The Evil Within

Okay, so I want to share a small bathroom experience I had recently (not the filthy run away from my blog now kind of experience). It involves a small child, a hand dryer and a belly load of personal hysteria.
Okay, so now I'm just starting to sound creepy, which I expect is mostly the 'Evil Within' talking.
I suspect that those of you that are solid viewers of my blog have come to understand that I am a massive fan of chocolate, yo-yo dieting, renovating and going to the gym, but my pet hates? Small people. No, I'm not referring to the bearded variety from Lord of the Rings or the Austin Power's Mini-me - I'm talking about ... children.
I find them loud, somewhat annoying and a consistent irritant under your feet. Yes, I am a shit Aunt and an even crappier babysitter. If I ever had my own, I would probably leave it at the grocery store, let it take rides in the clothes dryer, or possibly brand its forehead with 'do not touch anything'.
So now that we have established I am a sub-par human being and should be exorcised immediately, we can get back to the story.
It was about a week ago, I was having a fairly ordinary day at work and the evil within was stirring particularly hard - malevolent little fingers of naughtiness twisting my insides with possibilities. It was just after three and I thought ... bathroom break. So I left my desk as one does once the urge to 'go' presses upon the bladder and motivates the legs to move forward in search of release.
And then there I was, locked in my stall, finishing my business when I hear the outer doors open. But it wasn't just the doors, it was accompanied by one of those tiny, underdeveloped voices laced with a high-pitched whine.
'Mummy, I don't want to go to this toilet,' the little girl said.
'Sweetie, I promise that the hand dryer will not attack you. It's just loud, that's all,' the mother replied with kind words of inspiration.
The stall next to me closed and locked. I was busying myself with my zipper in preparation to leave, fingers poised on the lock with the intent of washing my hands and exiting this suddenly talkative place of evacuation.
'Mummy, I'm scared.'
'Sweetie, stop being silly. It's just a hand dryer, it's not going to hurt you.'
'But it's loud!'
You're loud ... I thought quietly to myself as I found the wash basins and lathered up. This conversation continued for what I calculated as several seconds, my internal clock clearly biased in its belief that it was really several hours. And, as this mounting fear escalated, my head cocked to the side, my eyes drawn to the wall-mounted Dyson, it's shiny surface beckoning me to dry my now slightly wet hands.
I was now presented with a dilema.
One, do I wipe my almost dry hands upon my pants and save this little girl from an afternoon of tears? Or two, give in to the evil within and then run as fast as I can before they 'out' the bringer of fears?
I am a horrible person, my scruples clearly hitting rock bottom as I slid my moist hands into that dryer with ease, the almost instant scream of terror from the closed bathroom stall behind me filling my ears with dread yet maliciously riddling my face with the biggest smile I'd encountered all day.
I am ashamed to say that I scared the crap out of that kid and laughed all the way back to my desk. On the upside, a colleague entered after me and I do believe that said little girl was scoring an ice-cream out of the experience, so really, I did her a massive, double chocolate chip favour.
Okay, so feel free to judge. Who else has done something like this? Who else has tipped a cow, eaten the last piece of birthday cake or scared the crap out of their husband while peeing? I know you're out there. I can't be the only one who does these horrible things ... Can I???

Kristy :)

The Hobbit Lets Loose - Or Does She?

You have probably often heard me refer to myself as a Hobbit, mostly on account of my lacking social skills and fear of my neighbours. I love the solitude of reading books, writing my novels, and generally staying indoors where it's dry, safe, and absent of confrontation.
Don't get me wrong, I do go out occasionally. In fact, a few months ago I was out until two in the morning at the clubs, dancing until my feet hurt and sweating so much I slid all the way home and collapsed into bed by three.
I do have fun ... when I get there.
The problem for me is getting motivated. The idea of going out seems like a lot of work and I'm more of a button pusher than a doer. I keep thinking about how long it will take to shower and put make-up on, how long it will take me to choose an outfit after I scream and cry about my thighs for a few hours. And then of course, I think about the giant waste of money spent on watered down drinks, the too loud music aimed at deflecting any and all conversation, and the dirty old men that leer at your butt when you walk on by.
Alas, a colleague of mine finished up at work the other day and he decided to have good bye drinks at a local bar. After my sorry excuse for a showdown with my thighs, I finally bit the bullet, let my brother-in-law choose my outfit to negate drama, didn't bother doing anything with my hair, and lightly re-applied the make-up I was already wearing.
Two hours later I was in the car on the way home again.
It was too bloody hot, the music was too loud, and I saw Jesus ordering drinks at the bar - that just aint right. Oh, and I stopped for ice cream ... twice.
Needless to say that leaving the house is a fattening activity with little highlight. On the upside? I got to say goodbye to my friend and give him a sqidgy before he departed. I also got my sugar rush and a quiet ride home.
Yes. I am a sorry excuse for an under thirty.

Hobbit - out. :)