» Presents

Proper Crimbo
The first year me and Himself were together I went abit mad - I bought him a Macbook. I saved for months and months to buy it but the look on his face when he opened it and realised what it was was priceless. It's even more fun for me when he's opening his pressies because he absolutely does not know what it is till the very last second even when the wrapping is off and the box is opened, because he's totally blind. I love the long drawn out surprise, I love seeing his face as he's giving the item a good fondle (fnar). I love his expression when he figures out what it is. I can't see shit either (though significantly more than he can) so I have to sit close to see his face - which can lead to breaks for sexytiem in the present opening procedure that can make the whole thing last all afternoon. ;)

This year he's got his own back on me in the saving up stakes - I just found out he has been saving up all year with the view to buying us the most luxury food we can find for Christmas dinner and the holiday period.

I however have been utterly, utterly broke this year and feel utterly shitty that I won't be able to contribute to the festivities. He's banned me from buying him the thing he really wants because he knows I can't afford it and it would weigh my credit card down, so I am stumped as to what to get him. All the gadgets and games and gizmos that you could buy for a sighted person are mostly useless for him.

However, not wishing to make you reach for your sick buckets, I know that whatever is wrapped up under the tree this year won't matter, because the best Christmas present I could want since I've been with him has been waking up to a cuddle on Christmas morning and listening to some radio 7 or radio 4 comedy Christmas special whilst eating breakfast with our two stupid lovely dogs on the bed. We don't have children and don't want them, so the dogs are the family that we spoil at Christmas. And like children often are, they will be more interested in playing with the wrapping of their presents than the presents themselves.

Happy days. I hope ya'll are as happy as we are this Christmas.
(Sat 28th Nov 2009, 0:10, More)

» Unexpected Nudity

Not MY unexpected nudity
cos I knew we were starkers. But ... a shorter one this time ! (Fnar).

Last Christmas day night me and the fiance got absolutely plastered. He challenged me to a game of Drinking Trivial Pursuit, confident he'd win. Unfortunately for him, most of the questions came out as film related, and he's shit at films, and more importantly I'm not.
So many shots of vodka later he's going all for a forfeit he thinks I'll refuse (therefore meaning he wins by default)- he says, "If you get the next question wrong, you have to run up the garden naked. If you don't, I'll run up the garden naked."
I'm feeling no pain (having had more than a few voddies myself) so I agree.
Sadly for him chance picks a film question, which I get right. So has to strip off and do the run.

However:
My fiance is totally blind. He has no sight whatsoever, and he couldn't run in a straight line anywhere if his life depended on it. I'm not much better, but I have some residual vision and it's my own garden we're talking about so I know the route. Somehow he persuades me to get naked and run with him too (fuck knows why - I won the bloody question afterall !) I think we'll be fine though cos it's dark and the neighbors won't see. And we're drunk so it's all fun and games. Heh.

So two fucking drunk blind idiots strip off and stagger out of the back door, dogs barking, wobbly bits shaking, and I try to guide him - running - up the garden path. We giggle like lunatics and run through the frosty night air like a couple of nerks, trying to be quiet but failing as only drunken twats can do.
We get up to the other end of the garden, having bounced off the shed, plants, trees etc, knocking over garden furniture, and turn to come back. The dogs are still going nuts and we're gurning like fools.
Suddenly the neighbor's back door opens.
"Who's there ?" shouts my elderly male neighbor, obviously thinking there's a fucking burglary in progress or something. His missus is cawing from behind him, "Be careful Eddie ! "
We freeze in the dark... just as one of the dogs runs past the pir sensor for my 500w security light - something I had deliberately avoided tripping - which comes on with a firm "click".
And there we were- the two mental blind buggers that all the neighbors don't know how to talk to, naked as the day we were born, and illuminated in 500 watts of glory.
My fiance, having no light perception, says, "Whassappening ?"

The only sound I could hear in the chilly stillness was the neighbor's back door closing with a slam.
(Fri 29th May 2009, 20:51, More)

» Helicopter Parents

About turn ! Keep up at the back, there.
No funnies here, and quite long so feel free to pass on by if you want.

My Dad was an overprotective nightmare. My mum was an unsociable clean freak who wouldn't let my friends into the house. So as a child -

I had one bedroom for sleeping in - done out to my mum's whims which looked like a princess's bedroom with all the things she couldn't have as a child herself, which was locked during the day so I couldn't mess it up.
Had one room for playing in, which was done out like a workshop with horrible scratchy industrial tiles on the floor, because apparently I was too messy to be allowed proper carpet. This was locked during the night.
Never had a sleep over. Never went to one either. Wasn't allowed fast food or fizzy drinks or peanut butter (don't know why I remember that especially) til I was sixteen.
My Dad would go to the end of our road and whistle - if I was out of range and didn't come running at this I would be grounded.
Grounded at fourteen for six months for going out one morning at nine and not returning until lunchtime. Mum panicked because she knew I was with a boyfriend (who she had met and knew) and thought he'd raped me and left me in a bush or some such nonsense.
Not allowed to go on dates, for example to the cinema, unless my dad took me there and picked me up after until I was seventeen.
Not allowed to get into my boyfriend's car at sixteen in case he crashed and killed us both - which became awkward when I started to work as a dj with him I can tell you.
Passed my driving test at eighteen but not allowed to drive in the snow - ever - in case I crashed.
And so on and so forth.

Left home at twenty and moved three hundred miles away. Dad told me if I left I was never to darken their door again. Cheers. Although he relents within two days and has me call him every day, or he calls me.
When I am twenty one, I don't answer the phone for three days because I am in bed with flu. Dad calls the local police and sends them around in case I'd been murdered or something. Didn't think to call my boyfriend, who I lived with, at his place of work and ask him if I was alright.

Fast forward to some years later. Dad leaves mum for someone else. Mum becomes dependent on me. Dad's daily phonecalls suddenly stop.

These days, twelve years later:
Mum wants me to pay all her bills because she won't get a debit card. She pays me back but often it takes a while !
Mum wants me to go and look at houses and flats with her, and sort paperwork out for her move.
Mum wants me to get grants to get work done on her house and fill in the relevant forms for her.
Mum wants me to do her food shopping online - she can't and won't use a computer.
Mum wants me to somehow magically make everything all right for her and gets pretty narky if I can't.
And never says thankyou for anything I do, and some of the things I do involve really going out of my way for her.

I've been registered blind for nine years due to a sudden severe sight loss which happened when I was living a hundred miles from home, and neither Mum nor Dad have ever asked me if I might need any help with anything to this day. They just assume its situation normal - they're not around enough to see any different. It has taken my fiance, who is totally blind, to actually set it out to my Mum that she can't hope for me to read her post and sort out cheques and bills, for example, as I actually have to have someone sighted read my own !

Dad hardly speaks to me - too busy with his new family - a daughter who he is in the process of smothering as he did me.

Over protective parents do an about turn in the end. I have no kids. I wouldn't want to turn into my parents !

Sorry for lack of funnies and whining and length. I love 'em and appreciate all the things they did do for me when I was growing up, but sometimes I could slap them.
(Thu 10th Sep 2009, 20:56, More)

» Mobile phone disasters

Not my life...
... but could have potentially ruined some other poor sod's. No funnies here, sorry.

One saturday night a few years ago, about ten o' clock, my mobile rings. I don't recognise the number so I let it go to voicemail. Whoever it was left me a message, so I dial up the "abuse bucket" (as I often am want to call my voice mail, on account of the abuse me ex used to leave on it) and am slightly alarmed to hear a message that went something like this.

Woman's unhappy voice: "Grant - please can we talk ? I know you're not happy but, ... you were supposed to be home two hours ago. I'm worried about you. -Click-"

Now my name's not Grant, and I don't know any Grant. I'm not even the same gender as a Grant ! So obviously this poor bint has misdialled whilst pleading with her lover, and all I can do is shrug and hope she got it right on the next time around.

Midnight, I'm tucked up in bed with two huge dogs lying on me, listening to the radio or some such. I'm a right raver on a saturday night, and no mistaking. ;)
Phone goes again. Same number. Leaves another - very tearful and angry - message.

"Grant - you're such an arsehole ! If you're going to stay out, at least fucking do me the courtesy of phoning and letting me know, you bastard ! If you're with that slag Melissa it's fucking over, do you understand ? I fucking mean it !"

Oh dear.

Ten minutes later, mobile rings again - guess which number ?

Now I'm in a quandry - if I pick it up and say, "Scuse me missus, but you've got the wrong number, and would you mind not ringing it again as I'd like to go to sleep now" I risk her not believing me. She sounds pretty hysterical, it's late, there's obviously a history to this little scene and I'm female - and people have been known to jump to conclusions when emotions are running high. I don't know who Grant is, or who Melissa is, but I have no wish to make what is obviously a bad situation worse. But I want my kip.

So I decide to say fuck it, and turn the phone off.

Sunday morning, turning the phone on again I am presented with these messages from the abuse bucket.

One at about two am;

"Please pick up ! Please ! I don't know what I've done wrong. Please talk to me !"

Three a.m.;
"Grant....."

At about six a.m., a much calmer voice says,
"Look, this is the last fucking straw. Get home and get your stuff. I mean it."

Jeesus.

About ten a.m., it rings again, same number. On impulse (because I'm not sure how long this is going to go on) I pick up and say, "Hello..."
Before I can go any further, the woman wails, "Melissa ! You fucking whore ! Where is he ? Put him on !"
So I say, in what I hope is a reassuring voice, "I'm not Melissa, and you've got the wrong number, you've been leaving messages all night for someone called Grant, and I assure you, he's not going to get them as you've got the wrong number !"
All I get from the other end is hysterical crying, and the noise of heavy traffic.
"Please, seriously," I say, "You've been calling the wrong number all night..."
And she says, through the snot and tears, "Don't give me that shit... It's in my bastard phone book !" and proceeds to reel off a number one digit out from mine.
So I tell her it's one digit out, and to prove it I hang up and call her back - and when she picks up she finds that I am in fact telling the truth, the number I'm calling from displayed on her phone is one digit out from the one she wants, and her mobile company has obviously made a momentous fuck up somewhere - that or she's been playing a very complicated and convincing prank on some random stranger for whatever reason (to this day I don't believe that to be true though).

Finally she says, still tearful but calmer, "He's really really not there ? Honest ?"
I assure her not and she sort of laughs and says, "I was here on the motorway bridge... I just ... couldn't face the thought that he didn't want me anymore... I just ...I don't know what I thought, things have been so bad lately, when he didn't answer and I kept calling and calling..."

Fuck me, how scary is that ?

I wished her well and told her to please go home and take care of herself. She said she would.

I often wonder what happened when Grant finally showed his face, and why her mobile network were somehow routing calls for a number one digit out to my number instead.

I hope it worked out ok for her in the end.
(Thu 30th Jul 2009, 19:24, More)

» Unexpected Nudity

More than a handful
I'm quite a busty wench. When I get older I'm going to be abit like Nurse Gladys from Open All Hours - I suspect young shop boys will get caught in my cleavage and need oxygen to keep them going. My dad has always said I could keep a family of ethnic minorities in there. Stray objects, if not nailed down, have been known to gravitate towards my norks due to the mass of said globes, and form an orbit around them. That is, if they can escape the orbit of my arse, which is the sort that Freddie Mercury alluded to in "Fat Bottomed Girls". I genuinely have back problems due to the weight of my tits, because the rest of me isn't built the same way - except my arse of course. So - you get the idea, there's a whole lot of woman in all the right directions here. As a result, buying bras is abit of a trauma at the best of times, and garments that fit on the top half are far far too big on the waist for me. And clothes that fit on the waist need to be lycra based - and can cause fear of busting out all over, so to speak. To add to this, I am virtually blind, so the possibility for accidental pop outs without me knowing them is pretty high.

So picture the scene (wavy lines......)
Boyfriend-of-the-time and I go out one evening to some nasty cheap fun pub and get fecking munted. We have been drinking all sorts of shite off the back row of the bar in this place just to see what it tastes like, then go back to his and drink some rough as fuck homemade sloe gin. I mean, (shudder) this stuff was fucking evil and it turns my stomach to even recall it. I hate gin at the best of times, but as is often with these things, it seemed like a good idea at the time (it wasn't - and thereby hangs two sad tales, but one isn't relevant to the qotw so is for another time.)
Eventually we get back to mine - we don't stop over at his because I've got two big German Shepherd dogs at home who need letting out and caring for. We stagger in, let dogs out in the garden for a wee wee, decide against taking them for a last-thing-at-night (now early morning) walk as we can barely manage to walk ourselves, and stagger off to bed.
The house I lived in at the time didn't have a big back garden - what it did have was often muddy as fuck, except for the concrete bit just outside the kitchen door. The house was in a terrace and this bit of concrete was overlooked by the bathroom in my house and that of the house next door. This is where my beastly dogs liked to piss last thing at night if they didn't get walked, so often first thing in the morning before they went out there I had to get the hosepipe out and wash it down, else they'd be walking around in their own night old piss as they circled for the morning doggy dump (somehow fresh piss they managed to avoid !) They didn't care a toss about walking in their own last night's wee - but when a dirty great pair of GSDs track dog piss into my kitchen and through the house, I certainly did !

On this particular morning I am still dressed in last night's bed attire, which is a see through red thing from La Senza that has only a passing aquaintance with the top of my thighs and can't even hope to cover my capacious arse, which barely covers my badger and is just not up to the job of restraining my lady lumps, plus the smallest see through g string known to woman.
On this particularly morning, I am also still pissed from the night before, can see less than usual because I'm still bladdered and can't be bothered to put on a dressing gown because it'll only get wet and wrapped round my legs as I prat around with the hosepipe like a spastic learning semaphore. And the dogs want a wee NOW, as I can tell by the doggy whining and panting.

So I peep out of the kitchen door at about half six, then thinking that my luck is in because I suddenly remember that Next Door are on holiday. So I scurry out there in last night's stupid fuck-me heels as they're the only shoes I can find (playing "tip toe through the dog piss" as I go).
I am sleepily washing down the concrete with the hose in one hand, whilst trying to keep my tits inside baby doll nightie cups that seem to be at least three sizes too small with the other, when the seal on the hose attachment gives way and I get the spray back - freezing cold water right at my chest. I am immediately fucking sodden, like a drowned rat. Instantly the red thing from La Senza becomes utterly window transparent and I'm there looking like a wet and wild amateur porn effort, with my puppies out of the top of the thing, glistening with water, and my vadge now utterly visible, and gasping in shock. I swear and squeal like a demented animal.
It is then when - well, I just get This Feeling.
It's the feeling you get when you're being watched. I get this alot, being blind as a bat and apt to walk into things, and often can't tell whether it's based in reality or not, but this time I was fairly sure it was. I squint myopically upwards and realise I am right under next doors bathroom window. Squashed up together liked sardines in a tin, barely able to contain themselves as they gape out of the little open window - they musta stood on chairs for this as it was the top pane they were looking out of - are three delighted builders who are looking straight down at my unfettered tits and sodden scanties. In my pissed state I had forgotten Next Door were having work done whilst away on holiday.
On being discovered, two of them slink away, chuckling, but the middle one says, cheerily, "Nice morning for it, love !"
Totally fucking mortified with embarrassment I decide to brazen it out rather than run off, and I say, "Thankyou - now on yer way, sonny jim !"
I could hear them laughing through the walls all day.

The even worse thing was when they came knocking on the door the next day when I got up and they heard sounds of life from my house. A courier had left a parcel for me with them, and when I answered the door, they chorused, "Didn't recognise you with yer clothes on !"

The work went on for another six weeks. I remained red as a beetroot for at least eight.
(Fri 29th May 2009, 18:52, More)