Now, without meaning to sound arrogant, I've never really been bad at anything. That said, I've never been the best at anything. When I was younger, my sister and I used to go swimming before school and were back in the pool, after school. My parents had to make a decision about whether they were going to push us both at this, or whether they were going to encourage us to be more rounded and do some other stuff. Turned out they didn't think it was healthy to make us so focused on one thing from an early age and so enrolled us in brownies and took us to horse riding lessons. Hurrah! I'm quite glad actually; I didn't want to turn out like one of these brats you see on TV, super competitive whose world ends when they go to secondary school and find out they're only mediocre.
I was also bright. Not like 'Oh, my God Mark, we need to enrol our daughter in to Mensa' but I was always in the top 5 of my class and this carried through to secondary school. Never played netball before? No problem, be captain of our team. Never spoken French before? Well, do you GCSE a year early and yes, I got an A. I think this pissed off my sister as she had to work so hard to get good marks and be in some of the teams at school, I rock up with my dodgy bob and am the talk of the town (well, the PE department. It was like any other school- you're only important if the PE teachers say you are). I got all As (well, a B in Maths) in my exams and was faced with the prospect of picking a subject to do at uni. It wasn't presented as an option at my school that you could do anything but go to university. It was pitched to you like 'You will not get a good job if you don't go to university' and I totally bought it- we all did.
However, you have to have a good idea of what you wanted to do/ what you wanted to be career wise to pick something to waste three years on at uni. Not all of us can be like Mr Pink- do five years of a medical course only to decide he wanted to be a philosophy and ethics teacher. His twenties must have been one long stream of library fines. Trouble was - I had no idea what I wanted to do.
When I was in year two, I remember writing down that I wanted to be a nurse. I drew a picture and everything such was my dedication to the cause. I think all young girls want to be nurses; something about mothering someone and looking after those that need your special care. That's why my first love was Edward Scissorhands. It's the second film I ever watched and I completely fell in love with him- I think I just wanted to look after him. Give the poor bugger something to eat he was so bloody pale. So I wanted to be a nurse until I was nine when I announced that I was saving up for law school as I was going to be a lawyer. I think around this time I watched some shit American film about a girl who becomes a lawyer and 'Oooh, isn't law skewl so great!' But it stuck with me until I was eighteen when I needed to decide what I actually wanted to do.
Does anyone know what they want to do when they're eighteen? Look at Britney. She wanted to be a superstar when she was eighteen. She got just that and ended up bald by twenty six. What stupid person keeps alive the notion that you have to pick what you want to do with the rest of your life when you're eighteen? There was a brief time I wanted to work in a petrol station because the smell is so addictive (in a non-solvent abuse kind of way) but that doesn't mean being a petrol station attendant or whatever they are is a viable career path.
I've never been that bad at anything so really, I can be/ do whatever the hell I want. So who has made me feel like I made my bed when I was eighteen and I need to lie in it until retirement?
Monday, 30 April 2012
The Secret of Staying Alive Without Food, Water or Exercise
So the other day, after a long day at 'the other office' 100 miles from where I live, I had a call from my Mum asking me to pick up some stuff on the way home. The essentials- eggs, chocolate cake and Vogue.
It's a sunny day, I'm feeling optimistic after successfully navigating myself half way across the country (with the help of my sat nav), getting to grips with the new contract I'm going to be handling at work and convincing some techies that I know what they're on about when they say things like 'circuit breaker', 'dual board' and 'acoustic sensoring system' at me. Confidently strut into the supermarche, laptop bag swung over my head, imagining that everyone is looking at me thinking 'Oooh, look at that successful young lady.' I automatically go to get the cake and the magazine because these are first priority aisles when I go shopping. I couldn't find the eggs- you'd think they would be in the diary section or by the milk, bread perhaps?
I did three laps of this supermarche. Took me about fifteen minutes when all of a sudden a feel a bit draughty. I put my arm down to smooth my dress in a nonchalant kind of way when lo and behold, my dress has been well and truly tucked into my knickers for the entire duration of my shopping experience. Why did nobody tell me? I was wearing fuchsia knickers- it can't be like nobody noticed. Three laps!
I was at the cinema once and had a lady come up to me. First reaction was ' What do you want, blondie?' She then ever so kindly pointed out to me that I had a sanitary towel cover stuck to my jeans. Brilliant. I was twelve at the time and so that experience set me up nicely for the rest of my embarrassment-fuelled life. I'm an old hand now.
I'm reading The Secret at the moment- I say reading but really it's so shit I'm just skimming it for inspirational quotes filled with the desperate notion that there might actually be a great Secret to happiness that I don't know about. But now I think that everyone has their own tailor made Secret. Mine is that my body doesn't want of such corporal needs as food and water. It doesn't need it's five-a-day or regular exercise. No. My body runs purely off embarrassment. The universe is sending embarrassing situations my way, literally feeding them to me and thus keeping me alive (barely).
I know this because when I'm embarrassed I'm never hungry. In fact, I often feel like I've eaten too much and am going to be sick. Secondly, my mouth fills with saliva therefore I don't need water- my body's making excess of it. Thirdly, and I think most crucially, I go so red I put Sir Alex Ferguson's nose to shame. This, ladies and gentle people, demonstrates that my body's circulation of blood is excellent meaning I need no additional exercise- bar the occasional running out of a supermarket in shame. How else would blood travel to my head that quickly?
It's a sunny day, I'm feeling optimistic after successfully navigating myself half way across the country (with the help of my sat nav), getting to grips with the new contract I'm going to be handling at work and convincing some techies that I know what they're on about when they say things like 'circuit breaker', 'dual board' and 'acoustic sensoring system' at me. Confidently strut into the supermarche, laptop bag swung over my head, imagining that everyone is looking at me thinking 'Oooh, look at that successful young lady.' I automatically go to get the cake and the magazine because these are first priority aisles when I go shopping. I couldn't find the eggs- you'd think they would be in the diary section or by the milk, bread perhaps?
I did three laps of this supermarche. Took me about fifteen minutes when all of a sudden a feel a bit draughty. I put my arm down to smooth my dress in a nonchalant kind of way when lo and behold, my dress has been well and truly tucked into my knickers for the entire duration of my shopping experience. Why did nobody tell me? I was wearing fuchsia knickers- it can't be like nobody noticed. Three laps!
I was at the cinema once and had a lady come up to me. First reaction was ' What do you want, blondie?' She then ever so kindly pointed out to me that I had a sanitary towel cover stuck to my jeans. Brilliant. I was twelve at the time and so that experience set me up nicely for the rest of my embarrassment-fuelled life. I'm an old hand now.
I'm reading The Secret at the moment- I say reading but really it's so shit I'm just skimming it for inspirational quotes filled with the desperate notion that there might actually be a great Secret to happiness that I don't know about. But now I think that everyone has their own tailor made Secret. Mine is that my body doesn't want of such corporal needs as food and water. It doesn't need it's five-a-day or regular exercise. No. My body runs purely off embarrassment. The universe is sending embarrassing situations my way, literally feeding them to me and thus keeping me alive (barely).
I know this because when I'm embarrassed I'm never hungry. In fact, I often feel like I've eaten too much and am going to be sick. Secondly, my mouth fills with saliva therefore I don't need water- my body's making excess of it. Thirdly, and I think most crucially, I go so red I put Sir Alex Ferguson's nose to shame. This, ladies and gentle people, demonstrates that my body's circulation of blood is excellent meaning I need no additional exercise- bar the occasional running out of a supermarket in shame. How else would blood travel to my head that quickly?
Sunday, 15 April 2012
Squeezing The Life
There are several things that are very wrong with my life;
1) Every single one of my friends are complete flakes- and not the good, chocolate kind; the itchy, annoying dandruff kind (see footnote 1)
2) I have just spent £110.95 on buying 5 tickets to an awesome night out for my friends who are doing stuff with other people (see footnote 2)
3) My life's work of avoiding relationships with men because I consider them generally crap (see footnote 3) has risen to the suspicion within my family that I am, in fact, a lesbian
4) The haircut/ colour I recently spent £160 on does in fairness make me look like a lesbian circa. 1993 (see footnote 4)
5) My hair is falling out, I've been losing weight, I have chronic lethargy, I have a colloid cyst on my thyroid and a tumour in my pituitary gland but a random neurologist has told me that his "hunch" is that I have depression. He skimmed a prescription for anti-depressants across the desk at me and asked me to leave otherwise "we will be here all night" (see footnote five)
6) Radio Julie at work told Radio Kaye that I have a brain tumour who asked me if it will affect me having kids. I don't know, love, does being at work for 12 hours a day whilst still achieving nothing affect your ability to raise yours? (see footnote 6)
7) I hit my boss in the head with my laptop bag in a meeting with most of the SMT (see footnote 7)
8) I did 3 laps of Tesco with my dress tucked into my knickers; they were fuchsia (see footnote 8)
9) All of the above has happened in a 2 and a half month period (see footnote 9)
10) I am only 23 (see footnote 116....gotcha!)
All of the above has contributed to me sitting back and looking very closely at my life (or lack of it as I think you have now gathered). The life has literally been squeezed out of me recently to the point where, yes Dr Rees, I do feel empty but that does not mean you should prescribe anti- depressants willy nilly whilst shuffling girls out of your office. Honestly, any other girl may have taken matters into her own hands and let herself waste away and eventually be nibbled at by her shitzu-poodle cross breed (she-poo-poo), Lola. However, there is one truth universally acknowledged (well, if South West Herts is your universe) that has kept me holding on and reminds me that it could be worse- I am not ugly.
Footnote 1- Here's a little example; everyone's moaning about how they don't have any money to do anything so some genius (moi) elects to pick everyone up in my car (a round trip of about 250 miles- sans petrol money) and drive them to a picnic surprise on the Jurassic Coast. Come the day and Friend Three has a virus (take a Sudafed, love) and Friend Four has period pains. Period pains? PERIOD PAINS! Are you shitting me??? Get a hot water bottle, some chocolate and remind yourself that you've been dealing with this once a month for the past decade. What's that? You're on the central line on your way to see your boyfriend on the other side of London so he can look after you? Right.
Footnote 2- We've been trying to book tickets to this particular event in town for about 5 months now but the tickets sell out really quickly and we keep missing them. Come the day when tickets for the next event are available, I go online and buy 5 for me and Friends One through Four. I excitedly go on Facebook to tell them not to panic, I have secured 5 tickets for us all for what promises to be the best night out in years. But of course, Friend One is going away with her boyfriend, Friend Three is going away with her other friends, Friend Four is on her period and Friend Two will be drunk on Disaronno before we depart and have to sleep it off in Holloway.
Footnote 3- There are a few reasons I don't want a boyfriend, all of which can be summed up by the completely normal horror stories my friends nonchalantly tell me about over burgers in Frankie and Benny's. The boyfriend of a Friend One announced he's moving to Australia in 2 months but don't worry, there's no need to visit as his friend's will be going out to see him. The (ex) boyfriend of Friend Two cheated on her after 4 years. The (almost) boyfriend of Friend Three decided that actually, he still has feelings for the ex who cheated on him so can't start the relationship with her that's been threatening like rain for 3 years. The boyfriend of Friend 4 does not go McDonald's and can therefore not be trusted/liked. Wise as I am and having my head attached with industrial sized Franken-screws, I've come the the decision I don't want to settle for the first man who feigns interest in a shabby night club. However, my family do not recognise the superior intelligence of myself to other girls and so ensued the following conversation with my Nan;
Nan: "Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah (pause) Do you have a boyfriend, Lou?"
Me: "What?"
Nan: "Or, you know, girlfriend, whatever you're into."
Me: "What?"
Nan: "Well, you know, anything goes these days."
Me: "Nan, you know I'm not a lesbian don't you?"
Nan: "Oh, yes, love, yeah. Well you know, it wouldn't matter if you were."
Footnote 4- I've always preferred short hair. As far as I'm concerned, long hair is for ugly girls that need something to distract away from their face (see the plastics at school- we all had them). Anyway, Audrey Hepburn had really short hair, Marilyn Monroe had short hair but my hairdresser has cut it quite alarmingly short with a longer bit at the front. Fine on some people but I have a bit of a moon face. Imagine Kate Winslet with man cut hair and a long bit at the front. Now dye it bright red. Exactly. Textbook lesbian circa 1993.
Footnote 5- This diagnosis was based on a 15 meeting introductory meeting with a very tiny man who had very large nostril hairs and insisted on shoving them right in my face when he examined my eyes. Imagine what this fool would have found if I stayed there my allotted 45 minutes?
Footnote 6- Radio Julie and Radio Kaye are Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dumber. Typical suburban office women who moan about their vast workloads but don't do anything to try and alleviate it on themselves and physically bristle when you suggest they do something about it. Get on the wrong side of them and they'll probably talk about the mistake you made across the office so everyone can hear and someone later comes over to ask you if you are OK. Oh, wait. That's already happened. Twice.
Footnote 7- It wasn't even a short knock in the head. I tried to squeeze in between him and the wall with a cup of tea, a pen, my laptop, my note bad, my lunch bag (kill me now) in my arms and the laptop bag I had swung over my shoulder made contact with the left side of his head as he tried to shuffle in. It then circumnavigated his bald head until finally it slapped back against my thigh. I imagine people looking at me with open mouth syndrome but I didn't wait to check. I quickly saw his red, grinning (or grimacing?) face and made for the door. Which I walked into.
Footnote 8- Why did nobody let me know they could see my pink knickers? I was looking for eggs as well which somehow makes it a bit worse.
Footnote 9- I think I'm in a state of shock. I'm like Lindsey Lohan in that film about luck. I'm quarter Irish though and for what? Not the luck of the bloody Irish I assure you.
Footnote 10- See footnote 116.
Footnote 116- There's a girl at the office who is my age. The other day she was stressed about the fact a dress she ordered online had not turned up. That's what girls my age are worrying about.
1) Every single one of my friends are complete flakes- and not the good, chocolate kind; the itchy, annoying dandruff kind (see footnote 1)
2) I have just spent £110.95 on buying 5 tickets to an awesome night out for my friends who are doing stuff with other people (see footnote 2)
3) My life's work of avoiding relationships with men because I consider them generally crap (see footnote 3) has risen to the suspicion within my family that I am, in fact, a lesbian
4) The haircut/ colour I recently spent £160 on does in fairness make me look like a lesbian circa. 1993 (see footnote 4)
5) My hair is falling out, I've been losing weight, I have chronic lethargy, I have a colloid cyst on my thyroid and a tumour in my pituitary gland but a random neurologist has told me that his "hunch" is that I have depression. He skimmed a prescription for anti-depressants across the desk at me and asked me to leave otherwise "we will be here all night" (see footnote five)
6) Radio Julie at work told Radio Kaye that I have a brain tumour who asked me if it will affect me having kids. I don't know, love, does being at work for 12 hours a day whilst still achieving nothing affect your ability to raise yours? (see footnote 6)
7) I hit my boss in the head with my laptop bag in a meeting with most of the SMT (see footnote 7)
8) I did 3 laps of Tesco with my dress tucked into my knickers; they were fuchsia (see footnote 8)
9) All of the above has happened in a 2 and a half month period (see footnote 9)
10) I am only 23 (see footnote 116....gotcha!)
All of the above has contributed to me sitting back and looking very closely at my life (or lack of it as I think you have now gathered). The life has literally been squeezed out of me recently to the point where, yes Dr Rees, I do feel empty but that does not mean you should prescribe anti- depressants willy nilly whilst shuffling girls out of your office. Honestly, any other girl may have taken matters into her own hands and let herself waste away and eventually be nibbled at by her shitzu-poodle cross breed (she-poo-poo), Lola. However, there is one truth universally acknowledged (well, if South West Herts is your universe) that has kept me holding on and reminds me that it could be worse- I am not ugly.
Footnote 1- Here's a little example; everyone's moaning about how they don't have any money to do anything so some genius (moi) elects to pick everyone up in my car (a round trip of about 250 miles- sans petrol money) and drive them to a picnic surprise on the Jurassic Coast. Come the day and Friend Three has a virus (take a Sudafed, love) and Friend Four has period pains. Period pains? PERIOD PAINS! Are you shitting me??? Get a hot water bottle, some chocolate and remind yourself that you've been dealing with this once a month for the past decade. What's that? You're on the central line on your way to see your boyfriend on the other side of London so he can look after you? Right.
Footnote 2- We've been trying to book tickets to this particular event in town for about 5 months now but the tickets sell out really quickly and we keep missing them. Come the day when tickets for the next event are available, I go online and buy 5 for me and Friends One through Four. I excitedly go on Facebook to tell them not to panic, I have secured 5 tickets for us all for what promises to be the best night out in years. But of course, Friend One is going away with her boyfriend, Friend Three is going away with her other friends, Friend Four is on her period and Friend Two will be drunk on Disaronno before we depart and have to sleep it off in Holloway.
Footnote 3- There are a few reasons I don't want a boyfriend, all of which can be summed up by the completely normal horror stories my friends nonchalantly tell me about over burgers in Frankie and Benny's. The boyfriend of a Friend One announced he's moving to Australia in 2 months but don't worry, there's no need to visit as his friend's will be going out to see him. The (ex) boyfriend of Friend Two cheated on her after 4 years. The (almost) boyfriend of Friend Three decided that actually, he still has feelings for the ex who cheated on him so can't start the relationship with her that's been threatening like rain for 3 years. The boyfriend of Friend 4 does not go McDonald's and can therefore not be trusted/liked. Wise as I am and having my head attached with industrial sized Franken-screws, I've come the the decision I don't want to settle for the first man who feigns interest in a shabby night club. However, my family do not recognise the superior intelligence of myself to other girls and so ensued the following conversation with my Nan;
Nan: "Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah (pause) Do you have a boyfriend, Lou?"
Me: "What?"
Nan: "Or, you know, girlfriend, whatever you're into."
Me: "What?"
Nan: "Well, you know, anything goes these days."
Me: "Nan, you know I'm not a lesbian don't you?"
Nan: "Oh, yes, love, yeah. Well you know, it wouldn't matter if you were."
Footnote 4- I've always preferred short hair. As far as I'm concerned, long hair is for ugly girls that need something to distract away from their face (see the plastics at school- we all had them). Anyway, Audrey Hepburn had really short hair, Marilyn Monroe had short hair but my hairdresser has cut it quite alarmingly short with a longer bit at the front. Fine on some people but I have a bit of a moon face. Imagine Kate Winslet with man cut hair and a long bit at the front. Now dye it bright red. Exactly. Textbook lesbian circa 1993.
Footnote 5- This diagnosis was based on a 15 meeting introductory meeting with a very tiny man who had very large nostril hairs and insisted on shoving them right in my face when he examined my eyes. Imagine what this fool would have found if I stayed there my allotted 45 minutes?
Footnote 6- Radio Julie and Radio Kaye are Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dumber. Typical suburban office women who moan about their vast workloads but don't do anything to try and alleviate it on themselves and physically bristle when you suggest they do something about it. Get on the wrong side of them and they'll probably talk about the mistake you made across the office so everyone can hear and someone later comes over to ask you if you are OK. Oh, wait. That's already happened. Twice.
Footnote 7- It wasn't even a short knock in the head. I tried to squeeze in between him and the wall with a cup of tea, a pen, my laptop, my note bad, my lunch bag (kill me now) in my arms and the laptop bag I had swung over my shoulder made contact with the left side of his head as he tried to shuffle in. It then circumnavigated his bald head until finally it slapped back against my thigh. I imagine people looking at me with open mouth syndrome but I didn't wait to check. I quickly saw his red, grinning (or grimacing?) face and made for the door. Which I walked into.
Footnote 8- Why did nobody let me know they could see my pink knickers? I was looking for eggs as well which somehow makes it a bit worse.
Footnote 9- I think I'm in a state of shock. I'm like Lindsey Lohan in that film about luck. I'm quarter Irish though and for what? Not the luck of the bloody Irish I assure you.
Footnote 10- See footnote 116.
Footnote 116- There's a girl at the office who is my age. The other day she was stressed about the fact a dress she ordered online had not turned up. That's what girls my age are worrying about.
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