College.

..I know. I rock the titles.

In the last two months I’ve gone from holding two jobs to barely having one. Sod’s law, my hours were cut at Job #1 just after I quit Job #2. So I’ve gone from having two days off in as many months to working six hours a week.

..Leaves a helluva lot of time to do a lot of nothing. I’ve spent the last month in and around my bed, waking up at 3pm, eating shit, watching crap TV, forgetting to get my hair cut, bored but not motivated to do anything to change that. Basically, about three levels away from the circle of hell I was in this time last year. But there’s no point flogging a dead horse.

So, what do we propose, reader(s)?

Let’s go... To College!

I’ve been toying with the idea of going to college and doing a production arts course (think lighting/sound technician meets stage design) at some point and here whilst I have the time, I went to an open evening at college to check it out.

Looks. Frickin’. Awesome!

There’s a tiny problem involving applications, references, interviews, deadlines, only-three-remaining-places and, aw hell, a big wad of problems, but I’m being optimistic.

I’ve been stepping in as a lighting technician at some local venues for extra money and it’s all good experience. It’s something I enjoy doing, and getting paid definitely helps.

I've been staying awake until 4 or 5am every night/morning so when Mum woke me up at 9am I wasn't all that happy about it. First thing I said this morning? "I can't see."
 
..I function so well on four-and-a-half hours of sleep.
 
But this morning I phoned up my old school and asked for a reference, coke in hand, expecting to have to talk my way into it. Aaaand I didn't. The conversation was over in less than three minutes. That's the least time I have ever spent arguing with a teacher. (Much appreciated)
 
So it's all out of my hands now. Just have to sit around and wait to hear back from the college.
 
*Gulp*

I know. I'm shocked too.

Horrified that I left a post about pool lanes fester at the top of my blog for a full month. What a crappy subject, I mean, really, Nicole? Nothing better to write about? Nothing? Nothing at all?

[Courtesy of the niiiice kitties at icanhazcheezburger.com]

Well. Bugger me.

We're in March now. J. H. Christ, how did that happen? I've been in bed for the last week. Not enough trade to justify my presence at work. Nice to see I have a life outside of work.

There's just one tiny thing I need to get off my chest:

First of all, aren't we all just SO excited about the royal wedding? I mean, OMG, it's SO EXCITING. So happy I could just bleed to death, right here at my desk. Grr. It's all I hear about. MSN actually has a page dedicated to every. little. sordid. detail. And if I see one more TV advert for a Royal Wedding Decorative Plate, I may just die. Twice.

...Though the condoms they made were pretty damn funny.

On the plus side, the prince is going bald. I swear he's not even thirty yet.

/End Transmission/

Seattle is back on the agenda! Looks set to be some time in 2013 (And I'll be twenty years old. Shit.). Norway-Sweden-Finland next summer - The Great Roadtrip me and Hubs have been planning for ages.

Slovenia (woot woot!) this summer. I can't remember if I've talked about Slovenia, but I do miss it. I miss the warmth and the torrential downpours and thunderstorms and huge vegetables and delicious fruit in my great-aunt's garden. I miss the dogs, Sena and Ika, I miss speaking Slovene. I miss my auntie Katra and her excellent cooking and her casual swearing.

And also I've applied to college. Though that gives me fuel for tomorrow, so I'll go into that then.

Ta-ta for now.

Pool Politics

I spend a helluva lot of time at the pool these days. It's free with the gym membership so I've got no excuse not to really. Forty lengths yesterday (the pool closed early, but I got time in before the toddlers came and yellowed up the water) and 160 today to make up for it, leaving me aching in strange places; the back of my neck, the sole of my left foot, my wrists.

Also absolutely starving. Not in a normal way, but in a way where I can feel some part of my digestive system tugging on my poor stomach shouting (in a Scottish accent) "We need more power!" but as usual, I've only had time to throw down a bowl of cereal or possibly something once resembling sushi (I loooove my sushi).

So I was swimming away today, counting down the lengths until I was finished for the day (not all that reassuring when you're stuck in the nineties, let me tell you) when three assholes drop into my lane.

You know the type, you've seen them in the street. The type of family that has a nice-looking, indulgent mum, and ignorant husband and a teenage son who's going the same way as his dad. The fast-and-furious lane is free to the highest bidder and yet they choose my lane (who I'm sharing with a nice lady in her forties) to start splashing about and zooming from one end to the other, blinding and dismembering all who dare to get in their way.

Assholes.

Mum is letting Dad and Son do whatever the hell they want, including crashing into Nice Lady. I stop swimming and give them The Evils, which isn't so effective when the receiving party is wearing goggles - you gotta have that eye contact or it's just one-sided and sad.

In any case, me and Nice Lady shuffle along to the fast-and-furious lane (what a larf) and eventually it's just me and the dad of the family battling it out.

I cannot swim in the lanes without starting a little fight with someone. It's totally possible that I'm the real asshole. Probable, even. Yesterday it was a superfit granny who hadn't taken her tights off before getting into the pool. Today it was Father Hole. 130 lengths in and I was still faster than the guy. He left the pool for the flumes a few minutes later, disgraced by an overweight 17-year-old with orange hair.

I came to one conclusion in the next seventy lengths.

Nicole Smith, Fat, Fast and Furious.

The belated London post.

Two weeks ago I mooched down to London to meet one of my friends and it was faaaab.

Yes. Faaaab is a word you all should recognise.

I was very, very tired because evil Work #2 wouldn't let me swap my hours so I was at work at 6am til noon before I could pack my bags and get on the train.

Leaving out details, I got some good pictures.

Big Ben

Cleopatra's Needle

Inexplicable Sphinx

Trafalgar Square

Bonus Shot: York shares my madness

My scarily streetwise dad took me around more or less all of the main places in London on the Sunday, leaving me exhausted and craving a bed that didn't shake when the people in the room next door started boinking. Where is the justice?

So that was all two weeks ago. Since then, True Blood Season 3 aired on FXUK and my life has once again been complete (which pisses my boyfriend off no end because Eric Northman is 'serious competition' and uh.. Swedish. Silly boy.) Also, the first of the 18th's has arrived. Denny on the 17th, then Mo-Balls, then MEEEE, then Hooker, then Lemon. And then we can all go drinking in town without having to steal Hooker's brother's ID. Hell yeah.

Finally, gym update: I've been, oh... twice..? in six weeks. So I need to work on that. At this point, any way is up. Here goes.

'Sup?

Work work work work money money money money spend spend spend spend angry mother angry mother angry mother angry mother.

It's half an hour until midnight and I am *this* close to dying on my arse.

Well, my dears, I tried working two jobs. The term is "Fuck that shit".
This last month has been nice and (barely) rewarding, I'm going to London next week to spend my hard-earned cash and such'n'such. I love my first job more than ever these days, but Job #2? Not so much. It's stuck up, it's bitchy and the customers are all vulgar.

For the record I'm not overly bothered about been Dooced.

Last week I was told I was wrong for calling out a customer for hitting her four-year-old. I'd say people talk about me behind me back but usually I'm next to them, in front of them, or being the one they're talking to. About me. And my orange hair (long story). And about how apparently I cannot do anything right. And any damn thing they can pick on to distract from their own sad, sordid little lives.

GAHHHH.

On a lighter note, I bought a curling iron (a good one) for £9.99 in the sales. I KNOW RIGHT! That's an abstract way of saying I. Cannot. Stop. Spending. You'd think I'd spend enough time in shops at work but noooo.. It's an affliction.

I said I joined the gym.. I've been once since. £40 a month is enough incentive to start going there so I need a better New Year's Resolution. Perhaps "Stop eating fuckloads of crap". Apt enough because I'm currently torn between making a pasta salad and running to the takeaway whilst the streets are dead (T minus ten minutes until midnight).

So, I guess I should some goodbyes to 2010:

*ahem*

2010,

Interesting year you threw at me, what with the crippling depression, the dropping-out-of-school-ness, the crappy job, the stupid parents, the most recent Charlaine Harris book (that's a good thing by the way), the change of staff at Work #1 that makes me giggle, the many gallons of coke I have consumed, GREGGS FESTIVE PASTIES! (=D), my awesome not-boyfriend. I want to say that you fucking sucked. That you made swine flu look good, AND THAT'S ANOTHER THING, swine flu. What the hell? Buuuut, it wasn't so bad. It was.. interesting.

Thanks for an interesting year, dummy.

Midnight!

Cardigan Bonanza.*

*At 6am, this was the funniest thing I'd ever heard.**

**And by 'heard', I mean 'thought'.***

***And by 'thought', I mean 'excess words farted out of my brain'

Welcome to December, belatedly. Life goes on. There have been Mostly Autumn gigs, snow TO THE MAX, bad days at work, better days, worse days, pay days, days off (naw, that's a lie), shocks to the system, bleached and dyed hair AND I joined the gym.

*car brake sound*

WHAT?!

Yes. Yes. Yes yes yes. This blob of lard hauled her arse down to the gym after work and got a membership. Free for the rest of the month and then £40 each month afterwards. Incentive or what..?

I'm not going to go on and on about it like I did with my piercings (which recently caused my ear to explode a little.. ouch.. nevermind) but the gym membership is ace. There are loads of classes, free access to Waterworld (next door), a sauna, steam room, jacuzzi, loads of equipment, a really zen atmosphere, AND!! there's an offer on at the moment where you get the rest of the month's membership free if you sign up. So, Yorkie people, Nuffield Health on Monks Cross (Used to be Courtneys Gym, between the rugby stadium and Waterworld), go go go.

I'm determined to get into a shape that doesn't remind me of something from Monsters, Inc. ("...and work off that flab that's HANGING OVER THE BED!")

Also. I've done all the Christmas shopping. Just randomly. And wrapped it. And put up the tree, and decorated it and put all the presents under it and blahhhhh.

And finally, I hit new heights of awesome by announcing to the store manager and assistant manager at Work #1 that "I love you crazy bitches".

Now, I'm going to bed, because tomorrow I'm hitting the gym hard. Oof.

The 22-Hour Day by Nicole Smith.

Yesterday was tough tits.

It started like this. I woke up at 4am (ON A SATURDAY!! ON A SATURDAY!!!!) I was at Work #2 at 5.30am, doing deliveries in the freezing dark and setting up the store for the day with an army of other people I tiredly question the sanity of. Who has the energy to smile at that time of day?

I finished my shift at 11am and rushed to Work #1 to start work at 11.30am.. until 6pm.. At which time Matt drove us back to his house where we unpacked aaaaaalllll his DJ-ing gear and went to Denny's house and then to Lemon's house and then to Leeds, where we got lost looking for the German Christmas market, which turned out to be 'just behind us'.

The Christmas Market. It was more or less closed by the time we got there but I still got to eat a cockdog (see picture below) and a pretzel the size of my face before going home.

Midnight. But determined to enjoy not having to get up early the next day so I'm on the internet until 2am at which point I feel old and am sent off to bed.

Never has a reasonable 22 hours sounded so boring.