Month: January 2013

It's The Little Things

Some of you may remember I have a thing for beautiful and nostalgic short films. This is my new favourite: Imagine emails and 2,853 text messages flying around and you’ve got the first 5 months of Sarge and me. Complete with trains and shyness. And now I want paper airplanes at the wedding! What made you happy...

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I'd Take Them With Me

Today’s Daily Prompt has me thinking.  What would I take with me?  In truth, I’ve thought about this a few times.  Mainly while waiting in the ‘safe place’ for a fireman to come up and tell me the fire is out.  Or there isn’t one. There isn’t much else to think about, sitting behind a fire door, when the ‘safe place’ doesn’t feel very safe. So, yeah.  I’ve thought about this question.  What would I take with me if my house was burning down?  The answer is not much.  And everything. The prompt says to assume that people and animals are safe.  So, I will.  And I’ll add something else.  My chair is safe.  Because it would be under my ass.  Or piled with the stuff Sarge and I would take with us.  Sarge would be steering it with one hand while the other one had me in a fireman’s lift.  Because love lifts us up where we belong.  Or something. Since we are safe and singing, this stuff is stacked in my chair.  Because we are safe and singing and resourceful: My Grandma’s Graduation photo.  Because I love her and it down to the ground and around the world.  It lived in a white album when I was a kid.  And it was on a wall as I went through high-school.  I imagine Grandma saw everything.  Dad gave me a copy...

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15 Days

It’s been 15 days since I’ve been outside and I’ve been ill for 13 of them. In that times I think I’ve regressed, reading Stephen King and listening to music in bed, and deciding that I might just like It’s Always Sunny In Philadelphia. By osmosis. Sarge is sick now, too, see. We are sharing the TV. And the cough syrup. It’s my fault that he’s sick. Because when I’m sick, I get extra mushy. I want to hug the shit out of everyone. More than usual. And these days, Sarge is the only one around. Not complaining. Not really. Take last week, for example. He may have coughed and blew his nose, showing it to me like a prize. ‘Maybe it’s the flu,’ he said. I looked at him over my glasses, crooked on my face. Because I can, and they were. ‘Say what?’ I said. ‘Maybe it’s the flu.’ ‘I’ve been sick for a week, and you’ve said it’s not the flu. Because I’d know if it was. Of course. You’re sick for 5 minutes and it’s the flu?  Gimme the tissues, you damn fool.’ And I blew my nose. ‘So. Now it’s the flu?’ ‘Maybe.’ I shrugged. ‘OK. Can I hava hug?’ And so, on we go. Amidst the pills and the eucalyptus and the lozenges, I’m restless. I am sick of being sick. I have...

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Dear Body, Buck Up.

I didn’t make it to my personal training session on Wednesday.  I’d spent the night before with a throwing up bug, which won over my throwing up phobia at least six times. At about 4 in the morning, I thought it’d be a stellar idea to sleep in the bathroom. Instead, I went back to bed and spooned with Freddy The Fuck It Bucket. Named after what I yelled out right before I spewed into it. It gave me some control back. Or something. I’ve spent the last two days sipping energy drinks on the couch, not watching Dexter or anything to do with food. And now, the stomach bug has moved up into my face. So yeah, it’s been an interesting week here at Casa Penguino. And Sarge has been wonderful throughout the whole thing. Take last night for example. At about 3 o’clock, I was sitting up in bed attempting to dislodge some snot and I had misplaced my tissues. I might have nudged/pulled at Sarge’s beard, saying only, ’tissues, now, where?’ He found them half-way down the bed and might have thrown them at my face. I didn’t understand that he wanted to go back to sleep, I thought he wanted to stay up with me singing ‘Thank You For Being A Friend‘. In a round. At 3 in the morning. The cold was making me...

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The Bridal (Hair) Hump and The Sneezes of Doom

As he pulled me backwards down the ramp and on to the street, the taxi driver asked what I was doing there. On a Monday. In the rain. In Glasgow. ‘Wedding make-up trial.’ ‘Are you going to be a bridesmaid?’ ‘No. I’m the bride.’ ‘Really?’ Yes, really.’ ‘Congratulations!’ ‘Thank you. Have a nice day.’ As I made my way up to Dad and Anne’s flat, I thought about how much I live to surprise people. Not really. Maybe a little. Remember this? When I arrived upstairs, Dad might have been Googling wedding video people. Sarge and I had two must-haves on that front. Unobtrusive cameras and a grammatically-correct website. After three phone calls, and some squealing from me, we found someone. I sent Sarge a link to the website, and his usual ‘Cool!’ was upgraded to ‘Awesome!’ And so, that’s another thing off the to-do list. At about ten that night, Dad, Anne and two of my bridesmaids were eating pizza and watching me get transformed into Eddie Izzard, um, a bride. The beauty therapist was very patient. And the one-sided conversation went something like this: open, blink, stop, no, open…DO OVER. And did I mention I’m not co-ordinated enough for liquid eye-liner? I’m not. Pencils SAVE. Or something. As for my hair, I had only two stipulations. 1. My hair and I must fit through any doorway at...

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