Tough Titties

My IQ is more average than yours!

2008-12-26T13:59:00.003+00:00

Today I was reading some argument somewhere about men's and women's brain sizes and relative intelligence, blah-dee-blah. I was lost in the comments to a blog post the article I had previously been reading linked to, and the commenters went back and forth quite a bit over a "proof" about women's lower intelligence on average.

The "proof" seemed to be that on IQ tests, men more often showed up in the extreme ranges, whereas women clustered together in the middle. This supposedly means that the geniuses are men, which naturally means that women are stupid.

What made me laugh is the consistent way everybody ignored the factor of the men who tested in the low extremes, versus the high.

The only thing these test results show is a generalization about women's IQs being somewhere in the middle. You can generalize about women's IQs, at least if you ignore the fact that IQ tests are bogus to begin with.

What you can't say is that men are smarter. In fact, the only thing you can say about men from the IQ scores is that with a man, you might get a genius... but you might just as well get an utter moron.

If you need smarts, wouldn't you be wiser to bet on that cluster in the middle range?

For stuff on gender and IQ, you can review the Wikipedia entry. Scroll down to "Variance in IQ" for a summary of the distribution.

I hiked Machu Pichu in 4 days and 3 nights… mindbendingly ill.

2008-11-06T00:26:00.021+00:00

"So you hiked up a mountain," I hear you say. "What's so tough about that?"

Let's call this one a rather personal challenge, shall we? Titties were most definitely toughened in the story you're about to read.

How it all began...
I initially did some research by asking exhaustive questions of everyone I knew who’d already trekked Machu Pichu. I read everything I could online and contacted a friend of a friend who just so happens to run adventure tours throughout South America, and thus has been to Peru and trekked Machu Pichu more than a few times. I stocked up on everything I needed so that I’d be dressed appropriately for all types of Peruvian weather. Knowing my propensity for travel sickness I also loaded up on Dramamine and candied ginger. In preparation for the four days up and down a mountain trek I upped my exercise level and took the stairs at every opportunity.

I knew to arrive in Cusco a few days earlier in order to acclimatize to the weather. I also began chewing on coca leaves and drinking coca tea at the first offering. (Locals find the coca leaves energizing and are known to chew on the leaves as coca acts as a mild stimulant and suppresses hunger, thirst, pain, and fatigue. (All I was sure to experience whilst on my trek.) What I was not prepared for was being hit, full force, with altitude sickness. I hiked most of the four days in the rain with flu-like symptoms, a high fever, no appetite, moving at a snail’s pace, all the while praying for it to end.

Somewhere along the 12 hour hiking mark it hit me that this was a physical challenge. This was hard for me. I always loved a challenge, or so I said, but until that point I thought of challenges as mental obstacles. Well, my mind certainly came into play as I accepted the fact that this was going to be hard, even painful; that a lot of it would be spent alone as I was a good two hours behind the front runners, and that the mountain wasn’t going to change. What I could change, however, was my attitude towards that mountain.

After turning down the offer to be carried by one of the porters and hiking most of the first two days on my lonesome, I soon joined my travelling partner and another girl who was beginning to succumb to the challenge that was our new swear word – Machu Pichu. The down hills made me feel I could finish this, and no longer did I ponder the salvation of a donkey ride.

The company added a good dose of laughter and comfort to my travels. I finished – last. Well, tied for last with the new girl whose company I enjoyed keeping and whom I soon began cheerleading as the mountain was truly bringing her down and while I understood how she felt, I knew how we’d both feel when we finished. It was hard, but we did it! The next 24 hours I spent completely ill and practically bedridden but it didn’t matter. I had a great story to tell.

I felt I’d done almost everything I could to prepare for this trek. But none of the preparation stopped me from becoming ill. This was one of the hardest physical, and funnily enough, mental, challenges I’ve ever faced. The alone time allowed me to recognize that life is going to be hard, but that doesn’t mean I can’t find enjoyment in that challenge. After all, I was surrounded by some of the most glorious scenery on the planet. My super slow pace allowed me to appreciate that single bright flower growing out of the rock face. My complete lack of energy meant that while I didn’t have the physical strength to get my camera out of my backpack, I now carry two stunning mental pictures with me always. In knowing the overwhelming feeling of loneliness as I hiked miles behind the pack, I used that experience as an opportunity to instil laughter and motivation in another, once she fell behind.

My best friend, who at times hiked by my side, was also inspired to stay positive as she saw how painful each step was for me and that my attitude each and every night remained one of humourous damnation. (I’m not ALL good.) This was hard. Parts of it weren’t even fun.

But I did it.

And the next knock-me-on-my-ass difficult challenge I face, I know now not to waste my time with a defeatist attitude but to find the humour or beauty in it straight away. Laughter is the best medicine after all, once you’re done puking.

Further Sweeping Thoughts

2008-09-15T16:13:00.005+01:00

Indeed, BekBek. I have swiffered, and shall continue to swiff...nay SWIFFER... entire kitten's worth of MY HAIR off of an incredibly tidy flat's floors.

While yes, it's true, every day I do manage to shed enough hair to make a bald man cry and still maintain thick, luxurious, hair commercial quality hair - the Swiffer is the only cleaning weapon capable of tackling my tenacious mane.

Mayhaps one day
When I am old and grey,
I shall Swiffer enough hair
to create my own pet "me"
With which to play.

(Creepy Old Lady verse brought to you by the aforementioned Me.)

Swiffer Madness

2008-09-12T16:28:00.002+01:00

Today, we're going to talk about Swiffing.

Swiffing is not some new teenagers-sniffing-glue fad. It is far cooler, and far more dangerous. No, Swiffing is the act of cleaning one's floors with the Swiffer.

Just how much dirt can a single Swiffer cloth pick up? Astonishingly, after sweeping and mopping, a freshly cleaned floor gives up a whole Swiffer cloth full of hair (pet and human) and dust and other bits, so much so that one still manages to see dustbunnies blow away as one moves the Swiffer around the room.

What gives? Are the cloths purposefully made to handle only a limited amount of dirt? Are there tiny Swiffer ogres laying dirt down right after the good, old-fashioned mop has gone by, just to make us beholden forevermore to the Swiffer product line?

I don't get it. And methinks the young Helen has likewise experienced something of the same.

Boys Will Be Boys, But Men Will Be Mine - Tales From the Tube

2008-09-05T19:23:00.004+01:00

I love boys. I love their energy, their excitability. I love their toys. I love their boy bits. I love playing with both. Toned, defined, muscly bits of boy will forever be a source of aesthetic (and manual) appreciation. I even, upon occasion, love the mind of a boy. But all things Boy fail miserably when up against a Man. Homoerotic fantasies notwithstanding, in this instance a man is simply that breathtaking creature that makes a lesser man feel so much more the boy when in Man’s presence.

The other day I received the following text: “What are you up to tonight?” As I had come to the conclusion that some boys just aren’t good for us, or more truthfully, “Woohoo, contact means he’s most definitely into me, can no longer deny his feelings, and can’t wait to see me again,” I decided it was best to make the boy await my reply. Isn’t that what we were always told? – Making them wait makes them want us more. Absence makes the heart grow fonder and all that. Although, I’ve always been quite partial to the more realistic “Absence makes the heart go wander.”

Colour me a striking shade of cynic.

And so I hopped on the District Line, fully prepared to (eventually) respond with the news that I had already left work and was well on my way to a fantastic party in Blackfriars. It’s always a wonderful thing when the excuse; that our lives are far too full and fabulous to make time for the boys we secretly want notsosecretly wanting us back, is true. The fabulousness of the party was guaranteed. It was in honour of a sparkling gay birthday boy, which all but promises tequila hangovers, tantrums and tiaras. I feel it necessary to let you in on a little secret. All the men in my life are gay. My closet is full to overflowing with drama queens, leather queens, gossip queens and ickle pocket princesses. (Skinny little bitter queens in the making.) This is hardly hyperbole - Every man in my London life is gay. Which might better help you understand my fixation on the Military Boy who isn’t for me.

Military Boy, (affiliating this one with no particular branch as a girl can’t possibly give away all her secrets,) replied with the following: “I was texting you to meet me after work. I’m in London, and on the train behind you… Get off.” Not the most gentle of persuasions, but I’d be lying if I said it didn’t work. Hammersmith Station found me watching one train go by, then another, then another. Great, now the guy I’m supposed to not be able to care less about had become the source of the rise and fall of my anticipation and excitement.

Soon the “right” train pulled in with Military Boy’s face pushed up against the window. Don’t let his gleeful, excitable puppy-like, jumping all over me fool you, this boy was far from a spring chicken… and didn’t like to be reminded of that fact.

The conversation flowed. I was looking just the right side of sexy and he was sporting a suit, something these eyes had yet to behold. Suffice it to say we both passed that “Whatever you do, look stunning when you randomly bump into your crush” test. Although something tells me he felt he was looking a little TOO good. That was, until Gorgeous Man stepped into our car. This man was the physical embodiment of YUM. (And I just so happen to have a very deep and profound appreciation for all that which is yummy looking.) Military Boy and I were both awestruck at Gorgeous Man’s presence. I was still mouth agape when Military Boy leaned in and whispered, “He’s one of mine.” (In the Military. Not gay. Keep up.) He then realized just how taken I was with this stunning interloper. I could barely utter the word “Wow” when Military Boy gave me a tap and a “What are you like?!” Was this, jealousy I was witnessing? Could Military Boy possible be… and he was. Of course, this tall, sculpted, suited and booted, MUCH younger vision of loveliness was Military Boy… done better. Alas, the man who could have quite possibly fathered my future beautiful babies left us at Westminster.

I was left with a gibbering Military Boy, feebly attempting to joke off Gorgeous Guy’s perfection, while I sat there on the District Line watching as a Military Boy’s playful charm quickly faded when brought up to light against a real man.

It was my stop.

I guess it was the loss of confidence that lead to my loss of interest that night. Don’t get me wrong, Boys, military or otherwise, are indeed fun to play with. But I’ll take a strong, steady, stunning Man any day.

Sex Ed

2008-09-05T16:43:00.002+01:00

I currently live with a teenager. Last night, he made an interesting comment about the pregnancies of Jamie-Lynn Spears (sister of Britney) and (U.S.) Republican VP candidate Sarah Palin's teenaged daughter. He said he didn't see why such a big deal was always made about the fact that they were teenagers. "I mean," (and I'm paraphrasing horribly) "there were girls in my high school that were pregnant or had babies. It's not that uncommon."

A good discussion ensued, I think. The mix of politics (we were sorta watching McCain's speech, or the run-up to it) and alcohol makes it all a little hazy today, but I think it was good. We talked about why it's a big deal that teenagers --who don't yet support themselves-- get pregnant, and also why some people are fascinated by celebrities' lives and why Sarah Palin's politics in this instance (anti-choice, pro-abstinence-only education) are a little extra-hard to swallow for some of us, given she is in a position to understand that teenagers DO go ahead and have sex when they're lucky enough to have the chance.

Which brings us to my pondering today: Why do so many parents seem so completely clueless about this?

You'll often hear parents say that they REMEMBER what it was like to be a teenager. They tend to use this as some kind of argument for abstinence --like somehow the fact that they know from first-hand experience how randy teenagers can be provides them with the credentials with which to state that teenagers must not have sex. Like somehow randiness itself is a reason to avoid sex at all cost.

Quite aside from how illogical that is, plainly... I am beginning to wonder if it's not a crock of a different sort. I have this idea that maybe they don't remember anything at all. Their "memory" is based on teen movies that they can watch again, years later. The boy with the panties in Sixteen Candles. No actual sex, just a temporary insanity.

We might be barking up the wrong tree with this sex education thing. While I personally think we should stop telling kids to abstain and instead tell them about how to do it right... and perhaps provide very hunky older lovers for the shy girls named Becky goofing around in the yearbook club... Maybe what we really need is sex education FOR PARENTS.

Maybe they've just forgotten how good it is. They're not excited about it. They don't get it very often. So they think it's not worth it.

And they're flat-out wrong.

Hel(en) On Earth - The Dating Files - A Cheesy Oxonian

2008-09-01T11:47:00.008+01:00

So, tickets to the Tempest weren't exactly in hand, as I found out on Thursday afternoon when he tried to secure them to no avail. I honestly had very little interest in a night of Shakespeare so was happy to simply do dinner, if nothing else. But no, it was in his head: We were to sup, take in a show... and have cheese.

The cheese is important here, people. Remember the fromage!

Firstly, whilst I had expected to be late, which he would have been completely okay with, I arrived on time. Much to boy's chagrin as five fifteen would be closer to five thirty for him. I sipped on an aperitif until a quarter to six, when the hostess enquired as to the arrival of my partner, for the table was booked by others for half seven. Right, so he was late. No biggie. Well, it would have been less of a biggie had he left the cheese at home.

Here's the thing. Apparently Oxford houses a fabulous fromagerie, and he was hell-bent on bringing me back an assortment of stinky cheese. (Ah yes -regular, mildly-nosed cheese would never do.) Armed with Reblochon, Epoisses, and a fine brie, he arrived at the restaurant. (Cheese knife nestled in left jacket pocket.) Yes, stinky cheeses accompanied him throughout his afternoon in Oxford, whereupon he and the cheeses engaged in conversation with a Poet Laureate; they provided heady introspection on his train ride into London; and those stinky cheeses were allowed to enjoy the marvel that is the London transport system as well.

The boy went for the kiss. He was met with European cheeks. (Snootyless airkisses - Not my bare bottom.) The cheese sat to my right. Futzing through meal selection preceded a brilliantly fun dinner. We laughed, we chatted. We got on great... as friends. Upon realizing that we were already late for the theatre, and seeing that he was headed for a tube station, I suggested a cab. £9 later and we were at the Barbican ready to take on The Bull... which we were late for. I HAVE NEVER BEEN LATE TO THE THEATRE. I don't like it. I have little to say about the expletive-ridden play based on the mediaeval Irish Epic "The Cattle Raid of Cooley" except to note that the naked actor portraying the family dog is likely not what my date had in mind when there were warnings of nudity.

Let me preface this next bit by saying that the boy had me wedged under his arm the entire walk leading to the cab. I do not like this. If I wanted to be attached to someone's armpit, I would have negotiated a Siamese birth with God years ago. Those of you who love me know how very keen I am on this hand holding thing. You're even more aware of my sarcasm when it comes to such matters. There have been TWO men, in the last decade, who have managed to magically hold my hand as we walked, without my cringing. The first was simply a pretty, bouncy thing who succeeded in making me feel special, yet comfortable, with the affection. The second is something I still try hard not to make too much sense out of. So don't suffocate me as we walk down the street. When you reach for my hand and I pull away, take the hint. When I have to actually tell you "no", it makes everyone feel bad.

I say all this because it continued at the theatre. Ah yes, the attempts at back rubs, the massagings, the arms around the shoulder, the hands through the hair. I LOVE having a man play with my hair... but NOT when I'm in public, trying to enjoy a play. You've seen this hair... Playing with it is not silent business! I can't stand the sounds of hands rustling about my head when I'm trying to listen. And now you know.

Oh, and lest you fear a displaced cheese... it came with us to the theatre. Stinky cheese joined us for dinner. Stinky cheese joined us at the Barbican. I started wondering whether I was smelling cheese. Were others smelling our cheese? This was not good. His plan... moonlit cheese nibbling on the Southbank, which would be utterly romantic IN JUNE!!!! Alas, the cold winter months found the cheese was brought in hopes of perhaps, probably, hoping beyond hope, I brought him back to mine.

No, no, no, no, NO! You leave the cheese and crackers at home. If the lady, by twist of fate or dizzy squiffiness ends up back at yours, then VOILA! You are a star, and have presented a world of french nibbling options. You don't carry stinky cheeses with you throughout your date in hopes of snacking at hers. You just don't. Poor thing was simply trying to be romantic. But dinner, play, and CHEESE... slight overkill, when coupled with the touchy, squeezy, holdy nonsense and no desire on my part for a single kiss.

It was half nine and I had no desire to head to the Covent Garden Hotel for cocktails. I wanted to go home. Nine thirty on a Thursday night, and I wanted to go home? It was clear that honesty was the only way out of this. And so I told him, reiterating once again that I'm afraid there was no romance in our future. I won't go into the "What did I do wrong?" portion of the evening.

Suffice it to say, he walked me to the station, excused himself with a saddened face, and I watched as a broken boy disappeared into the night... with a bag of stinky cheese.

If you smell something funny driving under that underpass in the next few days, I'm taking bets on how far he flung the cheese.

---------------------

Ed. Note: I did actually feel the tiniest bit bad for having written about this particular date for this did prove to be the beginnings of an interesting friendship. Romantic foibles aside, we had a fabulous time chatting and laughing, and his is not a brain to be taken lightly. Alas, zero chemistry. The smart ones always have issues.

Happy Slapped Strikes Back

2008-09-01T10:37:00.004+01:00

(The following contains language unsuitable for young children. Reader discretion is advised.)

The hunt for the perfect pedicure continues. Or so was the way I felt not too long ago. Following my lovely time at the VIP Rooms in Clapham where I treated my toes to a little pampering before deciding to take in a little sun in the Common. There weren't as many footballers out as normal, but sunbathers still bespeckled the park. I opted for a bench along one of the footpaths. Oops.

I heard all the bikes ride by and raised my eyebrows aflutter, but little more until I heard quieted footsteps malevolently creep up behind me. Alas, it was too late.

Slap!

I shot up with a violent start to the sound of mocking laughter from about seven to ten boys ranging in age from maybe ten to about fifteen. I was livid.

”You had better run, because you’re about to get your asses kicked!” A mad scramble ensued amongst the boys as I gave chase. They were busy attempting to record the assault on their mobiles, as is all the rage with this quaint little British phenomenon known as Happy Slapping. Don't even get me started on the stupidity of a nation's children who find pleasure and pastime in striking unsuspecting women. Absolute cowards!

As two of the boys steered their bikes into one another, all came crashing down on the pavement. I had them now, and they knew it. One punk looked positively terrified as he weighed the option of struggling back onto his bike or fleeing like a startled chicken. He ran. Ran like a scared child. Already unimpressed that I was now undoing the magic of my freshly pedicured feet on the dirty pavement, I felt no need to keep running. Instead, I collected my souvenir and made my way through the park.

"Hey! You cant take my bike!"

"Watch me!"

The little shit tried reasoning with me that it wasn't his bike. Did I honestly care? His argument went something along the lines of, "We didn't do anything. What? What did we do? You can't take my bike. I wasn't the one who slapped you." He and Jack Nicholson can now take the stand.

The look of absolute shock nearly brought on tears when I informed the little shit that he could have his mother come ask me for the bike as I would gladly hand it over to her. There was a lot of profanity as the boys tried to talk tough. (You're fucking with the wrong girl here, my little pubescent fuckwits.) One kept denying that anything was done until I effectively exclaimed, "Don’t fucking lie to me asshole. Pulling shit like this is not new to me, so enough with the fucking lies!"

Knowing full well his bike was not getting returned to him, they sent over the badass of the group. A stupidly, droopy-panted shit in need of a comb and a haircut, wearing basketball kit three sizes too big for his six foot scrawny frame. "You have no right to touch his bike. That's his property."

"I'm sorry? Brilliant argument there sweetheart, but what gave you the right to touch me, the best property I’ve got going?!" I squared off under his nose and swore him down a good two feet.

It was then that I realized it was a good thing there wasn't a half a brain amongst the lot of them, as I had left my handbag back on the bench and one of them could have easily used that time to nab it. Having elicited enough fear to satisfy me, I began to make my way back. Cue the shouts of, "You're lucky I don’t have my piece on me."

Right. Stop. Turn around.

"That's really fucking brave. You hit someone, as a group, and then runaway like little girls, and now you're talking shit about a weapon? Fuck you little man, if you think I didn't grow up in a tougher neighbourhood than you." (A likely bit of shit flinging on my part, but I think it added a certain something to my convincing demeanor.) "Fuck you. All of you who are afraid to take the beating you've earned. You don't hit someone and run like a chicken. That's not tough. All I’m saying is, if you slap someone, you sure as hell had better be prepared to be slapped back." And with that the pretty lady in the floaty pink ruffled top and ponytail picked up her handbag, slipped on her sandals and fumingly strode off.

Was I alone in the Common? Absolutely not. But the English are more likely to view the spectacle of a girl getting harassed (or doing the harassing) than do anything about it. One lovely, large, bald man walking his dog did ask if I was okay when I returned to my things. He thought the boys might have stolen my mobile.

"No, they slapped me. I wasn't going to hit them. That would get me arrested. I just needed to scare them a little."

"Good for you. We can't let them get away with stuff like that."

"No. We cant, can we?” Allow me to introduce you to Helen Ferreira. Me - Defender of the We.

The slap stung for a good hour. In hindsight, I shouldn't chase down groups of guys who hit me. Especially as two years on, they actually do carry guns knives and aren’t afraid to use them. But there you have it. I hope I left a mark. I know they did. Dammit!)

Women Matter

2008-09-01T00:34:00.003+01:00

This won't be a normal kind of post here, I think. It's better for my other blog. But Helen kind of lays down the gauntlet for me to think about "women stuff," and for the life of me, I try, so I thought I'd give a timely example.

If you're following the U.S. news (and believe me, I completely understand if you do not do so), you've heard about Sarah Palin, McCain's new running mate. I'm appalled, but that's not what this is about.

It's about women thinking that somehow this is about them-as-women, and thinking that they-as-women should matter to this election.

See the end of Can You Cross Out ‘Hillary’ and Write ‘Sarah’?

"We matter" makes no sense to me. I have ALWAYS MATTERED. Hell, I can't even vote in this country, and I matter. I have a voice. I raise it. What the hell are these women on about? They get a vote, each of them - a vote equal to that of their male friends and family members.

All you're expected to do in a democracy is vote for who you think would be the best leader. Voting for who you think will be the best WOMAN is really not in the job description. Why? Because in terms of democracy, you are not a woman.

You're a citizen.

Put the titties aside, for crying out loud, and be a citizen.

Thank you.

Who Chooses to Sweat?

2008-08-29T16:25:00.005+01:00

I’ve made a lot of choices in my life. I’ve chosen to change careers. I’ve chosen to travel to distant continents. I’ve even chosen to pick up, pack up, and move my life clear across the Atlantic Ocean. But this is by far the most challenging choice of my short yet significant life.

It seems every day, for three days now I escape the brisk air of London’s streets by finding refuge in a 40 degree room. This sounds lovely at first. After all, golden tans can be acquired in the hot summer sun. Super slushies can’t cause brain freeze when the mind is nearing its melting point. Bodies glisten in a permanent after sex glow when the sun chooses to slip a little tongue into that notorious kiss. All in all, 40 degrees Celsius sounds scintillatingly hot. And in London, hot is good.

Okay, so maybe the hot summer sun burns pale English skin, slushies have enough sugar in them to induce a diabetic coma, and there’s a fine line between glistening and sweating like a paedophile in a playground. But it still seemed like a good idea… three days ago. You see, that’s when I decided to take up Bikram Yoga. Balham houses a brand, spanking new yoga studio and with a 30 days for £30 introductory offer, I figured I could bend my body into shape for a pound a day. I’ve always been unusually bendy. How hard could it be?

Cue the heat. Upon entering the studio, we are invited to remove our shoes, change in the far too tiny for twenty curvaceous women dressing room, and enter the studio which shall heretofore be known as the Devil’s Armpit. The room welcomes us with a gentle persuasion and the feeling of loving hands seduces us with warm caresses. Soon its strongly scented arms lift us up to the initial warm up poses. Our minds reel with dizziness as there are very strong physiological messages shooting through our synapses that we are, in fact, plenty warm. The fiery pit of perdition invites us all to have a sip of water now and again, but not a gulp, because THAT would make us ill. I barely made it through half the poses without sitting through the first set for fear of passing out. The room, now ripe with the stench of forty eight armpits, almost pacifies with fleeting blasts of air. Oxygen. Sweet, stinky oxygen.

No sooner am I praising the heavens for that bittersweet air then the room heats up again. For ninety minutes we are lead through twenty six poses, from forward stretches to backward bends, all in an intense heat meant to relax our muscles and oxygenate every cell in our bodies. Those bodies drip with enough sweat to put out the fires of a hell I now feel I know intimately.

Gorgeous positions are held amidst a backdrop of crumpled pools of sudoriferous flesh. Throughout the class we exercise the concept of Savasana, a quieting of the entire body achieved by lying flat on one’s back, heels touching, palms facing outward. After some of the more gruelling postures it’s only too fitting that the easiest position for me translates as “the corpse pose”.

It’s been three days now. I felt a lot less dizzy at this afternoon’s class, and the room no longer overwhelms me with its warmed fetor. I can actually hold more of the positions now and my entire body seems to be enveloped by a feeling of heightened relaxation. That said, whilst I am happy that I’ve made the choice to stick to Bikram, I know that tomorrow I’ll once again stride headlong into the Devil’s Armpit.

Hot, sweaty yoga. I may end up liking it... just not yet.

Bosom Buddies

2008-08-29T14:31:00.002+01:00

Wow, like, hello? Facebook IS NOT MYSPACE. Get over it!

I was just poking around for Aaron Sorkin fan shit on Facebook, because I am indeed a fan of Aaron Sorkin, and now that the news is out about him writing a movie about Facebook (holy crap! Who's gonna play me?!), I felt prompted to "show my colors/colours" by joining a group I will never, ever look at again on Facebook.

So I went to the "Aaron Sorkin Fan Club" group (how original!), and on the group's "Wall" (for you non-Facebookers, that's just a place you can scribble notes), all the posters were saying shit like "I want to add Aaron Sorkin as a friend." One ugly-ass dude posted twice with this: "I can't access his Facebook acct."

YEAH, UGLY-ASS DUDE, cuz he's NOT YOUR FRIEND.

Honest to god, are people really THAT STUPID? Facebook is not Myspace! It's not all about adding stripper-bots to your friend list so that you look like you're capable of getting lucky! It's not a stand-in for actual friendships - it's a way for you to stay in touch with ACTUAL FRIENDS (*gasp*).

You wish you could meet Aaron Sorkin, snort some coke with him, introduce him to your Mom? Sure, me too. BUT WE'RE NOT GONNA.

Otherwise, this would be the death of friendship, for sure. If some dumb ugly-ass dude that Aaron Sorkin doesn't know from a licorice milkshake were actually able to say, "Aaron Sorkin is one of my friends," the whole idea of friendship would have gone down the toilet.

But it hasn't! Not yet! Ya can't add Aaron Sorkin as a friend! And you know what I say about that?

Tough titties.

The British Bottom Has Always Been Alien to Me

2008-08-27T22:12:00.007+01:00

Whilst BebBek continues to naval gaze, I would like to keep my sights set firmly ahead. Provided ahead of me struts the bearer of a firm male backside. Granted, the barer of a firm backside wouldn’t go amiss either.

British Boys don't have butts. Zero ass. Zilch bummage. No trouser-back filler. Their legs grow straight into their backs. It's the oddest thing. So BekBek, if you do happen to make it across the pond this Christmas we'll be hard-pressed to fill your stocking with a yummy British... correction (I've been given enough crap about this lately)... ENGLISH bottom. So much so that upon moving here, I was warned that if I were to spot a well-built hottie on this island, he'd likely be an Aussie or a Kiwi. The English Arse, in a manner of speaking, remained a mystery.

I have since discovered the Rugby bum, (or Sweet Sweet Ass.) It's funny what lengths a Welshman will go to when you deny him his bottom. But hey, if an entire team of rugger buggers feel the need for me to squeeze in order to make their point... who am I to argue? We'll leave the glory that is the Scottish kilt for another day. (And the Dublin accent is still my weakness.)

Aliens Among Us

2008-08-27T17:50:00.002+01:00

It's time I explained that there are aliens among us, yes there are, and don't be bothering me about no Mexicans, neither (not to mention certain transplanted Canadians). I live in the sweaty little penis (Pinellas County) of the sweaty big penis (Florida) of the United States of America, and I'm here to tell you that there are REAL aliens among us, and they are a sneaky, subversive lot, and it's time somebody stood up and spoke the truth, and that's me, that's what I'm all about this afternoon after my little bike ride with my belly all full of corned beef hash and eggs and potatoes yum. Nothing like a bike ride with breakfast to defeat all chances of getting fit ever again. Not to mention the doggy bag.

But where was I?

Oh yeah. Aliens.

Seriously now - you're going to think I'm nuts, but here goes:

I have an inny.

Some people don't. Some people have outies. I have an inny, in which the button part of what is called "the belly button" is cutely nestled in a deep dimple on my belly. And it is indeed cutely nestled, because what's not to love about my belly button, WHICH IS AN INNY BY THE WAY.

An outie, as I think we can all agree, is where the button part of the belly button sits atop the skin, with nary a dimple to call home. When we were kids, we had either innies or outies, and we didn't just compare notes, no sirree bob, we compared buttons dammit. Everybody had a button, and some kids' buttons were in dimples, and other kids' buttons weren't, and that was that. Innies and outies.

So we're clear on all this so far, yes? Because I'm going to tell you something quite shocking, and I want you to understand the import immediately. Here goes: There are creatures among us that have NO BUTTON.

I'm not kidding!

They've got the dimple --the rightful home of an inny belly button. But there's no button in residence. Zip. Nada. There's just this empty dimple, a tiny, neat little empty cave. (It's actually a little sad. So deserted. Hollow. Without soul.)

These creatures claim to be human, but how could they be? A human being has either an inny or an outie. So I confronted one of these beings, and you know what he said to me?

YOU KNOW WHAT HE SAID?

HE SAID HE'S GOT AN INNY. And I, apparently...

It's almost too shocking to type.

This... "person"... claims I've got an outie.

WHAT?!

Seriously. Aliens. Nice enough to marry and live with, sure. Buy a house with him. Let him convince you to ride a bike to the farmer's market and eat way too much corned beef hash and potatoes on the way home, okay, fair enough. But he's still an alien. Keep a sharp eye out. He's got no button.

No button at all.

Please Don't Call the Police!

2008-08-26T11:06:00.003+01:00

I’m still waiting for the flowers.

I mean, I never expected breakfast, and I had lunch plans anyway, but surely… flowers weren’t too much to ask for. After all, it’s not like I even asked for them. They were offered – practically promised. In light of the evening we’d just shared, a girl should expect nothing less.

Picture it ladies, you’ve got that fresh out of bed, dishevelled look that all but invites your man back into bed with you. Only you don’t have a man. This stunning dark-haired lovely standing in your doorway isn’t yours… yet. He’s tall. We like tall. The street lamp catches a definite sparkle in his mischievous, yet sincere, eyes. And when he opens his mouth to apologize, a lovely Irish lilt escapes the lips that you’re almost certain are begging to be kissed by you. Tall, dark and Dublin. Just the way I like ‘em.

Have you ever awoken at 4am from a dream of your home being broken into? I have. Still in dream state, my eyes barely open, I awoke to see ― through the French doors that lead to the private garden outside my bedroom ― two dark figures. The only other way into the garden is through my flatmate’s room, but she’s on the Isle of Wight this week. Discarding the “I’m imagining things” impulse… I stepped closer, pressing my face up against the thin sheet of glass that separated me from them. I’m all alone and there are two men breaking into my flat.

“You’re going to want to get out of my yard!” I belted, rather authoritatively.

This resulted in convincing frightened cat impressions from the two of them, as they sprung backwards, two feet in the air. Not far enough for my liking. What then ensued was the most blundering of apologies and drunken backstory. It soon became evident that these boys were but drunken visitors to the brother of girl who does indeed live one floor above me. Just as I was listening to the two bungling would-be criminals discuss roof slants and tiles amidst colourful expletives, my doorbell rang.

Enter Tall, Dark and Dublin. At my front door stood the type of man women dream of magically showing up on our doorsteps. He smiled a winning (and pleading smile).

“Please don’t call the police. My friends are idiots.”

We were in agreement. I wouldn’t call the police, but I would let this silver-tongued, crisp shirted, tasty looking boy apologize to me a little longer. After all, the more we spoke, the greater his chance of looking passed my baggy unmatching men’s pajamas and envision the physical perfection my “Hot Chihuahua” pjs enveloped. (Yes, I’m afraid it’s a definite that when a gorgeous man unexpectedly walks into your life in the middle of the night, you will be wearing your most unattractive nightie.) After clearly coveting my every curve and longing to run his hands through my silken, dark, glorious (bedhead) hair, this dark stranger would soon find himself no longer able to make excuses for his trusty sidekicks and instead turn his focus to making amends with me. Clearly he’d startled this damsel out of her (hardly needed) beauty sleep. A gentleman could do no less than make the following promise:

“I owe you breakfast. Let me take you to breakfast in the morning.”

As desperate as I’d know I’d be to see this welcome intruder in a few hours time, I knew there was no way these guys would be awake for breakfast. And if he was sober, he’d know it too.

“Flowers then. I have to get you flowers. Thank you for… being the kind of woman every man goes to bed longing for”… is what he said in my head. His actual thanks was for “being so great” or something equally lame. With that, we said our good nights.

It’s been two days now.

I’m still waiting for the flowers...

Asleep at the Wheel

2008-08-25T19:06:00.004+01:00

What comes around, goes around. Spin the big wheel. Moss grows fat on a rolling stone. Those two birds are either dead or sporting matching lumps. Ah, lumps. Lumpiness. It's all good. And as I lay me down to sleep, it comes around again on the guitar: My turn.

Helen just seemed to be wanting for a bit of a push-start. Have you ever push-started a car? "Pop the clutch" has such a nice ring to it, putting the Karate Kid's Jersey Mom delightfully in mind before her image fades in favor of the image of a tow-strap. I hate towing/being towed on a strap, but I've done it at least twice, because I bought a lemon of a car. I should paint it yellow, I really should.

So, Helen, here's a push, along with a nudge and a wink, say no more, say no more. What shall we talk about? Is it time to tell the story about the toilet seat? Or shall we hold that one for when they're least expecting it? Yeah, that's the ticket.

Carry on.

Which Came First: The Laziness or the Procrastination?

2008-08-25T16:54:00.010+01:00

I could have inserted Helen and BekBek in lieu of Laziness and Procrastination, but we all know I’m the spring chicken in this terrible twosome so the question hardly leaves one to ponder. Unless of course, you start questioning which of us lead the race in failing to commence the pursuit of our potential. Are we actually all that bright, or can we continue to fool the world with caustic wit and profound insight without ever having to prove otherwise? We’re colourful characters in this universe. If this isn’t enough, can we not simply argue “Tough Titties!”?

Only those that know me will raise an eyebrow (and a swift backhander) when I sell myself as lazy, so I’m hardly offending the masses when so doing. That said, in bringing my friend down with me, you may very well question my quality of character and the nobility of my friendship. The fact is, I believe it is in recognizing our friends’ quirks, flaws and curious ways, and loving them all the same, that one builds a true friendship. Occasionally though, we can’t let our friends get away with allowing themselves to believe they’re meant to make certain mistakes. We won’t let one another lose sight of who we truly are.

This is what my mates and I delight in referring to as: “Calling each other on our shit”. This is that magical moment we’ve all experienced when we’ve got a better handle on our friends then they do during a particular moment of self delusion, and we’ve got no problem telling them so. We intervene in moments of nutty boy ponderings. After the hundred and twentieth excuse your friend comes up with for why “he didn’t call” you get her to snap out of it. When she says she’s not obsessing, you have shoe polish on standby. You’re also not going to let a good friend get away with giving up on herself. When you recognize that wickedly intelligent, refreshingly witty, unfathomably creative friend of yours is settling for less than she’s supposed to be doing in this world you get your boot ready.

As human beings, we’re programmed to seek the greatest reward for minimal effort. If we can get away with less stress, less late nights at work, less exercise, less putting in the effort and still receive all the kudos, promotions, fitness and accolades, then that’s just what we do. We do what we enjoy. The rest is work.

And so, when your best mate makes a choice you can’t back, you need to find a way to continue supporting that friend without supporting their decision. Easier said than done. That friendship then becomes work. And there’s nothing wrong with work – when you’re not lazy.

That’s me. Laziness personified. Perhaps I haven’t discovered my muse. Maybe I just need to be inspired. More honestly, I just need a kick up the arse. And a good friend will do that to you, for you even. What I need, is someone to keep me from clinging to the security blanket of laziness, an equally clever and imaginative mischief maker to prompt my inner scribe.

BekBek is that friend. Together, we’ll be bringing you our thoughts on life in the Sunshine State, The Big Smoke, personal beefs, boys, boobs and otherwise. And whilst we’re arguably a couple of tough chicks, I assure you all things breast related remain as soft, supple and delightfully bouncy as ever.