Shit and Shopping.

There is NOTHING like waking up to a funky smell. If I was in a cartoon it would be like that green smoke wafting through to my nostrils and let me tell you, this smell would certainly singe nostrils hairs.
I should have woken up properly when The Garden Terrorist (aka my gorgeous dog) was restless and kept nudging my hand in the middle of the night. I just rolled over. Oh I'm so so sorry this morning. That smell woke me. I opened my sleepy eyes and out the corner of my eye I saw mounds of steamy diarroeah and vomit. The Garden Terrorist is not a small, lap dog (I've never been a fan of those that look like rats or are Paris H/handbag sized.) either. He is a monster of a dog who sleeps at the base of our bed. I wretched at the piles of shit all over the place. Oh and it's runny. Really runny.
Guess who has to clean it up? Me. My man had a plane to catch and acted like he had to rush, rush, rush.
I think I'll hang an air freshener around my nose, suck a breath mint and don gloves. Oh kill me.

Today I am going to do the thing that is dreaded by any woman who isn't a supermodel.
I could think of a few things I would rather do, like gargle with glass or perhaps I could stick toothpicks through my eyes balls.
Today I am going bikini shopping. Oh it pained me to type that. You have to try on swimwear. You just have to. But why do we have to try on swimwear in revolting, unflattering change rooms? Why oh why do stores do this to us? Revolting, bright light that shows every lump and bump and 101 mirrors so we can see ourselves in every angle. Awesome. Oh and my best? The bikini's sold as one. I can't handle that. I need a bigger top and a smaller bottom. Not both in one size. Oh no. Those beady eyed sales reps are there waiting for me.
"Sorry. You can't seperate them!" is normally whined at me.
To find one that fits and turns me into a Victoria Secret Goddess is well...I'm still looking.

I can hardly contain myself with the excitement. I now understand the purpose of the Hip Flask. I need to get sloshed so that I can drink myself pretty!

Below is the wish. Below that is most likely the reality. Kill me.


Wish me luck.

Garden Terrorist

I was furious and so frustrated that I resorted to tears last night. I got home from Comedy Girl's place last night. We had finished off a bottle of wine, had great girly chats and finally called it a night. I was exhuasted and just wanted to flop into bed.

As I got home I noticed that the lovely tree's I had bought and placed in the garden to be planted were not sticking above the wall. As I got closer I found my dog aka Garden Terrorist, full of compost. He had trampled and destroyed everything. Everything. One tree survived.

The only good that came out of this, was that he distributed 3 bags of compost for me. Fuck, I was upset. I burst into tears. There was no sign of the Jasmine (my favourite thing that would have been in my garden!) and there were only a few things that were salvageable. The rest? Destroyed. The Garden Terrorist is lucky to be alive.

I am going for a spray tan tonight and yes, I've had them before and they work brilliantly on my skin. I can't lose 10kgs by Saturday night's TV show, so I'm going to mask it with a tan . I had to exfoliate my body and not use cream, deodorants or anything of the sorts. I ran out of my exfoliater so I jumped out the bath left a wet trail all the way to my kitchen, grabbed my sugar bowl and nearly killed myself on the way back. Slippery feet and tiles apparently don't mix. Who would've thought.