OK OK don’t think too hard about this, just read the question, then answer – HONESTLY, mind – you’re fooling no one – we can all read your mind – or maybe only I can – I dunno – are you thinking about ham sandwiches? – with mustard? – no? – then who the fuck? – dammit, hungry now – OK ANYWAY – here’s the question, ready, set, here we go:
Books or sex?
Ooh, INTERESTING. Yeah, it’s books, innit. No one’s ACTUALLY picked sex. You’ve all picked books. Cos books are GREAT. Some of you have been sneaky – yes, you, you minx – and picked both. OK fair enough. To be fair, sex is pretty awesome too. But BOOKS. Love books. Love reading. Love reading books. I also love sex. Sex on books? OH HELLO.
Sorry, sidetracked. Yeah, so books. I am reading an epic piece atm. And last night, this book I’m reading basically ripped open my chest, chewed up my heart, and spat it out onto my duvet, and then just blithely carried on with the next chapter, chortling quietly to itself. Bastard. I am, of course, talking about Game of Thrones, the tits and sword fighting and blood and emotional warfare fantasy series by George R R Martin, or as I now call him, The Bastard Author Bastard Heart-breaking Bastard Writer Person. Also, he’s a genius, and I adore him.
Game of Thrones is huge. There are pages and pages of the stuff. And he still hasn’t finished writing it – I gather from a reliable source (ie someone on Twitter) that it’s been SIX LONG YEARS since the last book and he has legions of fans waiting for the next – and final – instalment. Of course, there is also the TV series, which has just started the third season on Sky. Watch it, it’s great, my next husband is in it, no he’s not too young for me, shut your face, he’s mine he’s mine. So, legions and echelons of fans. And now I’m one of them.
I love a book you can immerse yourself in, and I love an author that takes risks. Only last night, as I’ve mentioned, GRRM messed with my brain. I can’t do any spoilers - I’d be hunted down and maimed – but what I can reveal is that SOME OF MY FAVOURITE CHARACTERS WERE JUST KILLED TO DEATH, JUST LIKE THAT, JUST DEADED COMPLETELY AND UTTERLY AND NOW I’M SAD.
I am such a loser. I know it’s fiction. But I was genuinely upset. I had to stop reading, and place my Kindle very carefully out of reach (or I might have thrown it at the wall in grief) while I took a moment to process what I’d just read.
(I was, not the characters, although… no, no spoilers, dammit)
It’s devastating. I knew the books were the kind of books where no one’s safe, not the good guys, the bad guys, the good/bad/good guys, the mediocre guys, or anyone, really. I knew this, already. And I ALLOWED myself to become attached to them. Like a silly romantic fool. I rooted for the them. I empathised. I – yeah, I’ll say it – I loved them. And now they’re dead. AAARGH. I am literally too sad to continue reading right now. Mostly cos someone else on Twitter said it gets worse. For EVERYONE. Like, my other favourite characters. SOB.
Sometimes, I wish I was made of stone. I wish I didn’t feel so much. It can be a weighty burden. All day, I’ve been happily doing Normal Stuff, when I’d remember, and my smile would slip, and it’d all wash over me again, like a veil of tears.
Jeez, I need to get a life.
Anyway, I had to blog about it. I need to know I’m not the only complete sap. What was the last book you read that totally broke your soul?
And actually, thinking about sex on books – it’s just, paper cuts – I can’t – I’m a wuss. I’ll stick to reading them.
OK, so, like, I have a thing where I have to sleep on the right side of the bed.
Always. I always sleep on the right. It’s MY side. You want to sleep with me? You’re on the LEFT, boyo. Or womano, I ain’t fussy.
There’s a reason for this. It’s a bit weird. Bear with me.
Generally, I like to sleep on the side nearest the door. When I lived in Portsmouth with my ex, in our first proper grown-up house, with our first proper real grown-up bed, I slept on the right, nearest the door. This was in case a murderer came in to our room in the middle of the night and tried to murderise us. I figured that, if I was nearer the door, I could, like, quickly wake up and deftly dodge round him and escape, while he murderised my husband. I know. I’m ALL HEART.
There are flaws to this plan. It’s been pointed out to me many a time. It’s obvious to some that me being nearer the door could, potentially, mean that I get murderised first? Whatevs. I know what I’m doing when it comes to murderers*. So I staked my claim on the right side of the bed. And it’s always been that way. The right side is MINE. The few times I’ve tried to sleep on the left, it’s been WEIRD and HASN’T WORKED. The left side is for losers. YEAH.
Until the other night when I realised I was sleeping in a double bed, all by myself, and I still slept on the right side. Just one side. Of a big old double bed. Half the bed was empty. Has been for a while. Huh.
So I slept in the middle.
Now I sleep in the middle. I’m still kind of near the door. And also nearer the window. But I’m in the middle of a double bed, by myself.
I’m not sure if this is supposed to be a sad post, or not.
Do you sleep on the right, or the left? Does it matter to you?
*Disclaimer: haven’t a fucking clue
Y’all know I’m a virgin, right? I wrote about how I’m not at all kinky and also about how I wear cardigans, which as anyone knows, means I’m a total virgin. Yes, yes, I know I said I wasn’t a virgin, but I lied. I really am. You want to know why? Well. Cos I have never owned a sex toy. Unless you count Benedict Cumberbatch trussed up in my dungeon. But GENERALLY SPEAKING, I have not ever had a sex toy in my possession. No dildos, no vibrators, no (oh god what else is there) erm, shmexy, uh, dancing wiggling THINGS that are, er, inserted in places. Variously. Innit. Quite literally: innit.
ANYWAY. Up until now, I have not owned a sex toy.
But then I bought a dildo.
At the risk of sounding even more virginal, what the FARK do I do with it? What’s the etiquette? What are the dildos and dildon’ts? Do I whisper nice things to it? Do I take it out for dinner? Maybe I should treat it mean and keep it keen? Or, perhaps, do a shmexy dance for it? I’m guessing – eventually – I shall have to use it for the purpose for which it was created. However I have an inkling that I will probably spend a good deal of time sitting on my bed and LAUGHING MY ARSE OFF as it sits, turgid, upon my duvet.
I have never done anything like this before! This is my first proper sex toy experience! I’ve always had, y’know, the real thing to play with, so not really felt a need for anything made out of vulcanised steel or whatever it is that makes it sound all manly and thrusting. I know many couples use a plethora of sex toys anyway, and yeah, I’ve probably missed out on YEARS of sexytime fun parties with just me and my toys, but heck, I told you, I’m an innocent sweet little ingénue. I have never even HELD a dildo before. Or a vibrator. Though I’m a bit wary of vibrators. In my mind, they sound a lot like lawnmowers. I do not want a lawnmower/foof interface on my brain while I’m indulging in some personal lovemaking time. I digress. I have a good idea of what to do with a dildo. Please don’t leave any comments along the lines of ‘oh just shove it up there woman’. I kind of assume that’s the endgame here.
Maybe this will be the start of a beautifully filthy new relationship with the world of sex toys. Maybe, soon, I will be like a Sex Toy Empress. I really DOUBT it though. Once a virgin, always a virgin. My poor dildo will be mocked and left in a drawer to gather dust. Poor dildo! I could send it (him?) on vacations? Loan him out? He’ll get lonely otherwise. He’ll need friends, drinking buddies. Yeah. Anyone else think I’m anthropomorphising my dildo just a bit too much?
I have a dildo. it’s just a cock-shaped piece of stuff. What now? You lot seem, uh, experienced. Gimme some ideas.
In the soft play café. A little girl comes up to me.
Girl: That granny just wiped something on me.
Me: Did she? Oh dear.
Girl: [points at Moo] Is that your baby?
Me: Yes, that’s my little girl.
Girl: That granny just wiped my sleeve.
Me: Is she your granny?
Girl: My granny’s dead.
Me: Oh dear… [looking round for girl's parent]
Girl: How old is your baby?
Me: She’s almost two.
Girl: I think that granny put nose jam on my sleeve.
Me: OK? [realises what nose jam might be] Oh. Oh dear. Which granny?
Girl: [points to old lady playing with a baby] There. I’m going to find my mummy.
Me: OK. [moves away from old lady]
My nickname used to have ‘hotpants’ in it. Yep. When I was young, and lithe, and erm, in possession of a variety of hotpants, I was called ‘hotpants’. Kinda obvious, eh? But those days are LONG OVER. I’ve not hotpanted for years. The sight of my extraordinary arse encased in a scrap of tight fabric has not been on the agenda for many a year now. I’ve basically convinced myself that I do not deserve to wear hotpants any more, cos a) I’m too old and b) I’m too fat. I know. Shocking, innit.
What’s EVEN MORE shocking is that today I went out clothes shopping and BOUGHT A PAIR OF HOTPANTS.
Yes! That’s right. I have LAUGHED in the face of age and SHAT ALL OVER my body insecurities and thought FARK IT TO HELL, I’m going to buy some hotpants and just farking WEAR THEM. Wahoo!
But it was not an easy journey, oh no. I had to try on loads before I found a pair I was comfortable with.
These ones were great, but what you can’t see is that the button isn’t done up. That’s right. I could not get my belly into these bad boys. And the next size up was not available. DAMN.
So I went to a different shop and, for a LAUGH, tried on these spangly ones:
…which kind of fitted weirdly and the sequins itched. Abandon shop!
On to the next one. I was totes determined to find a pair of farking hotpants I liked now. Single-minded. Rabid, almost. Which can only account for me trying on these ones:
…which are made out of PLEATHER. Yes. YES. You heard. PLASTIC LEATHER. I’m not sure what I was thinking. I’ve not ever wanted to wear anything LESS in my life, yet I willingly tried these on. Like a crazylegs person. Can’t really tell from the photo, but they were well sweaty and squeaky. And didn’t fit amazingly well. So they went back on the shelf, and I nipped off to another shop…
…where I tried these:
These denim ones were INCREDIBLY small and tight. Like denim knickers. They almost disappeared up my rectum. I liked the wash and colour but oh my days, they were practically indecent. I’d need to be inebriated, or stoned, or being blackmailed, to be out in public in them.
Luckily, I had also picked up this pair:
Now these I liked. A lot. And the jumper (which I bought. It’s sparkly. I like sparkles. I need sparkles in my life). They fitted, were kind of loose and casual – like me, innit, fnarr – and were a nice colour. BUT. BUUUUT. They’re very summery, y’know? And, erm, it’s not really summer any more. So as much as I’d like to look like I’m swanning around the Riviera on a balmy day, that ain’t gonna happen any time soon. I wept a bit as I put them back. My fervour was dampened. I was starting to despair. I prayed to the hotpants gods. Would I ever find the hotpants to bring back my hotpanting glory days?
Hoopla! The LAST pair I tried. These ones:
High-waisted, dark stretch denim. The farking saviour. I bought ‘em.
Apologies for a post which is essentially just a load of photos of me wearing hotpants. But I figure if I tell y’all I bought them, I’d HAVE to wear them. Out, in public. At some point.
And it’s a confidence boost, y’know? I will probably wear these hotpants with control knickers and tights that go up to my boobs, but at least I’ll be WEARING them.
What do you wear to give you some confidence? What makes you feel sassy and shmexual? And do I look shit?
So as some of you know, my unicorn died. Yep. Tragic. But tasty. In the end, he was tasty.
This is why I don’t really talk about unicorns much any more, it’s just too painful and frustrating, as unicorn steak is not widely available. They’re magical creatures, y’see. Like regular horses, but special. They have a special horn. Special horny horses. The magic is in their horn. MAGICAL HORN. Gotta love some magic horn.
I’m not the only one who likes unicorns. Some people revere them. Some people – brace yourselves – think they are THE BEST THING EVER IN THE WORLD EVER. I’m not judging those people, but they are a bit crazylegs. People like Doreen Virtue, PhD.
‘Who?’ I hear you cry.
Well. Ahem. Doreen Virtue, PhD is a ‘clairvoyant doctor of psychology who works with the angelic, elemental, and ascended-master realms’. YES, YOU HEARD. Kapow! In yer face. She’s basically a psychic ninja doctor of science and is bezzie mates with angels, innit. Farking SKILLZ O’CLOCK.
That’s not all. Doreen Virtue, PhD devised this set of oracle cards:
That’s ORACLE cards. Cards what tell you the FUTURE. Please, suspend your disbelief. Because this shit WORKS. Why? Why does it work when all other fortune telling devices are exposed as nonsensical fakery and illicit scams? I’ll tell you why: because of the FARKING UNICORNS, that’s why.
Yeah. I know. Unicorns are AMAZEBALLS. In the guidebook it says, ‘unicorns are angelic helpers who want to assist us in living healthier and happier lives’. Ah how lovely. Apparently, ‘unicorns want to help you feel happy, safe and loved’. Innit. A woman with a PhD wrote this. Remember that. A CLEVER PERSON.
If you’re still not 100% that unicorns exist, please bear in mind that ‘only children and people who believe can see and feel them’. So bite on that, sceptic. You don’t believe, so you don’t get to see one. Ha! Chew on that logic! The magic of the unicorns is for da kidz. And, as it says, ‘children are aware of, and openly discuss, their unicorn spirit guides’. But do not despair. If you too feel you need some help from the unicorns, just think ‘Unicorns, please help me with this! and they will work with the rest of Heaven to assist and guide you’. As simple as that.
So I decided to consult the cards. It’s like a set of tarot cards, only without centuries of tradition and folklore. I have to knock on the cards to ‘release the old energy’ and then think of a question. My question is ‘what is the actual meaning of my life?’ Pretty heavy stuff. But the unicorns will help me. I am CERTAIN of this. I can’t think of a better way to deal with my quandary.
Next, I have to shuffle the deck and wait for a card to ‘jump’ out at me.
This is the one I picked:
WHAAAAAT. Are you serious? WAIT UNTIL MORNING? Fucksake. C’mon unicorns!
OK, maybe my question was too hard for the unicorns to answer. To be honest, I’m not convinced a unicorn would know what to tell me anyway. My old unicorn just used to crap on my rug and blame it on Moo.
A quick peek at the rest of the cards does nothing to allay my growing disenchantment. There’s a card which says ‘make a wish and expect the very best’. Another which claims ‘the answer that you’re seeking is love’. Wow. Really? I was kind of hoping for the Euromillions winning numbers, innit.
There are way too many cards to show here. All printed with limply saccharine sentiments and a variety of glittering unicorns. My favourite is this one:
…because I’m the glad the squirrel is getting a life lesson from the mythical creature.
And in case you’ve forgotten, the progenitor of these oracle cards is a woman with ‘three university degrees in counselling psychology’ as well as a ‘clairvoyant fourth-generation metaphysician’.
I will totes read the Magical Unicorn Oracle cards for you. Leave a deep and meaningful question in my comments box and I’ll use my skillz to consult the unicorns on your behalf. Innit.
Thanks to my lovely long-time friend Mr Hughes for sending me these cards in the post cos he thought I’d get a laff from them. Did I ever! Brilliant!
When I was preggo I went through a bit of a nasal apocalypse. Certain smells would make me heave. Toothpaste was one. And coffee was another. The husband liked to brew his coffee in one of those knobbly jobs on the stove. I would climb the walls when he did that, like some crazed harpy. Even now I can’t really abide that acrid stench. And I still boak a bit when I brush my teeth.
Which makes me think: I don’t know if my senses ever recovered from the whole having-a-baby shizzle.
So my smelling machinery is farked. My eyes were balls anyway, but now my sight is slowly worsening as I am subjected to hours of brightly coloured children’s TV presenter’s jeans. My hearing used to be pretty good but now all I can hear are the terrifying echoes of Wind The Farking Bobbin Up reverberating about my brains. And touch? My skin is a husk of a dried up sheath of a skin. It has not been the same since preggosville. Everything I touch feels like sand. In fact, some of it is ACTUALLY sand cos every time we go to the sandpit in the park, I end up bringing some home in my bra. Always. Even if I don’t wear a bra.
Other senses? Taste. Who knows. The last thing I ate was in such a hurry – before Moo could snatch it from my paws – that it barely touched the sides. I can taste rum, certainly. Almost all the time. And, erm. The sixth sense. Well, I can’t see dead people. But that’s FINE BY ME.
Maybe I’m just feeling a bit more wrecked than usual today. Maybe it’s cos I’m getting old. Maybe I’m glaring back at my pre-preggo self with rose-tinted spectacles cos it’s just one of those ‘remember when I was thin and shmexy’ days. But having a baby changes you physiologically in all kinds of mentalissimo ways. And I don’t just mean stretchy lady holes.
So. Pregnancy and thereafter. An assault on the senses. Anyone else notice this?
That was my fierce roar. Geddit? See, I can be fierce. I can do TIGER EYES. *does tiger eyes* No, I am not merely squinting a bit. These are the EYES of a FIERCE TIGER. Be scared! Go on! RAAAAAR!
OK I’m kidding. I’m not really fierce. I got called fierce today, which was nice, but made me snorty laugh a bit, not in a derisory way, but just cos I don’t believe I am fierce, so when I get called it, I am all disbelieving, innit.
Someone I know on Twitter wanted some advice regarding their relationship break-up and while I couldn’t really offer any practical hints and tips in regard to their specific situation, I made sure to offer support and to lend an ear should they need one. They mentioned that they knew I was going through something similar myself from reading my blog, and wished they could be ‘as fierce’ as me. See? Fierce. Raaaaar. OK I will stop doing tiger eyes now. I can’t really see properly when I do that anyway.
Fierce. There’s nowt fierce about my separation. Sad, frustrating, heart-wrenching, lonely, bitter, sometimes bearable, agonising, shit and, erm, sad are terms I’d use. I have not felt fierce about it at all. I’m not sure when fierce became an acceptable vernacular for something positive (I blame Tyra Banks and her legions of squinty-eyed models) either. To my mind, fierce infers a fighting spirit, someone with a bit of spunky courage, sharp nails and a mane of hair, a loud roar and battle-ready. Is that me? I dunno. Maybe I should invoke some ferocity. Sounds fun. I can be fierce! I’ve got the eyes for it. And nails. I have sharp nails. RAAAAAAR *cough* *sucks on a throat sweet*
Some people NEED to be fierce during their separation. Sometimes it’s called for. Whether it’s cos the ex is being a mook or cos you need to stand up for what you’re entitled to, a bit of ferocity and, um, spunk can go a long way. Do it. Go for it. Be fierce. It’s better than being walked over, surely? I’m fortunate in that my ex and I get on, we communicate, and we can – I hope – one day move into an easy friendship; and we both adore The Moo, so y’know, that makes life a bit calmer. Not everyone has that luck of the draw. But I think if I had to, well… I’d be fierce. With knobs on.
I think what I’m trying to say (bear with me, caller) is that if you can see ferocity in what I do and it helps you, then GOOD. Makes all this blogging shizzle worthwhile. I like to think that y’all prefer me fierce to maudlin, innit.
*squints again* RAAAAAAA – *cough* Must stop doing that.
Can you be fierce? How d’you turn on the ferocity?
I’ve done a lot of amateur dramatics, innit. I’ve worked with a lot of directors. There’s two types of director: ‘blockers’ and ‘wankers’. A blocker doesn’t mess around. They just block the farking play. Tell you where to stand, when to sit, and, erm, how to fall over, maybe. A wanker, meanwhile, despite the nomenclature, doesn’t show you where, when and how to wank; rather, they initially forgo the blocking in favour of analysing the text, character work and pretty much fannying around.
At my last rehearsal there was quite a bit of wanking and fannying. We did some improvisation. Ack. I hate improvising. Gimme a script and I’ll act my extraordinary arse off. Tell me to improvise a scene and I’ll curl up in a ball and weep quietly in the corner. Farking hate it. I feel like a tit. I say all the wrong stuff, and then worry that the director is looking at me and thinking, ‘Wow, that’s totally not what I envisaged the character to be like, Jeezus I made a mistake casting her, now I’m stuck with this tit who can’t even improvise, man alive the whole play is RUINED’.
OK that’s a bit dramatic, but this is DRAMA, people.
So. Improvisation. Innit. What a crock.
But then today, it struck me: I’m improvising ALL THE BLOODY TIME. I haven’t got a FARKING CLUE what I’m doing. This last year I’ve moved house, lost a husband, gone on benefits, had a new relationship and lost that as well, all while doing that parenting stuff and maintaining a blog and having a LIFE – of sorts – which, to a past version of me, sounds utterly alien and totes not what I was expecting.
Life is just one HUGE improvisation. We all pretend to know what we’re doing as we trundle along. I really admire people who plan stuff – who say, ‘Oh yah, in five year’s time I’ll be in a cottage in the Cotswolds with three children, seven dogs and a pony’ or ‘By the time I’m forty I’ll be assistant manager of this helium balloon company!’ or ‘I must taste rum’n'raisin ice cream at least once before I farking DIE’. That’s ambition. That’s PLANNING. I don’t plan. I can’t. If anything, this last year has shown me that actual constructive planning is beyond my reach. So I improvise.
I thought I knew what the months ahead held for me. I thought I’d eventually find some sort of stability in the near future. Now that’s changed again. I’m adrift. But I have Moo, I have a house I can finally afford to live in, and we can eat. That’s a start. Everything else, I’m MAKING IT UP AS I GO ALONG. Innit.
Are you a planner, or a wanker, like me? And what do you do if stuff doesn’t go the way you planned?
Back in the New Year, when the year was, erm, new, I wrote a post about New Year resolutions rather snappily titled Bring On 2012, Baby. Apart from the goddamnawful title (thank Jeezus I switched to simple one/two word titles) reading it back now makes me cringe a bit. Yeesh. It’s a bit beauty-pageant-queen wishlist. Y’know, world farking peace and all that balls.
Yah well my wishlist has changed, innit. Sure, I want the same things as I always did – good times for Moo, health, happiness and giggles along the way – but the specifics are different. Diamond shoes? It has well and truly been demonstrated that they DO NOT EXIST. Shit the bed! Can you believe it? I believed that it was possible to acquire shoes carved from a MASSIVE diamond. I was wrong. And the alternative? Mere spangles. Hey ho. No wonder my unicorn farking died.
So eight months-ish down the 2012 line and it’s all change again. I shall definitely remember this year as one of tempest and flux. Some folk thrive on change, others flounder and yearn for the comfort of a quiet life. I’m still trying to work out which one is me.
In the meantime, this is my new, improved, slightly more realistic wishlist. Peruse at your leisure.
jeans that fit in all the right places
to not have to pluck my eyebrows every day
to lick my Twitter friends in their faces for real
new bed sheets
to cultivate a non-fear of moths/wasps/spiders
more house plants
the new series of Doctor Who to be really good, please
to be better at maths
to lose weight
to finish writing more books
to be able to say ‘brewery’ without looking like I’m chewing on a slug
more knickerbocker glories in my life
to watch less shit TV
to climb a tree
balls of steel
a happy Christmas, seeing as my b’day was so shite
to take more photos
to reach the bottom of the washing basket
more rings for my fingers
to read more good fiction
world farking peace?
I could go on. Ramble through the entire section of my brain focused on heart’s desires. It would take all day.
What’s on your wishlist? I was going to say ‘keep it clean’ but knowing some of you lot, there are butt plugs in there somewhere.