An original poem about annoying people.
A written piece – about a job interview gone wrong.
A written piece – about the loathsome act of travelling through London during rush hour.
I’ve always been a bit on the fence about whether having a big pair is a blessing or a curse, so here I shall weigh up the two buoyant arguments and try to finally come to a decision. (This is that serious stuff!)
1. You can balance your cereal bowl on them when sleepily eating breakfast
Not just breakfast either, they’re pretty good for any kind of lazy eating when you’re not sat to a table but your lap feels a bit too far away. Tit table also helps eliminate food stains down your top because the bowl is so close to your chin, you can catch any spillage and eat it right up! It’s a winner.
2. The bigger the boobs, the smaller your tummy looks
When your rack sticks out really far, your clothes totally hang from them, like a ledge, allowing any belly rolls to hide under the overhang. Sweet. It doesn’t work with slim fitting tops, but if you have belly rolls that need hiding, you don’t have slim fitting tops.
4. They’re great for baby naps
Got a crying baby that just won’t get off to sleep? No bother, hand the kid over. The little munchkins just love a big pair. Think of it this way, would you rather take a nap on a small hard wooden chair, or a big cushiony soft one?
3. You can (kind of) hold things with them
Imagine the scene – you’re in the shower, you don’t have a handy caddy or shelf to put things on so you keep dropping stuff and it’s really annoying. Well, never fear, big boobed friends, you can totally hold stuff with your milk pouches. Without going into too much detail on this one, just think of when you carry, say, a newspaper under your arm. (Hehee!)
5. Sometimes you get to know what it’s like to be flat chested…
..when you lie on your back with no bra and your boobs slink down to your arm pits. That’s kinda funny, right?!
6. Men like them
1. Men like them
2. They spill drinks
If I had a pound for every time I’ve reached across a table for the salt and my boob has slapped a drink on its side, I’d have a few extra quid in my pocket right now.
3. “Accidental” boob brush is annoyingggg!
I know sometimes it actually is an accident, but don’t be fooled into thinking that we don’t know when it’s being done on purpose. Just this morning, for example, while getting off the bus, the man in front of me was taking his sweet time, holding onto the rail for longer than is necessary as I’m herded ever closer to him by the people behind and, oops, he “accidentally” handles my titty as he finally lets go and gets off the bus. You could have let go AGES ago, guy. Leave my tit out of it! Dick.
4. Having to buy bigger dress sizes
Clothes shopping for the non-skinny, which, these days, means anyone over a size 12, can sometimes be pretty painful. I appreciate that the clothes have to be displayed in some kind of order, but why do us big girls have to dig all up in the back of the rack? We’re already bashful shoppers, why you gotta put us through all that burrowing, looking like we’ve just spotted a sandwich back there? Once you’ve battled the gauntlet of shame and are lucky enough to actually find the right size, it’s a real pain in the ass when everything fits perfectly apart from your boobs popping buttons off or stretching the thing see-through. Humph.
5. Finding well fitting bras
Is there such a thing? You can try on the exact same bra size, but in different designs and go from tits under your chin to tucking them into your jeans or too much cleavage to a valley between them wide enough to rival Napa – it’s no joke! And for those bashful women among us, a “minimiser” bra does not minimise, it flattens and spreads. What is a girl to do?
I don’t know.
These are currently my biggest boob gripes, so it seems that the blessings outweigh the curses and I really should be grateful for what I’ve got. Should be.
I can’t help but feel that I will forever be at odds with my big old stupid jugs.
Something has always bothered me about the concept of networking. I understand it, I accept its value, but I’m shit at it and so I hate it, which bothers me. The industry in which I currently work calls for a lot of networking so, unfortunately for me, they kinda press the importance of it by inducting new starters with a series of forced networking scenarios – or what I like to call Fresh Hell Scenarios! In principle, I should be good at networking. I like talking, I like meeting new people, I’m a good listener, but add in that extra element of networking and bad things will happen. Every single time. It’s one of those things in life you can always rely on.
I was recently told that I had to go out of town for two long days of FHS!, so you can imagine my trepidation at this news. I won’t take you through a blow-by-blow of my 48 hour faux pas, but I will try to give some advice based upon my learnings.
If you have nothing socially acceptable to add during small talk with relative strangers/colleagues, just offer an acknowledgement of the topic and give a gesture of interest. For example, if, during a conversation over lunch, one of said colleagues tells a humorous tale about tackling a 2lb meatball sub sandwich, either of the following could be deemed as an acceptable response.
“How interesting, I didn’t know you could get 2lb meatball sub sandwiches.”
“A 2lb meatball sub sandwich, you say? Sounds impressive.”
If you don’t know how much 2lbs is, just ask! When you have your answer, revert back to the above examples. DO NOT, however, try to figure it out, out loud, by going to that weird place in your mind that you know totally freaks people out.
My response: “2lb? What’s that equivalent to, a baby’s leg? I just mean, if it’s a chubby newborn, a leg would be about 2lb give or take. Yeah, that is pretty big. I couldn’t imagine trying to eat a chubby baby’s leg in a sandwich.” … … Tumbleweed. A bit more tumbleweed. Awkward coughing. More tumbleweed.
I mean, I know why I thought it – because I only know pounds and ounces based on newborn baby weights. I don’t bake, so it makes perfect sense, but there is no sense in saying that shit out loud. Keep that weird place for close family and friends, seriously. Silence ensued and I was, at least, granted the gift of solitude for the first chunk of the afternoon. Silver lining!
I am strongly of the opinion that remaining inconspicuous during FHS! is an excellent idea. Lay low, stay out of the focus of enthusiastic facilitators, avoid eye contact with over-keen loners scanning the room for their kind and keep yourself to the periphery at all times. That way you can cruise through as painlessly as is possible. You’ll still have to take part, but do it right and your participation can be kept to a polite minimum. Do not, however, force yourself to the periphery of an over-crowded lift, full of both enthusiastic inductees and high level executives, so far that your own ass accidentally presses the emergency alarm button and triggers off a loud message over the lift’s PA. I WOULDN’T RECOMMEND IT! If anyone else told me they had done this, I’d be all, “whatever, nobody’s butt can press buttons without them knowing it.” BUTT, I guess, sometimes they can and now we all know. Urrrgh!
If you find that more relaxed and social environments help you to break the ice and ditch the awkwardness, then going for drinks with new colleagues is a great idea. I highly recommend it. There’s almost always some kind of social networking – not twatting about online (no judgement, I do it too), but actual networking socially face-to-face – after FHS! so be sure to find out where it’s taking place. If no one informs you of any such event, just ask. If you ask and no one invites you along with them, hell, just invite yourself – we’re all in this shit together, right. If you then invite yourself to tag along with the group of people that you’ve been sat with all afternoon – not the ones from lunch, as they won’t look you in the eye anymore, but a new group – because you don’t know where the pub is and they say, “yeah, sure, we’ll meet you by the lift, “ and you say, “great, I’m just going to get my coat,” but then you get your coat and go to the lift, even though you had a bad experience earlier and would much rather take the stairs, and 10 minutes pass by and nobody shows up and you realise they’ve probably gone to the pub without you…GIVE UP. Just give it up, girl. Don’t nobody wanna go drinking with the baby leg sandwich eater whose ass can press buttons by itself. Go on back to your hotel room and think about what you’ve done. There’s no point kissing your teeth at the other losers left behind either. Don’t get mad, get reflective.
Cultural Awareness Tip
Just a quick word to the wise, for anyone like me who still wasn’t quite sure: EVERYONE knows what it means when you kiss your teeth at them. It is not a little “in” joke anymore. Not one person is fooled when you try to style it out like you just had something stuck in your teeth. (Damn it.)
Learning As You Go
If you get stuck feeling like a fish out of water and you can’t go swimming home to the comfort of those who understand your “qualities” and like you in spite of them, then – all joking aside now – you just have to pick yourself up, take a few deep breaths (but not too many) and find your way through it. If people think you’re weird, fuck ‘em, maybe they’re weird! I struggle with these situations because I have low self-esteem. What I’ve come to learn is, a ton of the coolest people I’ve ever met also battle with low self-esteem, so I just remember how awesome they are in my eyes and get on with what I’ve got to do. It’s great to have funny stories to tell and everything, but it’s true that it doesn’t always feel that funny. So, advice from someone who’s spent a lifetime being a tiny bit too odd to be cool, just remember that things are never truly as bad as they seem at the time. You’ll totally laugh about it later, or at least learn from it, so do like me and just suck in your tummy and strut – fuck ‘em.
When you’ve spent as much of your life being single as I have, your head gets filled with all kinds of romantic notions about how much better everything could be, if only you met the love of your life to share it all with! And, you know, those of us who think like that, we can’t be blamed entirely for such thoughts. People falling in and out of love are pretty relentless at times! Like a brick to the face! “EAT IT, LOSER, LOVE IS SO AWESOME! YOU MIGHT AS WELL BE DEAD IF YOU’VE NEVER LOVED! OH, YASSS!” Songs, films, books, poems, cartoons, TV, comics… It’s like, “shut up for one minute, will you! If you’re that in love, go enjoy being in love and shut the fuck up about it. Nobody likes a braggart!” At times I’d have preferred the brick in the face, to be honest. At least a brick isn’t smug! (Imagine a smug brick – what would that be like?)
Besides, it’s not like I didn’t love things! I’ve always loved food a lot. And drink too, don’t forget drink. Not soft drinks though, of course. And obviously I love people too – my family and friends. (I can’t tell people that I love themmmmmm, even if I do.) But then, no matter how against the romantic schmaltz I’d get, I couldn’t help getting sucked in and thinking, yeah, maybe things really would be better if I met the love of my life. “Love of my life” – what a shit pile of pressure that is as well, I might add. It’s not enough to love someone, they have to be the love of your LIFE. Your whole life! What if your life changes, their life changes – fuck change, love’s gotta be for LIFE…life…li…
So I went looking for stupid love. Yeah, I wanted to know what everyone was banging on about, I did. Now, I don’t know if it’s Nig**z fo’ Life, Thug Lyf, Love of my LIFE territory (and he would say the same), but I have found someone I’ve been rather fond of for the last two years (and he would say the same.) And, yeah, it is pretty nice an’ all, but nobody told me nothin’ about all that other shit that comes along with it!
Here is where you can call me a fool, but all those lovey status updates, holding your cameras really high to take photos of yourselves, checking in to really cool places…I believe that hype! So I’m all, “hmm, that is not what this shit is like for me.” (Although, on occasion, we’d take photos of ourselves from really low angles to see how ugly we could look.) Nobody warned me that having someone around you so often would lead to them picking up on ALL those stupid little things that you do that nobody’s ever been around you long enough to notice before!
Apparently, I REALLY like small versions of big things and big versions of small things. “I mean, I kinda do, but I wouldn’t say I REALLY do. I do as much as anyone else…” I’d say while handing him a lighter as big as his head to light his tiny roll-up. Hmmph. OK, so I have an A4 pack of cards, a miniature Austrian house, some tiny architecture figurines, a massive pencil (just in case I have to fill out a massive cheque), every Christmas cracker miniature screw driver set I’ve ever had, every Christmas cracker miniature pack of cards I’ve ever had, plus a few other bits and pieces, but I still wouldn’t say I REALLY like that stuff! Christmas is to blame for a lot of that shit anyway. The architecture figurines are just so damn cute, who doesn’t like those little guys? You can have tiny little versions of real life places with tiny little people! Come on, that’s cute!
The observations don’t stop there either. The most notable one that comes to mind, which I think says a lot more about him than me, is “the way you squeeze your thumbs for comfort is a lot like the way Vladimir Putin does.” WHAT?? Why does he know about Putin’s thumbs?? And I don’t do that! Do I? He thinks that hipsters don’t annoy me as much as they should because I think everyone with a beard looks like a human teddy bear. Yeah, I call him Mr Bear and, yeah, one of my best mates looks a lot like Teddy Ruxpin, but that doesn’t mean I think eeeeeveryone is a teddy. Stoopid. I’ve tried really hard to notice some mad shit about him too, but I guess I kinda think everything is “normal”.
It’s a funny old ride, this coupledom, I’ll give you that. But I still think your love songs are smug and stupid! Maybe I’LL write a song about that! With a MASSIVE teddy bear in the video. EAT THAT, LOSER!
Update: We broke up. I still don’t understand love. I now have a window ledge full of tiny furniture.
For a long time, I’ve had this nagging feeling that I’d really like to be a better person. An obvious reaction to this would be, “well, be one then, you fool,” but I mean more in a context of actively doing things to make a difference in other people’s lives. It’s not an uncommon feeling and there are a lot of reasons why people want to give back to society. For me, I guess it comes from the fact that I had a few problems when I was a child, and I’ve always felt kind of guilty about not making the most out of a second chance. So, over the years, I’ve tried to at least be the person that always has time for others and always makes an effort with “outsiders.” Doing so has helped me, in a small way, to feel like I’m doing something good. That is until…
..the inevitable moment hits me, like a slap in the face, when I realise exactly WHY some people are outsiders – they’re annoyinnnng! I try my utmost to be nice, while inside I’m screaming “pleeeease, just stop that shit, I can’t take it,” and it actually starts to feel unfair, like I’m this poor victim, and I question what bad thing I did to deserve this. Then I have to start phasing this person out, right. “I’ve got a lot of commitments.” “No, I don’t need any help with my commitments.” “I know you honestly don’t mind, but I really don’t need any help…” because I totally made up all of my commitments!! Next I’ll say I lost my phone, until they stand right in front of me and call it and it rings (shit). Things get progressively awkward, I’m scared to go out alone, I think about moving house… Basically, it’s REALLY HARD to just go around being good off my own back! I get it wrong. So I figured I needed more structure and context. Something like volunteering!
Working your way through pages of volunteer opportunities should make you feel proud to be getting involved. It SHOULD make you feel proud, unless you’re a teeny bit of a dick, like me, and the more pages you scroll through without finding anything you’d actually be willing to do, the more you start to feel like you might be a little bit rotten inside. It’s not that I wouldn’t volunteer for a homeless charity, it’s just that I have a delicate sense of smell and I wouldn’t want to be rude. It’s not that I don’t like animals, it’s just that the little fluffy bunny might look cute now, but when its wild instincts come raging out and it bites off my face, then what good will I be to charity?
Eventually, I redeemed myself and found the perfect place! It may seem doomy and gloomy, but that’s a wide misconception of hospices. The hospice is all about enabling people to live their lives as fully as possible for as long as possible. It’s actually a really upbeat and loving place. There is, of course, the possibility that I could fuck it right up and, like, literally annoy someone to death!! But I think I’ll be alright…(gulp!) After a two-day induction, I was tasked with my first role as a volunteer – to man the linen stand at the quarterly hospice jumble sale. “How quaint,” I thought. WRONG!
Pulling up to the hospice on the bus, I look out the window and think to myself, “huh, look at all those people lining up there with suitcases, I wonder if it’s some kind of epidemic or something?” I make my way inside and locate my linen stall, only to find that another SIX people are working with me at this solitary table. “Hmm,” I thought, “maybe they’re all just really shit at volunteering around here.” I get on with folding up towels, as dear old Eve has instructed me to do and then I ask, “Oh, by the way, do we have any carrier bags?” Dear old Eve roots around under the table, “yes, dear,” and hands me a roll of bin bags. BIN BAGS? Big old, industrial size, bin bags! What the shit is about to happen up in here?
When I say it was carnage, I am massively understating the craziness of this jumble! At its busiest, the linen table was five deep with arms and hands coming from everywhere and nowhere grabbing up towels and dashing them back, people fighting each other for the last purple pillow case, haggling the life out of a 20p shower curtain. It was nuts. It was relentless. People got loud, I got louder. People gave me lip, I gave them lip right back! I LOVED IT! It was like an adrenalin ride. “No, love, you can’t have that unopened John Lewis double duvet set for 2p!” It was both ridiculous and a lot of fun. I mean, you’ll always get chancers at these types of things, so much so they had community police officers walking around, but there were also some really lovely people coming by. The other volunteers were a bunch of characters too. Where else would I have a conversation with an 80-year-old woman about her “friend with benefits”!! (How I’d hoped she was talking about state benefits. She wasn’t.)
I ended my shift feeling exhausted, stinking of old rag, with a new handbag that cost 50p, and a surprisingly large amount of cash for the hospice. I felt pretty good. I felt the urgent need for alcohol, but yeah, I felt pretty good. Can’t wait for the next one!