I know I've mentioned this before so yes, it means it really does bother me. I typtypetype up a storm every day so you'd think my speed and accuracy would be stellar, but alas, no. The most I ever got to in typing school was 36 wpm (you can all a. suck it and b. stop laughing now) with an accuracy of I don't know what the heck. 97? 32? Whatev. Anyway, my problem is - and this extends to my entire world, not just to my keyboard - that I'm completely undisciplined (also, can't spell. I swear I've developed dyslexia as I've aged) so instead of practicing good typing habits asdf:lkj etc, I reinforce my bad (aka "bashing away at the keyboard with random fingers") style, so instead of getting better, I just get better at being bad at it. I even bought some typing software from ebay. Mavis Beacon, who everyone will tell you is The Shit vis a vis not typing like you're high on PCP, and it's still in its stupid envelope. I KNOW. I'm an idiot. I also won't even begin to tell you how many typos I correct in each sentence. More than I don't, put it that way, so even if I went all professional and put my super random fingers on all the right keys and found out I typed at 2 words per minute, I'd still be faster than I am now. BUT! I was given an old windows keyboard and magically my typing improved a hundred percent. Granted, a hundred percent improvement on "fucking abysmal" might not seem to be much, but it is.
In my own defense, I'm not actually as highly undisciplined as I think I am. When I do the objective thing and look at the bigger picture, there's a lot of structure and discipline in my life. I worry (A LOT) about not doing enough though, so nothing I do is ever enough, ergo! Following this train of thought it's natural for me to believe I must be undisciplined. And this is the point where banging my head against the wall seems like a good idea.
I mean, look at my kindoftraining diary for most weeks: 6.5k slogs every day with the stroller, a toddler and the shopping on board, 100 laps at the pool twice a week, and a 6.5k jog last night, so I guess I do find the time and discipline to do things that matter to me - and to my son. Those walks with the stroller and the additional two or so hours we do most days with him sitting around in the back pack like a big, giant lump are because he enjoys to do it too. If he didn't, I'd do all my exercise on the three days he's in childcare, and then sit around with him reading books and playing with lego when he';s not. I guess then that typing efficiently isn't important enough to me to do anything more than buy and ignore the software that could help improve it.
A review: Let's talk about Bonds, baby. Specifically, their track pants. People, I wear only Bonds trackies these days, even though I have the Adidas ones sitting in the drawer wondering what they did to offend me so. Nothing, dear track pants o' Adidas, I jes don like you no more. (that whimpering you hear? Is those trackpants crying from the rejection) Daniel also only wears Bonds gear because I have this insatiable urge to mix and match us it washes and wears SO well and is SO well priced. What more could a sole parent want?! I've got around six pairs myself. I say "around" because I have two pairs that don't fit like they should, so "around" because those two pairs get worn only if every thing else in my wardrobe is in the wash, and considering I wash each day, that translates to "never". One pair is a size a billion, even though the tag says otherwise, the other fits me in the tushicular region but are way too short. Those ones are the fleecy kind and they fit fine when I bought them, but they shrunk upwards or some shit. Then there's the grey, the darker grey, the black and the other black. I don't much like the other black, for I am picky, but as I've only just bought them I suppose I'd better wear them at least once more. Oh, and the hot tip vis a vis Bonds trackies? Is to stay away from the aforementioned fleecies, even if you're short enough to handle the upward shrink. They look great for about 0.003 of a second, then the knees bag, making you, the wearer, look like you're wearing your younger brother's cast offs.
In more reviewy type news that isn't either of those things and is more like white noise (inoffensive and given time, will lull you to sleep), I bought myself some nice 22 sleepers (I have no idea what the "22" means. Millimeters, maybe?) the other day because my not even a month old hoops broke the night before. Just like the ones before them did so you'd think I'd have learned my lesson the first time around. Lesson being: cheap, hollow hoops DON'T LAST. Man though, 75 bucks for a teeny tiny pair of gold sleepers? Although these aren't so teeny tiny. They're 22! And if you could see my ears, you'd be in awe at how amazing they look. But still, 75 bucks? Which pays for the lifetime guarantee even if it doesn't pay for the actual cost of the gold. The folly of youth (and ignorance) being, that fucking guarantee would have come in handy two years ago when the original pair of big and giant hoops went AWOL. I'd had those since I was 19, when my boyfriend bought them for my birthday or for Christmas or possibly because I was way cute and adorable back then. I had those for almost 20 years, along with the bathrobe that came with them, and wore both regularly too, the bathrobe and the earrings, then the bathrobe fell apart and then I lost one of the earrings while out walking, and about a week after that, the other hoop snapped at the hinge. If I'd known about the guarantee, I'd have said that they couldn't see the missing one because it had worn away (ahem) and of course, they'd have been able to see the broken one for themselves anyway.
After reading my last review type entry, you're all wearing mineral make up now, aren't you? Because if you needed even more reason to ditch the shit you're currently slathering all over your long suffering face, this is it. Wearing your mineral make up means you can go without sunscreen. I do it, in Australia, The Land of All That Is Baked And Crispy, and I'm still moistured up and completely tan free. My guess is that it's got something to do with the minerals creating a physical barrier between the elements and my skin, keeping my skins natural moisture in the the sun's harsh rays out. Or not. Anyway. My Jane IredaleAmazing Base has around an SPF22 and after wearing it with no moisturiser or sunscreen underneath it, I've learned that my skin really doesn't need anything BUT my minerals to look glowy and healthy and, for previously sun damaged and totally aged skin, pretty darn good. I've noticed too, that while the mineral make up has a lower SPF than any SPF30+ lotion I've used, it provides better protection against our scorching rays, and while in the past and with the usual sunscreens, I'd still pick up some colour over the summer. With the minerals alone though, I don't pick up any colour at all on my face. And finally, I like that I'm not regularly putting on the bunch of the chemicals that go into a sunscreen to make it a sunscreen, and I'd like it if you didn't transdermally poison yourself too.
Things with The Lawyer went from veddy, veddy promising (last week) to You Have GOT To Be Kidding (this week) (and no Jane,I didn't fuck it up). Once I'd decided to take things at face value rather than wondering what the fuck, I figured we'd just see where things ended up. Nothing serious, so no harm would be done if it didn't end up anywhere. He was interested and interesting and I was enjoying the company we'd been keeping. We'd been doing the tippy toe courtship dance since Apology Monday, and had graduated to fooling around like teenagers a while back. Meanwhile he was still all "I'm never going to have sex with you" to which I replied "Okay, sure. Any particular reason?". "Because you're aibee". Which isn't an answer and I should have bought the damn clue that he's ridiculous then and there, particularly because he thought that statement was answer enough. From the awed hush that befell the room whenever he uttered those fateful words - and uttered he did, regularly- my guess is that I represent some untouchable madonna like icon from his youth or some shit but fuhfuxsache (EXACTLY!! Ahem). AND YET! Clue still not bought by yours truly. Christ on a wholegrain cracker. Anyway and despite his virginal resolve, things moved to the (imagine I'm making air quotes as I say this, okay?) next level *elbow jab to the ribs with exaggerated wink* recently and....that appears to be that. Dude, or should I say fucknosedwankerbag, was all "It was a mistake!(!!)" and I was all in my head and thinking "Thanks a bunch. Also, Jesus H, fool. You have a right to your thoughts, however deranged and nonsensical they may be, but can you keep them to yourself?". I also didn't roll my eyes back in my head so much that I passed out from motion sickness when he said that's it, he's taking a six month break from women, it has nothing to do with me, it (*elbowjabwink*) was amazing and exceeded his fantasies (OF COURSE IT DID) and bullshit bullshit wankwankwank. Those of you thinking I did something wrong or pushed him too hard or WHATEVER, are wrong. I totally didn't and it's NOT my fault. I'm disappointed, of course, not because it's him but because of what he represented: the hope of something companionable and solid. We had a shared past but we didn't share it, so there's no gaping hole left in my heart. Disappointing=yes, heartbreaking=no, definitely not.
Daniel just presented me with this. Check out the symmetry and colour choices! Also, the hair, check that too. Gelled back and totally rad, man. And it all went silent so I followed him out to the front room and.... ....found him standing on the window sill.
Life as I knew it is now officially over.
The constant mess is already something that fries my neurones anyway, and now I'm going to have to leave cardboard boxes lying around, stunt man style, in the event that my untrained little crash test dummy tests Newton's law of gravity.
Poor Daniel, I don't know what it is but on the mornings he's going to childcare, I feel like I have less patience with him. I've noticed recently too, that when I collect him after the day is done, it's harder to listen to the noise and banging about he does without thinking "oh son, for the love of mike!". You'd think that after spending the day with him my patience would be more tested but it really seems that the less time I spend with him, the more I want him to quit acting like a toddler and oh, THE GUILT!!