Her throat starts closing, unwilling to accept this fake jalapeño and even trying to bring it back up, but she fights the urge and swallows what's in her mouth - after all there's nowhere to spit it and she's not throwing up in front of all these people! She turns to Ferret and slashes her hand across her throat, signal for defeat. Ferret, who is reaching for a third chili, looks surprised for a second - and that's when the bite hits her. She gags and follows Pod off stage, both trying desperately not to cough, heading straight for their table and the lovely beers standing there.

In less than a minute, Pod has downed a Hunters and has picked up Iaculus's beer without asking. Tears are streaming down her face and she can barely hear over the roaring in her ears - the roaring of blood sent into a frenzy by an accelerated heartbeat as her body tries to outrun the pain. Drinking is not helping; it's simply washing the pain further down her throat. To her right, Ferret is red-faced and wheezing, eyes streaming, an expression on her face that is normally only achieved by being tied to a chair and hooked up to an electrical torture device. They grab for the lemons in the glasses and chew on these; Pod spots a tot of passion fruit for the now-forgotten Suitcase delivered but a wee while ago, and holds the contents in her mouth, hoping the thicker liquid will help - but it's no good. Iaculus comes round the table and tries to tell them something about licking the lemon, not eating it. This is unintelligible gibberish. Pod grabs Iaculus by the shirt and snarls at him: "Screw the lemon, get us MILK!" Without a word, he turns and hurries off through the crowd - no wonder, having been confronted by a wild-eyed harridan who just breathed paint-stripping chili fumes into his face.

The two are searching frantically for something, anything, to put into their mouths, something that will prevent them from biting out their tongues and stamping on them to put out the flames, when Iaculus arrives, milk in hand. They seize the cool liquid and gulp, holding it in their mouths to wash away the chili oil that's hooked into their tongues. Finally, some actual relief. At least the roaring has subsided somewhat, although Pod would still like to take a scourer to her mouth and throat. Worse, every time she burps, she can taste fresh, raw chili. This must be what hell is like, unable to just make the pain go away. Iaculus steps up and offers to hypnotise her. At this stage, anything is welcome, so she closes her eyes and listens to what sounds like nonsense - concentrate on what the soles of your feet are feeling, can you hear what Ferret's saying (she's arguing with the waiter about what type of chillies those were), bet you can't hear what the people at the next table are talking about (us), are the soles of your feet hot or cold? Surprisingly, it's working; the pain exists, but it's no longer threatening to cause acute respiratory failure. There is a line of fire stretching from her lips to her stomach, which is roiling around in protest, but it's no longer hot lava. Iaculus is a life-saver.

Iaculus heads off to order more milk, returns to the table and reports that the three guys who were on stage are in the bathroom, crying and wailing, sucking up as much water as possible from the washbasins, splashing their faces, stamping their feet. This makes the ladies feel better. Only one person managed three, so they're not complete failures.

She phones Ffeog. What should they do? What did they eat? "Was it shaped like a bell pepper?" he asks. That sounds about right, confirms the side of Pod's brain that was actually paying attention and trying to warn her before she began this ordeal. "That was a habanero," says Ffeog. "You ate two? Maybe you should have your stomachs pumped." Great. This from someone who eats hot chillies for kicks and giggles.

The waiter comes over and refuses to believe that they ate habaneros. No, he says, the chef knows what he's doing, and he says they were jalapeños. The chef battered them and popped them in the deep-fryer until the batter browned. Basically, the contestants were eating raw chillies, seeds, ribs and all. The two insist that those were like no jalapeños they have ever eaten - not in shape or in taste. The waiter goes off to confer with the chef and returns, adamant that they are wrong. He's lucky not to be breathed on. The ladies are not impressed.

The fun is over; the time is coming to leave. Ferret goes to the bathroom and throws up, but Pod's not too keen on having all that chili come back up - a decision she will regret later. For some reason, the two start dancing again. Madness, I tell you! Finally, they drag themselves away and go and find the guys. Got to go home. The endorphins have kicked in and Pod is about dead on her feet.

Ah - bed. Asleep as soon as she hits the mattress, Pod is awakened several hours later by the urge to worship the porcelain god. This is a bad idea, she thinks. She doesn't want that chili revisiting her oesophagus. Nothing happens. Two hours later, however, a series of cramps so severe they have left her crying for her mommy, like a baby, have convinced her that the pain to come must be endured, if only to rid herself of the vile poison in her system. The chili hurts almost as much coming back up as it did going down. There's chili in her nose! Maybe snorting milk will help. The already tender spots at the back of her throat are now on fire.

This time it's MadCat who steps up to the plate. He offers her a Schedule 5 painkiller. A morphine derivative. Half an hour later, not only is Pod pain-free, she's floating. This is great. This is wonderful. Ferret awakes, and they go online to see just what the hell it is that they ingested. There's the jalapeño - sort of banana shaped, rather large - about the size of a middle finger. And there's what they ate - bell pepper-shaped, smallish - as long and wide as the two first joints of a pinkie finger. As Ffeog suspected - they ate habaneros. Two habaneros each. To put this in perspective, the jalapeño is 5,000-8,000 on the Scoville heat scale. The habanero is 150,000-200,000. This is not a fun chili. This is not something to use in a competition, unless you are a demon sent from hell. This is something that sends people to hospital.

It's several hours after the fact, but at least one thing is clear: Pod and Ferret can barely walk down the hallway. Their cojones of titanium are getting in the way. It might have been unwittingly, but they ate two habaneros each, and survived. The only thing left now is revenge.

Ferret interjects: So from my side the story goes like this: I have more balls than brains. Logically I knew what I was putting into my mouth was NOT a jalepeno, but pride is a dangerous play mate and I went ahead anyway. I knew something was wrong when I felt my ears begin to burn. Curious, one eats with one's mouth not with one's ears, how could my ears be burning? It was the first thing that registered because my mouth and throat had been singed completely and therefore had no immediate sensation. When I did regain oral sensation, I honestly believed I was going to die. My heart developed a murmur and my lungs clamped shut. They say you get a rush of Seratonin when eating hot foods but I don't believe a word of it - all I wanted to do was die!!! I did not cry and of this I am extremely proud, but I believe my face was set in a rictus grin of near death.

I could not hold the offensive chillies for long, and as Pod has mentioned, I deposited them in the nearest porcelain recepticle at the earliest possible moment. This was almost as painful as eating them, but I still believe it was the right thing to do. I can write all day about this BUT I won't. What I will suggest is that you try the same thing. Not because I wish to encourage you to expand your horizons, but purley for the selfish reason of wanting someone else to suffer along with me. Thank God, Pod joined me on that stage because if she hadn't she would have laughed her arse off at me, thereby making things considerably worse. Thank you, oh Loyal Friend. Stupidest thing I have ever done followed closely by rap-jumping off a 70-storey building.

The Fried Ferret.