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The PITA Factor

The PITA Factor

The PITA Factor? I know what you’re thinking: a blog about pitas! Yahoo!

Not really. Pitas have their charms. I made some yesterday (yup, from scratch, because I was wasting time so I wouldn’t have to face the obvious: I’m out of ideas for my non-book).

The PITA Factor is the Pain-In-The-Arse Factor. But my bum is fine, thank you very much. It’s my neck that’s the PITA. But PITN looked rather strange as an eye-catching title (and it was hard to trump last week’s RWW featured image) so I went with PITA and found an x-ray of someone’s neck, not mine.

I pinched a nerve in my neck. Or some such dreadful thing. I’m in agony. This would be manageable if I:

  1. weren’t a workaholic
  2. weren’t a gameaholic
  3. weren’t a Japanoholic (I’ll leave you to guess that one)
  4. listened to my husband
  5. didn’t have outdated dictation software and noisy children

You see, I try to dictate as much as possible because it’s just easier on the old lady bod. But my software’s four years out-of-date (like my bra) and I have noisy kids. So my opening line to this blog, originally dicated, worked out to this:

The penis fatter? Will I know what you’re thinking. This bog is about Peter’s. Yay you!

This is not quite the effect I was looking for.

If anyone’s had the pleasure of seeing After Hours and recalling the scene with Griffin Dunne and Catherine O’Hara (whose birthday was March 4th), you’ll know what it’s like to dictate with a three-year-old present.

For those who haven’t had the pleasure, take a gander. In theory, this clip should start 1:15 minutes into it (just to emphasize my point) but I implore you to treat yourself to the whole film one day. I really only bring this up for the five seconds the utterly fantastic Catherine O’Hara is purposely confusing Griffin Dunne who’s about to forget a very important phone number. Don’t bring too much more to it. My life is not a dark film. 

By the way, note the fabulous shiny accessories on the beauteous Catherine O’Hara! Yay 80s!

Oh, and I lied. We didn’t make pitas, but tortillas. Close enough for jazz.

I started this blog days ago (March 3rd). I have since been to the chiro and have found in the last two days that sitting in front a computer is now beyond painful, and sitting behind one is utterly useless. Atop and below do me no good either, although in the past I have napped under a desk or two (I’m not proud).


I’ve done other things under a desk for which I am not proud but that’s a different sort of non-pride.

I’m sad to say my tablet has gone bye-bye (except for the Rosetta Stone Japanese, now you know), the bulk of my work has been shifted to others (sorry Ash, sorry Laura) and the rest of this week’s work has been deferred (catch youse next week, Melody, J-Starr, and Falling Snow, et al). 

Writing that book, my eponymous Old Enough and Ugly Enough? Well, I did blab a K or two onto it recently.

And its loss and finding is another blog I hope to do on the weekend, once my face is no longer purple with embarrassment. This was a different different sort of not-proud moment.

Today’s blog was brought to you by key words and phrases like popsicle, kitty, pacman, and I tooted! courtesy of my three-year-old.

Alright, I lied again. I blamed the last one on the kid. It was me.

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