I think I may talk too much. For those of you that know me you will be forgiven for rolling around on the floor at this stage. I know I talk too much. My mother likes to tell all that I'm 'Olympic Level' at talking too much, but this morning when spending a delightful morning with one of the most delightful girls that ever graced this planet, I felt I talked excessively and did not give her the chance to have her fair share of ranting opportunity.
My friend, known henceforth as 'The Darling One', is just one of those people that is an absolute joy to be around. She is sweet and caring, funny and silly and with enough gumption to get really heated when something has annoyed her, making her, therefore, not in the least bit tedious or dull in her niceties. I could spend hours with the girl and not get bored in the slightest. She's a rare find and someone who I think I will be friends with for a long time to come. Or at least I very much hope I will.
Today we met for breakfast where I had a slice of red wine and chocolate cake (heaven itself) and she a slice of the banana cake. Both incredible and a highly recommended way to spend ones Sunday morning. We did not brave the outside along the river front, however, as it was just that bit too nippy and the sun had yet to show its face. It was, as The Darling One would say, 'beyond perf'. But as I sit in my living with my flatmate completing a painful amount of paperwork for my placement, I can't help but think yet again I did not give The Darling One enough space or time to rant herself. She listened to me and of course I am not so selfish as to not give her any time to have a rant herself, but my question is, did I give her enough time? Did she feel as if she was able to get enough off her chest? (so to speak, you dirty minded individuals...tut tut!) She is such a sweetheart and I know what she needs more than anything right now is to be heard, and I just hope that in the course of our morning that she realises just how much she was. I agree with all the little irritations in her life and think she actually has the patience of a saint as well as being totally (sorry, The Darling One, I of course mean 'totes') justified in her frustrations.
So I guess this is just a wee post to let The Darling One know that my morning was the perfect blend of relaxation and release and that next time she is only to put on her teaching voice and tell me 'it's The Darling One's turn to talk now'. For her, I would gladly shut the hell up and do my very best 'active listening' for as long as she needed. I might even get a 'star' for such good listening. Oh wait, no! That 'star' will always belong to The Darling One.
Sunday 27 March 2011
Saturday 26 March 2011
It is a truth universally acknowledged...
My wonderfully dramatic sister is pregnant. I am going to be an aunt. An Aunt! This fills me with more excitement than all of the episodes of Boardwalk Empire put together. Yes, put together, it really is that exciting! So exciting in fact, I felt the need to put an exclamation mark.
My sister, who I do simply call 'Sister', is a petit 5ft with a tiny frame to match which meant she could get away with buying a child's ticket on any railway until she was 26. Her husband, my brother-in-law, who is for rather juvenile reasons known as 'Dr. Karl'. No, his name is not Karl, nor is he a doctor, he is however, a rather generous 6ft 4 and is built, for want of a nicer expression, like a brick-shit-house. My favourite outburst from my tiny sister was on an evening when little Bob, as we all call the bump, would not sit still and 'Sister' out of no where cried out "Sit. Still. Bob. Why did I have to marry someone with Giant! Man! Sperm!!" It was so unexpected that half a can of coke came torpedoing out of both my mouth or nostrils. It was a rather attractive look, I can tell you. I may try to recreate this look on my next date, it's a sure fire man magnet, for sure.
My wee niece is due sometime in May (I can't be too accurate here as there is a debate over the due date between the hospital and the midwife), although Sister already looks ready to burst, and the time has come to think about 'Baby Showers'. In true Sister style, she has told everyone else that I am organising it without asking me first. I was told by way of a tweet from a mutual friend informing me we were organising a baby shower for my sister. On further investigation it turned out that I was in fact organising the blessed event and the mutual friend was only helping out here and there wherever needed. Wonderful. If the prospect of four assignments over the Easter period wasn't daunting enough, now I have a baby shower to organise. Have I mentioned that Sister is somewhat of a perfectionist?
I am now having constant permonitions that if this baby shower is not the perfect image Sister has built up in her head then this whole episode will be brought up during every argument and every cross word we ever have from now until we're 90. Sister brought up some irrelevant matter that happened when I was 7 and she was 10 not two months ago; she'll be 30 in November.
And so I am left to wrack my brains to create the perfect baby shower during one of the busiest times of my life. Am I allowed to panic yet? Just a little. However, although Sister is dramatic beyond the realms of normal human behaviour, and although, she may fly off the handle at the flip of a switch, she is my sister, my only sister and I love her dearly. She can always cheer me up when I am down just by uttering the word 'a-wibble' or even 'Bob'. She deserves a wonderful baby shower for my first wee niece and for herself, and so I take on this fairly mammoth task and I take it on almost as excited as I take on being an aunt.
'Baby tasting food' be gone (yes, that's really what was being suggested...), Jane Austen style tea party commense.
I'll keep you all posted...literally.
My sister, who I do simply call 'Sister', is a petit 5ft with a tiny frame to match which meant she could get away with buying a child's ticket on any railway until she was 26. Her husband, my brother-in-law, who is for rather juvenile reasons known as 'Dr. Karl'. No, his name is not Karl, nor is he a doctor, he is however, a rather generous 6ft 4 and is built, for want of a nicer expression, like a brick-shit-house. My favourite outburst from my tiny sister was on an evening when little Bob, as we all call the bump, would not sit still and 'Sister' out of no where cried out "Sit. Still. Bob. Why did I have to marry someone with Giant! Man! Sperm!!" It was so unexpected that half a can of coke came torpedoing out of both my mouth or nostrils. It was a rather attractive look, I can tell you. I may try to recreate this look on my next date, it's a sure fire man magnet, for sure.
My wee niece is due sometime in May (I can't be too accurate here as there is a debate over the due date between the hospital and the midwife), although Sister already looks ready to burst, and the time has come to think about 'Baby Showers'. In true Sister style, she has told everyone else that I am organising it without asking me first. I was told by way of a tweet from a mutual friend informing me we were organising a baby shower for my sister. On further investigation it turned out that I was in fact organising the blessed event and the mutual friend was only helping out here and there wherever needed. Wonderful. If the prospect of four assignments over the Easter period wasn't daunting enough, now I have a baby shower to organise. Have I mentioned that Sister is somewhat of a perfectionist?
I am now having constant permonitions that if this baby shower is not the perfect image Sister has built up in her head then this whole episode will be brought up during every argument and every cross word we ever have from now until we're 90. Sister brought up some irrelevant matter that happened when I was 7 and she was 10 not two months ago; she'll be 30 in November.
And so I am left to wrack my brains to create the perfect baby shower during one of the busiest times of my life. Am I allowed to panic yet? Just a little. However, although Sister is dramatic beyond the realms of normal human behaviour, and although, she may fly off the handle at the flip of a switch, she is my sister, my only sister and I love her dearly. She can always cheer me up when I am down just by uttering the word 'a-wibble' or even 'Bob'. She deserves a wonderful baby shower for my first wee niece and for herself, and so I take on this fairly mammoth task and I take it on almost as excited as I take on being an aunt.
'Baby tasting food' be gone (yes, that's really what was being suggested...), Jane Austen style tea party commense.
I'll keep you all posted...literally.
Tuesday 22 March 2011
It's the little things that can be utter shite too...
I might have mentioned that it is the little things in life that lift your spirits and put a smile on your face, such as the sun shinning, but as with most things in life the same can be true in reverse. Meaning of course, it's also the little things that turn your day into one of doom and gloom. I am not one to be dramatic though, clearly. Ahem.
I love the world of social networking but in the same breath, I hate them rather profoundly. They are a great way for lazy people to share information and news with the ones they love, as they are great for finding details you wouldn't ordinarily ask someone. The polite girl inside me performs a wee dance whenever a piece of gossip I would naturally feel too rude to ask is shared for all the world (or 400 or so friends) to read. I don't know about you, but some days when procrastination is in full swing I find myself on photo 365 of not even a friend, but a friend of a friend. At that point alarm bells usually come out in great force screaming 'Shitting Hell, You Don't Even Know This Person! STEP AWAY FROM THE COMPUTER!' I always obey. The screaming then stops and a snide wee 'Weirdo' usually ends my social networking procrastination once and for all. For that day at least. I hasten to add though, that I am no where near needing 'social network rehab' as some poor folk have in Italy. Can you imagine requesting leave from work to attend rehab for your social networking addiction? Oh, the shame can surely get no greater.
However, although I'm far from an addict of such networks, I do like to have a good old stalk now and again, as I have found out do most of my friends. Hurrah for them all, I say (if only to reassure me that I'm not quite so odd). But as my profoundly wise mother has always said to me 'if you eavesdrop or snoop around, you may not always like what you hear or find.' How true those words are, and the really annoying thing is, for me, the majority of what I stumble across that 'upsets/confuses' me is harmless but at that point in time I am not aware its harmless nature and spend hours or even days, depending on the person whose page I have opened, going over what could be meant by a 'like' of a box or a third parties message plastered on a page for all to see.
During placement, I am all too aware of my emotions and just how many of them I seem to have. This cocktailed with a baffling find or conversation on a social network results in an altogether frustrating evening and frankly, makes me realise how very much I am missing my slumber during this time of placement. And this from a girl who 'doesn't pay enough attention' or 'care enough' in relationships. Fuck me, how do the rest of you cope if I am one who usually shies away from relationships?
Where the bloody hell is Dynasty when you need her with a bottle full of Coke Gold and inappropriate comments?
I love the world of social networking but in the same breath, I hate them rather profoundly. They are a great way for lazy people to share information and news with the ones they love, as they are great for finding details you wouldn't ordinarily ask someone. The polite girl inside me performs a wee dance whenever a piece of gossip I would naturally feel too rude to ask is shared for all the world (or 400 or so friends) to read. I don't know about you, but some days when procrastination is in full swing I find myself on photo 365 of not even a friend, but a friend of a friend. At that point alarm bells usually come out in great force screaming 'Shitting Hell, You Don't Even Know This Person! STEP AWAY FROM THE COMPUTER!' I always obey. The screaming then stops and a snide wee 'Weirdo' usually ends my social networking procrastination once and for all. For that day at least. I hasten to add though, that I am no where near needing 'social network rehab' as some poor folk have in Italy. Can you imagine requesting leave from work to attend rehab for your social networking addiction? Oh, the shame can surely get no greater.
However, although I'm far from an addict of such networks, I do like to have a good old stalk now and again, as I have found out do most of my friends. Hurrah for them all, I say (if only to reassure me that I'm not quite so odd). But as my profoundly wise mother has always said to me 'if you eavesdrop or snoop around, you may not always like what you hear or find.' How true those words are, and the really annoying thing is, for me, the majority of what I stumble across that 'upsets/confuses' me is harmless but at that point in time I am not aware its harmless nature and spend hours or even days, depending on the person whose page I have opened, going over what could be meant by a 'like' of a box or a third parties message plastered on a page for all to see.
During placement, I am all too aware of my emotions and just how many of them I seem to have. This cocktailed with a baffling find or conversation on a social network results in an altogether frustrating evening and frankly, makes me realise how very much I am missing my slumber during this time of placement. And this from a girl who 'doesn't pay enough attention' or 'care enough' in relationships. Fuck me, how do the rest of you cope if I am one who usually shies away from relationships?
Where the bloody hell is Dynasty when you need her with a bottle full of Coke Gold and inappropriate comments?
Monday 21 March 2011
It's the little things in life...
I know it's an old cliche (still haven't worked out how to put that blasted 'accent' over the damn 'e' yet...bloody thing), but it really rung true last week.
I don't know about you, but I am not a fan of Monday mornings. Even typing the words produces a snarl on my face. My weekend always rushes past me faster than the Delorean at full speed, and the two short days I have to myself never feel long enough. I have always been atrocious at getting up in the morning, my mum often likes to retell the story, to anyone who will listen, about the time at the age of four I burst into tears and struggled through my sobs to ask if I had 'been naughty' after she informed me that we had to leave the house at 5am to be able to board our ferry (to go on holiday) on time. She still finds this story as funny as the day I broke down in tears all those years ago. She's a woman of simple pleasure, as you can see. I have always been a complete Night Owl and find it far easier to remain awake for hours on end rather than drag myself away from my slumber in the early hours of the morning.
During my time on my teaching practice I have been rising at 6.30am each and every day, which for me is hell. I know it's pitiful to hate mornings as much as I do and I really don't have anything to begrudge or wail about; it's just a morning after all. I do try not to moan; whether I succeed or not is another matter entirely. Ever since I was little I get a sickly feeling in the pit of my stomach if I have to wake too early which remains with me for the majority of the day. I am improving though and even prefer it when I have risen early, as I have a far more productive day...what progress! With all this being said, my heart can't help but sink ever so slightly when that alarm goes off at 6.30am on yet another day of pretending to be a teacher.
You can imagine then the great surprise to me last Monday morning when I found myself ready for the school week almost half an hour early. I was even able to have a leisurely breakfast in my kitchen, an entirely alien concept to me, and I still managed to stroll into the school early (I hate to think how smug my smile was...). Not only this, but as I walked the short distance from the arrival spot of my bus to the school itself, I found myself smiling contently. What!? Did I not realise it was way before 8am and I was heading to a mainstream class and not a special needs one?? Who on earth had I turned into? There was only one thing that had changed from all those other tedious mornings heading into school, and that was that the sun was out in full force and there was not a cloud in the sky. It was bloody magnificent! Could that really be the only reason for my good mood though? Yes, in short. It really was as simple as that; the sun was out and everything looked just marvellous, even if it was more than a wee bit nippy. Who knew that such a simple thing could change my morning mood so completely. If you knew me and my general mood during the wee small hours, then you will realise what a one-eighty this was.
I have in previous posts mentioned my best friend, The Blonde One, but I haven't mentioned that I am lucky enough to have two best friends. Believe me, I know how very 'primary school' that sounds, but it is true. There's not a day go past when I don't smile about how lucky I am to have not one but two girls that I love so completely I couldn't live without them. The more people I meet in my life the more I realise how rare it is to have one friend that you can share your entire world with and I am lucky enough to have two. To rub it in just that bit more, the three of us are as close as I am to each of them separately. I very often get to spend the evening with two of my very favourite people at the same time and it never ceases to amaze me how much fun we have, especially when we are doing absolutely nothing whatsoever.
On Friday night I spent the evening with 'The One That Isn't The Blone One'; ok, that's far too much of a mouth full, so let's just call her 'Dynasty'. I had one of the most enjoyable evenings I have had in a long time. We weren't drinking, we didn't go out anywhere special nor did we have a majorly exciting night-in planned. No, we simply sat on her bed in her Studio apartment in North London drinking far too much Diet Coke Gold and watching Comic Relief. But that's the beauty of a best friend isn't it. I often become far more high and altogether ridiculous when drinking Diet Coke Gold with Dynasty than on an evening out with others I know. I really don't mean this an insult to my other friends, far from it, but there is something about spending time with Dynasty doing very little that always regenerates me so entirely that I leave her feeling as if I have had a long weekend at a spa resort. I know which one my bank balance prefers, and frankly, I bloody well agree.
This has lead me to the conclusion that it really is the simplest things in life that turn my week around; the sun shinning; getting high on Diet Coke Gold, pondering through the 'buyagift' catalogue to see what delights could await us when we choose to spend Dynasty's gift voucher (our favourite was a Llama experience in Devon...but it's all the way in Devon. Damn you, Devon. Damn you!) and getting mocked for my very dyslexic ways. Oh and *blushes with pride* receiving a hand made card from the most enthusiastic pupil on placement decorated with hearts and the most darling drawing of me as a 'princess'. If I asked his mum nicely, can I keep him??
And now, as I sit here, the sun is shinning once again and I am awaiting the arrival of two of my favourite girls from the University of Shiteland that are guaranteed to help me rant my frustration out as they did all those weeks ago when I first started this blog. Bliss, I tell thee, utter bliss. Sunglasses at the ready...I think so!
P.S. What could I possibly have to moan about after reading that post, I hear you ask? There is always something; as I mentioned once before...ranting is just good for the soul!
I don't know about you, but I am not a fan of Monday mornings. Even typing the words produces a snarl on my face. My weekend always rushes past me faster than the Delorean at full speed, and the two short days I have to myself never feel long enough. I have always been atrocious at getting up in the morning, my mum often likes to retell the story, to anyone who will listen, about the time at the age of four I burst into tears and struggled through my sobs to ask if I had 'been naughty' after she informed me that we had to leave the house at 5am to be able to board our ferry (to go on holiday) on time. She still finds this story as funny as the day I broke down in tears all those years ago. She's a woman of simple pleasure, as you can see. I have always been a complete Night Owl and find it far easier to remain awake for hours on end rather than drag myself away from my slumber in the early hours of the morning.
During my time on my teaching practice I have been rising at 6.30am each and every day, which for me is hell. I know it's pitiful to hate mornings as much as I do and I really don't have anything to begrudge or wail about; it's just a morning after all. I do try not to moan; whether I succeed or not is another matter entirely. Ever since I was little I get a sickly feeling in the pit of my stomach if I have to wake too early which remains with me for the majority of the day. I am improving though and even prefer it when I have risen early, as I have a far more productive day...what progress! With all this being said, my heart can't help but sink ever so slightly when that alarm goes off at 6.30am on yet another day of pretending to be a teacher.
You can imagine then the great surprise to me last Monday morning when I found myself ready for the school week almost half an hour early. I was even able to have a leisurely breakfast in my kitchen, an entirely alien concept to me, and I still managed to stroll into the school early (I hate to think how smug my smile was...). Not only this, but as I walked the short distance from the arrival spot of my bus to the school itself, I found myself smiling contently. What!? Did I not realise it was way before 8am and I was heading to a mainstream class and not a special needs one?? Who on earth had I turned into? There was only one thing that had changed from all those other tedious mornings heading into school, and that was that the sun was out in full force and there was not a cloud in the sky. It was bloody magnificent! Could that really be the only reason for my good mood though? Yes, in short. It really was as simple as that; the sun was out and everything looked just marvellous, even if it was more than a wee bit nippy. Who knew that such a simple thing could change my morning mood so completely. If you knew me and my general mood during the wee small hours, then you will realise what a one-eighty this was.
I have in previous posts mentioned my best friend, The Blonde One, but I haven't mentioned that I am lucky enough to have two best friends. Believe me, I know how very 'primary school' that sounds, but it is true. There's not a day go past when I don't smile about how lucky I am to have not one but two girls that I love so completely I couldn't live without them. The more people I meet in my life the more I realise how rare it is to have one friend that you can share your entire world with and I am lucky enough to have two. To rub it in just that bit more, the three of us are as close as I am to each of them separately. I very often get to spend the evening with two of my very favourite people at the same time and it never ceases to amaze me how much fun we have, especially when we are doing absolutely nothing whatsoever.
On Friday night I spent the evening with 'The One That Isn't The Blone One'; ok, that's far too much of a mouth full, so let's just call her 'Dynasty'. I had one of the most enjoyable evenings I have had in a long time. We weren't drinking, we didn't go out anywhere special nor did we have a majorly exciting night-in planned. No, we simply sat on her bed in her Studio apartment in North London drinking far too much Diet Coke Gold and watching Comic Relief. But that's the beauty of a best friend isn't it. I often become far more high and altogether ridiculous when drinking Diet Coke Gold with Dynasty than on an evening out with others I know. I really don't mean this an insult to my other friends, far from it, but there is something about spending time with Dynasty doing very little that always regenerates me so entirely that I leave her feeling as if I have had a long weekend at a spa resort. I know which one my bank balance prefers, and frankly, I bloody well agree.
This has lead me to the conclusion that it really is the simplest things in life that turn my week around; the sun shinning; getting high on Diet Coke Gold, pondering through the 'buyagift' catalogue to see what delights could await us when we choose to spend Dynasty's gift voucher (our favourite was a Llama experience in Devon...but it's all the way in Devon. Damn you, Devon. Damn you!) and getting mocked for my very dyslexic ways. Oh and *blushes with pride* receiving a hand made card from the most enthusiastic pupil on placement decorated with hearts and the most darling drawing of me as a 'princess'. If I asked his mum nicely, can I keep him??
And now, as I sit here, the sun is shinning once again and I am awaiting the arrival of two of my favourite girls from the University of Shiteland that are guaranteed to help me rant my frustration out as they did all those weeks ago when I first started this blog. Bliss, I tell thee, utter bliss. Sunglasses at the ready...I think so!
P.S. What could I possibly have to moan about after reading that post, I hear you ask? There is always something; as I mentioned once before...ranting is just good for the soul!
Thursday 17 March 2011
Open up my eager eyes...
Recently, after a hard day, I went to the uni pub with several girlfriends and one male friend. As always happens when females and alcohol are mixed together, the conversation turned to relationships. Females drunkenly talking about relationships inevitably turns into 'sex talk' and before too long you are sitting around discussing 'your first time' as openly as if you were discussing your latest Zara purchase. I don't know how this happens, but somehow it does.
Fear not, this is not going to be a weird sex post, I'm far too catholic for that. I may not mind discussing it with my friends, but physically writing it down and posting it into the world of cyber space for all to read is just a step too far for me.
As the evening went on in the pub it became clear that for most, their first time was either a horrendous experience they would rather not discuss, something they regretted immediately afterwards or just something that was a bit 'bleugh', I think was the word used. I felt a mixture of pride, glee and guilt that my first time was none of those things. Not only do I have no regrets over my first time but I actually just really enjoyed mine, to be honest. The boy is question (hmmm...I think I'll call him 'F1'. If you knew him, the name would make sense) was not a long term boyfriend I had been with for years nor was he an old childhood friend that I had made a pact with (it scares me the number of old school friends of mine that forged such pacts AND followed through with them. What can I say, I attended a secondary school where the majority of pupils, in my year at least, would have been well suited as a cast member of 'Dawson's Creek'), no, F1 was a close friend of The Blonde One who I had a soft spot for for a little while. When we got to know each other properly and started seeing each other, everything just happened very naturally. For those of you that have read previous posts you will be well aware that anything to do with romance must be not be forced and must come as a matter of course. I do realise how very silly I sound, yes, you've no need to worry.
The night in question was all my decision, although he did seem more than a little pleased by it. It was everything a girl could have hoped for in the circumstances, if you'll mind the cliche (how do you get the acute accent on that 'e' on this blog??). I always knew that I was in the minority, so many of my friends can hardly bring themselves to think about their first time, but hearing my young uni friends speaking and ranting about their first time it became all the more clear that I really am tremendously lucky and owe a lot to F1.
I spent some time after this drunken evening trying to work out why my experience seems so different from many of my friends. Why am I lucky enough to look back on the whole experience with fondness? Once again, I'm really not sure. F1 and I weren't 'together' for long as the distance between us (roughly a hundred and forty miles away...I know, I know, when will I find a boy that doesn't reside over a hundred miles from me? I don't make it easy for myself do I?) was too much for a male university student to handle, and frankly, that hurt, but it doesn't take away from anything that happened on that memorable evening. So it clearly wasn't the situation as a whole, I felt almost heart broken afterwards (goodness me, can't girls be dramatic). So what was it? I have racked my brains and the only thing I have come up with is that I waited. That is all. I was not all that young, I was no '40 year old virgin' either, I thank you, but I hadn't just come of age either. I didn't wait for true love, no, I am not that patient, but nor did I jump into bed with the first young whipper snapper that asked me. With a larger than average cup size, men do seem to 'offer' their services rather quickly regardless of whether or not they find you attractive.
I always knew I wanted to wait a while but when I was sixteen my first love broke my heart so whole heartedly that I had no intention of rushing anything. At the time, I felt that if it wasn't with my first love, I just didn't want to bother. The older I got, the more nerve wracking it became, but I still wasn't willing to ruin the fact that I had waited on just 'some guy'. So when F1 and I became closer, I finally felt as if I had waited long enough.
I'm not saying that waiting is the only way to ensure a favourable first time, a friend of mine lost her virginity at a fairly young age and has no regrets whatsoever, but for me, waiting until I had found someone I felt was worthy of being my first has meant that I am lucky enough to look back on my time with F1 and smile, and that will always mean the world to me.
And who says a drunken conversation has to end badly. How little you know.
Fear not, this is not going to be a weird sex post, I'm far too catholic for that. I may not mind discussing it with my friends, but physically writing it down and posting it into the world of cyber space for all to read is just a step too far for me.
As the evening went on in the pub it became clear that for most, their first time was either a horrendous experience they would rather not discuss, something they regretted immediately afterwards or just something that was a bit 'bleugh', I think was the word used. I felt a mixture of pride, glee and guilt that my first time was none of those things. Not only do I have no regrets over my first time but I actually just really enjoyed mine, to be honest. The boy is question (hmmm...I think I'll call him 'F1'. If you knew him, the name would make sense) was not a long term boyfriend I had been with for years nor was he an old childhood friend that I had made a pact with (it scares me the number of old school friends of mine that forged such pacts AND followed through with them. What can I say, I attended a secondary school where the majority of pupils, in my year at least, would have been well suited as a cast member of 'Dawson's Creek'), no, F1 was a close friend of The Blonde One who I had a soft spot for for a little while. When we got to know each other properly and started seeing each other, everything just happened very naturally. For those of you that have read previous posts you will be well aware that anything to do with romance must be not be forced and must come as a matter of course. I do realise how very silly I sound, yes, you've no need to worry.
The night in question was all my decision, although he did seem more than a little pleased by it. It was everything a girl could have hoped for in the circumstances, if you'll mind the cliche (how do you get the acute accent on that 'e' on this blog??). I always knew that I was in the minority, so many of my friends can hardly bring themselves to think about their first time, but hearing my young uni friends speaking and ranting about their first time it became all the more clear that I really am tremendously lucky and owe a lot to F1.
I spent some time after this drunken evening trying to work out why my experience seems so different from many of my friends. Why am I lucky enough to look back on the whole experience with fondness? Once again, I'm really not sure. F1 and I weren't 'together' for long as the distance between us (roughly a hundred and forty miles away...I know, I know, when will I find a boy that doesn't reside over a hundred miles from me? I don't make it easy for myself do I?) was too much for a male university student to handle, and frankly, that hurt, but it doesn't take away from anything that happened on that memorable evening. So it clearly wasn't the situation as a whole, I felt almost heart broken afterwards (goodness me, can't girls be dramatic). So what was it? I have racked my brains and the only thing I have come up with is that I waited. That is all. I was not all that young, I was no '40 year old virgin' either, I thank you, but I hadn't just come of age either. I didn't wait for true love, no, I am not that patient, but nor did I jump into bed with the first young whipper snapper that asked me. With a larger than average cup size, men do seem to 'offer' their services rather quickly regardless of whether or not they find you attractive.
I always knew I wanted to wait a while but when I was sixteen my first love broke my heart so whole heartedly that I had no intention of rushing anything. At the time, I felt that if it wasn't with my first love, I just didn't want to bother. The older I got, the more nerve wracking it became, but I still wasn't willing to ruin the fact that I had waited on just 'some guy'. So when F1 and I became closer, I finally felt as if I had waited long enough.
I'm not saying that waiting is the only way to ensure a favourable first time, a friend of mine lost her virginity at a fairly young age and has no regrets whatsoever, but for me, waiting until I had found someone I felt was worthy of being my first has meant that I am lucky enough to look back on my time with F1 and smile, and that will always mean the world to me.
And who says a drunken conversation has to end badly. How little you know.
Sunday 13 March 2011
Just another reason to get over a commitment phobia...
On Friday, I well and truly needed The Blonde One.
I attended my Grandpa's funeral on Friday and it was utter shite. I am aware that funerals are not a fun way to spend ones time anyway, however, this one was particularly upsetting for a number of reasons that would be inappropriate to go into here and now. Time and Place and all that...perhaps, some people need to learn this.
The day wasn't all bad, of course. I was able to see two of my youngest cousins again, who are the most darling twin girls that have ever graced the earth. In a world full of modern technology resulting in a generation who can only seem to communicate through the world of cyber space, my cousins have managed to possess manners that would be befitting to a fairytale Princess. I got to see my (half) uncle again, who I have missed on the last few occasions when visiting my Grandpa. Upon arriving at the wake my uncle S stopped his conversation with another family member, put down his (well deserved) pint and turned to me declaring he needed to hug his 'lovely niece'. It was the favourite part of my day.
If any of the other uncles were to hug me and declare I was their lovely niece, which can happen on occassion I'll have you know, it would make me smile but I would probably forget about it within the week. Uncle S's hug and words will stay with me forever. Don't get me wrong, I adore all my uncles, however, I have not grown up with my uncle S for many reasons and knowing that he still wanted to keep a relationship going after the death of my Grandpa was the one nice thing to come out of a crappy day.
The Blonde One has been my best friend for almost a decade now, and she has been pretty terrific. When my Nanny died she offered to attend the funeral to support me; after the very first death of a child I had worked with (at a Special Needs School in my home town) happened she pampered me for the whole evening as well as the following weekend; after the first boy I ever slept with accidently broke my heart she was there and last week she threw me a 'Cheer up Jo' party (see previous post 'And the winner is The Blonde One') to well, you guessed it, cheer me up. So where was she on Friday evening when I needed her once again after returning from my Grandpa's funeral? Arriving in New York City to visit her eldest brother. And too bloody right. She rarely gets a holiday and she bloody well deserves this one. I can't expect her to drop everything every time I need her, although, she usually does. I am lucky enough to many friends that would have come over to be with me if I had asked them, however, on Friday I didn't want to make any effort whatsoever and needed someone who would just know what to do without me having to ask. I felt it was too much to put onto anyone else, but The Blonde One knows precisely what to do as she knows me better than most. Sometimes and scarily, she knows me better than I know myself.
I have come to the conclusion that I need to have a back up plan whenever The Blonde One can't be called upon to make everything better. The last funeral I attended before my Grandpa's was that of a darling little boy, My Little Dragon. He was an autistic boy I had worked with in and outside of the Special Needs school I worked for for three and a half years. My Little Dragon was turning out to be more of a cousin/adopted brother to me than someone I simply worked with. I adored him and his family and he would have been apart of my life for ever more, regardless. This was clearly not to be. His funeral was truly the most horrendous day of my life. From the size of the small wicker coffin My Little Dragon was placed in, to hearing another darling boy uttering a 'Goodbye' to his friend as they escorted the coffin out of the New College Oxford Chaple, there was not a positive emotion I could take away from that day. However, by the end of the day in question I did not feel nearly as drained as I felt on Friday (although, still just as sad) after my Grandpa's funeral. (Please do not presume that I didn't love my Grandpa very much, but the emotions running through you when you are saying goodbye and rejoicing the life of a happy fulfilled 89 year old man compared with the shock of suddenly losing a physically healthy 17 year old autistic boy who was yet to begin his life are entirely different. I loved (love) them both, but you just cannot compare the two.) But why?
My flatmate calls it the 'high fidelity' affect. The expression comes from a scene in the book/film 'high fidelity' where the main character is called up by his ex-girlfriend on the day of her fathers funeral to, how do I put this?...take her mind off things. In the film, I believe she states that she just 'wants to feel any other emotion than the one she is feeling'. I'm not suggesting that we should all call up an ex on the day of a funeral demanding a good time. That would seem more than a little inappropriate. That being said, having someone to hold you reassuring you that it's ok to be sad and kiss you to stop you from crying beats any other form of cheer up I have ever come across. I never intended to be kissed by an ex on the day of My Little Dragons funeral, but when he did kiss me it was honestly the nicest feeling to stop thinking about death and my own grief and just enjoy being held. And so I did nothing to stop him.
I don't plan to make this a regular habit but if I am to allow The Blonde One to have a life and not pressurize her to be at my beck and call from now on, I may just need to get over my commitment issues and find myself a boyfriend. If only to ensure I don't end up sitting in the corner of my sofa on the evening of the next funeral I attened in tears nursing the worst headache I have ever had.
The cousin that drove me to the funeral on Friday was effected far more than she thought she would be and I was therefore relived and, for the most part, happy that she was returning to her boyfriend for the evening when I left her. Well, actually I would say ninety per cent happy and ten per cent jealous. Ok, ok, seventy/thirty, but that's your final offer. Perhaps I can conquer this commintment phobia after all...
...Don't hold your breath though. I'm not.
I attended my Grandpa's funeral on Friday and it was utter shite. I am aware that funerals are not a fun way to spend ones time anyway, however, this one was particularly upsetting for a number of reasons that would be inappropriate to go into here and now. Time and Place and all that...perhaps, some people need to learn this.
The day wasn't all bad, of course. I was able to see two of my youngest cousins again, who are the most darling twin girls that have ever graced the earth. In a world full of modern technology resulting in a generation who can only seem to communicate through the world of cyber space, my cousins have managed to possess manners that would be befitting to a fairytale Princess. I got to see my (half) uncle again, who I have missed on the last few occasions when visiting my Grandpa. Upon arriving at the wake my uncle S stopped his conversation with another family member, put down his (well deserved) pint and turned to me declaring he needed to hug his 'lovely niece'. It was the favourite part of my day.
If any of the other uncles were to hug me and declare I was their lovely niece, which can happen on occassion I'll have you know, it would make me smile but I would probably forget about it within the week. Uncle S's hug and words will stay with me forever. Don't get me wrong, I adore all my uncles, however, I have not grown up with my uncle S for many reasons and knowing that he still wanted to keep a relationship going after the death of my Grandpa was the one nice thing to come out of a crappy day.
The Blonde One has been my best friend for almost a decade now, and she has been pretty terrific. When my Nanny died she offered to attend the funeral to support me; after the very first death of a child I had worked with (at a Special Needs School in my home town) happened she pampered me for the whole evening as well as the following weekend; after the first boy I ever slept with accidently broke my heart she was there and last week she threw me a 'Cheer up Jo' party (see previous post 'And the winner is The Blonde One') to well, you guessed it, cheer me up. So where was she on Friday evening when I needed her once again after returning from my Grandpa's funeral? Arriving in New York City to visit her eldest brother. And too bloody right. She rarely gets a holiday and she bloody well deserves this one. I can't expect her to drop everything every time I need her, although, she usually does. I am lucky enough to many friends that would have come over to be with me if I had asked them, however, on Friday I didn't want to make any effort whatsoever and needed someone who would just know what to do without me having to ask. I felt it was too much to put onto anyone else, but The Blonde One knows precisely what to do as she knows me better than most. Sometimes and scarily, she knows me better than I know myself.
I have come to the conclusion that I need to have a back up plan whenever The Blonde One can't be called upon to make everything better. The last funeral I attended before my Grandpa's was that of a darling little boy, My Little Dragon. He was an autistic boy I had worked with in and outside of the Special Needs school I worked for for three and a half years. My Little Dragon was turning out to be more of a cousin/adopted brother to me than someone I simply worked with. I adored him and his family and he would have been apart of my life for ever more, regardless. This was clearly not to be. His funeral was truly the most horrendous day of my life. From the size of the small wicker coffin My Little Dragon was placed in, to hearing another darling boy uttering a 'Goodbye' to his friend as they escorted the coffin out of the New College Oxford Chaple, there was not a positive emotion I could take away from that day. However, by the end of the day in question I did not feel nearly as drained as I felt on Friday (although, still just as sad) after my Grandpa's funeral. (Please do not presume that I didn't love my Grandpa very much, but the emotions running through you when you are saying goodbye and rejoicing the life of a happy fulfilled 89 year old man compared with the shock of suddenly losing a physically healthy 17 year old autistic boy who was yet to begin his life are entirely different. I loved (love) them both, but you just cannot compare the two.) But why?
My flatmate calls it the 'high fidelity' affect. The expression comes from a scene in the book/film 'high fidelity' where the main character is called up by his ex-girlfriend on the day of her fathers funeral to, how do I put this?...take her mind off things. In the film, I believe she states that she just 'wants to feel any other emotion than the one she is feeling'. I'm not suggesting that we should all call up an ex on the day of a funeral demanding a good time. That would seem more than a little inappropriate. That being said, having someone to hold you reassuring you that it's ok to be sad and kiss you to stop you from crying beats any other form of cheer up I have ever come across. I never intended to be kissed by an ex on the day of My Little Dragons funeral, but when he did kiss me it was honestly the nicest feeling to stop thinking about death and my own grief and just enjoy being held. And so I did nothing to stop him.
I don't plan to make this a regular habit but if I am to allow The Blonde One to have a life and not pressurize her to be at my beck and call from now on, I may just need to get over my commitment issues and find myself a boyfriend. If only to ensure I don't end up sitting in the corner of my sofa on the evening of the next funeral I attened in tears nursing the worst headache I have ever had.
The cousin that drove me to the funeral on Friday was effected far more than she thought she would be and I was therefore relived and, for the most part, happy that she was returning to her boyfriend for the evening when I left her. Well, actually I would say ninety per cent happy and ten per cent jealous. Ok, ok, seventy/thirty, but that's your final offer. Perhaps I can conquer this commintment phobia after all...
...Don't hold your breath though. I'm not.
Saturday 12 March 2011
Boardwalk Empire...my new obsession.
There is nothing I like better than getting completely engrossed into a new drama and with the end of 'Downton Abbey' last year, I was wondering what that new drama could be.
I am in the middle of my third and final teaching practice at the moment. I will not bore you with all the ins and outs of the what one has to do on a teaching practice, as I have already mentioned how very exhausting I find it (not that I am complaining, I bloody love it). However, what I will say is that getting lost in a new drama is the perfect way to escape from all the expectation that befall a trainee teacher.
A close friend of mine has recently been declaring (or more acutely, not shutting up about) his love for HBO's new Atlantic City gangster drama 'Boardwalk Empire', and so I thought it was worth a shot. Boy, was he right. I still must find a fitting way to thank him, but that is another blog for a different time.
I have not been so engrossed in a new programme since the first series of House first aired on Hallmark all those years ago. For me, the show has everything; brilliant actors delivering a simple but effective script; a Chanel-esk twenties wardrobe that could inspire any fashion week (my friend and I are especially in love with the hats that the male cast members wear - perhaps an idea for his 'thank you present'?); several love sub-plots; enough violence that even Tarantino couldn't complain; possibly the coolest era of American history and did I mention the naked ladies? I believe there is one in every other scene. Now, this doesn't particularly appeal to me, but it also doesn't take anything away either, and my goodness, it does appease the male viewers somewhat. I think my favourite 'naked' scene, would be the naked female ukulele player during a business meeting. Why is she there? Well, that's never quite clear, but it seems, like the answer to most questions around Boardwalk Empire, the answer is simply, why not!?
If you don't have a penchant for violence, then perhaps you should give this one a miss. I would say there is an 'arghhh' moment at least three or four times in every episode - so far. For me, this just keeps me in my seat watching (even if my hands are hindering my view at times), but I know many others that would rather watch paint dry than see a detective reach into a mans insides and press down until the man gives the dectective the information he is after.
I am in the middle of my third and final teaching practice at the moment. I will not bore you with all the ins and outs of the what one has to do on a teaching practice, as I have already mentioned how very exhausting I find it (not that I am complaining, I bloody love it). However, what I will say is that getting lost in a new drama is the perfect way to escape from all the expectation that befall a trainee teacher.
A close friend of mine has recently been declaring (or more acutely, not shutting up about) his love for HBO's new Atlantic City gangster drama 'Boardwalk Empire', and so I thought it was worth a shot. Boy, was he right. I still must find a fitting way to thank him, but that is another blog for a different time.
A still shot from the opening credits - Steve Buscemi as Nucky Thompson (it excites me just to look at a still...I think I may need help.)
I have not been so engrossed in a new programme since the first series of House first aired on Hallmark all those years ago. For me, the show has everything; brilliant actors delivering a simple but effective script; a Chanel-esk twenties wardrobe that could inspire any fashion week (my friend and I are especially in love with the hats that the male cast members wear - perhaps an idea for his 'thank you present'?); several love sub-plots; enough violence that even Tarantino couldn't complain; possibly the coolest era of American history and did I mention the naked ladies? I believe there is one in every other scene. Now, this doesn't particularly appeal to me, but it also doesn't take anything away either, and my goodness, it does appease the male viewers somewhat. I think my favourite 'naked' scene, would be the naked female ukulele player during a business meeting. Why is she there? Well, that's never quite clear, but it seems, like the answer to most questions around Boardwalk Empire, the answer is simply, why not!?
If you don't have a penchant for violence, then perhaps you should give this one a miss. I would say there is an 'arghhh' moment at least three or four times in every episode - so far. For me, this just keeps me in my seat watching (even if my hands are hindering my view at times), but I know many others that would rather watch paint dry than see a detective reach into a mans insides and press down until the man gives the dectective the information he is after.
And so to the characters themselves. Unlike most people, my favourite character is not immediately obvious. It is not either of the main male characters Enoch 'Nucky' Thompson (Steve Buscemi) or James 'Jimmy' Darmody (Michael Pitt); both perfect choices, I might add. It is not the violent Al Capone played by the convincing Stephen Graham, nor is it the mild mannered yet gutsy Margaret Schroeder played by the very talented Scottish beauty, Kelly MacDonald. My favourite character is none other than Eddie Kessler. For those of you who have seen this programme, I would forgive for not necessarily knowing this character by name.
Eddie Kessler is none other than Nucky's assistant and is brilliantly played by Anthony Laciura, an American Opera tenor I have since discovered. I don't know what is it that I love. Is it the characters terrible timing? - Knocking rather loudly while Nucky was being naughty with his 'gal pal' and justifying this by saying 'I heard Screaming!?' was a particular favourite. - It is this, but it's so much more. Laciura plays the proud employee with the perfect balance of conviction and compliance. Yes, the script has a lot to do with this, however, the part could so easily be overly played for laughs. I do find Laciura's Kessler amusing, however, it's the perfect blend of humour and drama.
Eddie Kessler is none other than Nucky's assistant and is brilliantly played by Anthony Laciura, an American Opera tenor I have since discovered. I don't know what is it that I love. Is it the characters terrible timing? - Knocking rather loudly while Nucky was being naughty with his 'gal pal' and justifying this by saying 'I heard Screaming!?' was a particular favourite. - It is this, but it's so much more. Laciura plays the proud employee with the perfect balance of conviction and compliance. Yes, the script has a lot to do with this, however, the part could so easily be overly played for laughs. I do find Laciura's Kessler amusing, however, it's the perfect blend of humour and drama.
The wonderful Anthony Laciura's portrayal of Eddie Kessler
I am getting that 'end of book' feeling (the 'I-can't-wait-to-finish-this-but-what-the-fuck-am-I-going-to-do-with-my-time/life-now' feeling...no? Just me?) as the series draws to an end. This is a rare feeling with a tv programmes. The characters are becoming more complex with the creeps getting, well, creepier and the tension building far quicker than the builders on next doors property. It's all I can do not to talk/yell at the screen every time something exciting happens, which is pretty much every few minutes with the gaps between yells getting fewer and far between as the series goes on. I think my flatmate is going to kill me if I watch anymore episodes when he is in. He even requested that I wait for 'just half an hour' to start the last episode I watched until he had gone out. This suited me just fine; I like to give my new favourite people my full attention.
The only problem with a series like this is that I am starting to ignore the 'real' people in my life for the more interesting folks of Atlantic City. If I wish hard enough, do we think Eddie Kessler will turn up at my door step??
Men, do the gentlemanly thing and be a shit...
There are some things in life you can always count on; your best friends; politicians lying; Catholic guilt; my well-to-do mother turning into a Northern Yob every time Arsenal play badly. But whatever happened to the reliability of a man being a 'total shit' when you need him to be?
Being a bit of a commitment phobe myself, I don't have a particularly good history with men. To be fair, I don't have a horrendous one either, I just don't have all that much of a history at all (apart from the, now infamous, 'Yes, but your name (Josephine, although not English) is acceptable', date). Before anything can happen I have usually convinced myself that nothing could ever happen and it would be most unkind to string the man along any further. This is what I have been telling myself for years anyway, and I'm damn well sticking to it. Between you and I, I think it has far more to do with the fact that I am a coward and it's easier not to let anyone else into the bizarre wee world that I call my life - a friend recently told me that reading/decoding a text message from me is a baffling experience that sometimes leaves him feeling as if he is playing the lottery, responding what he thinks is the correct answer, rather than feeling like he is having a conversation.
When I tell you that my favourite love song as a child was 'I won't send Roses' from the musical 'Mack and Mabel' about the commitment issues of Mack, I think you can all agree that I was doomed from the start.
However, the guy that I currently 'hold a torch for' (let's call him 'The Nice One'...you'll see why) is different. I could actually see myself with him (I know, it surprised me too) AND I don't run away (or ignore him) when he sends me more than two text messages in an hour. I even booked myself a train to visit him recently. The man lives over 200 miles away, so I thought this was pretty good progress. Well, that is I did until my best friend, The Blonde One, pointed out that we had been flirting at a distance for roughly three and a half years, and the only reason, she suspected, that I let myself flirt so whole heartedly to begin with was because he lived so far away and he wasn't an immediate threat. Don't you just hate it when your friends know you better than you know yourself and innocently point out the flaws you weren't even aware you had. And here I was rejoicing in my commitment progress. Commitment phobia29, 176 29, 177; Josephine 0.
But I am not writing about my commitment issues (if I saw them all written down, I think I might just have to cry into a bowl of mint chocolate chip ice cream before drifting into an unsettled sleep featuring myself dying alone in my flat, not being discovered for months on end, by which time I will have been eaten my a pack of wolves. I don't even own a wolf, let alone a whole pack!). I think I may be digressing, I'm starting to see how my text messages can seem as puzzling as a challenge on 'The Krypton Factor'.
Where was I? Ah, yes, as much progress as I am making with my commitment issues, it matters not, for The Nice One has an even bigger commitment problem than I do, and as I previously stated, lives over 200 miles away. How is this ever going to work and how am I ever going to get over my commitment issues, I hear you ask? The simple answer; Fuck knows. And I think that is the point. The Nice One can see this, The Blonde One can see this, even my flatmate can see this (and very much likes to tease me about it) and somehow I refuse to. Possibly because I have finally found someone that doesn't leave me screaming for the mountain tops of Peru anytime he dare give me a compliment, maybe it's because he doesn't expect too much from me or get cross with my general lack of commitment. Or perhaps, and I do think this is a big reason, perhaps it's because he is too damn nice. Hence the choice of name; The Nice One. I have seriously never met anyone so nice who still manages to have a such an intelligent, witty and ridiculous personality. I am not even slightly exaggerating this time. The Blonde One and The Blonde One's boyfriend introduced him to me many years ago as 'probably the nicest guy you're ever likely to meet'. This should have been my first clue. I am clearly no Jonathan Creek.
Even in the quite periods of our relationship (for want of a better word...ooo, almost scared myself there for a second) The Nice One is just that; nice. Cut it out. When he keeps things on a more friendly and less romantic tone (yes, even commitment phobes can be romantic) and I fear he is slowly 'phasing me out', he never ignores a text or email and will even text to see how I am after a 'nerve wracking' day or send me the latest episode of 'Boardwalk Empire' (oh, how I love) that he has transported onto a disc and sent to my address. Excuse me for being old fashioned, but if you going to be a commitment phobe and (possibly) phase someone out, then at least be a gentleman about it, be a dick and give me a reason to hate you. Isn't that what men are for? Whatever happened to the gentlemanly behaviour of acting like a complete bastard so that it made it easier for the female sex to move on and bitch about what a bastard their last squeeze had been. As luck would have it, I chose to find myself the last remaining 'nice' bloody commitment phobe. Who at all times, even when acting distant is witty, coy and charming all at the same time. Arse!
But that's the damn problem isn't it; he's not an arse. Not even close. And so each and every time I think, 'hang on a tick tock, I think I might be able to start thinking about another man seriously', he rolls in with a 'I hope today went well for you Jo', blah, blah, blah, text after my first day of placement. The Blonde One didn't even remember, but of course, The Nice One does.
I have recently come to the conclusion that if I am ever going to get over my commitment issues and ensure that I don't get eaten by a pack of wolves, I am going to have to either punch The Nice One so he stops being bloody nice to me (I can barely have cross words with someone I dislike intensely), move 200 miles away (GOOD LORD!!) or become a lesbian...
...I do like that Sue Perkins; she's bloody funny and even a little bit of a dish in that 70's wig she dons in 'Supersizers go seventies'...hmmmm.
Being a bit of a commitment phobe myself, I don't have a particularly good history with men. To be fair, I don't have a horrendous one either, I just don't have all that much of a history at all (apart from the, now infamous, 'Yes, but your name (Josephine, although not English) is acceptable', date). Before anything can happen I have usually convinced myself that nothing could ever happen and it would be most unkind to string the man along any further. This is what I have been telling myself for years anyway, and I'm damn well sticking to it. Between you and I, I think it has far more to do with the fact that I am a coward and it's easier not to let anyone else into the bizarre wee world that I call my life - a friend recently told me that reading/decoding a text message from me is a baffling experience that sometimes leaves him feeling as if he is playing the lottery, responding what he thinks is the correct answer, rather than feeling like he is having a conversation.
When I tell you that my favourite love song as a child was 'I won't send Roses' from the musical 'Mack and Mabel' about the commitment issues of Mack, I think you can all agree that I was doomed from the start.
However, the guy that I currently 'hold a torch for' (let's call him 'The Nice One'...you'll see why) is different. I could actually see myself with him (I know, it surprised me too) AND I don't run away (or ignore him) when he sends me more than two text messages in an hour. I even booked myself a train to visit him recently. The man lives over 200 miles away, so I thought this was pretty good progress. Well, that is I did until my best friend, The Blonde One, pointed out that we had been flirting at a distance for roughly three and a half years, and the only reason, she suspected, that I let myself flirt so whole heartedly to begin with was because he lived so far away and he wasn't an immediate threat. Don't you just hate it when your friends know you better than you know yourself and innocently point out the flaws you weren't even aware you had. And here I was rejoicing in my commitment progress. Commitment phobia
But I am not writing about my commitment issues (if I saw them all written down, I think I might just have to cry into a bowl of mint chocolate chip ice cream before drifting into an unsettled sleep featuring myself dying alone in my flat, not being discovered for months on end, by which time I will have been eaten my a pack of wolves. I don't even own a wolf, let alone a whole pack!). I think I may be digressing, I'm starting to see how my text messages can seem as puzzling as a challenge on 'The Krypton Factor'.
Where was I? Ah, yes, as much progress as I am making with my commitment issues, it matters not, for The Nice One has an even bigger commitment problem than I do, and as I previously stated, lives over 200 miles away. How is this ever going to work and how am I ever going to get over my commitment issues, I hear you ask? The simple answer; Fuck knows. And I think that is the point. The Nice One can see this, The Blonde One can see this, even my flatmate can see this (and very much likes to tease me about it) and somehow I refuse to. Possibly because I have finally found someone that doesn't leave me screaming for the mountain tops of Peru anytime he dare give me a compliment, maybe it's because he doesn't expect too much from me or get cross with my general lack of commitment. Or perhaps, and I do think this is a big reason, perhaps it's because he is too damn nice. Hence the choice of name; The Nice One. I have seriously never met anyone so nice who still manages to have a such an intelligent, witty and ridiculous personality. I am not even slightly exaggerating this time. The Blonde One and The Blonde One's boyfriend introduced him to me many years ago as 'probably the nicest guy you're ever likely to meet'. This should have been my first clue. I am clearly no Jonathan Creek.
Even in the quite periods of our relationship (for want of a better word...ooo, almost scared myself there for a second) The Nice One is just that; nice. Cut it out. When he keeps things on a more friendly and less romantic tone (yes, even commitment phobes can be romantic) and I fear he is slowly 'phasing me out', he never ignores a text or email and will even text to see how I am after a 'nerve wracking' day or send me the latest episode of 'Boardwalk Empire' (oh, how I love) that he has transported onto a disc and sent to my address. Excuse me for being old fashioned, but if you going to be a commitment phobe and (possibly) phase someone out, then at least be a gentleman about it, be a dick and give me a reason to hate you. Isn't that what men are for? Whatever happened to the gentlemanly behaviour of acting like a complete bastard so that it made it easier for the female sex to move on and bitch about what a bastard their last squeeze had been. As luck would have it, I chose to find myself the last remaining 'nice' bloody commitment phobe. Who at all times, even when acting distant is witty, coy and charming all at the same time. Arse!
But that's the damn problem isn't it; he's not an arse. Not even close. And so each and every time I think, 'hang on a tick tock, I think I might be able to start thinking about another man seriously', he rolls in with a 'I hope today went well for you Jo', blah, blah, blah, text after my first day of placement. The Blonde One didn't even remember, but of course, The Nice One does.
I have recently come to the conclusion that if I am ever going to get over my commitment issues and ensure that I don't get eaten by a pack of wolves, I am going to have to either punch The Nice One so he stops being bloody nice to me (I can barely have cross words with someone I dislike intensely), move 200 miles away (GOOD LORD!!) or become a lesbian...
...I do like that Sue Perkins; she's bloody funny and even a little bit of a dish in that 70's wig she dons in 'Supersizers go seventies'...hmmmm.
Sunday 6 March 2011
Flutter by butterflies...
After having a week off from placement having been signed off by the doctor with a viral infection (I wont go into detail; it's long, complicated, not very interesting and frankly, if I have to explain it just once more I may go crazy and turn into the Hulk. It wont be pretty, I promise you), I am back to my teaching practice tomorrow. Although the week off has made me realise just how ill I was (and terribly, just how long I was ill for), and has given me the rest I needed to actually get better, having a week off has also meant that I have to venture into my placement school tomorrow with little or no idea what we are doing this week.
Please don't get me wrong, when my placement teacher text me saying that she would write the plan for this week and just 'fill me in on Monday morning' so I could concentrate on getting better, I could have kissed her, offered her my first child (which I am yet to have) and given her the use of my womb if ever she needed it. BUT, and this is a big but, the thought of rolling up tomorrow morning with nothing planned and simply saying 'Hey kids....er...so...what did ya learn last week then?' is not something that anyone, let alone a trainee teacher, wants to face. Even with my rather adorable year 2 angels.
As I sit here and write this post, I am about as nervous as I was on my first day there back in January. Why is this? Why does having just one week off make me feel as if I have taken five hundred thousand steps back? Is it because the rest of my friends have spent the week facebooking and tweeting about how great and smashing they are finding having their respective classes to themselves, while I was finding walking upstairs an major physical challenge; is it because a week is a long time in education, or is it simply because I am one of those ridiculous people that feels she's 'letting everyone down' if she takes even one day off? Who the hell knows for sure. All I do know is that if the butterflies in my stomach don't calm down soon, I am in danger of floating away entirely.
So, if you happen to spot a fairly short, slightly chubby, quater Italian, twenty-something girl with big bug eyes and larger-than-average cup size, do help her down, she has to be in Teddington at 8am tomorrow morning, and she'd rather present herself appropriately dress in all her teacher-get-up rather than looking like a perplexed and hungover phyciatric patient (I'm sorry, but if you started to randomly float all over the place, how do you think you would look?? Exactly; slightly perplexed and dazed) after having a week off. Even if I do have a doctors note.
Erm, so how long before I ask for Friday off to attend my Grandpa's funeral?? Errrrr...Fuck!
Please don't get me wrong, when my placement teacher text me saying that she would write the plan for this week and just 'fill me in on Monday morning' so I could concentrate on getting better, I could have kissed her, offered her my first child (which I am yet to have) and given her the use of my womb if ever she needed it. BUT, and this is a big but, the thought of rolling up tomorrow morning with nothing planned and simply saying 'Hey kids....er...so...what did ya learn last week then?' is not something that anyone, let alone a trainee teacher, wants to face. Even with my rather adorable year 2 angels.
As I sit here and write this post, I am about as nervous as I was on my first day there back in January. Why is this? Why does having just one week off make me feel as if I have taken five hundred thousand steps back? Is it because the rest of my friends have spent the week facebooking and tweeting about how great and smashing they are finding having their respective classes to themselves, while I was finding walking upstairs an major physical challenge; is it because a week is a long time in education, or is it simply because I am one of those ridiculous people that feels she's 'letting everyone down' if she takes even one day off? Who the hell knows for sure. All I do know is that if the butterflies in my stomach don't calm down soon, I am in danger of floating away entirely.
So, if you happen to spot a fairly short, slightly chubby, quater Italian, twenty-something girl with big bug eyes and larger-than-average cup size, do help her down, she has to be in Teddington at 8am tomorrow morning, and she'd rather present herself appropriately dress in all her teacher-get-up rather than looking like a perplexed and hungover phyciatric patient (I'm sorry, but if you started to randomly float all over the place, how do you think you would look?? Exactly; slightly perplexed and dazed) after having a week off. Even if I do have a doctors note.
Erm, so how long before I ask for Friday off to attend my Grandpa's funeral?? Errrrr...Fuck!
And the winner is... 'The Blonde One'
This has been one emotional roller coster of a week. With the worry of Glandular Fever returning and the thought of how much time I would have to take off from my teaching practice, along with actually being ill and down about it, it wasn't shaping up to be the greatest week of my life. And then my Grandpa died.
All in all, not the best week of my life. For someone who could experience feeling 'down' as a symptom, dealing with grief was frankly, just shite. My Grandpa has just died, I'm already feeling down. Glandular Fever (or whatever you may turn out to be) Piss. Right. Off. Yours, etc.
At the beginning of the week, everything was blue and nothing could put a smile on my face. Not a proper smile anyway. You know the type, with teeth and gums that would put any West End performer to shame. However, it turns out that I am pretty damn lucky and have possibly the greatest friends of all time. I know people blether on about this all the time, but I've got to tell you, they are up against some stiff competition from my lot.
Please do not fear, I am not about to turn into Pollyanna and talk about 'sunshine' and 'lollypops'. And just to prove it, some of friends were just a bit 'blah' when it came to helping/cheering up a friend in need. One friend, for example, just instant messaged me 'Aw, that's sad :( ' and then continued to go on about her dissertation ...my Grandfather just died, it's more than just fucking 'sad', but thanks for your concern...dear.
However, for the most part my friends really did step up to the playing field, so to speak. I had numerous text messages, emails and songs (including the Happy Days theme. Random, but good) and sketches sent to cheer me up, and some even helped. There was a smile at one point, I remember, but no visable teeth just yet. I have fairly small teeth, so getting a big toothy grin is hard at the best of times. But one friend, I shall call her 'The Blonde One' (what can I say, I am orginiality itself) went above and beyond the call of duty. On Wednesday she sent around an elaborate email to me and four other friends inviting us around for a 'Cocktail Party and an 80's Video Extravaganza'. Nice, but above and beyond?? Ok, ok, wait just a second. When I turned up last night to this get together I was graced with not only a rather fabulous cocktail, and awesome spread (proving to The Blonde One's boyfriend that people do use old fashioned words such as 'spread'...so there) but also a heart shaped (yes, she was taking the piss with that one) chocolate cake decorated with all my favoruite chocolates including Wispas, Oreos (mini being the best, of course), Mini eggs and M&M's. On closer inspection I noticed that the cake had 'A Cheer up Jo Cake' hand written on it.
Ok, ok, people get parties thrown for them with home made cakes all the time, I hear you say. Granted. However, do they have hand made 'Top Trump' cards (37 in all) on multicoloured card with their favourite actors with specially adapted name such as 'Paul "gutless wonder" Mercurio'??? (Strictly Ballroom, for those who have perplexed faces right now) I think not. And for that reason, 'The Blonde One', you have well and truly put a big toothy smile on one southern girls face. And for that, you are my hero.
P.S. To my other bloody amazing friends...I whole heartedly love you all too. But if The Blonde One can put an ex (so to speak) on a Top Trump card and award him with the best quote of "Yes, you may have a foreign name but yours is acceptable" then you are going to deserve a post in your honor!
All in all, not the best week of my life. For someone who could experience feeling 'down' as a symptom, dealing with grief was frankly, just shite. My Grandpa has just died, I'm already feeling down. Glandular Fever (or whatever you may turn out to be) Piss. Right. Off. Yours, etc.
At the beginning of the week, everything was blue and nothing could put a smile on my face. Not a proper smile anyway. You know the type, with teeth and gums that would put any West End performer to shame. However, it turns out that I am pretty damn lucky and have possibly the greatest friends of all time. I know people blether on about this all the time, but I've got to tell you, they are up against some stiff competition from my lot.
Please do not fear, I am not about to turn into Pollyanna and talk about 'sunshine' and 'lollypops'. And just to prove it, some of friends were just a bit 'blah' when it came to helping/cheering up a friend in need. One friend, for example, just instant messaged me 'Aw, that's sad :( ' and then continued to go on about her dissertation ...my Grandfather just died, it's more than just fucking 'sad', but thanks for your concern...dear.
However, for the most part my friends really did step up to the playing field, so to speak. I had numerous text messages, emails and songs (including the Happy Days theme. Random, but good) and sketches sent to cheer me up, and some even helped. There was a smile at one point, I remember, but no visable teeth just yet. I have fairly small teeth, so getting a big toothy grin is hard at the best of times. But one friend, I shall call her 'The Blonde One' (what can I say, I am orginiality itself) went above and beyond the call of duty. On Wednesday she sent around an elaborate email to me and four other friends inviting us around for a 'Cocktail Party and an 80's Video Extravaganza'. Nice, but above and beyond?? Ok, ok, wait just a second. When I turned up last night to this get together I was graced with not only a rather fabulous cocktail, and awesome spread (proving to The Blonde One's boyfriend that people do use old fashioned words such as 'spread'...so there) but also a heart shaped (yes, she was taking the piss with that one) chocolate cake decorated with all my favoruite chocolates including Wispas, Oreos (mini being the best, of course), Mini eggs and M&M's. On closer inspection I noticed that the cake had 'A Cheer up Jo Cake' hand written on it.
Ok, ok, people get parties thrown for them with home made cakes all the time, I hear you say. Granted. However, do they have hand made 'Top Trump' cards (37 in all) on multicoloured card with their favourite actors with specially adapted name such as 'Paul "gutless wonder" Mercurio'??? (Strictly Ballroom, for those who have perplexed faces right now) I think not. And for that reason, 'The Blonde One', you have well and truly put a big toothy smile on one southern girls face. And for that, you are my hero.
P.S. To my other bloody amazing friends...I whole heartedly love you all too. But if The Blonde One can put an ex (so to speak) on a Top Trump card and award him with the best quote of "Yes, you may have a foreign name but yours is acceptable" then you are going to deserve a post in your honor!
I apologise, I could not get this wee thing in focus. It is, indeed, one of my wonderful top trumps and read, ahem *clears throat* ;
"Bette 'I put a spell on you' Midler,
Girl crush rating: 2/10
Best Film: Hocus Pocus 5/10
Top Salary: $120, 000, 000
Awards nominations: 2 (Best Comedy Teeth - Hocus Pocus. Best Line 'Whose? Guns N Roses?' - First Wives Club"
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