LHB Blog

A girl, a blog and a cactus named Pudding

Obsessive Compulsive Disorder

Alternative title: Because having your Anxiety turn you into a distraught mess at 3:30am over the fact you can’t complete the ritual of checking the front door anymore due to being too overwhelmed and exhausted to count to 3 is definitely a far cry from what most people assume OCD is.

My name is Ruebi … And I am a ritualistic checker. I check in 3’s (usually 3 lots of 3); I check windows, doors, ovens, hair straighteners, plugs and a myriad of other things … Heaven forbid I neglect to check (or, far more likely, my brain convinces me that I have forgotten to check when I have) as I will drive home from work to do so! No I’m not joking, or if fail to complete the counting part of it (if I get disturbed on either side of the 3 or a multiple of it) I will have a meltdown.

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Martin Mere

Alternative title: Because wet cats don’t look like otters.

“Can I snaffle some otters?” I ask M, excited by the idea.

“Snaffle some otters?” He looks at me puzzled.

“Well, yeah. You have to take two because they hold hands while they sleep so they don’t drift apart …” I’m beginning to ramble a bit.

“No you can’t snaffle any otters” He says, but I barely hear him.

“… I suppose I could just have one and have a little tub of water by the bed for it to sleep in and it could hold my hand while it sleeps!” I’m already searching for mini bath tubs on Google for said otter.

“Ruebi … You can’t have an otter …” He says slowly, my bottom lip is out in protest as he continues “but you could always put Millie in the bath. Wet cats look like otters”.

Anyone want to risk putting my mischievous Bengal kitty step-daughter in the bath to test that theory? No? Me neither!  I value the skin on my arms too much.

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House Hunting – An Update

Alternative title: As it stands I think I’ve signed for credit checks and for a mortgage in principle and for the deeds and for the rights of my first born child to be handed over to the Devil within moments of birth (good luck with that one Lucifer lad, if the sprog is owt like it’s ma it’ll be a right little bastard …). 

As I mentioned in my last house hunting post M and I had an offer accepted on a houseSince then it’s been a bit of a waiting game interspersed with paperwork. So. Much. Freaking. Paperwork!

But, I can now confirm that the only thing we’re waiting on … is the date of moving!

(Feel free to commence excited squealing here, you know you want to!).

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Alternative title: It’s no secret that I can’t dance, I have no sense of rhythm … In fact, I am probably the only person on the planet who can put Carlton Banks to shame! Yet there I was, pulsing squats and belting out the words to “Booty” in my dulcet (read as: tone deaf) Northern tones like a right royal tit.

Did I look like a tool? Yes (not much of a change from normal there then). Was I completely out of sync? More than likely (I walked into a door this morning so very likely – I am a disaster area!). Was I sweating buckets? Erm, can we say ‘glistening like the goddess I am’? (I was freaking drenched – back and butt sweat is the worst! Urgh).

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