Tagged: rats

Jul 04

How To Have Your Home Restyled By Rats In A Few Easy Steps

There are many interior design and decor approaches and many magazines, blogs, and websites devoted to restyling one’s home.  Yes, the houses look lovely – all those bijoux finds, sleek lines, and splashes of vintage (reclaimed old tat, mostly) – but they lack a certain something, that je ne sais quoi one can find in adopting an entirely different approach.  I’ve welcomed into my home the breathtaking talents of Georgia&Min, Rat Designers of Lorne Street.

Rats are inventive, enterprising, imaginative, hard-working, and very particular in their tastes.  For these reasons, amongst other things, they make excellent interior design consultants.  They are unafraid to express their views – lacking any linguistic skills that we might understand, this tends to be done through actions rather than words.

For example, should they think your wallpaper is outdated, they’ll show you exactly how best to remove it.

They are excellent upcyclers, rivalling even Blue Peter in its prime with their ingenuity in transforming the old and worn out into fetching additions to the home.  Here they’ve taken a tatty old cushion and, with a little tearing along the seam and dragging out of its contents voila it is snug bedding that doubles as a barrier to stop you chasing them out from under the sofa with a broom handle.

Old ornaments are turned, overnight, into bright arrangements, adding blasts of colour to your home.

Furniture is renovated with minimal effort on your part.

With a paws-on approach, they introduce new colour schemes into your home.  In this case, striking smatters of black, sourced from renewable resources found in the coal scuttle.

Soft furnishings and their suitability for your home are subjected to the most rigorous  assessment and removed if their presence simply does not contribute to that sense of your own energy, oozing from the canvas that is your home.

Clutter is sorted through and assigned to the bin or used to create a bold display on your desk and floor.

Room dividers that are simply not pleasing to the eye are dismantled.

They also provide a number of auxiliary services such as looting your laundry bin to save you having to wash it.  This saves both time and energy – benefitting you and the environment.  Note the single pair of nice, presentable in any situation knickers left for you to handwash and wear.  Rats are nothing if not considerate.

And, after a long day spent refurbishing, they will join you for dinner.  Their manners may be somewhat unfamiliar to you, but remember they are creative types whose quirks and affectations are simply symptoms of their genius.  One cannot expect the artiste to abide by the rules and expectations of our primitive, tasteless, irrelevance of a society.


Jun 09

The painful process of finding a mate

‘Darling, there will be gorgeous men aplenty,’ he said.  ‘We’ve invited all the lovely men we’ve ever met just for you.  There’s one I think you’ll really love.  He’s a composer, bit older, said most of his compositions are ‘atonal’.  Don’t know what the fuck that means, but I think you can make the word ‘anal’ out of it which might be a good thing, you know, or something.  Come, darling, it’ll be fun and you know how much I love you. You have to stop wishing you were with that Texan.  (I did, many months ago, though the spectre of him striding, like Action Man, towards me still looms in my dreams.)  We know you don’t eat meat so David’s made a seafood curry.   See you at seven.’

I should make the effort.  I really should.  James loves me.  He really does.  And what source can you trust more as a good judge of a possible mate than the recommendation of your best friend.

I did look at dating sites (see previous post, ‘Want a date?  Keep your cleavage in shot and your pets out’ for some statistics on just how to make yourself irresistible or put people off entirely), but contrary to what the enormous advertising campaigns promised, there weren’t thousands of ‘hot men’ who, with just a moment’s electronic matchmaking would display themselves (sometimes a great deal too much of themselves) to me with perfect compatibility on every level of my being.

While I’m on the subject of the advertising campaigns, just quite what the dating companies think people are interested in, I’m not sure.  For about a week one ran a tv ad exhorting men to sign up to meet the thousands of ‘hot women’ just waiting to be wooed – too many, in fact, for the men already signed up to cope with.   The women pictured were cartoons dressed like they were en route to a fetish fancy dress party – dominatrixes; nurses in uniforms so miniscule that, yes, they might be the stuff that bed-bath dreams are made of; cheerleaders; and bespectacled, cane-wielding teachers.  Then for weeks and weeks they ran a similar campaign pleading with women to sign up and get their fill of, if the cartoons were to be believed, muscled, dog-owning doctors and the occasional workie the likes of which I’ve never seen but wouldn’t mind doing so.

I signed up for a trial membership, entered a few details (don’t want kids or do god, but do like brunettes) and, week after week, was sent the profiles of men who met, say, 98% of my criteria.  All blonde, all god-loving/fearing, and all hell bent on having kids.  Quite what the glaring incompatibilities in the remaining 2% were, I don’t know.  ‘Knightinshiningarmour’, ‘justanicefella’, and ‘bigdownbelow’ – we shall never meet.

There are groups for like-minded people that meet regularly in my area.   There are the normal (too energetic, in the main) and there are the dominatrix vampire/zombie lovers.  It’s not a pretty prospect.

So, the party it is.  I might as well be prepared, I think, so to the beauty salon I go.  This is a place I used to love – something about the intimacy and chat.  There’s nothing a beautician hasn’t seen – there isn’t a place on the human body from which she hasn’t removed hair, no quantity of body fat she hasn’t muscled essential oils into, no manner of aesthetic neglect with which she isn’t familiar.  What she is possibly not so familiar with is tears.  She only got to do one side of my bikini line till I said I’d well exceeded the medically recommended number of painkillers in preparation for what might be a little sting, but – short of her wheeling out a morphine drip – I could take no more.  I limp home snivelling and, hobbling about the flat, tread on Minnie’s tail.

I check her tail for any signs of damage (none), press a cold flannel to my bruised, welted thigh, and slather it in rescue remedy cream.   The fact that I can only sort of lean on one leg when either standing or sitting without risk of blood loss through chafing rather limits what I can wear.  Winceyette pyjamas would be nice.  Anyway, I get there.

It’s a little late on so everyone’s drunk and all the food is gone.  James has his usual drink-induced Tourette’s – repeating the same phrase that wasn’t funny the first time over and over – and John is dry-humping David’s leg.  He lusts after David – secretly when sober and lustily when drunk.  Everyone lusts after David.  He used to be straight, but then gayness found him and now he and James are the coupliest of couples and I hate them both for finding each other.

‘Darling!  This is Robert!  The man I was telling you about.  Robert, this is Kate.’

There stands before me possibly the vilest man I have ever seen.  He waddles towards me, grabs my hand and kisses me on the cheek.  ‘I just have to go to the loo won’t be a sec and I’ll be back,’ I tell him.  I wash my hands four times and clean the side of my face twice.  When I come back, he tries to flog me a copy of his cd for a tenner which I decline, never having been a fan of atonal.   Then he sits at the piano and jerks about like he’s got some sort of involuntary muscle movement condition (for a moment I think maybe he does and try to feel a little sympathetic till he stands up and I see it’s all for effect), banging the keys with every ounce of strength in his upper body.  He’s no Beethoven.  But then no one is.  I’d bring Beethoven back from extinction along with Orson Welles, if I could.  He’s one of those creative types who mistake mess and banging crashing about for passion.  Or maybe I just don’t get it.  He stops, thank god, and starts telling me about his website.  I make some suggestions – talk on a bit about ideas while turning my head to the left every time I breathe in to avoid breathing the stinking air he exhales.  Wilfully techno-incompetent, it seems, he nods at my breasts as I try to time my breathing with his, roughly breathing out when he does, holding it and breathing in once the air might have cleared.  It doesn’t.  He goes back to assaulting the piano and I leave.

‘What the fuck were you thinking?  He’s vile and he smells and his music’s shit, James.’

‘Sorry, Kitty (my moniker ever since the boys met a still most manly transsexual called Kitty and decided it would be hilarious to call me after him-her – think he was mid-op so I’m not sure which pronoun to use).  I really thought you’d like him.  I know he’s not got any muscles or anything, but he’s a bit older and you like that, don’t you?’

‘He’s 5000 years old with no concept of personal hygiene.  Having lived so long, you’d think he’d have picked up on that.  I think I might just head off.  My thigh’s started to throb and itch.  Lovely party, darling.  I love you and thanks for trying even if whatever in all hell was going through your head when you thought I might fancy him is I don’t know what.’

I come home and lie on the sofa with the little ladies.   Minnie bruxes softly on my chest while Georgia plays in my hair.  When I stand up I find rat bedding and tissue in my hair (I was en route to being made into a nest, it seems) and shit down the back of my neck.  Minnie’s only little and hasn’t quite mastered the division between places to shit and places not to, but it’s fine.  We have our bedtime biscuit together, I settle them in their nests, and limp off.  I’ll be crazy rat lady spinster forevermore.  It’s lovely and what’s a little rat shit between friends.


Jun 09

Want a date? Keep your cleavage in shot and your pets out.

You know it’s been a while when you have to search out your passport for the date of entry stamp to see what year it was when you flew across the ocean to see the last man you had sex with.  It wasn’t quite long enough for my virginity to have grown back, but certainly long enough to show that I was making no effort whatsoever to find a man to bed down with.  I thought I ought to do something about it and looked to the most immediate of resources for those on the look-out for a mate – dating sites.

Handily, there was a statistical study in a weekend supplement.  From a slightly cobbled together newspaper report, I discovered that, in dating site shots, women with cats get 24% fewer hits and women showing cleavage get 43% more. Possibly, you can offset the crazy cat (or rat, in my case) lady image by getting your breasts out.

For men, get a dog and you’ll meet 50% more women. Show your muscles and you’ll meet 45% more. Don’t know if the numbers combine, but maybe sitting a dog on your rock-hard abs will get you 95% more hits than a skinny dogless guy could ever dream of.

It says that women doing something ‘interesting’ are 48% more likely to have an online conversation with a man who contacts them. If you really want your cat in shot, possibly, being pictured trying to wrangle him down your cleavage would count as interesting. I think so, but then I’m not a man so I don’t know how they’d interpret it.

Roughly half the men I know are frightened of rats, but I don’t know whether, if I joined a dating site and had Georgia and Minnie in my picture, I’d get 50% less hits.  (From the picture above, you can see they’re adorable and not at all terrifying or carriers of a bubonic plague.)  Possibly the way in which I described the part they play in my life would influence the statistics.  While they are of intelligent and appealing companionship to me, the only time they’ve ever been involved in an encounter with a man was when I set Georgia on a friend after he’d told me, if I weren’t ‘such a slut and a doormat’, I’d be with The Texan I’d lusted after forever and ever (wrong on all counts, but gin does give you the clarity to pronounce yourself judge, jury, and executioner on all matters of other people’s relationships, don’t you know).  Anyway, Georgia zipped along the sofa and onto his lap; he shrieked and hid in the bathroom until I assured him she was safely back in her cage.  He now calls in advance of any visits to make sure she’s not on the prowl, with nothing better to do but launch herself at his throat, draw and quarter him.

‘Online flirting’ (whatever the hell that is) gets you 7% more hits so maybe a bit of cleavage, fluttering my eyelashes and making Georgia and Minnie look especially fluffy would make me a less terrifying proposition.

If I test it, I’ll let you know.  Any tips on persuading rats to nestle snuggly in a Wonderbra while not obscuring my breasts would be gratefully received.


Jun 09

Illiterate Troll Anyone?

Giving in to peer pressure from my mum and various other people who’ve never tried it yet claim it’s the way everyone meets these days, I signed up to an online dating site a little while ago.  I filled in a few forms, ticked some boxes – provided so much information it started to feel like some secret service background check - posted a picture, wrote a little bit about myself and what I was looking for, and went to bed.  I got up the next morning to 13 winks (emoticons ‘to break the ice’) and 5 messages.

It was a horrible sight – it almost put my rats Georgia, Minnie, and me off our breakfast.  I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a sorry display of the male species.  Not all in one place, anyway.  A gallery of trolls is the only way I can think of to describe it.

Now, I know I’m no Helen of Troy (before she was ravaged by age, mutilated and hanged, obviously), but is this it?  Is this what I get for all my efforts and is this really all that’s out there?  Did I shave my legs for this?

In two days (two hours, actually, but I thought I’d make some pretence of a clinical trial so gave it a little longer), my theory about them has been proved: online dating sites are populated by sad, ugly bastards who’ll hit on anything in a carpet winking of new sign-ups. They actually all put “anything” in the bit where you write what you’re looking for.  There’s not an iota of originality (or literacy) amongst them nor any sign that they’ve read my profile.   If they have, quite which bit of the description I gave of what I’m looking for they think they fit, I don’t know.

If I wanted a florid-faced, morbidly obese, 71-year-old midget, looking like he’s on the verge of a stroke, wouldn’t I have asked for one?  It’s hardly the funny, manly, taller-than-me thing I had in mind.

It seems this isn’t the point, though.  The simple fact that I’ve put a picture and a few stats on the site is carte blanche for PantherXX to offer to show me a good time (maybe he could, though hefting around that gut might make the mechanics a little tricky), Darren37 to tell me he’s the only good man on the site and he’s already taken but his wife won’t mind (very charitable woman, apparently), Dick to say he’s after that ‘speshil sum1′, and men I’d cross the street to avoid looking at to send me pictures of themselves oozing out of singlets.  It strikes me as a little arrogant.

Maybe I’m being harsh and maybe the men are just being friendly and maybe I should look beyond the (frightening) looks and try to get to know the men behind the walleyes, manboobs, and hair so rigid with gel it must surely be bulletproof.   Trouble is, between the many many clichés and txtspk, it’s rather difficult.

Looks just are important.  They could compensate, for a moment or two, for an apparent inability to read or spell, total lack of interest in anything I’ve got to say, and a most likely unwavering belief in their own gorgeousness.  But you can’t get away with an Adonis complex unless you’ve got the looks to support it or a certain something.  And not one of them looks remotely like Matthew McConaughey.  I realise that’s setting the bar pretty high (and, in their defence, I didn’t specify it in my ‘wants’), but it’s my profile and I’ll set the bar high if I want to.

Thrilling though getting hit on by trolls is, I’ll give it two more days to disprove my theory and I’m off the site.

My little lady rats, Georgia and Minnie, have just appeared, come to see what I’m up to and when I’m going to give them half my dinner.   The best company a gal could ask for calls.