Now many of you will already be aware of this, but as I write there are only 178 shopping days left until Christmas. Now I know that might seem like plenty and I’m sure many of you are wondering why on earth (when we’re experiencing one of the hottest weeks of the year) I’m thinking about Christmas. Why indeed? Well I’ll be honest with you, this is more about conditioning than anything else.
From the middle of June onwards my mother starts making enquries as to what each and every one of her children has planned for Christmas. This is her not-so-subtle way of trying to "bagsy" you for Christmas before anyone else does. It's a good tactic as in June nobody has ever made firm plans for the holiday season (why would they??), and invariably she manages to secure the attendance of at least two of the four children and their partners/children etc. Mum loves being the hostess, and to be fair she's really rather good at it.
Therefore, it should be a simple decision – It's my second Christmas with no significant other and naturally it should equal dinner with the parental unit, unfortunately my dad decided to throw a spanner in the works by popping his clogs and therefore stuffing up the family Christmas routine. My mum remarried, and although the house is still the same house, and my mum still makes the best Christmas dinner going, the atmosphere would invariably be less like spending the day with your immediate family, and more like spending Christmas with...well...your mum and her new chap. It somehow seems wrong to intrude on newlyweds Christmas celebrations, even though I know she wouldn't see it like that, but the last thing you want to be on Christmas day is a gooseberry! Last year was my first Christmas as a singleton, and to be frank I was dreading it. Princess had kindly invited me to spend the day with her family (Momma and Poppa Smurf as I affectionately call them), but I didn’t really want to do Christmas at all. I’d had a crappy couple of years, and quite frankly I wasn’t excited about the holiday season, even less so with the fact that my family had become so disjointed in the last year. I really just wanted to pretend it wasn’t happening.
Now around this time my older brother and his long term girlfriend split up. Big bro was in a similar head space to me in as much as Christmas was pretty low on his list of priorities, so we decided that I’d go to him in Birmingham and we’d have a low key “non-Christmas”. The Middle Bro was working out on the oil rig over Christmas so wouldn’t be around, and the Baby Bro was doing the shuttle run between families, but promised to call in and bring our gorgeous nephew along to see us. My mum wasn’t best pleased, but she’s pretty good at understanding that we all lead our own lives, and we’re quite independent as individuals. It’s something she struggles with every day as she’s the type of person who’ll speak to her parents every day. If she’s lucky she’ll see me once a week, the middle bro once a month, and the big bro and baby bro once in a blue moon. It’s not that we don’t want to see her...it’s just that they raised us well, to ensure that we can look after ourselves, and so that’s what we do.
So the morning of Christmas 2009 started in the house I shared with Princess...I was woken by her at about 7am jumping up and down on my bed, shouting “get up, get up, GET UP! It’s Christmaaaaas!”...this is actually trickier than it sounds on a waterbed. Jumping on a waterbed is actually a lot like treading water...you don’t really get anywhere, it makes your legs ache and it’s basically a cardiovascular workout in itself, so I was actually quite impressed by her energy levels at the ungodly hour she decided to wake me. Princess has a rather odd habit of invading your most personal space (i.e. your bed) at a time when your defences are at their very lowest (i.e you’re asleep). She will climb under the duvet without checking that:
a) You’re wearing PJ’s
b) You are actually even alone in the bed!
She’ll then proceed to natter in your ear hole until there’s no possible way you’ll be able to get back to sleep. She also has a habit of inviting other people to climb into bed with you. Now, I’m pretty okay with most of my girly friends jumping into bed with me, however on this particular Christmas morning, it was her boyfriend she was calling on to “come jump on the bed and help me wake her up”. For one terrifying moment I though he might actually have been about to, until he entered the room and my very naked back, just visible above the duvet, alerted him to the one thing Princess always seems to be oblivious to...I do not sleep in Pyjamas. I do not sleep in anything. I don’t know who was more terrified of the prospect of him joining Princess’s “wake up” game upon this revelation, but I have a sneaking suspicion that it was him, although only just, and only because I was too sleepy to fully appreciate the awkwardness of the situation. After ten minutes of excited jostling and squealing, Princess finally managed to rouse me, and with an offer of a brew from her (now somewhat traumatised) boyfriend I begrudgingly made my way downstairs for breakfast followed by present opening.
After the presents had been distributed and opened I showered and changed and prepared myself to make the journey to Big Bro’s house. I’ll admit, I was feeling a little tender after a Christmas Eve drinking session in town, which may have added a certain element of torture to the journey I was about to make, however I can pretty safely say that the true horror that was this early morning journey was mainly a direct result of the fact that my co-pilot for the ride was Bryn, my german shepherd/collie cross. Bryn doesn’t travel well, and forty minutes of non stop high pitched whining and yappy barks shreds your nerves...with or without a hangover. I love that dog. Seriously, I’m daft for him, and he’s precious to me, but there were several occasions where I considered pulling over and letting him out so he could go and play with the traffic on the M6. When I finally arrived at Big Bro’s house it occurred to me that I had no idea what he’d got planned for the day. As it was, we spent the day watching DVD’s and playing Rock Band on the Xbox. Christmas dinner was a modest affair – left over Pizza Hut Meat Feast which we failed to successfully heat up in the microwave. For some reason parts of the pizza remained positively chilled, whilst others were basically nuclear...both of us ended up with mouth blisters on boxing day as a result. It was the most surreal Christmas day ever, but quite possibly also one of my favourites!
The question now though, is what do I do this year? Baby Bro and his girlfriend have now split up, so there maybe one more person to entertain...perhaps I should have the family round to mine? Perhaps having three of the four siblings around will make it feel more like the family Christmases we used to have? Perhaps I’d enjoy Christmas on my own? Perhaps I’ll have a hot date for Christmas by then...but whatever happens I need to start planning now, because I know my mum well, and it really won’t be long before the nagging starts!
Monday, 28 June 2010
Tuesday, 15 June 2010
Three Friends, A VW Camper, & An Unfortunate Garden Appliance Themed Fatality
I have ridiculously varied musical tastes, and pretty much listen to most things. Jonesy is the same as me. In a game of Guess The Intro she will beat anyone hands down, correctly supplying the band name, song title and release date (UK and Worldwide) within a matter of seconds – which ultimately annoys the crap out of everyone else playing (no’one likes a smartarse Jonesy) – but neither of us could say we were into any particular “genre” of music. My iPod holds a truly mixed collection of genres from classical to country, indie to electronica, dance to rap, show tunes to goth rock, and much, much more in between....which incidentally makes the “shuffle” function a dangerous choice at parties or in the office!
When Jonesy told me that she and her chap Will were going to be getting tickets for the Download Rock Festival and did I want to go too, I thought – why the heck not? I’ve been to festivals before. Oh okay, that’s stretching it a bit...I’ve been to the V Festival on several occasions – that’s sort of the same right? Granted I was younger, less likely to miss the creature comforts of a flushing toilet, a daily shower and a comfy chair to sit on, but I figured I could hack it. Besides we’d be in Will’s VW Camper “Betty” so at least it was a step up from camping in a tent! I have to be honest and say that most of the line up consisted of bands I didn't even know the names of, never mind any of their material, but as I perused the website’s line up confirmation I was at least amused by some of the more colourful band names, for instance... Lawnmower Deth. Seriously – can you imagine your musically gifted and talented child coming home, after several years classical guitar training, and saying;
“Mum we’ve done it! We’ve been signed! We’ve got a record deal! We’re going to be billionaires!”
“That’s lovely son, what’s the band called?”
“Lawnmower Deth”
“Oh, your Grandma will be proud – I’m sure she’ll come to see every concert!”
Then we had the Cancer Bats – nice (I’m sure they’re a very polite group of young men) Suicidal Tendencies (presumably you’d have these after listening to them for too long) and my personal favourite...Five Finger Death Punch. Now what is that? Is that different to a normal punch? I.e. Four fingers and a thumb punch? Maybe that just didn’t sound sinister enough?...but surely a five finger death punch is a two handed affair? So perhaps a four finger slap and a poke in the eye...? Maybe I’m thinking about this too much??
I should state for the record that I actually thoroughly enjoyed most of these bands, despite the fact that with all their heavy death metal “raaah-ing” I’m quite sure by the time they’re forty they’ll have no voices left. In fact Jonesy and I delighted in winding up the hardcore rock crowd around us by exclaiming in loud voices things like;
“Oh...Oh dear no...well that’s just shouting isn’t it?”
“I agree entirely Jonesy, I’m sure if he sang the melody he’d have the voice of an angel”
Needless to say we weren’t taking it very seriously, but that’s because we’ve got the experience of age on our side, and we’re secure enough in our own personalities to not need to latch onto any one particular “trend” and embrace it as some kind of expression of our own personal angst...unlike the yoof of today it appears, who proceeded to give us some rather confused and sometimes even disdainful looks. I can honestly say though, that despite the high levels of teen angst, and equally as high levels of aging rocker syndrome, (seriously guys...there comes a time when we should all cut our long hair...for you, it’s when it doesn’t start until you get behind your ears) I have never been to such a pleasant event. It was superbly organised, and the kids and adults alike were all well mannered, likable – if not a little eccentric – individuals. There was no trouble, no fighting, no obvious signs of hard drugs, no chavs and much to my delight, barely even a whiff of world cup fever, despite it being the weekend of England’s first match. Everyone was there to enjoy the music, and more importantly, themselves.
The reason I was there was for two bands in particular...Rage Against The Machine and Aerosmith. Pure and simple. But I do love a good festival atmosphere, and I’m also quite partial to men with tattoo’s so as I’m sure you can imagine – I was in my element! Age is a bitch though, (and a particularly mean bitch at that) and so I’m suffering now from back pain after sleeping on an airbed for three nights, and chronic heartburn after surviving on a diet of burger van cuisine and pot noodles for the weekend. Never the less though the three of us had an amazing time. Will was the epitome of patience (being an aging rocker – albeit minus the ponytail now) having to accompany a couple of daft girls around the place...I think he loved it really...and Jonesy gave me the highlight of my weekend...
Whilst hundreds of pierced, tattooed, studded, leather jacketed rockers wearily made their way back to the campsite on the last night, Jonesy mused (rather loudly) over how much she was looking forward to listening to a bit of pop music. We were quite certain this would lead to someone sticking their size eleven biker boot into the side of her face, and subtly told her to pipe down. Jonesy isn’t really one for being told what to do, so all this did was prompt her to burst into a rendition of 80’s pop icon Rick Astley’s “Never Gonna Give You Up”. After several pear cider’s Jonesy’s voice reaches decibel levels that the festival’s sound tech’s would be proud of, so we actually feared for her life at this point...until, much to my disbelief a skinny Irish guy wearing a Megadeath hoodie chimed in for the chorus...then his pals joined in...then some more...then the whole blummin crowd! Jonesy successfully steered them from Rick Astley, to Westlife and then into a rousing rendition of Girls Aloud’s “Something Kinda Ooh” before exclaiming triumphantly...
“I KNEW IT! You rockers think you’re all hardcore, but you can’t resist a bit of cheesy pop!”
Classic Jonesy. You’re my hero! I tell her that when I go to see her at the hospital. They tell me she can still hear me...and that one day it might help her wake up. ;o)
When Jonesy told me that she and her chap Will were going to be getting tickets for the Download Rock Festival and did I want to go too, I thought – why the heck not? I’ve been to festivals before. Oh okay, that’s stretching it a bit...I’ve been to the V Festival on several occasions – that’s sort of the same right? Granted I was younger, less likely to miss the creature comforts of a flushing toilet, a daily shower and a comfy chair to sit on, but I figured I could hack it. Besides we’d be in Will’s VW Camper “Betty” so at least it was a step up from camping in a tent! I have to be honest and say that most of the line up consisted of bands I didn't even know the names of, never mind any of their material, but as I perused the website’s line up confirmation I was at least amused by some of the more colourful band names, for instance... Lawnmower Deth. Seriously – can you imagine your musically gifted and talented child coming home, after several years classical guitar training, and saying;
“Mum we’ve done it! We’ve been signed! We’ve got a record deal! We’re going to be billionaires!”
“That’s lovely son, what’s the band called?”
“Lawnmower Deth”
“Oh, your Grandma will be proud – I’m sure she’ll come to see every concert!”
Then we had the Cancer Bats – nice (I’m sure they’re a very polite group of young men) Suicidal Tendencies (presumably you’d have these after listening to them for too long) and my personal favourite...Five Finger Death Punch. Now what is that? Is that different to a normal punch? I.e. Four fingers and a thumb punch? Maybe that just didn’t sound sinister enough?...but surely a five finger death punch is a two handed affair? So perhaps a four finger slap and a poke in the eye...? Maybe I’m thinking about this too much??
I should state for the record that I actually thoroughly enjoyed most of these bands, despite the fact that with all their heavy death metal “raaah-ing” I’m quite sure by the time they’re forty they’ll have no voices left. In fact Jonesy and I delighted in winding up the hardcore rock crowd around us by exclaiming in loud voices things like;
“Oh...Oh dear no...well that’s just shouting isn’t it?”
“I agree entirely Jonesy, I’m sure if he sang the melody he’d have the voice of an angel”
Needless to say we weren’t taking it very seriously, but that’s because we’ve got the experience of age on our side, and we’re secure enough in our own personalities to not need to latch onto any one particular “trend” and embrace it as some kind of expression of our own personal angst...unlike the yoof of today it appears, who proceeded to give us some rather confused and sometimes even disdainful looks. I can honestly say though, that despite the high levels of teen angst, and equally as high levels of aging rocker syndrome, (seriously guys...there comes a time when we should all cut our long hair...for you, it’s when it doesn’t start until you get behind your ears) I have never been to such a pleasant event. It was superbly organised, and the kids and adults alike were all well mannered, likable – if not a little eccentric – individuals. There was no trouble, no fighting, no obvious signs of hard drugs, no chavs and much to my delight, barely even a whiff of world cup fever, despite it being the weekend of England’s first match. Everyone was there to enjoy the music, and more importantly, themselves.
The reason I was there was for two bands in particular...Rage Against The Machine and Aerosmith. Pure and simple. But I do love a good festival atmosphere, and I’m also quite partial to men with tattoo’s so as I’m sure you can imagine – I was in my element! Age is a bitch though, (and a particularly mean bitch at that) and so I’m suffering now from back pain after sleeping on an airbed for three nights, and chronic heartburn after surviving on a diet of burger van cuisine and pot noodles for the weekend. Never the less though the three of us had an amazing time. Will was the epitome of patience (being an aging rocker – albeit minus the ponytail now) having to accompany a couple of daft girls around the place...I think he loved it really...and Jonesy gave me the highlight of my weekend...
Whilst hundreds of pierced, tattooed, studded, leather jacketed rockers wearily made their way back to the campsite on the last night, Jonesy mused (rather loudly) over how much she was looking forward to listening to a bit of pop music. We were quite certain this would lead to someone sticking their size eleven biker boot into the side of her face, and subtly told her to pipe down. Jonesy isn’t really one for being told what to do, so all this did was prompt her to burst into a rendition of 80’s pop icon Rick Astley’s “Never Gonna Give You Up”. After several pear cider’s Jonesy’s voice reaches decibel levels that the festival’s sound tech’s would be proud of, so we actually feared for her life at this point...until, much to my disbelief a skinny Irish guy wearing a Megadeath hoodie chimed in for the chorus...then his pals joined in...then some more...then the whole blummin crowd! Jonesy successfully steered them from Rick Astley, to Westlife and then into a rousing rendition of Girls Aloud’s “Something Kinda Ooh” before exclaiming triumphantly...
“I KNEW IT! You rockers think you’re all hardcore, but you can’t resist a bit of cheesy pop!”
Classic Jonesy. You’re my hero! I tell her that when I go to see her at the hospital. They tell me she can still hear me...and that one day it might help her wake up. ;o)
Saturday, 5 June 2010
I Must Be A "Special" Breed Of Stupid
Have you ever noticed that some things seem like a really good idea in principle, and yet the reality of these ideas is somewhat less appealing?
I have volunteered to join a group of colleagues to walk 22 miles across the Cotswolds in a couple of months time to raise money for Breakthrough breast cancer. It’s an amazing charity – one that the company I work for has supported for a few years now, so when the e-mail came around asking for people to sign up for the challenge, I thought – what the heck?
They say that when a woman gives birth, the brain (after time) wipes the most painful/traumatic aspects of the event from her mind. It’s a species preservation thing. If she were to remember all the worst bits then there’s a strong likelihood that she won’t want to go through it again, and the brain isn’t haven’t any of that! It appears that when you slip a disc, the brain does pretty much the same thing in order to lure you into charity walks. As I pressed “send” on my e-mail registering my interest in joining the team, I had completely forgotten about the six weeks I was off work unable to walk, followed by the several weeks after that where I could only shuffle around looking like I’d had a childish accident, and I had absolutely no recollection of the months of chiropractors and physio appointments that I went through after that in order to get me back to the point where I could get out of bed in the morning and not be in pain. Clever brain. Stupid Natalie.
I seriously have no idea what I was thinking signing up for this. I’m not anywhere near as fit as I should be – my gym membership expired about two months ago, and since then I’ve been on precisely two runs (What can I say? The lure of Britain’s Got Talent has kept me somewhat glued to my sofa). I was discussing this with a colleague, and describing my general lack of motivation at the moment, and she came up with the “genius” idea of me hiring a fitness coach. Someone who’s only goal in life was to make me fit. Someone who’s there specifically to beat on me and bully me into fitness. Someone who wouldn’t care or sympathise if I complained that it was all too hard. Someone who’d work my sorry ass into the ground in order to achieve the ultimate goal of getting me somewhere close to being “in shape”. The idea was almost perfect. I say almost because the prospect of paying someone to be that mean to me seemed a little narcissistic. Besides...why would I hire one of these Rottweiler’s when I’ve already got one?
Cue Drill Sergeant Jonesy.
Oh she’s been waiting for this moment for a long time! Her Monica-esque anal retentive attention to detail with regards to her own diet and fitness regime has made her somewhat evangelical about the results, and she’s been screaming to convert me to her cult of the “downright annoyingly healthy” for months now, so I expected nothing short of sheer enthusiasm when I asked for her services in the coaching department. I wasn’t disappointed. Good old Jonesy – she does love a project.
She also knows me ludicrously well, and so in an effort to disarm me and put me on the back foot, she suggested a training planning meeting at the pub last night (you’ve got to love her style). It appears that after several large glasses of wine and a couple of Malibu’s I’ve agreed to embark upon the new regime as of Monday, and she’ll be dragging me out five times a week! As a result my chiropractor and physiotherapist have been alerted, and both have kindly cleared their appointment diaries in anticipation of me requiring their services. Still it’s going to be a long haul, so I think perhaps (in order to keep me on track and focused on the end goal) it would be wise of me to try and gather as much support as possible from all my lovely friends and family, and I think the best way you could help me, would be to help someone who really needs it. You can do this by sponsoring me on my walk through my just giving sponsorship page : http://www.justgiving.com/Natalie-Cooper3
Thank you for your support, and please... as you settle down to your dinner of an evening, spare a thought for me as Jonesy puts me through my paces! It’s been lovely knowing y’all.
I have volunteered to join a group of colleagues to walk 22 miles across the Cotswolds in a couple of months time to raise money for Breakthrough breast cancer. It’s an amazing charity – one that the company I work for has supported for a few years now, so when the e-mail came around asking for people to sign up for the challenge, I thought – what the heck?
They say that when a woman gives birth, the brain (after time) wipes the most painful/traumatic aspects of the event from her mind. It’s a species preservation thing. If she were to remember all the worst bits then there’s a strong likelihood that she won’t want to go through it again, and the brain isn’t haven’t any of that! It appears that when you slip a disc, the brain does pretty much the same thing in order to lure you into charity walks. As I pressed “send” on my e-mail registering my interest in joining the team, I had completely forgotten about the six weeks I was off work unable to walk, followed by the several weeks after that where I could only shuffle around looking like I’d had a childish accident, and I had absolutely no recollection of the months of chiropractors and physio appointments that I went through after that in order to get me back to the point where I could get out of bed in the morning and not be in pain. Clever brain. Stupid Natalie.
I seriously have no idea what I was thinking signing up for this. I’m not anywhere near as fit as I should be – my gym membership expired about two months ago, and since then I’ve been on precisely two runs (What can I say? The lure of Britain’s Got Talent has kept me somewhat glued to my sofa). I was discussing this with a colleague, and describing my general lack of motivation at the moment, and she came up with the “genius” idea of me hiring a fitness coach. Someone who’s only goal in life was to make me fit. Someone who’s there specifically to beat on me and bully me into fitness. Someone who wouldn’t care or sympathise if I complained that it was all too hard. Someone who’d work my sorry ass into the ground in order to achieve the ultimate goal of getting me somewhere close to being “in shape”. The idea was almost perfect. I say almost because the prospect of paying someone to be that mean to me seemed a little narcissistic. Besides...why would I hire one of these Rottweiler’s when I’ve already got one?
Cue Drill Sergeant Jonesy.
Oh she’s been waiting for this moment for a long time! Her Monica-esque anal retentive attention to detail with regards to her own diet and fitness regime has made her somewhat evangelical about the results, and she’s been screaming to convert me to her cult of the “downright annoyingly healthy” for months now, so I expected nothing short of sheer enthusiasm when I asked for her services in the coaching department. I wasn’t disappointed. Good old Jonesy – she does love a project.
She also knows me ludicrously well, and so in an effort to disarm me and put me on the back foot, she suggested a training planning meeting at the pub last night (you’ve got to love her style). It appears that after several large glasses of wine and a couple of Malibu’s I’ve agreed to embark upon the new regime as of Monday, and she’ll be dragging me out five times a week! As a result my chiropractor and physiotherapist have been alerted, and both have kindly cleared their appointment diaries in anticipation of me requiring their services. Still it’s going to be a long haul, so I think perhaps (in order to keep me on track and focused on the end goal) it would be wise of me to try and gather as much support as possible from all my lovely friends and family, and I think the best way you could help me, would be to help someone who really needs it. You can do this by sponsoring me on my walk through my just giving sponsorship page : http://www.justgiving.com/Natalie-Cooper3
Thank you for your support, and please... as you settle down to your dinner of an evening, spare a thought for me as Jonesy puts me through my paces! It’s been lovely knowing y’all.
Tuesday, 1 June 2010
Nobody Puts Baby In The Corner
I’m sure I’ve mentioned this before, but I wouldn’t exactly call myself a “girly girl”. I’ve always considered myself a bit of a tom-boy. I grew up rough-housing with my brothers, and got pretty good at learning how to handle myself. One brother managed to lose a thumbnail owing to my particular brand of self defence, another had his face smashed off a windowsill which resulted in a rather nasty broken nose and a lot of explaining/lying as to how the incident occurred to my parents. I look at my girlfriends and they’re somewhat daintier than I am. Even those with brothers would have been far more likely to run to mum and dad to snitch on their siblings if they were doing something unpleasant rather than just roll their sleeves up and give them a good battering themselves. I’ve always felt more at home in the company of guys because you rarely have to watch your P’s & Q’s and they tend to find it amusing rather than offensive if your language gets more foul the more you drink...which mine invariably does.
Don’t get me wrong...I’m feminine. It’s not like I’m a big butch man-woman or anything weird like that. I love my shoes and handbags as much as the next girl, and I like nothing better than glamming up for a night out. I just don’t go in for all of the behavioural etiquette rules that many girls appear to live by. I’m not a diva/princess. I’m not into pink and sparkly, (although I do appreciate the attraction) I can’t do dainty little lady-like “eh-choo” dry-sneezes, (when I sneeze the whole world falls out of my nostrils, and I make a noise not dissimilar to an F1 racing car as it passes you at a gazillion miles an hour). I’m also not really a coy, giggly kind of girl...in fact I’ve been told that my laugh is downright dirty, and you can usually hear it carrying across our entire office floor.
With this in mind then, imagine my surprise when during a recent date with Le Linguiste (owing to his fluency in French) he out right accused me of being girly? Now this is a guy who would really have been basing his judgements on first impressions, and I knew that I hadn’t been anything other than my usual self - as I find it impossible to be anything other than “me”. So how could our opinions of “me” differ so dramatically? I hadn’t squealed at delight over anything, I hadn’t clapped my hands or jumped up and down in an excited manner, I hadn’t giggled like a girly girl and I hadn’t even bothered to flutter my eyelashes at him. I should state that in all fairness this was because his eyelashes were far more impressive and quite frankly I didn’t like the competition.
In fact during the course of this first date, I’d managed to rather spectacularly trip myself up (klutz), I’d spilt my drink (double klutz) I was waaay too comfortable around him and had caught myself slouching on a couple of occasions, and as our date had started in the early afternoon I was dressed casually and wearing flat ballet pumps. Nothing about me was saying “girly”, I’m quite certain of it, and yet here he was, convinced by my girliness. I can only assume he knows some really butch women! Now I could have passed this off as a one off - perhaps my nerves had got the better of me and I’d been uncharacteristically calm and demure around him on our first meeting, but he’s since spent another full day with me, spent hours on the phone to me and I feel more than confident that I’m being myself around him...and yet he still feels it’s appropriate to call me... “Baby”.
Now I can hear some of you cooing and ahhhing with remarks like “awww, isn’t that lovely” and “oh it’s so nice when a guy feels comfortable enough to give you affectionate names” etc, but it’s just further compounding my worries that he has me mistaken for someone else. My ex-husband called me Princess once and he nearly lost his teeth. I could manage “Hun”, “Darling”, and even “Babe” (although the latter makes me think of that talking pig) but if he’d ever called me baby I think I would have punched him in the face and told him to man-up! Baby suggests something tiny, and delicate...and in it’s very essence, something kind of...well...helpless. It’s a name you’d give someone who perhaps needed protecting from the big bad world. Anyone who knows me, knows that I’m a strong, independent woman. I’ve never needed a man, and I cope well on my own. That’s just the way I roll people – and so probably the most annoying thing about this whole incident is that for some bizarre reason I didn’t actually mind Le Linguiste calling me baby. Did it confuse me? For sure. Did it make me doubt whether he was actually talking to me or some other random stood behind me? Definitely – but did it generate a violent rage within me? No. Did it make me want to projectile vomit at the mushiness of his sentiment? No. In fact it actually made me feel kind of good inside.
It’s been a long while since anyone’s even wanted to treat me like I need protecting from anything...and maybe, after the last few years - fire fighting against bereavement, and divorce, heartbreak and humiliation - pretending that I was strong enough to handle it all on my own, and forcing a smile onto my face even though inside I felt dead, broken and hollow – maybe to have a few minutes protection from a somewhat-stranger was just what I needed? Maybe with his fresh eyes he was able to look closely enough to see the little girl who needed to feel safe again – just for a moment – instead of the tom-boy, straight talking, strong willed young woman I’ve allowed myself to become? Who knows? But for now, I’ll let him get away with it...just while I re-charge... just don’t tell anyone I’m enjoying it though okay?
It could ruin my reputation ;o)
Don’t get me wrong...I’m feminine. It’s not like I’m a big butch man-woman or anything weird like that. I love my shoes and handbags as much as the next girl, and I like nothing better than glamming up for a night out. I just don’t go in for all of the behavioural etiquette rules that many girls appear to live by. I’m not a diva/princess. I’m not into pink and sparkly, (although I do appreciate the attraction) I can’t do dainty little lady-like “eh-choo” dry-sneezes, (when I sneeze the whole world falls out of my nostrils, and I make a noise not dissimilar to an F1 racing car as it passes you at a gazillion miles an hour). I’m also not really a coy, giggly kind of girl...in fact I’ve been told that my laugh is downright dirty, and you can usually hear it carrying across our entire office floor.
With this in mind then, imagine my surprise when during a recent date with Le Linguiste (owing to his fluency in French) he out right accused me of being girly? Now this is a guy who would really have been basing his judgements on first impressions, and I knew that I hadn’t been anything other than my usual self - as I find it impossible to be anything other than “me”. So how could our opinions of “me” differ so dramatically? I hadn’t squealed at delight over anything, I hadn’t clapped my hands or jumped up and down in an excited manner, I hadn’t giggled like a girly girl and I hadn’t even bothered to flutter my eyelashes at him. I should state that in all fairness this was because his eyelashes were far more impressive and quite frankly I didn’t like the competition.
In fact during the course of this first date, I’d managed to rather spectacularly trip myself up (klutz), I’d spilt my drink (double klutz) I was waaay too comfortable around him and had caught myself slouching on a couple of occasions, and as our date had started in the early afternoon I was dressed casually and wearing flat ballet pumps. Nothing about me was saying “girly”, I’m quite certain of it, and yet here he was, convinced by my girliness. I can only assume he knows some really butch women! Now I could have passed this off as a one off - perhaps my nerves had got the better of me and I’d been uncharacteristically calm and demure around him on our first meeting, but he’s since spent another full day with me, spent hours on the phone to me and I feel more than confident that I’m being myself around him...and yet he still feels it’s appropriate to call me... “Baby”.
Now I can hear some of you cooing and ahhhing with remarks like “awww, isn’t that lovely” and “oh it’s so nice when a guy feels comfortable enough to give you affectionate names” etc, but it’s just further compounding my worries that he has me mistaken for someone else. My ex-husband called me Princess once and he nearly lost his teeth. I could manage “Hun”, “Darling”, and even “Babe” (although the latter makes me think of that talking pig) but if he’d ever called me baby I think I would have punched him in the face and told him to man-up! Baby suggests something tiny, and delicate...and in it’s very essence, something kind of...well...helpless. It’s a name you’d give someone who perhaps needed protecting from the big bad world. Anyone who knows me, knows that I’m a strong, independent woman. I’ve never needed a man, and I cope well on my own. That’s just the way I roll people – and so probably the most annoying thing about this whole incident is that for some bizarre reason I didn’t actually mind Le Linguiste calling me baby. Did it confuse me? For sure. Did it make me doubt whether he was actually talking to me or some other random stood behind me? Definitely – but did it generate a violent rage within me? No. Did it make me want to projectile vomit at the mushiness of his sentiment? No. In fact it actually made me feel kind of good inside.
It’s been a long while since anyone’s even wanted to treat me like I need protecting from anything...and maybe, after the last few years - fire fighting against bereavement, and divorce, heartbreak and humiliation - pretending that I was strong enough to handle it all on my own, and forcing a smile onto my face even though inside I felt dead, broken and hollow – maybe to have a few minutes protection from a somewhat-stranger was just what I needed? Maybe with his fresh eyes he was able to look closely enough to see the little girl who needed to feel safe again – just for a moment – instead of the tom-boy, straight talking, strong willed young woman I’ve allowed myself to become? Who knows? But for now, I’ll let him get away with it...just while I re-charge... just don’t tell anyone I’m enjoying it though okay?
It could ruin my reputation ;o)
Monday, 31 May 2010
Tot's Party Becomes Totty Heaven
Since when did a child's first birthday party become the place to meet hot guys?
This was the thought that crossed my mind yesterday, as I sat in Beck-lar’s sisters garden, watching ten or more inebriated - yet never the less very pleasing on the eye – grown men launch themselves from the garden decking into the ball-pool section of a child’s bouncy castle, some seven foot away.
I had been genuinely touched to receive an invitation to the first birthday party of Beck-lar’s niece, as these sorts of things can be very much “family affairs”. Truth be told one of the main things I miss about being a "smug married" is the low-key, family orientated parties that you get invited to. I had been looking forward to schmoozing with aunties and uncles, cooing over the birthday girl and her nursery playmates, and enjoying jelly and ice cream in the sunshine. I was looking forward to singing happy birthday, and watching the birthday girl take more pleasure in playing with the wrapping paper her mum had helped her rip off her presents than the actual presents themselves, and hadn’t really even considered the possibility that there might be a requirement for me to “dress to kill”.
Beck-lar’s sister and her chap are a young couple, so I had expected to see their other young “couple friends” with their children, however I hadn’t expected the sudden influx of man-totty (friends and colleagues of the birthday girl’s father) around the 3pm mark, who arrived with pretty pink-wrapped, bowed and ribboned gifts for the birthday girl under one arm, and a crates of beer under the other. Given that I hadn’t really put much thought into my wardrobe choice I was a little thrown by the presence of the men-folk. Why hadn’t I factored this in when choosing my attire for the afternoon? When I was married hadn’t I attended functions just like this? Didn’t my single attractive friends also attend these functions? With hindsight of course I realise they did, it’s just that at the time their marital status was of no consequence to me, and I wasn’t in a position to want to judge their eligibility as “eye candy”.
Never the less I sat there, somewhat bemused as to where these boys had come from, and why no’one had warned me. Had I been aware I would certainly have prepared accordingly for the occasion - and by that I mean I would have spent more time on my make-up that morning and would have limited my alcohol consumption at the party. As it was, by the time they arrived I had consumed at least three glasses of Rosé, and was already spouting a fair amount of gibberish. Beck-lar was still feeling the after effects of a night out on the Malibu the previous evening and was in no state to flirt. No words needed to be passed between us...we both knew this wasn’t the day for us to be turning on the charm for the gentlemen in question. Luckily for us there was an abundance of girl totty to keep the boys entertained without us, in the form of the birthday girl's mum's friends. I don't mind admitting that I was somewhat relieved about this!
I'm sure by now you've spotted that there is of course a moral to this story ladies and gents...and that is - to expect the unexpected. Be prepared, because you just never know what opportunities life might throw at you, but the one thing you can always count on, is that they’ll come hurtling towards you in the most unlikely places.
So, with me hiding behind my enormous Gucci shades, and Beck-lar behind her adorable niece, we watched the totty from the other side of the garden. Marvelling at their check-shirted, long-shorted, flip-flopped, Ray-Ban Aviator'd hot summery goodness, and thanked the Lord that he’d at least give us something pretty to look at for the afternoon.
This was the thought that crossed my mind yesterday, as I sat in Beck-lar’s sisters garden, watching ten or more inebriated - yet never the less very pleasing on the eye – grown men launch themselves from the garden decking into the ball-pool section of a child’s bouncy castle, some seven foot away.
I had been genuinely touched to receive an invitation to the first birthday party of Beck-lar’s niece, as these sorts of things can be very much “family affairs”. Truth be told one of the main things I miss about being a "smug married" is the low-key, family orientated parties that you get invited to. I had been looking forward to schmoozing with aunties and uncles, cooing over the birthday girl and her nursery playmates, and enjoying jelly and ice cream in the sunshine. I was looking forward to singing happy birthday, and watching the birthday girl take more pleasure in playing with the wrapping paper her mum had helped her rip off her presents than the actual presents themselves, and hadn’t really even considered the possibility that there might be a requirement for me to “dress to kill”.
Beck-lar’s sister and her chap are a young couple, so I had expected to see their other young “couple friends” with their children, however I hadn’t expected the sudden influx of man-totty (friends and colleagues of the birthday girl’s father) around the 3pm mark, who arrived with pretty pink-wrapped, bowed and ribboned gifts for the birthday girl under one arm, and a crates of beer under the other. Given that I hadn’t really put much thought into my wardrobe choice I was a little thrown by the presence of the men-folk. Why hadn’t I factored this in when choosing my attire for the afternoon? When I was married hadn’t I attended functions just like this? Didn’t my single attractive friends also attend these functions? With hindsight of course I realise they did, it’s just that at the time their marital status was of no consequence to me, and I wasn’t in a position to want to judge their eligibility as “eye candy”.
Never the less I sat there, somewhat bemused as to where these boys had come from, and why no’one had warned me. Had I been aware I would certainly have prepared accordingly for the occasion - and by that I mean I would have spent more time on my make-up that morning and would have limited my alcohol consumption at the party. As it was, by the time they arrived I had consumed at least three glasses of Rosé, and was already spouting a fair amount of gibberish. Beck-lar was still feeling the after effects of a night out on the Malibu the previous evening and was in no state to flirt. No words needed to be passed between us...we both knew this wasn’t the day for us to be turning on the charm for the gentlemen in question. Luckily for us there was an abundance of girl totty to keep the boys entertained without us, in the form of the birthday girl's mum's friends. I don't mind admitting that I was somewhat relieved about this!
I'm sure by now you've spotted that there is of course a moral to this story ladies and gents...and that is - to expect the unexpected. Be prepared, because you just never know what opportunities life might throw at you, but the one thing you can always count on, is that they’ll come hurtling towards you in the most unlikely places.
So, with me hiding behind my enormous Gucci shades, and Beck-lar behind her adorable niece, we watched the totty from the other side of the garden. Marvelling at their check-shirted, long-shorted, flip-flopped, Ray-Ban Aviator'd hot summery goodness, and thanked the Lord that he’d at least give us something pretty to look at for the afternoon.
Tuesday, 25 May 2010
The Best Of Friends
My best friends truly are a varied bunch, and are a constant source of amusement to me. Bridget Jones once referred to her friends as her “Urban Family” and I can’t think of a better way to describe them. I mean, you can choose your friends...and who wouldn’t admit that usually, they’d rather spend time with their friends than their actual family! So I wanted you to know a bit more about mine...what with them being such a huge part of my life...
Let’s take Princess... blonde, gorgeous, caring and loyal. She’s bright, articulate and has the sweetest soul imaginable. She is honest and true, and has always been there to support me. She tells me what I want to hear, and on the occasions where it’s required, what I need to hear. She is an inspiration to me, and quite honestly I sometimes loathe myself for never being able to be as good a friend to her as she is to me. She will remember birthdays and special events with cards and flowers. The sentiment is always genuine, and even when her own world is falling apart around her, she will put anything on hold in order to be there for each and every one of her friends....she also says some of the DUMBEST things! Blonde to the core, she is the (hilarious) epitome of the “blonde” stereotype. This is the girl who had me in stitches when I found out that whilst walking past a newspaper stand with a headline screaming “Bank Robbers Strike!” she questioned what on earth bank robbers needed to go on strike for? Better pay? Better holidays? It wasn’t so much the fact that she asked herself the question that amused me...but that even when she’d realised her faux pas, she felt she should share the blondeness with me. Princess is a girl who can laugh at herself, and I adore her with all of my heart.
Next we have Jonesy...my oldest friend, although why we ever became friends is still beyond me, bearing in mind that within hours of meeting her in the school playground I had (unintentionally) gouged a chunk out of her face with my nails. Both of us were new to the town, the school and the people in general, and so a friendship formed that has proved unbreakable. Jonesy is from the school of “tough love”. Some people would call her blunt...and I would kick their heads in for saying it as it makes it sound like a negative thing. She’s honest...in fact she’s incapable of being anything but honest, and that’s why she’s so dear to me. Jonesy is the type of girl that when I complain about the fact I’m not happy with my weight, and I feel like a lard arse, turns around and says “well, perhaps if you stopped eating so much CRAP you’d feel a little better...no?” When I’m with her, I’m eleven years old again, and we can behave like complete idiots and it’s fine. Jonesy is my never neverland, where I don’t ever have to grow up...and we all need friends like that. It keeps us young, and it keeps us sane! She knows me better than I know myself, and for some reason she still wants to be my friend. Wonders never cease!
Beck-lar is my newest “bestest”. I’d known of her for years, but had never socialised with her. When I became single, I suggested (during a random thread on a friend’s facebook status) that we should go out one Friday night. It was the start of a friendship that I will now treasure until I’m old and decrepit, and that’s because Beck-lar brings a whole heap of crazy to the party that I simply couldn’t live without now that I’m accustomed to it. She started out as my pint sized pub buddy, and now if she goes away for more than a weekend I find myself pining for her unusual brand of gaga. She never judges (and she’s seen me do some bad/destructive/down right silly things!). She is also the clumsiest, most forgetful person I know! Beck-lar is the only person I know, who whilst trying her very best to impress her hot neighbour will manage to fall down her front steps or reverse her car up kerbs, and still come up smelling like roses. She’s the only person I know who can misjudge the length of a bench seat and “over-scoot” the edge to find herself on her arse on the floor, and belly laugh at the photos (we all clambered to take whilst she was down) the next day. With her I can indulge my paranoid female psyche and she won’t think I need to be sectioned – mainly because she’s just as barmy! She makes me laugh to the point where I need to pee, and the joy of it is, that she has no idea how funny she really is. My life without Beck-lar would be quiet, boring and ridiculously grown up....there would also be a distinct lack of McDonalds and Malibu in my system.
The Bezzie Boy...he gets me. I’ve known him since I was eleven, and to be fair back then, he was probably one of my first crushes...now, he’s my closest male friend. I love every inch of him, warts and all because he doesn’t pretend to be anything other than what he is. I can be 100% honest with him about anything. He treats me like a princess, even when I behave like a tramp. He’s made me realise that I deserve so much more than the hand I’ve been dealt with. His heart is always in the right place, and yet he always manages to stuff things up for himself. A walking disaster, yet he’s an angel in disguise. He puts so little value on himself, and doesn’t realise how truly special he is. My fear is that one day I’ll lose him and he’ll be the only man to have truly seen me. If you read this bezzie boy, know this...I love you babe...I’m not in love with you (haha) but I do love you! X mwah X
And finally... The Couple...
I wouldn’t usually group friends together like this, because in truth these two people are so different in their personalities it’s untrue...but I have to, because quite frankly, I simply could not live in a world where these two did not exist together as a unit: My married friends. The sister I never had, and the more practical version of the older brother I do have. They have been my saviours during the hardest times I’ve ever had to deal with. I may or may not ever have children of my own, but The Couple have provided me with god children that I love as much as if they were my own. Always supporting, always showing their love and their loyalty. Their morals and principles are unquestionable. Their passion for those they care about, unfaltering. They are the people I want to be like when I grow up...and in times of need they’re always there to provide a cup of tea and a comedy trump (on cue) to make the world seem more bearable. I would not have survived over the last two years if it weren’t for these two amazing individuals. I bloody loves you!
So...these are my friends...and I will probably make frequent references to them in future blogs. They are my life, my soul and my inspiration...they’re also really f**king funny! :o)
Let’s take Princess... blonde, gorgeous, caring and loyal. She’s bright, articulate and has the sweetest soul imaginable. She is honest and true, and has always been there to support me. She tells me what I want to hear, and on the occasions where it’s required, what I need to hear. She is an inspiration to me, and quite honestly I sometimes loathe myself for never being able to be as good a friend to her as she is to me. She will remember birthdays and special events with cards and flowers. The sentiment is always genuine, and even when her own world is falling apart around her, she will put anything on hold in order to be there for each and every one of her friends....she also says some of the DUMBEST things! Blonde to the core, she is the (hilarious) epitome of the “blonde” stereotype. This is the girl who had me in stitches when I found out that whilst walking past a newspaper stand with a headline screaming “Bank Robbers Strike!” she questioned what on earth bank robbers needed to go on strike for? Better pay? Better holidays? It wasn’t so much the fact that she asked herself the question that amused me...but that even when she’d realised her faux pas, she felt she should share the blondeness with me. Princess is a girl who can laugh at herself, and I adore her with all of my heart.
Next we have Jonesy...my oldest friend, although why we ever became friends is still beyond me, bearing in mind that within hours of meeting her in the school playground I had (unintentionally) gouged a chunk out of her face with my nails. Both of us were new to the town, the school and the people in general, and so a friendship formed that has proved unbreakable. Jonesy is from the school of “tough love”. Some people would call her blunt...and I would kick their heads in for saying it as it makes it sound like a negative thing. She’s honest...in fact she’s incapable of being anything but honest, and that’s why she’s so dear to me. Jonesy is the type of girl that when I complain about the fact I’m not happy with my weight, and I feel like a lard arse, turns around and says “well, perhaps if you stopped eating so much CRAP you’d feel a little better...no?” When I’m with her, I’m eleven years old again, and we can behave like complete idiots and it’s fine. Jonesy is my never neverland, where I don’t ever have to grow up...and we all need friends like that. It keeps us young, and it keeps us sane! She knows me better than I know myself, and for some reason she still wants to be my friend. Wonders never cease!
Beck-lar is my newest “bestest”. I’d known of her for years, but had never socialised with her. When I became single, I suggested (during a random thread on a friend’s facebook status) that we should go out one Friday night. It was the start of a friendship that I will now treasure until I’m old and decrepit, and that’s because Beck-lar brings a whole heap of crazy to the party that I simply couldn’t live without now that I’m accustomed to it. She started out as my pint sized pub buddy, and now if she goes away for more than a weekend I find myself pining for her unusual brand of gaga. She never judges (and she’s seen me do some bad/destructive/down right silly things!). She is also the clumsiest, most forgetful person I know! Beck-lar is the only person I know, who whilst trying her very best to impress her hot neighbour will manage to fall down her front steps or reverse her car up kerbs, and still come up smelling like roses. She’s the only person I know who can misjudge the length of a bench seat and “over-scoot” the edge to find herself on her arse on the floor, and belly laugh at the photos (we all clambered to take whilst she was down) the next day. With her I can indulge my paranoid female psyche and she won’t think I need to be sectioned – mainly because she’s just as barmy! She makes me laugh to the point where I need to pee, and the joy of it is, that she has no idea how funny she really is. My life without Beck-lar would be quiet, boring and ridiculously grown up....there would also be a distinct lack of McDonalds and Malibu in my system.
The Bezzie Boy...he gets me. I’ve known him since I was eleven, and to be fair back then, he was probably one of my first crushes...now, he’s my closest male friend. I love every inch of him, warts and all because he doesn’t pretend to be anything other than what he is. I can be 100% honest with him about anything. He treats me like a princess, even when I behave like a tramp. He’s made me realise that I deserve so much more than the hand I’ve been dealt with. His heart is always in the right place, and yet he always manages to stuff things up for himself. A walking disaster, yet he’s an angel in disguise. He puts so little value on himself, and doesn’t realise how truly special he is. My fear is that one day I’ll lose him and he’ll be the only man to have truly seen me. If you read this bezzie boy, know this...I love you babe...I’m not in love with you (haha) but I do love you! X mwah X
And finally... The Couple...
I wouldn’t usually group friends together like this, because in truth these two people are so different in their personalities it’s untrue...but I have to, because quite frankly, I simply could not live in a world where these two did not exist together as a unit: My married friends. The sister I never had, and the more practical version of the older brother I do have. They have been my saviours during the hardest times I’ve ever had to deal with. I may or may not ever have children of my own, but The Couple have provided me with god children that I love as much as if they were my own. Always supporting, always showing their love and their loyalty. Their morals and principles are unquestionable. Their passion for those they care about, unfaltering. They are the people I want to be like when I grow up...and in times of need they’re always there to provide a cup of tea and a comedy trump (on cue) to make the world seem more bearable. I would not have survived over the last two years if it weren’t for these two amazing individuals. I bloody loves you!
So...these are my friends...and I will probably make frequent references to them in future blogs. They are my life, my soul and my inspiration...they’re also really f**king funny! :o)
Sunday, 16 May 2010
How To Avoid The Overshare
I’m a firm believer in being yourself when it comes to dating and relationships. I’m aware that the rules state, early on in a relationship there is a certain etiquette which prohibits sharing some of your less attractive attributes, (No guy wants to know that before you arrived for your date with him, you spent a good half an hour pumicing the hard skin off your feet, in the unlikely event he may have to touch them at some point during the evening) however I don’t believe that you should change the characteristics and behaviours that make you “You” for the sake of keeping a man interested.
I mean where can it lead, if you can’t relax and be yourself? If you’re too scared to laugh at the waiter who tripped and fell on his face on the way to serve you, for fear of your date thinking you were an evil cow, how would you be able to integrate this sick part of your personality into the relationship later on? Furthermore, why would you want to hide this fundamental part of your make-up from someone that you potentially want to spend more time with? Surely honesty about every aspect of you and your life is the key to a successful relationship?
I have never kept any part of me a secret. The way I see it, you’ve got to know all of me to fall for me, and if, knowing everything, you still see a future with me – well that’s a pretty good foundation to start on. As it is though, I’m in a quandary...I’ve recently started texting a lovely guy, and I can see that we have a lot in common. We appear to have a similar outlook on life, and seem to understand each other’s lifestyles pretty well. I find him attractive and interesting, and he seems to feel the same way about me. So at what point is it safe for me to unleash the bombshell that is...my dirty little secret?
I’ve told him about pretty much everything in my life. He knows that I’m getting divorced, he knows about my crazy family. He’s heard lots about my mental friends and he’s not scared off by the fact I’ve openly admitted to loving the Twilight Saga. He’s aware that I have had a crush on Christopher Dean since I was very young, that if there’s a Karaoke bar within a five mile radius I will “sense” it and partake in drunken singing/wailing. I may even have also admitted that I snore terribly when I’m drunk or have a cold...But there’s one thing that I’ve been keeping from him. Something that all of my friends know about me....A part of my personality that would be impossible for me to hide should anything stimulate it. Something I’m hideously embarrassed about, but also something I have no control over whatsoever.
How do I tell him I find toilet humour funny?
I don’t even mean I find it amusing. I mean I find it laugh out loud, struggle to breathe, hideous piggy snort funny. I’m the kind of girl who, even though she knows she shouldn’t, find’s old people’s uncontrollable flatulence hilarious. The kind of girl who will sit in a card shop giggling like a crazy person at one of the Off The Ceiling greeting cards with the punch line “On feeling the damp sensation in his pants, Pete suddenly realised attempting to fart the Happy Birthday tune wasn’t such a great idea”. The kind of girl who gets more enjoyment from watching her seven year old godson and his father play the “pull my finger” game, than he actually does! Seriously people...It’s just not very ladylike! Now the thing is, when is it safe to admit this? I don’t think it’s something that I could hide should the occasion require me to, and how exactly am I supposed to break this kind of news to him?
Well look, I think you’re really lovely, we have everything in common, we get on like a house on fire, I’m very attracted to you, but can I just check one thing? Do you find trumps funny?
I have to be honest, I’m not great at picking up on social subtleties but even I know that would go down like a crap sandwich.
So what do I do? I thought about trying to suppress that particular part of my sense of humour, but I know me, and it’s unrealistic to assume that I’ll be able to keep that up! I also thought about throwing it straight out there as a “childish and proud” kind of statement, but figured that would just over exaggerate the issue. So finally I’ve settled on not volunteering this information, but trying not to be ashamed of it when I do get caught out. It may not be tomorrow, it may not be for a long while, but there’s no point giving him reasons to not want to get to know me better, right? It’s not being dishonest...It’s being economical with the truth, and in the meantime – well I guess I’ll just have to sit tight and hope that he ends up being as big a kid as I am!
I mean where can it lead, if you can’t relax and be yourself? If you’re too scared to laugh at the waiter who tripped and fell on his face on the way to serve you, for fear of your date thinking you were an evil cow, how would you be able to integrate this sick part of your personality into the relationship later on? Furthermore, why would you want to hide this fundamental part of your make-up from someone that you potentially want to spend more time with? Surely honesty about every aspect of you and your life is the key to a successful relationship?
I have never kept any part of me a secret. The way I see it, you’ve got to know all of me to fall for me, and if, knowing everything, you still see a future with me – well that’s a pretty good foundation to start on. As it is though, I’m in a quandary...I’ve recently started texting a lovely guy, and I can see that we have a lot in common. We appear to have a similar outlook on life, and seem to understand each other’s lifestyles pretty well. I find him attractive and interesting, and he seems to feel the same way about me. So at what point is it safe for me to unleash the bombshell that is...my dirty little secret?
I’ve told him about pretty much everything in my life. He knows that I’m getting divorced, he knows about my crazy family. He’s heard lots about my mental friends and he’s not scared off by the fact I’ve openly admitted to loving the Twilight Saga. He’s aware that I have had a crush on Christopher Dean since I was very young, that if there’s a Karaoke bar within a five mile radius I will “sense” it and partake in drunken singing/wailing. I may even have also admitted that I snore terribly when I’m drunk or have a cold...But there’s one thing that I’ve been keeping from him. Something that all of my friends know about me....A part of my personality that would be impossible for me to hide should anything stimulate it. Something I’m hideously embarrassed about, but also something I have no control over whatsoever.
How do I tell him I find toilet humour funny?
I don’t even mean I find it amusing. I mean I find it laugh out loud, struggle to breathe, hideous piggy snort funny. I’m the kind of girl who, even though she knows she shouldn’t, find’s old people’s uncontrollable flatulence hilarious. The kind of girl who will sit in a card shop giggling like a crazy person at one of the Off The Ceiling greeting cards with the punch line “On feeling the damp sensation in his pants, Pete suddenly realised attempting to fart the Happy Birthday tune wasn’t such a great idea”. The kind of girl who gets more enjoyment from watching her seven year old godson and his father play the “pull my finger” game, than he actually does! Seriously people...It’s just not very ladylike! Now the thing is, when is it safe to admit this? I don’t think it’s something that I could hide should the occasion require me to, and how exactly am I supposed to break this kind of news to him?
Well look, I think you’re really lovely, we have everything in common, we get on like a house on fire, I’m very attracted to you, but can I just check one thing? Do you find trumps funny?
I have to be honest, I’m not great at picking up on social subtleties but even I know that would go down like a crap sandwich.
So what do I do? I thought about trying to suppress that particular part of my sense of humour, but I know me, and it’s unrealistic to assume that I’ll be able to keep that up! I also thought about throwing it straight out there as a “childish and proud” kind of statement, but figured that would just over exaggerate the issue. So finally I’ve settled on not volunteering this information, but trying not to be ashamed of it when I do get caught out. It may not be tomorrow, it may not be for a long while, but there’s no point giving him reasons to not want to get to know me better, right? It’s not being dishonest...It’s being economical with the truth, and in the meantime – well I guess I’ll just have to sit tight and hope that he ends up being as big a kid as I am!
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