Sleeping Ugly

I am so tired. This is like colossal sleepiness. I have so much to do, I'm going to bed late and getting up early. Working full time hours at one of my jobs and part time hours at the other, trying to kid myself that I can do the final year of my degree as well. I'm way behind on the dissertation front!

Today I am in uni by 7.15am, partly to get a parking space withing a 2 mile radius (like gold dust they are) but partly to try and motivate myself to get some reading done before my solid 9-5 of lectures begins. My eyes are so tired this is a pointless task, and my brain is so fuzzy whatever I do manage to read sounds like gibberish.

Went to the ladies and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I look like I drank a few litres of vodka til the early hours then rubbed chilli in my eyes. My skin is pale and grey, I look like death! It doesn't help that I haven't found time to wash my hair in the last few days, and no amount of clever styling, talcum powder or large hairbands can disguise it once it's gone past a certain point!

It wouldn't be so bad if I slept soundly for the few hours I do grab of a night, but I wake up every hour, either from a daft nightmare or thinking I'm late getting up. I'm going to have to start taking herbal remedies to KEEP me asleep.

And it's my weekend ON at work this weekend! So that means no lie in. Work straight from uni at 5pm, finish at 11am Saturday, then in again 10am Sunday-11am Monday, whereby I'm straight to uni for a meeting with my project supervisor. Then work Tuesday 10am - 11pm, an interview for a summer job 8.30 am Wednesday morning, then TRAINING for work Wednesday 10am - 3pm, half a day at uni Thursday, straight to work at my part time job til 9 that evening, full day at uni Friday 2nd March, then straight to work (that is, two weekends on in a ROW! I'm such a pushover, why can't I just say no?), finish work at 11 PM (yes pm) on Saturday night. When the HELL am I going to do my dissertation?!

Luckily, I know only too well that I've taken on too much, and March is my LAST MONTH of full time hours til I go over to doing one 25 hour shift a week! Bliss! Then when I finish uni, I can whack up the hours again over summer.

Gosh, I'm so glad I had a little complain to you. I feel a bit better now!

Grown.

The Last Straw

My baby sister came to dinner the other night, and was annoyed that I hadn't told you all about her recent silly fiasco. So now she can shush, cos here it is;

We had decided to go to the nearest city on a quiet Sunday evening for a bit of a boogie and for sis to consume her weight in vodka. A normal night (lol). Quite nice that it was just the two of us for a change, since I've moved out, we don't see each other too much in that kind of easy, social setting. It still amazes me how well we know each others little quirks, still finishing one another's sentences!

So we're in the first bar, two drinks in and it's karaoke night. Which I lurrrve. And she DESPISES. I like singing. She shrivels up and cringes with humiliation if I do it when she is in the vicinity. Not that she's ashamed of me or anything......

I've been told: absolutely no singing. So I just loudly sing along with whoever is on, while we rate or slate the poor victims. We also rate or slate (mostly slate) her recent men (if you can call them that).

Our drinks are on the table in front of us, mine a tap water, for the cheapskate teetotaler, hers a double vodka and lemonade with a black straw. She talks animatedly with her hands about something funny, although I can't remember what it was. Her barbie-doll long brunette, straightened hair swishes as she flicks it around with her talking hands. As she does, her hand brushes against something alien.

Confused, she looks up to where the object appears to have fallen from the sky, I follow her gaze. No, not from there. Her fingers brush through her hair, and I spot it, a length of black plastic camouflaged in her dark tresses. Grasping it in her fingers, she pulls out a straw. From her drink. It had oddly become entangled in her hair! The absurdity of the situation made us both giggle uncontrollably, fancy pulling a straw out of the depths of your thick hair! That will teach her talking hands.

Grown.

Rubbish

Am I becoming a domesticated housewife? Or do others among you have the same affinity that I do with my bin?

You know the one, your wheelie bin. I used to live in a rough area, where the families were huge, thus it was in their best interest to STEAL YOUR BIN, so that the crap their sprogs produced wasn't just chucked into the alleyway, but into a bin. I didn't have uni on a Friday (bin day) at the time, and used to wake up to the sound of the reversing siren from the tuck, in a cold sweat, throw on the nearest jeans and jumper, run down the street into the alley to collect my bin. Well, not necessarily mine, you understand, just "a" bin to get me through the 2 weeks. You now think I am an evil bin stealer. Well...

When we moved in, we did not have any recycling boxes, but the kind bin men always took away my carefully washed and sorted-into-carrier bags recycling. But... no one is so lucky when it comes to those damn wheelies; bloody save-the-planet council (I am avidly Eco-friendly BTW).

You think I am sad waiting in the alley for a bin.....I am late, at least ten women and a sprinkling of men also wait for a bin. We have had to deal with binlessness before, the council will only give you one free replacement, then you've gotta be quids in to buy yourself a new bin every bloody week.

So...when I spy a bin that no-one has laid claim to, I drag it into my garage an proceed to paint my door number and street name in large, white letters on each panel. No one would dare now, right?

I have heard stories that beg to differ, an extremist in comparison to me, outrageously painting yellow abstract art onto his bin, only to have it (gasp) stolen! But never fear, on returning from a night out, approx a mile from home, said man spots his beloved bin in the distance, and, irate with anger, trudges off to retrieve it, and drag it off into the night. Luckily the "new owner" of the bin was not home. Or at least pretended not to be.

Grown.