I'd be extraordinarily happy if Brad from the store I love SO much hadn't told me that while I'd ordered me the grey version, he'd seen the red version and it was AWESOME and bla and yadda and bla and so on and on and on and "Brad! Shut the fuck up. Jesus. I'm indecisive enough without you telling me how incredibly more awesome the other damn colour is. Have a heart. Fucksake." So now I'm all, hmm, maybe I should have spent my three trillion dollars on a red watch?
Please note the artwork on the desk behind my wrinkly old arm (which, if you have daughters, show them this picture and explain to them that this is why they need to wear their spf100billion). Also please note the wine glass in the background. It now contains about a half a glass of I have no idea whatthefuck. Hang on. It's a glass of The Cover Drive 2005 Cabernet Savignon and I'm drinking it because after finishing off the glass that was left in the bottle of red that Gee brought over way back in the day on Monday night while on the phone to Daniel's father and that sentence didn't make sense, did it? I can explain that. Alcohol works on me like homeopathics works on the rest of the world. Very well, in that if one molecule of booze found its way into a fifteen squillion litre bottle of water, and if I drank a glass of that water, I'd be maggotted. Which I am, after not even a half a glass of the whateverinfuck I'm drinking now. Which I'm drinking because I quite enjoyed sitting back and getting quietly shitfaced on my own. On one single glass. God, I'm tragic. When I was in my teens and everyone was drinking positively fuckloads of beer and tequila, I'd be in the corner getting trashed on the smell of a can being popped. It's genetic. My grandfather was around 6'2 and kind of chunky was as much of a lightweight as I am.
But yes, in re Daniel's father. Who shall be named Strep.
Homeboy emailed me last Thursday three months after his last fucking off episode saying that he'd like to see Daniel sometime soon. Like, say, this coming weekend. I laughed my ass off and then, come Monday night, spoke to him and again, aired my reasons why he has snowflake's chance in hell of seeing Daniel anytime soon. Fuck, I don't know how many times I have to spell it out: it's not chicken and the egg. You don't get to prove you're ready to be consistent by using Daniel as the crash test baby. Be consistent and then you'll get to spend time with him.
His sister, Daniel's not Strep's, will be coming over on Sunday to spend some time though, so that should be nice. I'm shitting myself though because she lives with Dragon Lady aka her mother who I expect is saying some not so very glowing things about me on a regular basis (I think you should start puncuating things yourselves because *burp*).
In other news, I practically amputated my finger last night. My wedding ring finger too, come to think of it. The aforementioned Gee had stopped by and having dropped the glass he was drinking out of, was being apologetic and picking up the pieces and vacuuming up the debris and dripping blood all over the place. Meanwhile I was being all reassuring and relating stories about how three thousand guests before him had done the same thing so don't worry about it, and when I went to pick up the container the glass shards had been put in - and I have no idea how I even did this - I jammed my finger into the edge of the really big broken bit sticking out of the top. More (of my own precious) blood was shed and I'm left wondering, what with the simultaneous bloodshed and both our wedding ring fingers being the victim of that one single glass, did we unknowingly participate in some kind of ritualistic Pagan marriage ceremony?
In yet more other news, I ran over 6.5K on the weekend. I'm not certain of the exact distance because I did a lot of back tracking and ran up and down a car park for around ten minutes while Enn fossicked in the local scout hall garage sale. Fucking woot? Hell yes!. We took off while my ever present mum sat with Daniel, and I ran the entire way without stopping and with chucking in a few sprints in the middle and while prancing around like I had ants in my pants at other times to break up the jogging bizzo. Then the next day I swam one hundred laps which is about 25-30 laps of an olympic pool before pushing Daniel another 6.5K in the stroller. Awesome? Why yes, yes I am, because I am entirely untrained (yes I'm a personal trainer whats your point shut up) and the level of fitness I appear to have is from carrying Daniel in the back pack most nights and getting out to push him around in the stroller when I can.
There's a 12K run coming up in September. It's one I've been wanting to run since I was seventeen and was running in the evenings with my father. I've run the distance before, but never the race and I reckon that even without any further training, I could finish it now because after the weekend's effort, I still had more in me.
Watch this space, folks, because if I'm not plagued by fucking cold after cold for the rest of this winter, I'll be running that damn race. Or not.