Oh Friend!

I have lots of friends (yeah alright braggy, back in your box) but I really struggle making new ones. Sure I’ll wang on at people until the cows come home and am quite good at ‘being social’ but ask me to attempt to make a new friend and I will shrivel inside.

I just never feel very cool and so going from ‘chatty in the office’ to ‘hanging out when we’re not being forced to spend eight hours together’ is never a smooth move for me. I’m such a lamo I can barely bring myself to add people on Facebook. I’m a total LinkedIn pro, however – CEO of a company I’d consider working with in the future? I’ll hit that sucker up with a message and a connection request fo sho muthafuggers but asking someone I’ve met socially if I can add them on Facebook? Paroxysms of fear.

Simon

It’s all a bit pathet (which isn’t Sanskrit for ‘really cool way to live’ no matter what Ross Geller says) that I as a fully grown woman am too chicken shit and riddled with self-esteem issues to deal with this. It’s like come the fuck on, pull on your (very) big girl panties and get on with it.

Take the Cool Girl from Twitter (hereafter CGfT) – I asked her advice on something chick lit related (we both agreed we’d like to kick that term in the fanny) and from there started chatting about life. We live in the same city, she works at the same place I used to work, we’re both writing books (She is working on her third! Books one and two available here) and we both like alcoholic beverages. So far so kosher. But oh me oh my I fretted over asking whether she’d like to get together for a drinkie or two. Honestly, you’d have thought I was asking her to marry me or to take one of her children as a slave. She replied with a ‘heck yeah!’ and suddenly the weight was lifted. I felt well… I felt like a bit of a bellend to be honest (I seem to spend an inordinate amount of time feeling like an absolute throbber – note to self: work on this) that I’d worked it up into this mega. big. deal.

So we’ve said we’ll go for a drink when she is back from the continent and I am back from Singapore (oh such jet setters) but of course now comes the real crazy – what if she hates me in real actual non-internet life?!

*Ally slams her head on her desk repeatedly. Fade to black*

 

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Hot Liquid Receptacle

“It’s nice to be important but it’s important to be nice”. So says some smart aleck who probably feels very important regardless because they have a trite phrase that people trot out. In my head those people are all exactly like Patty Simcox from Grease with perky ponytails and twinsets whose farts smell like caramel and who always say fiddlesticks instead of fuck.

I am always a bit wary of people who don’t swear, mainly because I find it so satisfying to drop a fuck every now and then. It’s such a great way of punctuating things, of getting attention, and of well just expressing oneself. A family member once told me that I swear too much and that it showed a lack of vocabulary. I say fuck that, and am pleased that said family member has now joined the realms of those who love an ‘F’ bomb.

But back to the niceties. The non-swearing ‘being a good friend’ and all round wonderful human being chat. I had what can only be described as a ‘friendship disappointment’ the other day, a shock out of the blue which made tears prick my eyes and a lump form in my throat. Don’t get me wrong it also made me rage over WhatsApp to anyone who would listen but the primary feeling I had was of real true sadness.

I felt like a total mug and like I’d been taken for a ride, taken advantage of and made to feel so foolish. I determined that it was because I was too nice and the friend sat next to me disagreed because she thinks it’s impossible. I’m not talking about being Susie Sunshine to everyone you meet and nor was she, she was merely saying that where friends are concerned nothing is too much.

If you’re a friend of mine I would do anything for you let’s get that clear. I’m ride or die, get rich or die tryin’, friends ’til the end loyal, and sometimes that loyalty means I AM too nice. I’m too nice to people who don’t deserve it, who have proved either by their actions or by their complete INaction that they simply aren’t worthy. My problem is that sometimes it takes me far too long to realise it, and even then once it’s realised it can take me an age to pluck up the nuts to do anything about it. I also vacillate wildly between being hurt to the bone as I was the other day, and between making excuses for the other person. They’re tired; they have a lot on; they’re stressed; it’s a Wednesday; the weather is bad; on and on until I’ve excused away their shitty behaviour and leave myself feeling like a bad friend for thinking badly of them. A vicious circle of feeling bad upon feeling bad.

But where does it go? Where does it stop? (watch for the sign of the lollipop…) I don’t want to stop being the friend I am because let’s face it I’m fricking awesome at it, but I also don’t want to be a receptacle capable of holding hot liquid anymore.

Answers on a postcard?

 

Sunday Sound Off: Kettle Chips?!

It was so wrong it put my head into a total spin. A maelstrom of feelings kicked up inside me and I couldn’t concentrate on what I was supposed to be doing. I couldn’t even start to begin to make it right in my head, and I couldn’t imagine the sort of devil in human form who had done it.

I mean really, Pickled Onion Monster Munch in the low tier? Squares in the shit tier? Do me a freakin’ favour. The so called ‘God’ tier is so wrong I don’t even know where to start. Popcorn is fine in small doses but is no match for a lot of the potato based snacks on offer, and Kettle Chips are too crunchy and cut your mouth. That’s a neggers cheggers from me.

Pombear are the staple of a toddler’s picnic and so might be revered by parents over the world but for me they’re deeply unsatisfying (apart from the quiet time they bring when around fiddly peeps). I’d wipe Walkers off the map below for resting on their laurels and then for going way beyond the pale when they try something new – nobody wants fish and chip flavoured crisps thankyouverymuch.

unnamed-4

Nik Naks get a tick, although the Rib ‘n’ Saucy flavour are obviously far superior. Space Raiders taste like cardboard and Hula Hoops are only good for a hangover – they lose points for being too small to fit on my fingers anymore. The crisp chart was bad enough, it caused all the dramz on Twitter and it spilled over onto Facebook and then… then it went too far and they took on the biscuits. *Shakes angry fist at the sky*

 

unnamed-3

As the wonderful Susie M said on Facebook, “It takes a person with absolutely no biscuit etiquette to put a Viscount in the middle tier! It’s the biscuit of all biscuits”. You tell ’em Susie!

Throwback Thursday: Breakin’ Up Is Hard To Do 

A new series where I delve into the past nine years worth of wanging on about nonsense and share some of my favourite posts. Kicking it off with the very first post which started it all way back in September 2008. Enjoy! 

Our eyes met over the top of the carrots and in that instant I knew that rather ironically I looked exactly like a rabbit startled by a set of oncoming headlights. Unfortunately for me there wasn’t a handily placed hedgerow to hop off in to and hide. With a weak half smile I went back to absentmindedly looking for the smallest carrots I could find whilst praying to Jeebus that I’d be left to finish my shopping in peace as well as trying to blend in with the display of potatoes behind me.
Feeling like I was being hunted I stalked over to the sad girl aisle aka ‘ready meals for one’ desperately hoping that he’d hop back on his bike and pedal out of my life once more. Just as I reached for a cottage pie emblazoned ‘JUST FOR ONE’ in huge orange letters the hairs on the back of my neck stood up and then ‘Long Tall Ally how lovely to see you’. Taking a deep breath I turned to face the man who was responsible for tearing my heart out through my chest less than seven years ago. And just my luck he was looking disgustingly handsome, tanned and……… MARRIED! There it was, the platinum band on his ring finger, and yep, incoming Blonde with a honeymoon tan and grin on her face a mile wide. Quite apart from the tropical tan I could tell the wedding wasn’t long ago due to the fact that they were both exuding post shag euphoria and were practically frotting over their smug married trolley.
I must have done something really heinous in a previous life, perhaps I was Hitler or maybe even Stalin but for some reason quick pleasantries were not the order of the day and he wanted a rundown of what/who I was doing since he performed open heart surgery on me sans anaesthetic. Smug marriedness was oozing from every perfect pore of his as he trotted out the questions every single non career girl dreads. I like to think of them as ‘The Big Three’ –> Where are you living? Where are you working? And the doozy, Are you seeing anyone? Ugh.
I made my excuses and a swift exit spending the next half hour dancing through the aisles trying to avoid having to bump in to them again as I couldn’t guarantee I wouldn’t dismember him with the shop’s bacon slicer, before heading home to divvy up my food in to ‘petit portionettes’ to suit my new little pouch. People must think I’m Skippy the Bush Kangaroo when I keep going on about my pouch, I swear my colleagues think I’m going to pop out a joey and hop round the office wearing boxing gloves. They would be most disappointed to hear that actually the pouch is the latest weapon in Long Tall Ally’s arsenal to let the skinny girl out. I bought a thigh toner in Argos on the way home so I can transform myself in to a hardbodied Muscle Mary although I do realise the transformation is going to be a LOT harder if I don’t bring it in from the backseat of my car.

Even after my nightmare shopping scenario (binge eater has emotional crisis in supermarket and escapes unscathed!) it turned in to a momentous occasion as I realised whilst lying in bed that (ignoring the size of the junk in my trunk which rivals Germany) I have a flat stomach! And more than just having a flat tum, I could actually see.my.ladygarden! I’ll just say that again for those in the cheap seats, I could see my lady garden! But the joy didn’t end there, oh no ladies and gentlemen I could in fact still see my lady lawn when I stood up. *cue trumpeting choruses of angels* The skinny minnies of the world cannot understand the delight in not having to move ones belly out of the way to reassure myself that I am in fact female and that my chest appendages aren’t just a big old pair of man boobs however it’s better than cream cakes, than Jimmy Choo, than sex! In fact, I’d happily wager it’s better than all three at once.

Here We Go Again…

Selling a dream

A dream? Darling that line is a NIGHTMARE but yes, I am in fact really that tall. This message reminded me of the man who refused to believe I was 6’2″ and kept asking me how tall I was really. I kept confirming that yes, I was indeed 6’2″ and then he asked how tall I was REALLY and I realised I was busted.

Me: I’m 1 metre 88 centimetres

Him: oh cool (beat…) Hey! That’s 6″2″!

Give. Me. Strength.

Sometimes you see a username and unlike all the ‘sexybigboy4U’ nonsense it gives you a little bit of hope. I clocked a message late last night and was pleasantly surprised because I thought the username was a subtle head nod to one of my favourite TV shows, ‘Community’ but in an effort to play it cool I didn’t open it and went off to sleep.

200_s

‘_cool_cool’ turned out to be anything but. His late night message of ‘cant sleep at all lol hows u?’ (grammar model’s own) was a thinly veiled booty call and so because I hadn’t replied immediately he blocked me. I’m heartbroken, honestly. How will I cope, life can’t go on, wah wah wah etc. My broken heart was mended slightly by the next love missive, because really who doesn’t want to be told they’re as rare as a diamond? Knowing my luck though I’d be a conflict diamond with a bloody past explored by Leo Di Caprio with a dodgy accent in a Hollywood blockbuster.

Brightest creation

From there it got more promising (and thankfully, less cheesy) with a question I could probably write an essay on…

John Hughes

Surely it has to be Jake Ryan turning up at the church where Samantha Baker is wearing an 80’s heinous bridesmaids dress and flower crown? The ball achingly awkward chat on the street before they end up sat on a table sharing a kiss over her birthday cake? *Chandler voice* Could that BE any more perfect? (answers on a postcard please) Also, massive hat tip to Long Duk Dong for, well, being Long Duk Dong *heart eyes emoji*

Then came an offer I… well, I COULD refuse. I’m a one man woman, and let’s face it he doesn’t just want someone who can play with other guys when she wants. He wants someone who can play with other guys when she wants… as long as he can watch whilst deep breathing and frigging himself off in the corner of the room.  And I’m not about that life.

Play away

 

I’m also not about getting messages which sound like the start of a cover letter for a job application – it is NOT hard work dating me, no matter what you may have heard to the contrary. I mean ‘Tell me again about being a sustainability champion’ is hardly pillow talk is it.

Educated

I know, sexy right? *Fans self* And to round off this wander through my inbox let me present Mr Tally Ho:

British 1

High Tea at Harrods? Yes. Mapping each other’s personal psychology? Heck NO. You do NOT need to know the inner workings of my psyche until, well until never really. That’s a surefire passion killer amirite? And to just confirm that us Brits are nothing more than a stereotype:

British 3

So internet friends, which would YOU pick?

Lesbians, Little White Lies and Lipglossiping

Driving home tonight I was having a full on rant about a person who had pissed me off, they weren’t in the car but I was determined to get all the things I should have said off my chest. I was so wound up that my stomach started to hurt and I could feel a vein in my temple throbbing. Not cool.

Suddenly I remembered a tip I read somewhere the other day to sing any negative thoughts to the tune of “Happy Birthday”. Conscious of the need to calm down a bit before meeting my lovely friend Lipglossiping I gave it a whirl. Turning the radio down I belted out:

“Yes I think you’re a twat, you have no manners, if you speak to me like that again then I’ll punch you in the face”. (go on, sing it!)

I couldn’t help but smile as I realised how ridiculous it was and how silly I must have sounded and I started to laugh. A LOT. Before I knew it my mood had calmed and I had a smile on my face. It’s definitely a technique I’ll be using again.

Walking through the shopping centre I clocked the film rental man from a mile off and steadfastly tried to avoid his gaze but it was no good, “Excuse me Madam”
“Sorry! I’m already a customer!” I trilled. A total lie but he wasn’t to know.

I met with lovely Lipglossiping to have a coffee, chat and shop (a Pret ‘n’ Shop) and it was really nice to see her. We caught up over lardy cream laden hot drinks and then had a mooch round the shops. I was good and didn’t buy anything but I relished my role as enabler that’s for sure!

After a couple of hours shopping we stopped for another drink and feeling my bladder was about to explode I excused myself and headed for the ladies. I’d almost reached the safety of the escalator when I heard a familiar voice, “Excuse me Madam, do you watch movies?”
Balls. It was Mr Movie trying to lure me into his web of monthly payments,
“Still a customer!” I shrieked, by this time concerned I was about to piss myself. Clearly knowing I was lying he was undeterred,
“What package are you on?” Fuck.
“I don’t know, my girlfriend sorted it out!” I yelled at him before escaping down the escalator.

Why the fuck did I say that?! I don’t have a boyfriend let alone an imaginary girlfriend! I like girls but not in that way and really why didn’t I just say “I can’t remember”.

What a nob.

Guest Blogger: Lorns Little Ramble…

An avid reader of this blog, it is great to be able to have the opportunity to appear as a guest writer. It almost makes me feel famous!…

When invited to do this, I thought long and hard about what I could say. How could I match up to the satirical wit that is our Long Tall Ally? I mean, Short, squat Lorns doesn’t quite have the same ring to it, does it?

However, the way I see it, we all have our very own ‘tales from the scales’. For me, it’s been a lifelong battle, I am like Oprah, but without the TV show and huge salary.

I worked out tonight that in my life I have been on 37 diets. I remember once just eating hot dogs out of a tin with a side of beetroot. I have joined Slimming World, Weight Watchers, and Rosemary what’s her face, and once even went to a dance class at Pineapple Dance Studio. It was mirrored, I was in hell, enough said. So 37 diets, which is one diet a year for the whole of my life! Even my recent dalliance with breast cancer made me wonder if somehow, as a fringe benefit, I could lose some of the chubb. Instead though, all I got was ‘ROID RAGE’ – pumped full of steroids which made the water sit on the fat and make me look even more like a sumo wrestler, but at least this time round, I really didn’t care as it meant I was getting better right? Woo hoo.

Yeah, so I mentioned the breast cancer then? Also known as boobie C, bad boobie, bastard boobie and boobies with attitude. Being diagnosed with this put everything into perspective. It suddenly makes you realise that life is happening whilst worrying about the size of your arse. I had a bigger fear, a bigger worry. It seems extreme but the day I was diagnosed I remember saying ‘Dear God, I will never bitch about myself or anyone again as long as I am OK’. Seriously though, the joker upstairs realised that this could never be the case and so a boobie chop was on the cards, along with chemo and radio gaga and more of the same. Lather rinse repeat…

I realise this isn’t a laugh a minute post, but I have never actually written about this in this way before. I am not even sure you will end up reading it. Cancer suddenly threw any worry about my big hips, my massive boobs, and my chubby arms into perspective. They may have been chubby but they were mine! I would even go as far to say that I now embrace the curves, I look forward to my breast reconstruction, I get excited about my hair growing, I love life again. I love myself at last. It’s a shame it took cancer to do that, but salvation comes in many shapes and forms.

I just read this out to D. The man who has been at my side throughout my illness. He has just told me that he doesn’t see ‘any of that’ – when he looks at me, he just sees me. That’s pretty cool eh.

I am not saying that I will never moan about my chubbiness again, that never will I look longingly at the low cut number in Reiss and wail ‘IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN ME’, but what I have now is perspective, family, friends, and hope.

Indeed, it seems the future is peachy – or maybe that’s just my arse?