Thursday, 28 February 2013

Yes. Yes. Sorreee!! Yes. Oops.

I am inflicted with Britishness, and I think it might be terminal. It will be my undoing one day. I'm convinced that if I don't die by tripping over something electrical or accidentally setting myself on fire, I will die as a direct result of my overcompensatory politeness.

"No, you go in front of me, I'm in no hurry at all, haw haw....aaaaagh!" *taking a step back, plummets off the edge of a cliff*. Okay, I'm not too sure what I'd be queuing for on a cliff edge (ice cream?), but that's beside the point!

I'm calling it Britishness, because it sounds much more twee and adorable than "doormat" or "people pleaser." I can't help it. If I feel in any way that I am the cause of someone's bad day, no matter how indirectly, my mood plummets to my pasty Wenglish (Welsh/English - I'm a mutt) toes. So I guess you can say that my knee-jerk selflessness is selfishness, because it keeps me happy. No such thing as a selfless act, people!

It's nice to be friendly. People like it when you're polite. In fact, institutionalised politeness is what makes me love being able to say that I, sir, am a Brit! That and the tea. God, we have good tea. Oh, and Matt Smith. We have Matt Smith too.

Here are some lovely things about British behaviour:

* We spontaneously form queues everywhere, and are sweetness and light to anyone who sticks to the laws of the queue. Off with anyone's heads who dare cut in, though. Prepare to be tutted at viciously, lawless heathens!

* Tea is the answer to everything. Had a bad day? Aww. Have some tea. Been fired? Tea will make you feel better. Lost all your limbs and one eye in a freak queuing accident? There's a tea for that....hang on, let me get a straw...

* That jiggy little dance we do when two people are walking towards each other and oops! We both went the same way to get past each other! Oops, we seem to have done it again! Look at us two sillies. Oops! Tell you what, you go first. No, no, after you! Oops! People have starved to actual death this way.

These things can be quite sweet in isolation. Trouble is, I take it too far. It's innate. I know how un-sassy it sounds, and how narked off High Priestess Beyonce would be to see me allowing myself to be walked all over in the way that I do, but it's so deeply ingrained in me that if my self deprecating, clunking martyrdom was taken from me, I would be nothing but a cake-eating, brainless drone (shut up, I'm not quite there yet!). I am motivated by the desire to please (And by cake). Here's how I can sometimes take the politeness thing a step or twelve too far:

- Kiss matching. My sister recently pointed out that I am a shameless kiss matcher. If someone sends me kisses at the end of a text, I have to match the number of kisses in my reply exactly. This stems from a fear of looking either too cold or too needy. For this reason, sister dearest now sends me kissless texts, followed by messages with streams of xxx's, purely to fuck with my head because I don't know what's coming next. It's driving me insane.

- I'm a Yes Man. A knows this. And while he doesn't push it too far by going down the chauvinist twatbag route of "Make me a sandwich, wench maiden!" (I draw the line at wench. *eye twitch*), he take the slyer route of unsubtly talking about tea a lot.

A: "You know what I fancy? Some tea."

Becky: "Yeah?"

A: "Yeah."

*silence as A and I continue what we were doing (generally: A shouting "cunts!!" at people who aren't playing nice on Call Of Duty, me staring into the Abyss...otherwise known as the iPad), knowing full well what my internal monologue is saying to me underneath my fringe*

Internal monologue: He's not asked for tea, so it doesn't count as him asking you to do something. And he makes all the food because we pretend to be allergic to cooking. It'd be a nice thing to do...

Becky: No, internal monologue, I always make the tea! It's high time he makes the tea. And he knows that if he says "tea" I'll end up making some. He already thinks he's Derren Brown. Crafty git! Not this time!

Internal monologue: What's that feeling? Is that a craving? You want tea now that he's mentioned it, don't you? Tea is like crack to you, isn't it?

Becky: No. I could quit any time. It's not a craving.

Internal monologue: I think it is, you know...

Becky: Ahh, for fuck's sake!

Becky out loud: I'm fancy some tea. Do you want some?

A: What a great idea. Thanks! *hands me mug* Cunts!! Stop camping, I can see you hiding behind that wall!!! *rapid gunfire*

- I apologise to people who walk into, shoulder barge or run over me (latter not happened in reality, but I'm confident that "sorreee!" would be my immediate reaction).

- I will agree to any request made by work, especially if it's done in a nice way. Beck, will you would six days for us this week? Sure! Beck, will you stay a bit later to help finish off this paperwork? Yeah, why not! Beck, will you sign over your soul and all your belongings to the company for nothing in return bar eternal damnation and a regular ritualistic bumming by the dark lord himself? Of course, I will! Where do I sign?

I don't really have a conclusion to this post... Can anyone tell me what I need to write to sum it up? I await further instruction.

On a serious note, I'd love suggestions for topics from any readers out there in the big wide blogosphere! Leave me a comment and let me be your verbal puppet! Dance puppet, dance! *dances like a Thunderbird*

p.s if you are old enough to know what a Thunderbird is, you are awesome.

Tuesday, 26 February 2013

Run, Bitch, Ruuuuun!!!

Yes, Russell Kane was marvellous last night, thanks for asking! I wept with laughter when he talked about him and his brother mentally torturing each other as they were growing up. Reminded me of me and the middle lil sis (as opposed to the lil-lil sis) when we were kids. Only if you've got a brother or sister can you experience mutual love and pure, boundless hatred for the same person at once at such an early age. I believe it prepares you for further social interaction down the road of this topsy turvy journey we call life - "You are my reason for existing, but I do so wish you wouldn't BREATHE so much!!"

Anyhow, that wasn't the topic I wanted to get into today. I don't so much want to talk about the comedy gig I went to, but something slightly unsettling that happened to me on the way in. I was heckled. On the way into a comedy gig. Irony and that.

A and I were strolling along the shortish stretch of pavement between car and venue, when we spotted a pair "youths" (I'm old enough to refer to teenagers as youths now, yes?) perched on top of the seven foot wall surrounding the Tesco we were passing. My instinctive reaction was to stare unblinkingly at the road in front of me in the most unsubtle way possible of telling them "I have not noticed your presence, young twatlings, for I have places to be. Do not involve me in your mischief."

As one of the human race's lady folk (fuck you, I am SUCH a lady!!), I am used to being heckled by menfolk of all ages. There's a certain type of male that seems unable to hold any of their opinions of you in their head as you get on with your life. I'm pretty sure this breed of man are given extra curricular classes in "shouting things at women", and given a white van upon graduation. I'm not saying that I get the aggressively 'complimentary' type of heckles either, so don't assume I'm trying to tell you that I think I'm so damn irresistible that men have to tell me how good I look all the time. I get the bizarre, backhanded and sometimes plain insulting ones. A couple of examples to demonstrate -

- Walking to my old college's sandwich shop for a bag of crisps, I squeeze past a gaggle of man-children, only about two years my junior. "Does she teach here? I'd still do 'er." Very generous of them, considering they believed I was old enough to be their teacher. Nice, boys. Very nice.

- My personal favourite heckle: Jogging around the lake near my old workplace. A man sticks his head, dog-like out of the passenger window of a car. "RUN, BITCH, RUUUUUUN!!!"

Based on my experience of verbal ejaculate from the less mentally endowed of men (a vast proportion of men don't do this. This is the proportion that we love and will allow to continue breathing), I was fully expecting some charming insult to be coming in mine and A's way. Something along the lines of "Your missus is a minger, mate!". Standard. Instead, what came out of the teenager's gob was so unexpected that I felt my brain stall for a second.

"Hey!" A shrill, pubescent voice called out into the dark "You two make a nice couple!"

What am I supposed to do with that?! I was so busy scanning myself and coming up with no suitable response that I didn't react at all. Just kept on shuffling towards my destination, head down, brow furrowed in thought. Was I supposed to smile beatifically in thanks? Maybe do a little curtsey? That is the sort of thing grown women say to each other in parties. Not wall climbing teenaged boys. That was the politest heckle I've ever had. Perhaps used to having nice things shouted at him in the street ("Lovely hair sir! You have a marvellous face!"), A just laughed and carried on walking while my mind started to hold the compliment aloft like a funny rock I'd found, and look at it from different angles.

It didn't sound like sarcasm to my ears, but then I don't know how sarcasm's done these days. Perhaps it was some kind of hipster sarcasm, where they were doing it so ironically that it sounded sincere? I don't get the hipster thing. How is it possible to like something ironically? You either do or you don't!

Perhaps they were doing something illegal like sniffing on the cracks, or injecting dopes, and the compliment was a knee-jerk reaction to stun potential witnesses to their crime into not noticing what they were seeing. I mean, who else would hang out on a tall supermarket wall in the dark but glue smokers?

I just didn't know what to do with it. I've never come across an overtly friendly teen before. It's not in their nature is it? Hormones suck that niceness from you and holds it captive until age twenty, surely? I was sullen and quiet for a good chunk of the time, in my black curls and luminous pink flares (ironic, of course, because I had my oh-so-gothic black netted top on with them, and eyeliner down to my chin - see hipsters, I was doing irony long before you and your "I love Geeks" t-shirts!), and whenever I was shouting, it was only at my closest loved ones for being FUCKING PRICKS THAT ARE ALWAYS COMING INTO MY ROOM!! It's just...I don't know. At least I know what to do with "Nice tits!" (bore satanically into their soul with your eyes and will them with your mind to spontaneously combust. It's not worked yet, but a girl can try).

Maybe that's why they did it. These were super smart teens who realised that they could shout at me, and there was no negative way I'd be able to react. I couldn't tell them to fuck off because they'd said something nice. Instead, I could only ruminate about it until I drove myself up the wall trying to decipher what it is they really meant by it. Maybe they knew all along that it's better to send someone down a bottomless confusion spiral than to be an out-and-out, admonishable douche.

Those clever, polite little bastards.

Monday, 25 February 2013

Today is a Good Day!

"But today is a Monday! Why is today a good day, Becky?" I hear you ask. "Pray, tell!" Okay then, oddly-spoken scallywags, I will!

- Jennifer Lawrence won best actress at the Oscars and fell over. And this small act of clumsiness made the world (i.e me) love her even more for it (not even my achievement - Oscar, not fall- but it makes me happy nonetheless). Long live JLaw!

- My absolute superstar of a workmate bought me a vanilla Starbucks latte at silly o clock in the morning (FYI, this is the nicest thing you can do for ANYONE on a Monday morning) whilst I was mid serious glare-off with a ringing phone. The phone won.

- I nabbed last minute tickets to see Russell Kane strut his metrosexual stuff this evening.

- I've got a day off work tomorrow! Sure, it's got a trip to the dentist in it, but one takes what one can get...

It's the little things, people! It's the little things.


Sunday, 24 February 2013

Welcome To My Office

Today, we are doing some work in bed, on the iPad, in Muppets pj's. While the rest of Swansea is at the pub waiting for the footy to start, I am working... Sadly, it's what I'd rather be doing. Christ, I'm only twenty five! Maybe if I had one of those hard hat/drinking contraption things on I'd come off as cooler?

Or an alcoholic workaholic who hasn't got dressed yet.

Same diff.

Friday, 22 February 2013

Aaaand Relaaaax.....

Okay. So I've decided to relax. Because relaxation isn't something I'm naturally adept at, I have to consciously choose when to have a bash at doing the chillout thing.

I've had a full day at work, ponced about doing a little freelancin' (I'm going to use every opportunity going to tell you that I do freelance work now, because to my dorky little ears, it sounds like to coolest thing EVER!!), and now the time has come to wind down because it's a Friday night and I have the house to myself. Laaahvlee!

But. I'm stressing out. I have to make a decision to relax, and then a plan of action as to how I'm going to do this. I could:

- Sit under a blanket and watch TV
- Play Skyrim until my eyes bleed
- Continue reading Tina Fey's Bossypants, which I'm adoring so far
- Veg in the bath...oooh, I loves a good bath!
- Bung a film on. I borrowed Perks Of Being a Wallflower...

Trouble is, I can't decide which of these things I want to do so, naturally, I'm turning my free time into an opportunity to stress myself out. Which do I want to do the most? What will be the most relaxing thing to do? It's not hard, JUST PICK SOMETHING AND DO IT, YOU ANXIOUS, CRAZY PRICK!!

*breathes into a paper bag*

I should not be allowed free time to myself. It's not good for me.

Wednesday, 20 February 2013

Ooh, Soots You, Sir!

Hee...working on some freelance-y bits now (because I've had some incredible luck lately that's lead me to a bit of content writing work to beef up the ole CV - NY resolution number one, tick!), and I'm loving that I get to do this for a living. The task I've got in front of me tonight? Research jokes about chimney sweeping!

Q: What did the big chimney say to the little chimney?
A: "You're too young to smoke!!"

lulz. Sometimes, I love working! You guys got any jokes of similar chimney based cheesiness? If so, do me a solid and leave it in my comments area for all to marvel and laugh at against their own good taste and willpower! Also, I can borrow *cough* steal *cough* them for my own professional gain.

Taa much, lovelies! xx

Monday, 18 February 2013

5 Things To Do... Whilst Dying Your Hair

One of my favourite things - of which there aren't a great deal, I admit, about dying my unkempt head-nest is that magical 30-45 minutes that you have to kill between apply and rinse. It's not long enough to properly get stuck into something, and you can't exactly go for a stroll looking like you're channelling a strong There's Something About Mary vibe, so it feels like a kind of time-vortex that you can spend as you please. During my last self-dye job (before the Spockbrow incident), I compiled this list of things to do whilst dying your hair. How very girly of me:

1. Plaster all of your hair flat to your head and imagine how you'd look bald (fit, I bet!). Crank up some tunes and dance, baldy, dance!! Some old faithful tracks from my playlist:

- LippsInc: Funky Town
- Wild Cherry: Play That Funky Music White Boy
- Blondie: Heart Of Glass
- Florence And The Machine: Kiss With A Fist
- Any Blink 182 song. There is no wrong Blink 182 song.

2. Plan to do some work, but instead end up on Youtube for half an hour. Here are some videos that should kill some time: - Jenna Marbles: What Girls Do In The Bathroom - My Drunk Kitchen: Ice Cream - Bad Lip Reading: More Twilight - Deap Valley: Gonna Make My Own Money (choon!)

3. This requires some prep before you apply the hair dye:

* Remove the contents of your home dye kit and store them somewhere hidden for later use. Put the box back in your bag/ satchel/ skin pouch (if you're a kangaroo/ have evolved skin pockets).

* Tell your housemate/ family/ live-in luuurve buddy that you bought this awesome hair removal stuff today, which is supposed to leave your legs, like sooo smooth for over a month etc. etc. )You can already see where I'm going with this one, can't you, Clever Clogs? Damn, you's smart!).

* Talk about some other stuff for a bit.

* Casually announce that you are off to the bathroom to dye your lustrous mane.

* Apply hair dye, and go back to the person you were talking to.

* Complain about your head itching and ask if they're cooking something, because you can smell burning.

* Pretend to distractedly root through your bag a bit, only to resurface puzzled with the empty dye box that you stashed earlier. Make confused eye contact. Wait for it to dawn on your victim that you have just caked your head in hair removal cream, and judge them based on their reaction.

4. Stand creepily in the window and stare unblinkingly at passers by. Offer the occasional po-faced wave.

5. Eat everything in sight as you think about how to best kill your time. Before you know it, you'll have a bad case of the cookie burps, but time will have flown!

Sunday, 17 February 2013

Davina McCall Threatened My Face

I spent my evening at a house party last night, trying my best not to let the fact that I was expecting to turn into the Elephant Man at any given second show. Not exactly how I thought it was going to pan out.

Yesterday afternoon, I decided that it was high time that I covered the badger stripe of brown roots running along the middle of my head, and bought a brand I hadn't used before for a change. And because the Live dye I usually buy is making my hair whiter with each use. Time to tone the colour down a bit lest I start glowing in the dark. Which would be pretty cool, but still...

The fact that the brand is advertised by my new arch nemesis Davina McCall (see older post "Davina McCall Took My Legs") should've set off alarm bells from the beginning. Once I secured my dye, I marched on home and proceeded to chuck the whole lot over my head willy-nilly without doing the advised patch test for allergies. Because I've never had an allergic reaction to dye before, and because I'm a fucking maverick. Thirty mins later, I hopped in the shower to rinse the lovely horse piss smell that blonde hairdye emits off of my head. I conditioned, sang some songs loudly and out of tune and hopped back out to dry my new mane. All good in the hood.

Then I called my mother dearest for one of our lovely chats.

"What you up to then, mum?"

"Not much, waiting for the boiler to be fixed etc etc...(not a direct quote, I'll be honest). You?"

"Just dyed my hair. Lips feel a bit weird, though. Sort of numb."

*audible gasp from other end of line*

"Nah, it's okay. I went running in the cold earlier, so they're probably just dry or something."

"Oh my God, go to a doctor! Are you alone? Is your face swelling? You could go into anaphylactic shock, you could die! People DIE dying their hair!!...etc etc" I laughed it all off and assured her I'd live, and then went about my business. And by business, I mean that I went foraging for snacks that I could drop all over my pyjamas at four in the afternoon. That's just how I roll.

THEN I chanced to glimpse my face side-on in the little portable mirror that lives in my living room. My hand flew up to my mouth, and I felt my pulse quicken. With sweating palms, I inspected my features further. There was definitely a small but noticeable amount of swelling over each of my eyes. Especially the right one. Well, that was it, then. Mum was right. I'm was going to die.

My reaction was the same as that of any internet-loving serial hypochondriac's - I googled the fuck out of my symptoms. Obviously no good can come of this. I was treated to pages upon pages of horror stories about people's faces ballooning overnight to the size of footballs. All of them included graphic pictures of faces that resembled giant potatoes with creases for eyes, but no solution as to what you should do when you think you're going to experience an explosion of the face. A facesplosion, if you will. So, I lay in the dark in bed at five pm because I'd decided that if I was going to have to accept my fate as the wearer of a giant, pus-leaking head, I'd rather be napping through some of it.

After an hour or so, A returned from work to find me lying in the fetal position under the covers, still wide awake and freaking out.

"Don't look at meee!"

Anyway, you don't need to know every single detail of the night that followed, but as you've already read, I went to the house party. I'm not blogging from a hospital bed either, so all is well and normally proportioned on the face front. Instead of looking like the Elephant Man, my deformation only got as far as Crap Extra From Star Trek. Most of what little swelling I had stayed hidden under my fringe like a good allergic reaction, and my face didn't eat my eyes.


- Always patch test for hair dye, even if you dye your hair as often as I do and haven't reacted before.
- If you do experience a reaction, do NOT turn to Google or your mum for advice.
- Davina McCall is the antichrist and can't be trusted.

Happy Sunday, all!

Definitely Not Shaunna

Look look look, my lil'est (but still taller than me) sis is a Youtube vlogger! So proud! Patiently awaiting the day she gets Internet famous and hooks me up with Jenna Marbles now... Eee. In this video, she talks about how the Internet broke her and made her socially inept.

*wipes away single tear of pride*

Wednesday, 13 February 2013

Je Suis En Retard

Ooh! I forgot to tell you about my Frenchman experience from the other night, didn't I? It's not nearly as funny or risqué as it sounds, especially when I refer to it as "The Frenchman Experience", but I feel we've bonded, my anonymous Internet peepsters, so that means that you are now subject to my every waking thought. Until you stop reading, anyway.

Please don't stop reading me! I love you! I can change!!

As a reminder to write about The Experience, I've been walking around all day with the word "French" scrawled on my arm. That in itself amused me. I found myself wondering what people would think if I suddenly died on my way home, and when they found me I would just have this word and no other explanation on my body. Would they think that I'd decided to take up learning the language of luuuurve, several years after taking my GCSE in it and immediately forgetting most of what I'd learned? Maybe they'd see it as a request for a French themed funeral. I hoped for the latter. They could serve everyone baguettes, and all my friends and family could mourn me in kicky little berets and drawn on curly moustaches....sigh. I might go home with the word French written on me every day now. Just incase.

So, The Frenchman Experience... Anyone who's ever learned French in school and not bothered to take it any further that that knows that the sentences they teach you are pretty much totally useless, unless you are in very specific situations. Here are some of the scant sentences I recall from my teens (nobody is allowed to pick these apart - accuracy unlikely here):

- Je suis maladroit: I am clumsy (actually, forget that one. Quite useful).

- Je porter mons pantalons: I wear my trousers. When will I ever need to tell a French person I'm wearing my trousers? This should be a given, shouldn't it? If you have to inform people that you are wearing trousers, then maybe you need to re evaluate your life...

- Ou est la gare?: where is the train station? I don't intend to get lost in France anytime soon, so doubt I'll require this one.

My personal favourite by far, though is "Je suis en retard" - "I am late". Not especially funny, but when you're twelve, and your classmate is being forced by the teacher (who knows what she's doing, she knows!) to tell the class that they are sorry that they are "retard", nothing is funnier.

But, but! On Monday night, I actually got one of these phrases used at me! I had the opportunity to communicate in basic French! I was traipsing down the dark, creepy alley between the gym and my car, behind a lanky and unthreatening looking gentleman with a backpack. In a world of my own, probably fantasising about food (note: I'm never not fantasising about food), I very nearly had a coronary when my tall fellow perambulator suddenly stopped and whirled around to look directly at me. I had such a fright that I didn't hear what he'd said.

"S-sorry?" He smiled, amused at my baffled lady-shock of been suddenly turned on in a dark alley.

"Ou est" he repeated amicably "la gare?"

YES!! I knew this one! I understood what a French guy was saying! And I knew where the train station was. Today was a good day! I beamed at him triumphantly.

And then remembered that I don't know the response to that question in French. Only how to ask it. Trying not to let my inner turmoil show, I continued manically grinning and gestured dramatically up the street we'd just turned off. I think it was my visual equivalent of that speaking in English VERY LOUDLY AND SLOOOWLY that us Brits like to employ when faced with foreign language speakers.

I've never seen a person move so quickly. I didn't even get a "merci". Spose I'd do the same thing in his shoes, if I'd asked him a sensible question and just got mad grinning and flapping in response. Ce'st la vie.

Monday, 11 February 2013

You're Not Unattractive...

So, this post was inspired by a recent string of tweets by Queen Caitlin Moran (see the picture in my downstairs area). She made a joke about one of those spam messages that delightfully inform us useless internet monkeys how we can do the weight loss thing "with this one simple, weird trick!" This tweet resulted in lots of people not wearing their sarcasm hats that day telling her not to worry, because she was beautiful "on the inside." Ouch.

I bet none of those people meant ill. They just wanted their favourite big-haired purveyor of awesomeness to feel good about herself. It put me in mind of when my sister and I were teenagers, and she asked me that burning question that sits at the very core of every teenaged human being(no, not "Will I ever get laid?"... the other burning question...and anyway, that one doesn't burn your core, the area affected is more specif...fucking hell, what? Shut up! This is why we write ROUGH DRAFTS FIRST, Becky! Get on with it already!). The question slapped me in the face like a cold wet fish. I didn't know what to do with it, and it made me feel shocked and uncomfortable.

"Beck, do you think I'm ugly?"

Oh, Christ. I'm slightly older than you, but still a teenager also, so I can't show you any emotion other than grumpy tolerance. I am convinced that I look like a troll smeared in lard and partially melted, and you look a bit like me -being related and all, so I can tell you that I think you look a bit like me... I hate myself too much to even fully acknowledge what you look like. You're just the thing I huff at when I pass it in the hall right now. But no, now that I'm being forced to uncomfortably rate you on your appearance, I don't think you're ugly. You've got a more angular (translated: less guinea piggish) face than me. You're taller, with nicer hair and boobs that don't disappear when you lie down. You already have a cooler taste in music, all clothes look better on you than me... But now that I realise this, I've decided that I hate you. Nothing personal. So, I can't tell you that I think you're prettier than me. But I can't be outwardly horrible to you, because you're clever enough to figure out that I'm just jealous. Right, okay, I've got it.

"Well, you're not unattractive...."

It was horrible. Brutal, even. She still brings it up from time to time to make me feel like a terrible person. We've since developed what passes for an amicable relationship to the untrained eye, and we can even hug now! The hugging took a long progression of back slaps and awkward head pats before we figured out the sisterly embrace. Key: drink.

Point is, there are just some things, no matter how well intentioned they might be, that you cannot say to people without it coming back to slap you in the face. Some things will always sound backhanded, no matter how they're meant. Here are a few I've learned from experience:

- "Wow, I didn't know I was that strong!": This was a recent one. On a night out, with reflexes I didn't know I possessed (I'm a dropper, not a catcher), I rescued a female friend from a high heeled tumble. That was what I said after she thanked me. Thank fuck she saw the funny side!

- "Don't know why they asked me to do this with you. Because I can spell?": Another recent one. Paired with a girl at work to do a task involving writing and recording some answer phone messages. She's got a lovely answer phoney voice and a working brain, so I wasn't sure why I'd been asked to help do a job she's perfectly capable of nailing solo. What I said was meant as a self depreciating joke. Because I've got an English degree, if they want any write-y stuff done at work, they usually asked me. So I was mocking the uselessness of my degree. Probably not the best joke to make in front of a girl who hasn't long informed me she's dyslexic.

- "You're trying your best!": Encouraging ever? No! Why? Because you're inferring that I'm trying my best, rather than being the best. I am, of course, the best at everything. Why would you hint otherwise? Fucknugget.

- "You're not fat..." Yeah? I'm not thin either, am I? Don't skirt around the subject, wuss! I know what you really meeeeean! *sips on gin and sucks back a sob*

- "Your fringe doesn't look that bad!" Oh Christ, I've got a There's Something About Mary going on, haven't I? I need to go home IMMEDIATELY!! *throws gin over shoulder and flounces home.*

.... I have a deep seated issue with my fringe which has lead to the creation of hairspray-puppet head when I go on nights out. But that's a post and a picture for another time. Because I don't get out much these days. I'm not a great drinker anymore. Nor was I ever... Again, diff post, diff times.

What lesson was I trying to teach you here? Oh, yeah. If someone asks you a question that you don't have the answer they want to hear for it, lie. Lie hard and wholeheartedly, like your life depends on it. At least then, your well intentioned enthusiasm might make up for the fact that you're going to Hell for lying to your loved one in some small way. Basically, you can't really win. Unless you light yourself on fire before you have time to answer. Everyone is distracted by fire. Conversation evaded.

Saturday, 9 February 2013

Warm Bodies: A Film Review....?

Funnier, drier and quicker on the jokes than I expected. I fully believed that movie land were going to murder the book dead. It's going into the "collection" of the select few DVDS I have to routinely watch over and over and over in a totally-not-obsessive-compulsive way at all (current ones on my forever-rewatch list - Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind, 500 Days of Summer...the best films ever made. I will not listen to any opinion that states otherwise *fingers in ears* lalalalala...oh, and The Rocky Horror Picture Show).

I won't go into any more detail, because I'm not a film critic and I just don't wanna, okay?!

Bottom line is, go see it! Twilight it ain't. This is a good thing.

....Also the weird kid from About A Boy got hot. This knowledge does strange and confusing things to my innards.

Friday, 8 February 2013

Smarty Pants

I like eating Smarties. I find the quizzes on the back of their boxes both entertaining and educational...

But I can't help but think that the fates were taking the piss when the question "which Q was the hunchback of Notre Dame?" cropped up after I've just got over 3 solid days of crouching and limping.

Coincidence is a funny old thing.

It's also a teasing bully.

Thursday, 7 February 2013

Davina McCall Took My Legs

Woohoo, I'm walking like all the other Homo sapiens again! It's been an interesting two days reenacting the evolution of man. I've gone from a stooped and limping chimp-like figure to someone who can proudly walk unaided to use to loo once more. 

For my injury, I blame Davina McCall. Don't trust her crocodile smile, she's out to cripple the world one person at a time!

I shall explain. I bought Davina's fitness app ( <---- it's here if you no longer want use of your legs) on Monday night because, shock horror, I didn't feel like going to the gym. I thought I would salve my conscience by getting a bit of at-home activity in. So I got the free version of the app and merrily lolloped around my bedroom in my pants to it, throwing shapes that a person in such a state of indecency shouldn't be throwing. I was lava lampesque in my wobbly exuberance. Fuck it, no one was watching.

Then I happily clambered into the bath with a glass of wine, popped Radio One on and screamed down the phone at my sister (is it weird to phone people from the bath? No, no. It's not weird. Skyping from the bath, maybe, but not phoning), who was also listening for the Reading Festival line up announcements ( <------ I'M GOING TO SEE BIFFY CLYRO AND SYSTEM OF A MOTHERFRICKING DOWN!!!). After I'd finished slopping merlot (I'm pretending - I only really know my wines as "red", "white", "pink" and "fizzy". Mmm...fizzy) around the bathroom, a lovely relaxing evening ensued.

And then the next day was a lovely day at work... as lovely as a day at work can be, anyway. All was normal and limbs were functional. Until early evening hit. I had myself a bit of a sit-down on top of my feet, because I'm actually eight years old, and when it was time to get back up I just couldn't.

My feet hit the floor, and my legs just said no. Nope, we're not carrying you around anymore. Sit back down, Fatty.

I somehow got to my car and headed home to lurch through the door and greet A. I held an arm out in greeting from my crouched position in the doorway. All I needed was a brilliantly timed flash of lightning to pull off an excellent Igor impression.


So, for the rest of the evening, A had a good chuckle at my expense, asking me to carry him a mug of tea that he'd left in the kitchen; later standing t the top of our impossible spiral staircase as I slowly made my way up on my hands and knees. What a sight.

Wednesday wasn't much of an improvement. I had to explain to my entire office that I hadn't shat my pants or stuck something large an uncomfortable up my bum, and endured a whole working day of grins and titters every time I needed to get something from the printer.

My trip to the library after work wasn't much better. The car park is pretty far away from the main building, and as it was a quiet night I risked it and parked in the disabled bays directly outside. I thought I'd got away with it until I looked back and saw that someone was at in the car I'd parked next to, watching me with an expression of scorn, obviously, I thought, looking for my disability.

"Shit!" I thought "limp!"

Followed by

"Oh, that's right, I am limping. And stooping. And wincing. That's not scorn on their face, it's pity! Oh, God, I'm going to Hell!"

Anyway, I'm better today. I can jog yet, but I can make it to the bathroom without flopping onto and dragging myself along the wall now, so that's a vast improvement. Davina McCall isn't out to get me, and to her credit, she did try to give me safety advice at the start of the app, but I swiftly silenced her in my impatience. My fault. No hard feelings, Davina. I still want to be your friend (LOVE ME, DAVINA!!).

What have we learned today, kids? If you're going to exercise, stretch first!

Sunday, 3 February 2013

Holy ballsack!!

My views have gone up a fair bit this week! Feeling so many warm fuzzies for you guys for helping feed and simultaneously fuel my need for attention.

Let's be friends, mmm? I have a tumblr account, because I'm cool like that. Do you tumble? Take a tumble with me, if you like! We can look at amusing pictures of cats together and talk about our feelings til the cows come home!

... I've never understood that saying.  Anyone care to explain?

Saturday, 2 February 2013

You Disgust Me

Okay, so I'm no angel. I'll be the first to admit it. I'm a double whammy of messy and clumsy, so naturally, I will leave a trail of destruction and debris in my path wherever I go; spilled mugs of tea, crumpled paper, dead bodies....

I will only clean the house when the dirt actually becomes visible (bigger sense of achievement afterwards. Try it!), and my sexiest habit is chewing off my toenails. I know. Come and get me, ladies and gents, I'm all yours! *strips to the waist*

Now that's out of the way, and I feel that I have expressed that I'm not intending to be needlessly judgemental (okay, I'm being a bit judgemental, but hear me out), I would like to introduce you to some faceless but memorable mingers I've come across in my shortish time as a member of a cheap hight street gym ( if you're curious. I'm sure you're terribly curious). I say faceless because I've never met these people face to face, and I have never clocked any of them with my own eyes, but they have had a profound effect on my mental stability and gag reflex. I will now list them in order of mildly alarming to downright ruddy disgusting for you now....

1. Furball Girl - I actually encountered this mystery woman today while I was showering after a post-work workout. I heard rather than saw her. She was in the next cubicle to me and making this weird, animal sound. Sort of....I can't think of how best to describe the sound. It was this horrific, guttural retching and spitting noise. Reminded me of a louder version of when a cat drags up one of those sticky, wet furball things. I left convinced that she was either raised by cats, or hadn't figured out that you don't need to look directly up at the shower head with your mouth open, because, y'know, you don't choke if you do it that way...

2. Ear Wax Woman - This phantom lady turns up about once a fortnight and covers the mirror/hair drying area in the women's changing rooms in mountainous tissue piles. The tissues are always coated in a lumpy orange substance which I only guess is earwax. It could be make up, earwax or scooped out chunks of brain for all I know. The only way I could really tell would be to get within sniffing/licking distance. And I'm certain I'll never be THAT curious!

3. The Tampon Tramp - Yup. I almost don't want to describe this one because it brings on minor PTSDesque flashbacks of walking into a vacant shower cubicle and jumping right out like I had the force of a movie explosion behind me. Buzzing. THIS woman tends to make her presence known, as you've probably guessed, on a monthly basis. By leaving A USED TAMPON ON THE SHOWER FLOOR!! I cannot for the the life of me fathom her reasoning behind this! Is she marking her territory? Does she relax so much in showers that it just, kind of slithers out?? Gross, I know, but I just want to understand! As far as I know, the beauty of tampons is that you can do things like take showers and not have to take them out.... to leave them there for innocent barefoot strangers with freshly gnawed toenails to nearly stand on. Ew ew ew!

... I have a sneaking suspicion that these three sexy vixens might be one and the same frighteningly unhygienic, choking and spitting woman. Just... *shudder*. I wonder if I've smiled at her in passing? Or jogged side by side with her at the treadmills? People like that should have to wear stickers on their foreheads with a cartoon picture of a coiled turd and flies childishly doodled on them so that wider society have the chance wheedle them out and avoid at all costs. Maybe not furball girl, though. I think someone just needs to teach her how to shower facing the other way...

Disclaimer: The 3 minger-teers I mention in this post aren't a representation of the sort of person who goes to The Gym. Most of them are lovely, clean and polite people. And The Gym is as super-dooper as a gym can be - all cheap and obligation-free rolling contracts and whatnot. Go The Gym Group!

But down with tampon tramps everywhere. Or at least someone give me a plausible explanation for that behaviour. I am for reals curious!

Morning Demons

It's the weekend!! Sun is shining.  Six Nations rugby is on, and excitement hangs in the crisp, chilly air all throughout Wales.  It's time to crack out the Welsh cakes and have a shandy or six!

And I'm in work.

Don't worry, I'm on my lunch break.  So no need to tell on me, slacker Nazis! *glare*

Surprisingly, I don't feel too gloomy about having to be in an office while everyone else out there in The Big Wide World is having fun and readying themselves for a day at the pub.  I have one of the more relentlessly chipper members of staff working with me today, so it's hard to keep the frown smeared on my chops.

Wasn't feeling quite so tolerant this morning though.  I am categorically, 100% NOT a morning person.  Morning me can only stand 3 things in the wee hours of the day.  These are:

* Coffee
* Hugging
* The snooze button

If whatever is being offered to me isn't one of the above, I am not interested, thanksverymuch.  While Morning Me tries to be fair and hate everything equally, there are a few things that make her feel more murder-y than others.  Inexplicably, these are things that don't generally even register on Daytime Me's radar, let alone bug her.  But to Morning Me, the below are things that I'm convinced exist solely to crawl under my skin to make my brain go into short fits of blind rage expressed as  "fuckingbastardsmphmphmorningfuckertwatmphmumblemumble" because I'm too foggy-brained to vent my overblown anger better:

- Waking up even a nanosecond before the alarm goes off.
-  That strangled crunching noise my car makes when I try to clonk it into third gear. "SQUEEECRUNCHEEEEKTHUD!"
- Morning People. Those freaks of the dawn hours who bounce out of bed, fully suited and booted with stupid grins on their stupid faces.
- Rifling through the floor-drobe (wardrobe alternative to the young and hip like myself) for clothing that doesn't smell and isn't creased, hating myself with a passion for not hanging shit up like grown-ups are supposed to.
- Battling the straw nest situation atop my head with heated tongs only for it to form into devil horns the second I leave the house.

I'm aware of how petty these things are, but in the morning, before I give myself a chance to come around, they are world-ending, red-eye-turning, possessed-scream inducing banes of my life.  For this reason, I would like to call upon other sufferers of morning demonic-ness to band together as one in spreading word of our plight.  Awareness must be raised, and I feel that it would be charitable of the Morning People I hate and envy so much to form a morning army of sorts.  If this were to become a working idea, it would be the morning army's responsibility to:

- Wake us up gently with coffee and hugs, but not, I repeat NOT before the alarm goes off.
- Drive our semi-lifeless bodies with quiet patience to work, in cars that don't make crunchy noises.
- Continue not to talk to us unless absolutely necessary until it is at least 10am and the light has turned back on in our eyes and we can function as humans again.

Not too much to ask, is it?  In return, us Non-morning People will gift you with snacks and beverages in thanks throughout the day, and promise not to bug you too much when our energy levels explode just as you're winding down at the end of the day.  The world as a whole, I truly believe, will be a much happier place.