Just Buy a Bucket

Feeling slightly better? Me too.

For the first time in what feels like forever, I'm sitting in front of the greater mac (ahem, Greater Mac) rather than using the iPad. It feels a little strange. I've been behind on my facebook games and the number of game requests from friends was starting to scare me. I thought I should do something about that.

Today's plan, aside from fitting in some sleep, is the deathless boredom of housework. And posting some book mooches. I can foresee a great deal of popularity for me here - I post overseas. Whoopee! I only hope, since a couple of the books on my wishlist were only ever published in the US, that I find a like-minded moocher.

Husbandly took off this morning with a burgeoning lurgy - yes, he scored it too. Bummer, dude. Small lad took off with a hand-drawn life cycle of a chicken and a thirty-second speech. Life cycle is a small misnomer - it's more an urn-shaped birth-to-death sort of thing. No chicken-or-the-egg conundrums for my son, no sir. The egg hatches, the chicken lives and that's all he wrote.

Tonight I have the joys of working and reorganising the stock fridge, because moving bags of blood from one place to another is a passion of mine. I was going to launch into a sarcastic paean of praise, but I just can't be bothered.

It stems from a chat with a near stranger, who asked if I liked the trots (as in harness racing, not diarrhea); when I said not really, know nothing about it to be honest, he replied with "It's a passion of mine" and then bored me rigid about it for the next five minutes. Then he asked about something else - what it was is lost in the tedium brain-death, sorry - and then said "Another passion of mine" and went on again. I know very clever people are very involved with their interests, but that doesn't mean I need the OCD discussion from a near stranger. Just go away.

Which makes me laugh (at myself), because if there's one thing I have, it's a gob. I can go on for days if you let me - but generally if I see the foot shuffle start I try to break off and set you free, or steer the conversation into something you might like.

Not that I have very many conversations these days. I work alone.

The Lego castle was a great success, the book shopping less so. Although I did find a choose-your-own-adventure clone for small lad. Now I have to wrestle him into reading it. We also had beverages - real coffee for me and hot chocolate for small lad. It's a hard life.

It's 9:23 in the neighbourhood and those sheets aren't going to change themselves. Let me find my motivation and I'll be right with that.

Similar to a mother's womb? Last time I checked my uterus was not a hard plastic shell, nifty bottom parts or not. And what, we should put the baby back now? What for? You can't play with your rubber ducks and plastic boats and squirty empty shampoo bottles in a bucket! And really, I mean really, even upmarket washing a baby in a bucket is still washing a baby in a bucket. More risk of throwing he or she out with the bathwater, too.

CMV Negative and Irradiated

I've spent the last two weeks feeling like crap (on a stick!). I managed to work my five shifts-in-a-row bonanza feeling only marginally blech (and how too, too marvellous to combine that with four-hours-of-sleep-a-day marathons). Then it came to the five days off. Didn't make it off the lounge, except for the occasional shower and cups of tea when no-one else would get it for me. Small lad is a bit young yet for the pouring of hot beverages, and husbandly can't be there all the time.

Now of course I'm back to work again (I like eating, apparently, and that kitchen won't pay for itself). Right now I'm tea laden and viciously hating the RCPA QAP survey.

No wait, right now I'm tea-laden and giggly for no good reason. I'm not happy with the RCPA survey, but them's the breaks if you want to work in a professional field and apparently I do.

I'm fighting very hard at the moment not to fall into the Pit of Despair. I changed jobs to give myself some breathing room, but it seems that the indians just keep coming and coming; mixing metaphors is also one of the things I was trying to get myself away from.

The utterly crushing depression at the beginning of the year was a bit crap. In the same way that running over your cat in front of your kid is a bit crap. Not that I have done that, and here I knock on every piece of wood I can find, because just lately, universe, you seem to piss all over me whenever I open my metaphorical or actual mouth. Not that I'm paranoid or anything.

I don't mean anyone has shot my dog (I don't even have a dog) - or run over the cat, if you like that better - just I find myself being held up a bit. I was having a high dudgeon moment about something and not half-an-hour later found I had to do exactly the same thing. Because that's how it all pans out; beware the high horse you ride today because you may have to clean up said horseshit tomorrow. And that high horse horseshit is heavy. Add some insecurity, a dash of loneliness and a ravening fury about the uses to which your life has been put, and hey presto! misery central.

Millions of people have it worse; these things will pass. I'm doing my damnedest not to complain about what I do or don't have, because really, even if I felt I was in the worst job in the world (personally, telemarketing ranks slightly below shovelling shit in an abattoir but only barely), I'm still out in front - look at husbandly and small lad, they are so marvellous - but I'm getting a bit frustrated with the timetable here. There are things I wanted to be doing by now, and I'm not doing them.

Some of those things, like the kitchen, I'm deliberately not touching. The four-month-supposed-to-be-only-one bathroom renovation extravaganza makes me very, very tired and thus not enthused about being without a kitchen for any length of time. So I wait until I can save some more dosh. Okay then.

So then I think about organising the house. It's lovely, of course, to have a house that I can do anything with (in a severely limited way - we have the most stupidly proportioned house in the world; it can't even boast interesting angles). But oh, there are just too many rooms. Obviously thinking about this at four in the morning is a bad idea.

It comes down to being tired. And sidetracked. And tired.

I had my five days off and instead of spending it doing anything I wanted, which incluuded such delightfully decadent things as cleaning the bathroom*, I wound up ill. Before that it was a do I had to attend. Before that another do; and various running around after goods for birthdays, easter, oh wow I'm in fine whingeing form this morning.

I'm not even thinking about writing. I'm so...discouraged and feel like a complete prat. I also feel extraordinarily stupid these days - starting a new job will do that to you.

* I like cleaning our bathroom. Sad sad sad sad sad.

I did finally catch up to current day mimi smartypants, so points to me for that.

And in a horrifying aside, why the hell did I look at this and why am I linking it now?

In my perusals of smartypants, I found about a great website called BookMooch, a site for giving away and receiving free books. Well, nearly free. You pay postage to send them away. My first ten books will go in sometime today.

We watched X-Men: The Last Stand last night before I came in to work. I tried to talk small lad out of it, because it is sad. In the all-of-these-people-die-and-the-good-girl-is-now-bad-and-even-the-others-are-morally-ambiguous sense of sad rather than this-is-a-completely-crap-movie sense. Others may disagree, if they really want to.

At the end of the film, small lad turned to me and said "you're right Mum, it was sad, but sometimes I need to feel sad. I've been happy for yeeeeears now."

He quickly amended years to months, but I like the balance of the outlook. Not quite sure where it came from; I'll take it anyway.

The plan for today, since plans are a good way to stay out of the Pit of Despair, except when I don't/can't/won't stick to them, is to take small lad shopping this afternoon. On the shopping list, aside from something nice for dinner (because boy am I tired of I-can-throw-this-in-a-pot-or-microwave-and-no-cooking-skill-is-required foods), are:

• Lego castles
  
• Megamind the DVD (as opposed to Megamind the Horse Rustler?)
  
• Real coffee in a cup and everything, instead of dishwater in cardboard (coming soon to a theatre near you - Dishwater in Cardboard! You won't believe we charged you money for it!)
  
• A book. Because clearly my collection of two-thousand or so is lacking something.

I'm not really CMV negative, I'm too old for that sort of thing.

Frog Takes On Lawnmower

I have an urge to run and hide this morning. I have lovely coffee-spill decoration drops down the front of my shirt. It might have been better if I'd kept to my old bad habits of wearing a lab gown everywhere, but no, I try to stay gown free on the eating and the drinking. I try to stay gown-free most of the night anyway, because the petticoats just get in the way and pants are just so practical.

I blame the shirt. It's one that has mysterious stains. (Food-related mysterious stains, not- oh never mind). I wash and scrub, until my washing machine starts chugging, iron the shirt and fail to notice the mark right between the boobies. I'm hardly likely to scrub until my fingers bleed, I don't have a washboard and I'm too big a girl for that sort of thing.

Despite appearances to the contrary, I haven't been at the alcohol swabs, unless someone wants to make me an offer.

Yesterday morning (which is still this morning to me, welcome to the disorientation of twelve-hour night shifts) I took forty minutes longer to get home than I should have. Because to wanted to...SING! So I did. Forty minutes of singing at the top of my lungs, with a wind down listening to Vivaldi. Great way to relax. Tell your friends.

Unfortunately tonight/{this} morning my voice is heading towards crackville (not Crackville, in California; only drug addicts go there). I may have the small lad's lurgy, but before the hypochondria sets in, I'll assume it's overdoing the singing.

I have the attention span of an ADD squirrel. Or a dog distracted by a squirrel while trying to get it to fetch the stick, boy, go on! It's a problem and not one to explore at four in the morning, unless I really have been at the alcohol swabs (or much more likely alcoholic facsimile from a pretty glass bottle in a special shot glass); small bananas compared to solving all of the world's problems (this should only ever be undertaken while mellow and under the influence). Two o'clock is the best time really, particularly if beer has been consumed, but let's make do.

Or we could all be kind to each other, all the time, or most thereof, but apparently not.

Oh, terrific mood, thy name is me. I had a phone call earlier, the kind where I hung up the phone and said, "And when you've finished being unpleasant, perhaps we could get on with it." Because everyone else "just does it" (no they don't), and I wouldn't. Blood Bank! Mad with power! Arbitrary rules just to shit you! Yes, you in particular! Patient safety doesn't enter into it!

So much for leaving work at work. No, wait, I am at work, so that's all right.

SQUIRREL!

As much as I like the movie Up!, the dead squirrel joke isn't much chop for very literal little people (like alliteration? Me too!). "It is funny because the squirrel is dead." and it is, for the grownups; mystifying for littlies.

For anyone who hasn't seen the movie, skip the squirrel, dog and random exclamations. If you want.

If you don't, go watch it. It's a great movie though strangley not as beautiful as Wall-E. Back to Up!, the only part that puzzles me is the bad guy. In the commentary it was said that the writers tried not to make the bad guy intrinsically evil. The odd part is the bad guy takes the prize in the Pixar universe for "Most Evil (and Believable) Villain". He's adult, ugly and twisted, and creation of talking dogs (!!!) notwithstanding, one of the most reprehensible characters in a kid's movie.

The other bone I have to pick with Up!, and since I've started I may as well, is the talking dogs. Talking dogs! Really! I want one! I want all of the dogs I have ever owned to be talking dogs! Every dog person who saw the movie (especially the lines "Can we keep him?" "No." "But he's a TALKING DOG!!" and the very well-animated Kevin's body language on the "TALKING DOG!!") wants one! Sometimes when I'm not thinking about anything, I think about how much I want a talking dog! Ever since watching this movie! Do something about that, would you?

I wish I were a rich man, ya ha deedle deedle, bubba bubba deedle deedle dum, all day long I'd sit on my bum, if I were a wealthy man.

Then again, I'm not sure I want to commit to the sex change.

Today is my birthday. Thank you for all the good wishes. I have no plans to do anything. Other than the ironing, I'm catching up. Finally I have myself slightly organised, while outside my windows zombies smear icky things and mumble about brains. They don't want mine, apparently it induces fits. I'll be safe come the end of the world then.

I meant to be serious there, not quite sure what happened. Just think, you too could be this mental...just...errr...maybe not. I was going to blame something, but it's much more fun to assume I'm a nutbag. Better than being a peanut (as in size of brain equals, for those who don't geddit, geddit?).

Lawnmowers: one. Frogs: a blood-smeared and speckled zero.

Ills of Boydom

Or rather, this is the third day at home for the small lad. He has a really great husky voice happening but wants to go to the doctor. Pity our doctor is not available for some reason today.

Meanwhile Cookie Monster is playing Big Bad Wolf playing Grandma to get the awful looking bird seed cookies off Big Bird.

Chris Lilley might well be a genius, but I don't like his characters. I can see where the humour is or should be, but caricature isn't always amusing. I didn't like Burn After Reading for the same reason: laughing at the genuinely unintelligent is just mean. If anything, particularly in Burn After Reading, it made my heart hurt to see people get in their own way and not realise what they've done.

The letter of the day is Q, which unless they're about to start in with English spelling of either Chinese or Arabic, should be the letter(s) Qu. English the Evolution, coming to a children's show near you!

Time to run a bath so hyperactive sick boy can have some "relaxation" time and I can have a slight rest; meaning I can go and get some work done. For this afternoon's project, I have a request to make pom-poms.

I feel like we're living out in the country. It's been four or five phone calls and I've conclusively failed to get through to our doctor. While I don't really need the backup (to wit: permission to keep small lad at home), the cough is deep and booming and the laryngitis pretty ick. That hasn't stopped his nibs from leaping around the lounge room, nor splashing about happily in the bathtub. I had to pull stern Mum face to stop him splashing all over the bathroom floor.

(Not that it worked, nor do I mind all that much. For a sickie lad, he has been very easy, even if he does keep confusing my foot with the cat. No, not a fever induced hallucination, more a failure of the peripheral vision.)

Pom-poms are a no, repeat, we do not have pom-poms. Much more fun to play Fruit Ninja on the iPad and watch the re-runs on ABC2. I dudded myself this morning on a voice-over for the "new" Bananas in PJ's ads and was told to stop it. "You know B1, This isn't right, we used to be dressed up people, not this animated nonsense." "Yes B2, I've been feeling a bit unreal myself." "Muuuuuuum! Stop it!"

At least it wasn't Yo Gabba Gabba, the bossiest, children-should-be-seen-and-not-heard excuse to cash in on kids shows ever. Strangely, small lad seems to like it. It lost me the day it told its viewers that they must be very quiet when they were playing, because being loud was bad. They're kids, kids make noise. That's what they do, and parents tell them to be quiet.

Having descended into the beginnings of a rant, I had better be off. Everyone reading, have a marvellous day, and I'll try for more interesting blah blah blah soon.

Felis Maniaca

Our cat has gone officially insane. Let's be kind, we said to ourselves and each other. The weather is cold and the cat will not sleep in any warm bed we make for her. Let's have her inside and she can climb up onto our bed, wrap herself around husbandly's legs and purr herself into oblivion.

That was then. This is now.

Meowing pitifully when she came in, because inside is evil, she settled herself in to the bedroom after some obligatory hiding out under the bed. This morning she disappeared entirely, probably back under the bed. Determined to put her back outside again, because certain businesses belong outside, I settle in to wait while I re-read Neuromancer. I hear some tacka-tacka-tack as she swans around the bedroom, then settles herself by the door. I got up to pat her and back under the bed she went. We did this twice. When I got up to pat her again and (gently) pick her up, she exploded into a whirlwind of claws and rather loud caterwauling.

She managed to get both of my wrists, three toes and scare the crap out of me. Silly cow.

I don't know if it was a combination of being hungry and small lad being at home (she has issues - he is as gentle as all get out) or she was just having a moment.

Now I'm walking wounded and she isn't talking to me again. Sigh.

Reruns of Reruns

Bewitched? Not really. I saw this episode yesterday.

Small lad excelled himself in the Mother's Day stakes this morning. He made cards, both of them utterly gorgeous (particularly the emoticons in silver pen), and handed over an oil burner - something I've needed for a while.

"Needed" being a relative term: the fates of our lives do not depend on the presence of an oil burner.

The day went sort of downhill from there. I had half-planned a trip to the Powerhouse Museum, but before I said anything about it we had an invitation to a family do. So tough luck on that. It's frustrating that there is never room for compromise with these things. And no is not taken well with this particular bunch. All of that grousing aside, "my" herb bread went over a treat.

So much so I looked it up on the iPad; cue watching youtube videos and getting embarrassed about looking up my stats for this blog. (I opened Safari, okay? Blogger was one of my open pages, okay?) Some people read this page. Good Lord. Drivel ready? Drivel launched.

This is the most stop-start entry ever. I have A Few Good Men playing in the background - late-eighties/early nineties musical grace notes to denote action, ick - and keep getting sidetracked. They're all so young! Jack Nicholson is so crazy! Guantanemo Bay - that embarrassment - before anyone had an idea what it was!

As much as this is compelling, I find myself out of love with easeful deat- Sorry, wrong opinion piece. Ahem, I find myself out of love with American courtroom drama. The constant harping on judicial process and the majesty of the legal system is starting to sound like a denial argument - methinks they doth protest too much. Extrajudicial process? Sure. Go overseas. Disregard any judicial process in the host country; it's probably inferior.

Okay, that's it for my incendiary remarks for today. Good timing. Jessup (Nicholson) has just entered the courtroom. Got to love the logic of the righteous - how utterly insane in the brain, murrain. Well, not really a murrain, unless I wanted to start a whimsy on the death of empathy; the death of understanding and the deeper ramifications. Nah. Take too long, and I'd contradict myself at least four hundred times.

Still worth a thought.

I have mixed feelings about the new Pirates of the Caribbean movie. There's no Will Turner or Elizabeth. Not that the only reason I was watching was Orlando Bloom...not at all preciousss.

Hairy Bikers are now cooking, and I have an urge to barbecue a pineapple on a spit, basting it with sugar and cinnamon as I go. Not what the Hairy Bikers are doing, they have some sesame seed thing (gak! blech! I hate sesame!). I had my pineapple thing at the Braza in Leichardt and think about it every now and then as the perfect dessert. Except for the heartburn from the pineapple, but you pay for what you get in life, right?

It is late and I am tired so it is time for me to read a book until my eyes slam shut and I leave the light on all night.

Obliging Bilge

I've been sucked in. The Doctor Who Bonanza proceeds apace, and tonight instead of quietly reading or having a bath, there I was, re-watching The Stolen Earth and Journey's End.

It's a way to avoid the State of the World Today. Whose justice? And that's all I'm going to say.

I'm still working my way through mimi smartypants, I'm slow, but I get there. In the End.

Found: a pair of glasses lost for eight years. Next time something goes missing, I'm looking on top of the buffet and hutch. How they got up there eight years ago...I can take a guess. I think husbandly put them up there so they'd be "safe". Chances are he was changing the light, same as this time; he just forgot. Oh well. My old prescription was crappy anyway. I must have been drugged when I went in for them. The strength is about twice that of the glasses I currently wear. If I feel like getting drunk, but can't for whatever reason, I'm pulling out the old glasses and watching the world go lurching by. I may throw up, but the head spins might be worth it.

Probably not, but it seems a working theory until I'm tired or crazy enough to try it.

Now I'm off my shifts for a while I've spent a leisurely couple of days sleeping. Although yesterday morning I hauled myself up to go to an antibody breakfast club meeting. For non-blood bankers, that is an amazing collection of nouns in the one spot.

On my way out yesterday morning I got stared down by Fluffy the cat from across the road. For all her one eye-ness, my cat is the doyenne of the cat milieu around here - nearly every cat in the street comes to visit*. It couldn't be because she leaves food if she doesn't like it - meaning it isn't chicken breast or fillet steak. Fluffy (probably not her real name) is something of a madam, cat bell notwithstanding. After staring me down (not that I was staring back, I can cope with not dominating a cat, thanks), I got the flick of the (fluffy) tail and a view of her arse. Lovely. The anus as an expression of disdain.

*including the cat we managed to catch in our possum trap. After Cass, the mad prophetess no-one listens to (yes, that's our cat), lost her eye, we were bound and determined to catch the booger who attacked her. Cue patient baiting of possum trap and capture of one beautiful black cat. When it comes right down to it, though, neither one of us can bring ourselves to either a) wring it's neck (and husbandly could, he used to kill rabbits for the pot) or b) take it to a vet to be necked. Dang. We decide to let it go, but a long way from us. Irresponsible? You bet, let us add to the feral cat problem.

Husbandly takes the cat on a drive and lets it go in a park. As soon as he opens the cage, out shoots Blacky, only to pause twenty feet away. The thought processes were obvious - no, wait, I don't know where I am - and the Blackster looks back at husbandly, looks relieved - hey, I know him! - and starts running back toward the car. Then pauses - hang on, he's the one who put me in a cage - and that was the last we saw of Blacky.

Before the hate mail starts (because anyone who knows cats knows this one was obviously an owned cat and not the bastard tom who attacked our Cass), Blackster showed up about six weeks later, calmly sitting on our verandah; having just eaten Cass' dinner and relaxing before the off.

Last night I wound up flicking from one lot of bad tv to the next - and couldn't be arsed getting up to either put on a DVD or plug the iPad in. I caught Mary J. Bilge Blige live at Abbey Road and somewhere before that the complete and total bilge that is the hysterical Private Practice. Oh the humanity. (Somebody get me a bucket).

Having said that, I found it hard to tear my eyes away - the horror, the horror - like watching a crash in slow motion.

The sonic screwdriver (season 5 version) has arrived for the small lad's birthday and it is AWESOME!! I want one! I want to take it to work and point It at alarms when they go off! Because that oxygen depletion alarm is coming off the wall if it keeps up, I'm warning you, inanimate collection of circuits designed to keep us all breathing! This is your last chance! I love rational anger, don't you?

The Yellow Pages ad with the singing bobble-headed man creeps me out. I'd link it but the internet doesn't have everything.

Morphometric Cartoon Characters

At the moment I'm reading The Wayfinders Why Ancient Wisdom Matters in the Modern World by Wade Davis. Very long-winded title, but appropriate since it's a lecture series, really, rather than a book. Very interesting. I just finished The Stars My Destination (yes, okay also known as Tiger! Tiger!) by Alfred Bester ("...for tin crumbles to dust in the absolute zero of space."), one of my favourite novels for the moment.

At the back of my copy is a little blurb from Neil Gaiman (is it just me or does he turn up everywhere?); apparently Alfie Bester bequeathed his estate to his favourite bartender. Who knew? Well, apparently lots of people, but Wikipedia was strangely reticent about the fact. Because I like conspiracy theories, even small ones, I'm going with no-one wanting to mention that he drank. A Lot. Towards the End.

In the way of wiki, that led me on to Babylon 5's Alfred Bester. For some reason, although he's played by Walter Koenig, still recognisably Chekov, the character keeps morphing in my brain into Bilis from Torchwood season 1 (Captain Jack Harkness/End of Days).

The mind is strange. Mine, anyway.

As predicted, I've done less than I hoped to do in the house-clean-keeping stakes, but then, I also made Yorkshire puddings with dinner tonight, so I'm not too bummed. The boys are keeping well. And I predict, since I've come in to work and there were puddings left over, over-fed.

Anything else to report? No not really. I've taken to braiding my hair again. Isn't that a bottom-of-the-barrel mention?

My head is all over (the braid isn't long enough to hold it in place), partly due to my reading habits lately, because nothing messes around with my inner life than compelling science fiction - slideshows of the Spanish Stairs, a space-yacht and the commercial dynasties of the world persisting into the future ad infinitum as a ridiculous upper class - the exhilaration is marvellous, though the spontaneous giggles are off-putting for passersby.

The rest of the slideshows currently running (come visit my head, bring your own popcorn and please be tidy) are intercuts between two short stories that are not written yet. Probably if I did the work instead of thinking about it, things would proceed swimmingly, but again I'm caught in the conundrums of far too much to do half the time, and little motivation for things other than sleep the rest. And the boys have been home. And I'm sure I can think of more excuses if I try only a little. If I try really, really hard, my head might pop.

I normally drink about a litre of water on my shifts these days. The tea room is right next door! There is nice water! There are no comfortable chairs! Count them, zero. Really. No comfortable chairs in a tea room. I'd bring in my own, but it's a bit big to be carting around. It probably doesn't comply with OH&S requirements either. Frankly the thought of doing a risk assessment on a comfy chair doesn't float my boat. It does boggle my mind, however. The Spanish Stairs must be wearing off.

I have no idea where I was going with that. I had to stop and do some work (that is, after all, what they pay me for); marvellous for breaking the concentration.

Anyhoo, as I wasn't saying, I was thinking of doing something postgraduate. I found a couple of master's programs (not the "he knocks four times" Master, but the- oh, you know), that looked pretty interesting. I think it was either Charles Sturt or UNE that had an MA with a non-MA component. I was thinking of doing the "Arts" requirements and then picking up either maths, IT or pathology subjects to fill it out. That would be interesting. Then I looked at the cost. Which didn't bother me, per subject; I could always do the units I wanted without an award at the end. I'm a grownup, I can do whatever I want. Then I saw a disclaimer on one of the websites saying "you must balance the expected career benefits against the cost of this course". Consider me paused. I think I'll just muddle along without, thanks.

Speaking of he knocks four times, back to the science fiction, what the hell was up with those episodes? Flying death's head. Green light things. Ay? Tim Dalton as evil Time Lord, kinda nifty.

No idea where I was going with that either, except the boys are having the Doctor Who Bonanza (all seasons and specials now available in my iTunes library! Go nuts, boys!). Me, not so much, although I did make them sit through "Midnight", my favourite creepy Doctor Who after "Blink".

Much, much later than the above, that will teach me to think it was going to be a really quiet night. You know it's bad when you start growling every time the phone rings. Although people who know me are remembering the number of times I've been caught swearing whenever the phone rings at work. The only thing that mortifies me is that I'm not all that creative in my swearing, generally it's {expletive} off and then I answer the phone. Pick an expletive, I don't always go on about fornication.

Not everything is about sex. Including sex. Apparently.