Nervous Ticks

Interestingly enough I write this post today based on an episode of "Sons of Anarchy" that I watched last night. The nervous tick came in the form of a released inmate with a particularly nasty habit of shoving his hands down his pants and, well ... you get the picture.
Not really knowing that uncontrollable masturbation existed, it got me thinking about the nervous ticks of those around me - the people I see on a daily basis and for that matter, even myself!
Thankfully no one I know forces me to watch the pleasure parade but I am certain we all have our little idiosyncrasies.
I had to think long and hard about this as I knew I had to have an obvious one. Besides picking at my fingernails because the varying lengths drive me crazy, I realised that I bite my lower lip whenever I'm dancing or exercising, the concentration devoted to the activity clearly too much.
My mother twirls her fringe between her fingers and often pinches the edge of her eyebrow whilst deep in thought. My father, besides being anal retentive like me, has a proclivity to add the word f#%k after most sentences. My hubby bobs his head like he's always listening to music and taps his foot in the car which is super annoying when stationary. My best mate likes to chew her fingernails until they bleed and my brother-in-law constantly shuffles from foot-to-foot like a penguin.
You see, we all have them, no one is ever one hundred percent comfortable in their surrounds. Although, I'm not sure how some people start randomly slapping themselves, rubbing one out in public or barking like a dog but I'd sure be interested to know if you're one of them! So, please leave your comments, anonymous if you like, but let me know about your nervous tick so ideally we can all make fun of you.
Have a good one,

Kristy :)

Renovator Bug

Well, what an interesting three weeks it has been! I suspect you’ve all read most of my dealings—jazz clubs, endoscopy, the bat shit debacle and of course my tangle with the hippies at a Saturday night dinner in a seedy part of town.
But finally I’m back home again. The two year fiasco of my leaking roof has finally been resolved and my insurance company replaced everything! Alas this also means that I leave the days of shitty hotel internet behind, waving fondly to my ant infested one-bedder in the city and say hello to freshly painted walls of newly renovated home.
Of course now that I’ve seen this beautiful make over, I’m starting to feel the little renovator bug slip into my veins. I just don’t think I can fully move back in until my patio roof has finished being panelled and all my internal bookshelves are re-crafted to house my massive collection of paranormal fiction. It’s all about priorities, you see.
So, with all the furniture still piled up in the shipping container in my front yard, I’ve started to work (with hubby and father) to finish the patio this weekend and fit-out my internals. Sounds like fun, doesn’t it? All I need is a yellow ‘Bob The Builder’ hard hat and cool little tool bag to reflect I mean business. Although, hubby thinks I’m the tool bag but we won’t go into that.
Anyway, wish me luck. I’ll pop some pictures up to show you progress on the next post and have a fabulous weekend—I will be!
Kristy :)

Wedding Anniversary

Today is my seventh wedding anniversary. I'm supposed to be itchy right about now but I have to admit that I'm not - I'm content. We've technically been together for fourteen years, so I suppose if we were going to jump ship we would have done it a few years ago - so there must be some love there.
I have to admit, though, it kind of blows me away that I have lived in the same house with someone that long and not plotted their ultimate demise. After seventeen years under my parent's roof I was hankering to get out on my own, my teenage mind convinced I was being suppressed from any form of fun. Yet oddly enough, fourteen years later with hubby, I am comforted by the thought of waking up to the freight train snoring that pours forth from his mouth each night. I also like that he drives me crazy with his non-stop talking in the car to and from work (he never shuts up). I like that when I ask him, 'do I look good in this?' he always says, 'you are one skinny bitch' even though he is clearly lying.
I especially love that after fourteen years he conveniently still does not know the difference between synthetic and cotton clothes and thus cannot operate the washing machine. I love that every job he attempts in an effort to help around the house is half-assed, but at least started. I love that I can always find him the grocery store because he has the voice of a foghorn. I love that I constantly abuse him about his poor driving skills, yet he continues to drive me around because I'm too lazy to claim the driver's seat. I love that his idea of weeding the garden is throwing mulch over the top so you just can't see them. I love that he can open cupboard doors and draws in the kitchen but can't seem to reverse the action with any real finesse. And, of course, I love that his terrible sense of humour sometimes takes me by surprise and has me bent in half, gasping for breath. Oh, and I love that when I fart, he screams at me with things like 'I'm gonna die!', a slow smile plastered across his face.
Hubby, I love your guts. Despite our combined flaws, we fit together like a jigsaw puzzle - always unfinished, but constantly in a state of revealing something quite special. So, in light of the fact that I'm now erring on the mushy side, I found this song that sums up my feelings of you perfectly.

Okay, I'm kidding - here's the real one!

Kristy :)

Shopping Nightmares

Well, I was at work today, finishing off a few things that needed to get done before I went home for the weekend. Naturally the fearful Saturday blog started looming in my mind.
What was I going to write about this week?
Thankfully, inspiration came from my mother who stopped by work for a quick hello and to check the internet for some recipes before heading off to the shops for some groceries. And then it hit me. Grocery shopping is packed full of lurking danger and inevitable mishaps.
Yes, I wholeheartedly agree that this is a snooze-fest subject, but I dare you to comment that you haven't at least been mugged by a four year old, felt up by a fruit and vegetable packer, mowed over by a pallet jack, or suffered an eye roll from a teenage register operator?
I have. Well, at the very least I know I now have a solid fear of shopping trolleys - big, solid steel constructions made with a front end bull bar designed specifically for pesky kids to ram up your ankles when you least expect it. Oh yes, I am a three time victim of shopping trolley abuse - I now look over my shoulder every five minutes while perusing the aisles! And, if I see a kid behind the wheel of one of these bad boys, I give them the death stare - a warning to keep their sticky fingers pointing that cart in the opposite direction.
My hubby freaks out at the check out. He used to work in a grocery store, so he leans back, folds his arms over his chest and silently stews while previously mentioned bored teen, throws eggs underneath canned goods, or washing powder in with meat. His eyes narrow and his forehead beads with anger driven moisture before he finally relents and packs the bags himself.
On the other hand, my mother is an addict (sorry mum, you know it). She feels at home at the mini mart, the market, or the grocery store. She even has a 'nanna' trolley she likes to push around and fill with useless crap she already has three of back home in the cupboard. She zips through the aisles with confidence, kicking small children and old age pensioners to the side as she madly dashes to the first available check out she finds. She snubs the bored teenager - the shoe on the other foot, and then heads home, eager to repeat the process again the very next day.
So what have we learned about shopping? Number one, shopping trolleys are for carting food, not doing wheelies. Two, slap the bored teenager in the face so they pay attention and pack your damn groceries properly. And three, limit your visits to once or twice a week, you don't want to run into a die-hard with her nanna bag in aisle three ...

Kristy :)